Autumn has caught Massachusetts with its crispness, accenting everything in gold and scarlet. I can't help but smile when I look down, from my office building windows, onto the golden torches of the trees lining the streets of Boston.
The leaves die brilliantly, always, every year.
Last weekend, Jeanette and I went apple picking. The weather was perfect--chilly but not too cold. We wrapped ourselves in sweaters and took to the hills of the orchard like explorers, seeking the crisp Cortland apples I love so much.
On the way to the trees, bucket in hand, we came across a gypsy-esque man giving away kittens out of the back of his pick-up truck. Taken by the dark grey stripes and blue kitten eyes, I held one in my arms.
It was a tiny thing, full of the belief it could fly, and so it sprung from my arms onto the grass and ran for its life. The kitten ran under a car and hid in its bumper. The gypsy man rescued the kitten and placed it back into my arms, so in the end, you see, we had to take her home.
So home we went, with a bag full of apples, some fresh-from-the-earth red potatoes, a dozen apple cider donuts, hay sticking out of our shoes from the hay wagon, and a mewing bug-like creature we now call Grace.
Over the rest of the weekend, we watched Nathanial, the big cat, and Gracie, the kitten, fall in love. We baked a Pennsylvania Dutch Apple Pie, simmered some applesauce, and watched Kate Winslet lose her memory (again).
I continue to be, every year, enthralled by Autumn.