Up here in the north country, summer always feels like it’s trying to sneak out the back door before the party’s really over. No dramatic goodbyes—just a quiet Irish exit, leaving behind a few sticky popsicle sticks, wilted zinnias, and a vague sense that the days are somehow shorter than they should be.
Already, there’s a nip in the night air. A whisper of what’s coming. The kind of crisp that makes you pull your sweatshirt a little tighter and breathe a little deeper.
Change is on the wind. And whether we’re ready or not, autumn is stepping onto the stage.
And oh, what a show she puts on.
The bright greens of summer are starting to fade—not from embarrassment, but from good old-fashioned exhaustion. The fields are going golden. The ragweed is doing its best impression of fall confetti.
And the trees?
They’re
already in the dressing room, spinning in front of the mirror like,
“Does this crimson make my limbs look bold?”
This isn’t just any seasonal transition—it’s New England’s most iconic moment.
It arrives like a long-awaited letter from an old friend—familiar, comforting, and full of memories you didn’t realize you’d missed. The days are sun-drenched and golden. The nights are just cool enough to crack the windows and listen to the whisper of dry leaves tumbling down the road like little paper boats.
And in the middle of it all, the rituals return—pumpkins lined up on porches, apple cider steaming in mugs, kitchens filled with the smell of cinnamon, nutmeg, and pies cooling on the counter. There’s the annual attempt at bobbing for apples, which mostly ends in soggy hair and regret. And let’s not forget pumpkin carving: a sticky, stringy operation that leaves your kitchen looking like a crime scene and your jack-o’-lantern sagging into a wrinkled old man face within three days.
Summer’s grip has loosened. The humidity that clung like a damp sweater has finally slipped off. The mosquitoes have called it quits.
The whole world exhales.
But this year? This year feels different.
It’s as if God Himself stepped into the role of artist-in-residence and said, “You know what? Let’s make this one unforgettable.” The foliage isn’t just colorful—it’s radiant. Some leaves shimmer like they’ve been gilded by King Midas. Others blaze with reds and oranges so intense you’d swear they were borrowed from another world. And when the sun hits them just right, it’s like the whole forest caught fire in the beautiful yellows.
Soon, the tamaracks will take their final golden bow before joining the others in bare-branched stillness. The snow will come, soft and steady, tucking the world in for its long winter nap. The wood stove will resume its noble post, warming not just fingers and toes, but hearts, too, with old stories and well-earned silences.
But not yet.
Right now, in this golden, crunchy, apple-scented moment, we stand in the fleeting window between green and gray.
And what a window it is.
A season of letting go wrapped in glory. A final exhale before the hush.
Some folks say they can’t enjoy autumn because winter’s next. That’s like refusing to eat pie because the plate will be empty afterward. I mean—really? Eat the pie. And if it’s apple, warm it up, add a thick slice of sharp cheddar on the side, and live a little.
Enjoy the day, no matter what season.
Everywhere I look, I see not just beauty, but intention. A world that turns without asking our permission. One that reminds us—gently, then boldly—that nothing is forever. And maybe the best things never are. They’re meant to be savored while they’re here, and remembered long after they’re gone.
So I scuff through leaves like a kid who doesn't know, or care, how grown-ups are supposed to behave. I soak in the smell of ripe apples and damp earth. I let the season work its quiet magic.
Each day is a gift, wrapped in gold and rust and the kind of sunlight that makes you pause mid-step, mid-sentence, and just look.
And I plan to unwrap every last one with both hands.
