A Deciduous Friendship (and the science of how leaves change their colour)

Hands down, autumn is my favourite season of the year. Although a harbinger of winter, fall is the time of cosy throw covers, warm fireplaces and the anticipation of holiday celebrations. As the last days of October transition into November, Toronto has a chill in the air, darkening early evenings, and spectacular landscapes painted with hues of orange, yellow and red.

On an early morning walk with Madeline (also known as #Writer’sBlock), I noticed that the trees had hit their peak in colour change, and many were dramatically shedding their colourful bounty, decorating the ground below. Marvelling at the colours, I realized how little I knew about why leaves change their colour.

I’m sure I must have learned it at some point during a university botany class, but as Madeline and I walked through the park, the details escaped me. I guessed it was the temperature change. Cold weather killing off the leaves made sense. 

As I dug deeper into the science of autumn leaf transformation, I learned temperature was only part of the story. Surprisingly, my search for answers would also lead to an insight into a friendship that was troubling me.

There are two main types of trees: deciduous and coniferous. Deciduous trees have leaves that fall off yearly, while coniferous trees, such as the evergreens, have needles or scales that remain intact year-round.

I’d assumed the leaves changed colour as the temperature dropped when, in fact, it’s the gradual decrease in daylight that triggers molecular changes within the cells of the tree leaves. To survive, the tree uses photosynthesis to generate energy by harnessing sunlight to convert carbon dioxide in the air into a usable power source — sugars. In mammals, the power generators of the cell are mitochondria, while plants rely on spheroid structures called chloroplasts. If you were to put a plant leaf under the microscope, you would see thousands of oblong green discs embedded within each plant cell. The abundant chloroplasts are what gives the leaf its green colour, masking the true colour of the tree’s foliage.

Microscopic view of plant cells. Green = chloroplasts. Note hints of red in each cell, in fall this leaf likely turns red.

As the amount of sunlight decreases in the fall, the process of photosynthesis begins to fade, just like the leaves. Each year the leaves don’t actually change colour. Instead, the sunlight-reliant green colour from chloroplasts fades to reveal each deciduous tree’s unique natural pigments.  The dazzling hues of yellow, orange and red were always there, the robust green colour of chlorophyll just overshadowed them.

As autumn approaches, without enough sunlight, the deciduous tree can no longer create the energy it needs to survive if it were to carry on, business as usual. Suddenly, the thousands of fading leaves on the tree’s branches are a massive energy liability.

Instead, to conserve and store energy to survive the winter months, the tree closes off the connection to the leaves in a process called abscission. A good gust of wind and the leaf spirals away into the breeze.

As I considered the tree’s struggle to conserve its energy by severing the connection to its leaves, I thought of a friendship that left me struggling. Over the years, the differences between my friend Joseph and I began to overshadow what we had in common. I’d gotten far too comfortable with his constant negativity, but when he returned to lying and deceitful behaviour, I made my decision. I didn't have the energy to keep Joseph in my life. Like the deciduous tree that cuts off the connection to its leaves in the dwindling autumn sunlight, I too needed to sever my connection to Joseph to save my own energy balance. For my mental well-being, I also needed to try a little abscission.

In shedding my friendship with Joseph, I realized I was no longer prepared to settle for a deciduous friendship.

I want evergreen friendships.

credits: Three trees: ©mirifadapt (via Adobe Stock); chloroplasts: ©tonaquatic (via Adobe Stock); diagram: generated using assets from ©sudowoodo and ©bokasana (via Adobe Stock); evergreens: ©Ioan Panaite (via Adobe Stock).

You scared Jody

It’s Halloween 2020, and I thought it a fitting day to launch my first blog post.

As the child of a famous psychic mother, I attended seances and overheard stories about ghosts and spirits roaming the halls and rooms of our house. Later, my mother would tell me that I talked for hours in my room alone, as if in conversation with someone else.

In the first few drafts of The Scientist and the Psychic, I tried to document as many of these stories as I could remember, only to have my editor suggest cutting many of them and chronicle only those that were critical to the storyline. One of the biggest lessons I learned while learning to write a book was that many of my favourite stories and passages would end up on the editing room floor.

One of the deleted scenes, a real-life ghost story, sticks out because it fuelled my childhood fears. I share it below — be gentle, it’s from an early draft ☺️

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(c1975)

The cheerful, sharp sounds of piano music fractured the silence. The music they heard had the stereotypical melody of a piano playing in an old Western saloon or on a soundtrack accompanying the comedic antics of Laurel and Hardy in a 1920s silent film. My grandmother immediately recognized the melody. Shine On, Harvest Moon (listen here) was her father’s favourite tune to play on the piano when he was alive.

Seated at the kitchen table that night were my parents, grandparents, and my great-grandmothers, Nanny May and Nanny Dolly. They could have been playing cards like they frequently loved to do, or they could have just been relaxing with a drink, deep in conversation. One thing was certain; there was no one else in the house capable of playing the piano.

My family jumped to their feet and rushed down the dimly lit stairwell toward the rec-room where the piano sat. They moved quickly down the dark hall, the music getting louder with each step. The rec-room was masked in darkness yet the music was palpable, reverberating around the wood-panelled room.

Someone flicked on the light, and the music stopped. The oak piano was up against the wall, opposite to the door the group came in. The piano’s lid sat in place, covering the ivory keys. No one else was in the room.

At the time, I was only six and fast asleep. Or so they thought. When the piano music stopped, Nanny heard muttering coming from the next room where my bed was. They darted over and slid open the accordion doorway leading into Nanny’s office that doubled as my bedroom. I was sitting upright in my twin bed, eyes closed.

“Crossed knives mean danger,” I muttered in my sleep, “Crossed knives mean danger.” 

As the story goes, I repeated the phrase over and over until my mother nudged me. I lay back down, rolled onto my side, and continued sleeping. The superstitious expression was something my great-grandfather had said many times when the blades of two knives inadvertently overlapped on a plate — a bad omen.

In less than a week, my mother would have a car accident.

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Growing up, I learned ghosts were real. So when my father brought me to see The Amityville Horror when I was only ten-years-old, one scene shook me to the core. 

Click to watch:

In the scene, the young girl sings to an empty chair, much like my mother said I did when I was young. My child-brain immediately connected the real-life stories I’d heard with that scary scene in the movie, and every time I approached my bedroom window, I was convinced I’d see the ghostly pig eyes from the film. From that point forward, I would only close my curtains with my head turned sharply to the side, eyes shut tight. 

Today, I know my reaction was childish silliness, and I’m skeptical of all ghost stories. But even to this day, when I peer out of a darkened window, I think of those glowing eyes.

Happy Halloween