We begin to hear about it in the newspapers, on television, on the radio. Leaf peepers are lining up, checking sightings, making plans. They come from the coast and the cities, from the deep South and other countries. Vehicles of every shape and size bring the peepers. They are after the most spectacular, most awe-inspiring, most brilliant display they can find.

We prepare for them, greet them, hail them—even gently mock them. We love the leaf peepers.

Some of us love them because their visit to our state is timed with our own last hurrah before our long, lingering winter. They remind us to take a break; take a walk; look around.

Some of us love them because some of us are pragmatists. Leaf peepers, like summer folks, dine and buy and spend. Our economy grows strong from their visit. And our families and our communities are healthier when our economy is strong.

Some of us love them because we are irrationally proud of our beautiful state—as if we had anything to do with the color of leaves. Well, it is true, we can take some pride in our work to preserve, plan, conserve, and maintain our natural wonders.

But I think most of us love the leaf peepers for a more elusive reason. Think of the color of a leaf and what it can do. A bright red or orange leaf does not, at least noticeably, do anything. Its color, in fact, is evidence of its imminent death. A leaf of fall is a beautiful, useless thing. What people from miles away flock to see is millions of beautiful, useless things all together. What the leaf peeper seeks is maybe what we all seek—solace in the beauty of uselessness. Reverence for what simply is.

Technology, communication, transportation—these have improved in countless ways. We can get places faster and do things better than ever before. But where we are going and what we are doing has not changed much, it seems to me. What we are looking for is what we have always looked for—a glimpse of splendor.