BEEN THINKIN’ ABOUT… LEAF & SHADOW. Late summer afternoons seem hotter, somehow, after we have been teased with the scent of fall. Autumn has become something of a designer season, all decked out with pumpkin farm experiences and flannels and big floppy hats ready-made for social media posing. When I was much younger, it seems, Autumn was less of a selfie-opportunity and more of a series of events — Labor Day, First Day of School, Columbus Day, Halloween, Veterans Day, and finally — as the cold winter winds rattled around the storm doors — Thanksgiving. All are good, solid American holidays, easily reduced to first-grade art projects made of paper, tape and glue. The real magic of the season was quiet, unsung, overlooked. Have you ever watched rain mist down on crimson sumac?

Since the brief cool front last week, I have — internally — laughed at those I’ve seen gadding about decked in the apparel of fall. Swaddling oneself in flannels and hoodies and checked patterns could be fun and cozy but no matter what Instagram says, actual Autumn is still a week away and we live in the upper South. Plan for blazing summer temperatures for another good six weeks, occasionally interspersed with cold rain. Ozark seasons are not for the faint-hearted.

In all reality though, my season has concluded, another one beginning with the Monday morning sun. The zenith of my year is StateoftheOzarks Fest, another one of which concluded Saturday night about eight o’clock. Being the creator of the event, the manager of the event, and part of the clean-up crew is a strange, heady, and humbling experience. “Thank you for helping clean up the street,” one of the FFA students yelled my direction. I was crouching behind a truck, picking up bits of green broken glass, and some chunks of burst balloon. “Thank YOU for helping clean up the street,” I yelled back. He laughed. At the end of that first festival eight long years ago, I finished the day by cleaning the bathrooms. There are lessons learned in service, in humility.

And humility is a strange thing indeed. On social media, I am the apparent face of the festival. But what is a festival, really? A marker in the year, a moment in time in which the mundane becomes heightened, a spell cast over a street, when the normal is no longer and the world — presumably for the better — becomes topsy-turvy? I never wanted to be the “face,” the “personality,” or, quite frankly, carry the weight of responsibility of so many people, even if only for a brief bit of time. I was largely volunteered to create the festival those eight years ago (by a downtown merchant who, by the time that first festival opened six months later, had closed up shop, leaving a flagship business on Downing Street dark). We carried on.

But back then, I wanted to just be a writer, just be a graphic artist, creating things for others. But that’s not how leadership works. Truth is, I hated seeing myself on the screen, hated the sound of own recorded voice. But I hated the idea of public failure worse, and went to work shooting video after video, uploading a string of interviews to push attendance. It worked. That first StateoftheOzarks Fest was successful, and I had been forced to overcome my fear of becoming … well, whatever it is I have become. At the least, shooting video was easy from then on.

Every year’s festival comes with its own challenges, its own struggles, its own bevy of problems and cancellations and re-dos and issues to solve on the fly. As the day gets closer, I start looking for esoteric markers, signs that I’m headed the right direction, in the right way. Festivals are a bit like crafting a life of sorts, not unrealistic as the thing in question is built up of so many’s hopes and dreams and aspirations, distilled for a brief day in the form of canopy tents and chalk signs and hand-crafted hope. Our vendors are real people, with real need. I don’t want to fail them and I take the responsibility very seriously. And thus keep my eye out for the omens.

Bright stars, an indigo sky, four shots of espresso, a cookie that looks just like the StateoftheOzarks’ logo bear, and the surreal feeling that in a few short morning hours, every person bustling on Downing Street is someone I know.

Then, the official street closing, the explanation to vendors on last-minute bathroom details, the double-checking of the street layout, measuring a few more spaces, crossing my fingers that we all fit properly. The very early morning was something resembling an Autumn chill, but the coolness burned off fast and by 10 in the morning, it was obvious we were moving toward something like 91 — or was it 96 degrees? — Fahrenheit. Summer notwithstanding, the sycamore leaves have become to fall, decorating the fresh, crispy blacktop. I was talking to a vendor when my attention trailed off. A small vortex was forming on the street a few feet away, leaves dancing in unison: It was the sign I had been looking for. Dust devils mean something.

And in the deep afternoon heat, I stand at the top of the depot stairs, decked out as the old antlered Celtic god. It’s get-ups like these that get me labeled a pagan, seeing as how serious Southern Baptist deacons and Sunday School directors and leaders of hymnbook music don’t put on antlers and capes. But the leaves are falling and I look down on the shadow I cast — great antlers and cloak in silhouette, an archetype, a thing lost in the chapters of time, far-removed from the schoolbook lessons of paper and tape and glue. The Celts knew there were lost places, lost in-between moments, and not everything unknown is to be feared. So here’s to another season, another time, another million moments, and here’s the people who care and give their attention, and love, against all the odds, even when they are told they cannot. Here’s to those dancing forever between leaf and shadow.

— Joshua Heston, editor-in-chief, StateoftheOzarks

© StateoftheOzarks 2025