It’s autumn or so the calendar says. Across much of the country, farmers are harvesting crops, temperatures are dropping, and leaves are beginning to turn gold and red. But in Mesa, Arizona, where I’ve lived most of my life, none of those things happen. Here, we don’t harvest cornfields we harvest sunlight. Our version of autumn feels more like an extension of summer. September still sits in the triple digits, and even Halloween can bring 100-degree days. Fall foliage, when it shows up at all, doesn’t appear until Christmas.
Autumn in the East Valley of Phoenix is more an idea than an experience a concept marked by dates on a calendar rather than visible changes outside. And yet, every September, without fail, I drag my giant storage bin out of my sweltering garage and decorate my house as though I were living in Vermont. Out come the leafy garlands, faux pumpkins, rustic signs, and ceramic acorns. Within a few hours, my suburban home is transformed into a cozy fall wonderland even as my air conditioner hums against the desert heat.
It’s not just me. Drive through Phoenix suburbs and you’ll spot plenty of xeriscaped yards dotted with scarecrows, wreaths, and fading plastic leaves. The pumpkins might melt a little under the desert sun, but the spirit of the season still shines through.
I know how absurd it might sound decorating for a season that never actually arrives. But the habit has become a yearly ritual I’m unwilling to give up.
Part of the reason is nostalgia. When my family moved to Arizona from Illinois when I was a toddler, my mom brought her Midwestern sense of autumn with her. Every September, she unpacked the same old decorations the ones that smelled faintly of cinnamon and cardboard and filled our home with reminders of the fall she’d left behind. Though the desert outside stayed relentlessly dry and brown, our living room glowed with orange leaves and pumpkin-scented candles.
Now, as an adult, continuing that tradition feels like a way of staying connected to where we came from. My family lived in Illinois for nearly 150 years, and even though I grew up under Arizona skies, I feel an almost inherited duty to keep those small pieces of Midwestern autumn alive. When I hang my garlands and light my fall candles, I’m not just decorating I’m participating in a legacy.
There’s also something comforting about aligning my life with the rest of the country. Phoenix is a city of transplants, and according to the U.S. Census Bureau, around 61% of Arizonans were born in other states. For many of us, decorating for fall is a way of syncing up with the seasonal rhythms we left behind. While friends and family elsewhere pull out their sweaters and crunch through leaves, we join them symbolically crafting our own version of fall through décor.
In a way, decorating connects me to a shared American experience. Autumn feels like the most distinctly American season, full of cultural touchstones football games, Halloween, Thanksgiving, apple pie, and pumpkin patches. Participating in those traditions, even artificially, makes me feel like part of something bigger. It’s as though my faux pumpkins and Hobby Lobby garlands are small flags of national unity in an otherwise seasonless place.
On a more personal level, I simply love the act of redecorating. The desert’s seasons barely change, and after months of relentless sunlight and heat, I crave transformation. When I swap out my bright summer colors for rich oranges and deep reds, it’s as if I’m willing a shift into existence creating a sanctuary that looks like autumn even if it feels like July outside. The new textures, the cozy scents, the glow of candles they all bring relief from the monotony of endless sunshine.
And honestly, even if my decorations are fake, their beauty is real. Rust-colored leaves, apple cider-scented candles, and a pumpkin-embroidered table runner turn my house into something warm and welcoming. I may not get to experience crisp air or falling leaves, but I can still create a sense of seasonal joy inside my own home.
I’ve accepted that I can’t change the weather. The Arizona sun will keep blazing well into November, the cacti will stay green, and the air will remain dry. But within my walls, I can make fall happen. So while my neighbors might chuckle at my faux leaves wilting in 100-degree heat, I’ll be happily sipping an iced pumpkin latte in my air-conditioned living room, surrounded by the colors of a season I’ve chosen to believe in.
Because here in Arizona, autumn isn’t something that happens to us it’s something we create.
