The Season That Makes You Want to Live Better

There is something about the first cool day that makes life feel worth paying attention to again.

THE JOURNAL · CULTURE

Words by A. Mercer

It happened this morning. I walked outside expecting the same warm air we've had for the last several months and, instead, there was that unmistakable coolness to it. Not cold, and not even particularly close, but just enough that I noticed. For the first time in months, the air felt different.

You know the morning I'm talking about. The sun is still warm, but the shade isn't. There's a little movement in the trees, and suddenly a quarter-zip or light jacket doesn't seem like wishful thinking. Coffee tastes better outside. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you begin thinking about a fire even though it's probably several weeks too early to actually need one. Fall has arrived—or at least sent word that it's coming—and every year, I find myself strangely pleased about it.

I like summer. I like long evenings, open windows, dinners outside and weekends that don't require much planning beyond finding somewhere with water nearby. But by September, I'm ready for something different. I'm ready for clothes again. I'm ready to cook something that takes longer than fifteen minutes. I'm ready for a Saturday afternoon with absolutely nowhere I need to be. I'm ready to pour a drink while dinner cooks and let the house smell like something other than air conditioning.

Maybe that's what I like most about fall. It makes staying home feel like something to look forward to.

The Clothes Get Better

We should probably address the obvious first: men simply dress better in the fall.

There, I've said it.

Summer asks very little of us sartorially. A decent polo, linen shirt, chinos, shorts, loafers, sunglasses. There's only so much creativity available when it's ninety degrees outside and the primary objective is avoiding perspiration. Then the temperature drops ten degrees and suddenly your wardrobe becomes interesting again.

Oxford shirts come back. So do merino sweaters, suede loafers, flannel trousers, waxed jackets and navy blazers that can finally be worn without wondering whether you're going to survive the walk from the car. You can layer things again. You can wear texture. Brown starts making sense, along with olive, charcoal, navy, camel and oxblood. Even denim seems to look better in October.

The funny thing is that fall also makes a very good argument for owning fewer clothes. The best autumn wardrobes aren't particularly complicated. A handful of good sweaters, two or three proper shirts, dark denim, grey trousers, a navy blazer, a waxed jacket and a pair of brown shoes that look better after they've been worn for a few years will take a man almost anywhere he actually needs to go.

You don't need an entirely new wardrobe every September. You need the right things waiting for you when September comes. There is a difference.

Bring Back the Rituals

Fall always makes me want to get my routines back in order. Summer is wonderfully undisciplined. Dinner gets pushed later, weekends fill themselves, vacations interrupt routines, and somehow Tuesday evening can turn into drinks on a patio simply because it's still light outside. That's part of what makes summer good. But eventually, I want structure again.

I want mornings to feel like mornings. Coffee before everyone else is awake. A book left somewhere I might actually pick it up. Dinner at the table rather than wherever we happen to land. There is something about cooler weather that makes small rituals feel important again.

Maybe yours is Saturday morning coffee at the same place. Maybe it's Sunday dinner, an evening walk, or opening a bottle of wine on Friday night and putting a record on while you cook. Maybe it's nothing more sophisticated than watching football with your son while something cooks in the oven. The ritual itself doesn't matter much. What matters is having parts of your life that happen often enough to become familiar.

I've become increasingly convinced that we underestimate familiarity. We chase novelty because novelty photographs well, but most of the things that eventually become meaningful to us aren't things we did once. They're things we kept doing.

Cook Something That Takes All Afternoon

Summer food is about simplicity. Fall food should occasionally be wildly inefficient.

Put something in the oven at two that won't be ready until six. Make the sauce properly. Use the Dutch oven you bought because someone convinced you it would last the rest of your life. Open the wine you're always waiting for an occasion to open and have people over.

It doesn't need to become an elaborate dinner party. In fact, I'd argue against it. Make something good, buy good bread, put butter on the table, light a few candles and play music quietly enough that people can still hear one another. Then sit down.

We've spent an extraordinary amount of time trying to make food faster, and sometimes that's useful. But there is a particular pleasure in eating something that couldn't have been made quickly. You can taste the time in it. More importantly, you've created a reason for everyone to stay in the same place for a while.

Use the House

Fall makes me notice my house again. During summer, home can start to feel like somewhere you stop between everything else you're doing. You're outside, you're traveling, you're at someone's pool, you're at dinner, you're trying to squeeze something into every remaining hour of daylight. Then the evenings get darker, you come home earlier, and suddenly the lamp in the corner matters.

The chair beside the fireplace matters. The blanket somebody left folded over the sofa matters. You start thinking about whether you have enough firewood. You notice the books on the shelf. You remember there's an entire room you barely used all summer.

I like that. A home should have seasons. There should be a difference between the way it feels in July and the way it feels in November. Light the candles. Turn off the overhead lights. Put a blanket somewhere people will actually use it. Bring out the glasses you like. Burn the firewood instead of saving it.

Make home somewhere you are pleased to return to. That might be one of the most underrated luxuries there is.

Take the Long Way

There are few things better than a good car on a cool Saturday morning with nowhere particularly important to be. Fall seems made for unnecessary drives. Take the older road. Stop for coffee. Drive through the small town instead of around it. Find somewhere for lunch that hasn't been recommended to you by an algorithm. Take the long way home.

We spend most of our time in cars trying to reduce the amount of time we spend in cars. There are occasions when the opposite approach is considerably more enjoyable. The same goes for walking. Go somewhere simply because the leaves are changing. Take the dog. Take your wife. Take your children while they're still willing to go. Leave your phone in your pocket.

There doesn't need to be a destination for an afternoon to have been worthwhile.

Buy Something Because You'll Keep It

Fall is dangerous for anyone who likes clothes, watches, leather goods, cars or generally attractive things made from materials that improve with age. Everything looks better in autumn, which is precisely when a little restraint becomes useful.

Don't buy twelve things because the weather changed. Buy one good thing. Maybe it's a proper sweater, a waxed jacket, a pair of boots you'll still be wearing five years from now, a wool blanket, a good bottle, a book worth keeping or something for the kitchen you'll actually use.

The point isn't austerity. I like beautiful things far too much to pretend they don't matter. They do. But I increasingly want the things I buy to become part of my life rather than briefly pass through it.

Fall lends itself to that kind of ownership. Leather gets scratched, waxed cotton develops creases, shoes darken, wood gets marked and wool softens. Those aren't necessarily signs that something needs replacing. Sometimes they're evidence that you chose something worth keeping.

Have People Over

Maybe this is the most important one: don't wait until the holidays to have people over.

There is a strange period between the end of summer and Thanksgiving when everyone's schedules become slightly more predictable again. Use it. Invite another couple over on a Saturday. Have your parents for dinner. Tell your friends to bring the kids. Put a game on in the background if you want. Cook too much food. Open something good. Let the children make a mess somewhere else in the house while the adults stay at the table longer than intended.

The house will need cleaning afterward. Do it anyway.

A perfectly arranged home nobody ever visits is considerably less interesting than a slightly worn one filled with people you care about. Years from now, you aren't going to remember whether everything looked right. You'll remember who kept showing up.

Let the Season Be the Season

There is a tendency now to rush seasons. Christmas appears before Halloween has had the decency to leave. We spend August talking about fall and October talking about Christmas, and by December we're discussing where we'd like to go next summer.

I'm trying to get better at not doing that.

September deserves September, and October deserves October. There will be plenty of time for Christmas. For now, let the leaves change. Wear the sweater. Order the bourbon. Watch the game. Make the chili. Take the drive. Sit outside when it's probably five degrees too cold to sit outside, complain about it, and remain there anyway.

This part doesn't last very long. That's probably why we like it.

A Richer Season

Maybe fall doesn't actually make life better. Maybe it just makes me pay more attention to the parts of life I already like. The clothes I've owned for years come back out of the closet. The house becomes somewhere to gather again. Dinner takes a little longer. Weekends slow down. Familiar places become appealing. The people around the table matter more than whatever was on the menu.

Nothing about that is particularly grand, and that's the point. I don't think a richer life is necessarily built from bigger experiences. More often, I think it's built by getting better at noticing the ordinary ones: a cold morning, a good coat, coffee in a heavy mug, a fire in the evening, dinner with people you love, or a road you've driven a hundred times looking slightly different because the leaves have changed.

Maybe the season doesn't need to be more complicated than that.

So open the windows while you still can. Put something on the stove. Call a few people. Wear the good sweater. Take the long way home. And when you get there, light the fire.

Fall is here. Don't rush through it.

Until next time,

A. Mercer

Keeper of the Standard

FORM & CHARACTER

The Art of Living Well.