As New Englanders, we've got one major thing going for us--the changing seasons. I'm not talking about the fact that we have four of them, or saying that they're all wonderful. I'm referring specifically to those few weeks every quarter when we transition from one season to another, when the steepled skies of our region cast a new and hope-filled light over our lives.

We're in one of those periods now, as the air turns cold at night and the leaves go brilliant. We look forward to apples, cider, pumpkins and seeds. We go leaf-peeping if we're not rendered immobile by the price of gas. We watch baseball and football. We fight traffic while high school marching bands hum in the distance. We wear college sweatshirts or quilted flannel as we rake leaves into multicolored piles, gleefully inhaling the chilled detritus. We are northerners, by God, and we think more clearly in the cold.

I think there is something portentous about the beginning of a season, as I contemplate everything that I can accomplish from this fresh jumping-off point: stories I can write, windows I can clean, friends I can call, and ideals I can instill in my tiny daughter. Of course, so little actually gets done amidst the living monotony that carries us through every season, unchanged from the last.

Then suddenly it's December and it is time to bunker down for the most northern of all seasons: winter.


Anonymous Roxie Carol said...

I could go for some chilled detritus with a splash of rum right about now. Have you ever tried fresh squeezed detritus? It's ten times better than the canned stuff.

2:54 PM  
Blogger Jene said...

"the seasons" are so exaggerated. i love florida.

9:57 AM  

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