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a place of your own

fall equinox

The September mid-morning light is almost surreal, stronger than the eyes can bear, but tired and oblique at the same time. There are only two months of the year that can boast perfectly blue skies: April and September.

I feel the inherent melancholy of this harmonious symphony of colors: bright red maple trees projecting over the cloudless blue. There is a humid scent of fallen leaves in the air, graceful leaves blown back and forth by uncoordinated wind gusts, little rabbits and squirrels are instinctively hurried by the approach of winter.

I’m not going to lie, autumn makes me sad. If it weren’t for the pumpkins, candy, little colorful buckets and costumes, turkeys and cranberry sauce, I’d probably start languishing right now. The aforementioned items will postpone the solar deficiency syndrome til January, when alas, no pumpkins!

For now, though, the bright and cheery oranges, rusts and yellows smile from every rack in front of the grocery store and from every fall planting. While going for a morning walk I spy a whole patch of perennial mums in a garden (I know they are perennials, because I saw them last year), which strengthens me in the conviction that they really exist (one would be inclined to believe them to be mythical things like the white unicorn or the Dodo bird). If you managed to have them come back to life the following year, you are a better gardener than me and I salute you.

So, in order not to indulge in completely unjustified existential angst, I turn my sight to harvest. And that would make anybody feel better: bushels of apples and grapes, pumpkins and the most wonderfully fragrant butternut squash. Did you ever notice the heavenly honey scent of butternut squash harvested in season?

Very colorful dry beans (see “Vegetable art”), bright red corn-like kernels of the magnolia fruit (pictures coming soon), sweet intoxicating aroma of overripe grapes, shy crocuses piercing dried up dirt, translucent white currants in the sunlight, bright blue flowered ground cover. One morning you wake up and open the door and the harsh, unmistakable chill of winter burns your nostrils. Not yet, not yet…