Fall in Los Angeles, Noticed at Kid Height

People like to joke that there are no seasons here. Sunshine in January, sunshine in October, shorts at Thanksgiving. I understand the joke. I also know that any kid who's paying attention can prove it wrong.

Fall around here doesn't announce itself with whole hillsides of red and orange. It shows up in small signs, mostly at knee height. You have to be looking down, and you have to be a little bit slow. Kids are very good at both.

The signs of fall at kid height

Here's what a fall nature walk turns up when you let a kid set the pace:

• Sycamore leaves. Big, crinkly, the color of toast, and almost always one perfect one that has to come home.
• Earlier dusk. The streetlights flicker on during the walk home from the park, when a few weeks ago it was still bright.
• Persimmons. Orange globes hanging on bare-looking branches in someone's yard, like the tree forgot to take its ornaments down.
• The first sweater morning. That one morning when you can almost see your breath, and everyone acts like it's a blizzard.
• Hot, dry wind days. Leaves skittering down the sidewalk like they're late for something.
• Pumpkins at the market. Stacked by the door in piles, some lumpy, some enormous, all worth knocking on.

None of these are dramatic. That's sort of what I love about them.

Why kid height changes what you see

Grown-ups mostly look at eye level and above: street signs, traffic, the time. Kids are closer to the ground, and the ground is where a lot of the action is. The leaf caught in a crack. The acorn cap. The snail that came out after the sprinklers.

When I'm working on a story, I try to remember to crouch down. Things look different from down there, and bigger. A puddle is a lake. A sycamore leaf is an umbrella for a beetle. A lot of picture-book ideas start right at that level, with somebody small noticing something everyone else walked past.

A fall noticing list to copy

Copy this onto an index card or the back of an envelope and bring it on your next walk. Check off what you find, and add your own.

• [ ] A leaf bigger than your hand
• [ ] A leaf smaller than your thumbnail
• [ ] Something orange that isn't a pumpkin
• [ ] A seed, acorn, or seed pod
• [ ] A sound leaves make when the wind moves them
• [ ] A shadow that's longer than you are
• [ ] Someone wearing a sweater
• [ ] One thing you've never noticed before on this street

The last one is the hardest and the best. It works on any street, in any season.

Noticing is the whole game

There's no prize for finishing the list, and no wrong answers. The point is just to slow down together. A walk you've taken a hundred times turns into something new when you're hunting for a leaf smaller than your thumbnail.

If you'd like more ideas in the same spirit, Monday's backyard noticing walk works in any small patch of green, and it comes with a garden story in the works about a boy hunting for the biggest thing he can find.

New read-aloud stories land on the Ronald Moy Stories channel as they're finished. I'll be out looking for persimmons in the meantime.

— Ronald

Ronald Moy writes little stories about big feelings and everyday wonder for kids 4–8. His picture books are in development.