"I'm so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers." ~L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables
Autumn makes me want to bake (this week I made apple crisp, pumpkin whoopie pies, and apple butter. Last week I made homemade apple sauce and apple pie) and take nature walks and go to bonfires and drive with my car windows down.
|A mighty fine apple pie.|
|Taken from my car window.|
|My footballer, number 7. Split end.|
|Not an apple orchard, but a friend's apple tree and that is almost better.|
|Little pumpkins. At 50¢ each I had to bring one home with me.|
Autumn in New York is particularly glorious, the way the light hits the earth, gilding everything. It's magical, but it's also a bit melancholy as though nature is apologizing in advance. That sharp nip of cold in a Central New York autumn is foreshadowing--just a tiny taste of what's in store in the coming long, dark, cold months. Winters are brutal here.
But I don't want to think about winter yet. I want to breath in the pungent sour-sweet tang of a thousand decaying apples that have fallen in the autumnal woods. I want to glory in paprika-hued leaves and crunch through leaves thin and brittle as yellowed newspaper clippings. I want to feel transcendental sun shine on my face and arms, at least for a few more weeks.