A Fall Love Letter to My Father by Courtney Thomas
When I first started Alison Rose Vintage eight years ago, my goal was simple: to create thoughtful cards and prints that help people build meaningful connections. What I didn’t realize was how many life-changing connections I would make with my customers. I never could have imagined the kind and generous people who would fill my heart with the stories and words they share with me.
Courtney Thomas is one of those connections. We’ve never met in person, but she always responds to my emails with such depth and kindness. This year, she surprised me with the most thoughtful letter for my birthday. She shared a story about her father and how she planned to use the autumn cards she bought from my shop. In doing so, she reminded me why I do this work, and just how meaningful a simple card or note can be.
There is both beauty and ache in the memories Courtney has of her father. That’s why I asked her to be a guest blogger here, so she could share her heart with you too. I hope her tender, powerful reflections speak to you as deeply as they did to me.
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Is it fall yet? I’ve caught myself asking that question more than once this summer. I guess I have a deep longing for the rustle of the leaves and the chillier weather. But fall has always been more than a season to me – it was a way of life in my home. I have my father to thank for my fall mood, or state of mind.
I grew up in Northern Arizona, so I didn’t have anything to attribute to the usual “harvest” or the quaint reminiscence of fall foliage (maybe if the pine needles turned brown?), or even the chill in the air in September or the rustle of corn in a field.
But fall was still everything in my household as a kid. My father would light the wood-burning fire after a summer of harvesting logs, we’d rake sycamore leaves into pumpkin bags, and he would count down the days until pumpkin carving. He could summon fall magic like no one else – equal parts curiosity, mischief, and whimsy.
Fall came and went in my adulthood, until it became just as magical as it was in my youth when I moved to London to study at the London School of Economics. I felt fall arrive in a new way – rain tapping on my window, wet leaves plastered to the sidewalk, and the scent of damp earth on my walk to the tube.
I began taking pictures and sending them to my dad. He’d write back with questions only he could dream up: How often do they pick up the leaves? What’s in that third window on the right? What conversations did you overhear on the tube?
I called them my “Walks with Dad” and they became our esoteric bond across the miles. He taught me, once again, to pay attention to the world, to look deeper, to wonder, and to be curious.
My father was a Renaissance Man. He was an English professor at Embry-Riddle and a published author and poet. When he passed away last June, I found myself paging through his poetry books, searching for words to place in his Celebration of Life booklet.
There it was – a poem titled I Rake Sycamore Skins by Terry Thomas.
It felt like him in every way. We had a huge sycamore tree on our property, and it brought me right back to when we would fill those pumpkin bags with its leaves. In his own words, he wrote about that ritual and life itself (below is an excerpt from his poem):
I rake sycamore skins into the empty garden, bare breath tingling mingling with dusty twilight... When I’m turned into bare earth my skin will sprout anew. Look for me in young blooms seeking room-pathways for the progeny of spiraling days.
Reading that poem, I felt both the ache of loss and the beauty of continuity. My father was gone, but his voice, his words, and his lessons remained.
In the months since his passing, I began writing cards to his cousins I never met and close family and friends. I included stories and reflections about my fall memories with my father. Alison became a significant part of those moments without even knowing it. Her cards became vessels for these memories, my gratitude, and a recognition of the impact my loved ones have had on my journey.
Every time I sit down to write to someone, I’m saying: I see you. And to my dad I’m saying: I see you still. This year, I’m going to send autumn cards and include some leaves that I pressed from the tree at my father’s place.
As fall approaches again, I feel my dad everywhere. It makes me think of what I should’ve written to him a few years ago.
Thank you, Dad, for instilling humanity, curiosity, mischief, whimsy, and the fall mood in me. Thank you for the analytical mind from playing I Spy a billion times (remember that third window on the right in London?). And most of all, thank you for valuing others, for always checking in, for teaching me that the smallest gestures can hold the most meaning.
Don’t let another fall season slip away without letting your people know how much they mean to you. Who would you write a card to, and what would it say? Maybe it’s a close friend, or your own father, or even yourself. Acknowledge their impact on you, whether it was a recent thing they did or just a general, sweeping note of gratitude. Encourage them to keep spreading their magic, just like my dad.
Thank you for being here, for sharing these few moments with me. I see you out there. Now go and channel your own fall mood this month, and pass it on!
With love,
Courtney
All of the beautiful photos in this blog post were taken by Courtney Thomas.
Shop the Fall Collection for seasonal cards and prints.
Comments on this post (3)
A beautiful and touching prompt to trigger the best of us to emerge for the best in THEM.
Those ones so special to us, but often overlooked for their accessibility and our daily minutia.
Thank you for this CT.
I SEE YOU TOO.
X
— AJM
This was really touching to read (I definitely cried!) and reminded me of the things about my relationship with my dad that are unique to us and very special. A great reminder to tell people what we appreciate about them and notice the little things. <3
— Morgann
Thanks for sharing the memories of Autumn leaves. Beautiful! We had so many leaves in our yard in Colorado that Autumn was rarely something pleasant to remember but Emily’s letter reminds me to look at the beauty while it’s here to share.
— Michele