Beautifiul Autumn

October, here's to you.
Here's to the heady aroma of the frost-kissed apples,
the winey smell of ripened grapes,
the wild-as-the-wind smell of hickory nuts
and the nostalgic whiff of that first wood smoke.

Ken Weber

Autumn is,  by far, my favorite time of the year. The days have cooled down, the leaves have turned, and the world is busy preparing herself for winter.  The leaves changing colors and falling of the trees. There's something magical about the clear brisk days.  As a child, we'd rake up all the leaves into a big pile and then we would jump into the pile and spread them all over again.  Later, after we had our fill of fun, our parents would rake them up in a final pile, set them aflame, and for awhile we would enjoy that   pleasant woodsy smell that perfumed  the air all around.  

There was once a time when apples were my favorite fruit; now I can't stand them.  My cranky neighbor had a huge tree.  We used to marvel at the blossoms in spring, and then, in the fall,  we would sneak into the yard to pick them, laughing giddily as we ran away with our treasure. It always amazes how something as juicy and delicious as an apple can come directly off the tree, into my hand and into my mouth, just like that. 

I vividly remember attending wearing our school colors of orange and black (how appropriate) as I cheered on our football team on crisp, clear Sunday afternoons.  I remember hay rides and running through the corn field, laughingly calling our friends to find us.  Because my parents weren't into Halloween, I was always invited along with my friend, Kathleen's family, for picking pumpkins in the pumpkin patch.  And then there was Halloween, the thrill of picking out the perfect costume, anxiously waiting for the sun to go down, going house to house with friends, filling bags, returning home to empty them, and then starting out in the other direction.  You have got to love this time of the year.

What childhood memories do you have of autumn?

There is a beautiful spirit breathing now
Its mellowed richness on the clustered trees,
And, from a beaker full of richest dyes,
Pouring new glory on the autumn woods,
And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds.
Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird,
Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales
The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer,
Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life
Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned,
And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved,
Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down
By the wayside a-weary.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow