I know Fall is still a few days away according to the calendar, but it arrived in Oakhurst yesterday. Gentle breezes under a gray sky, a few spatters of rain, wind chimes awaking from their summer stupor. The bracing air of Autumn rushes in, filling your lungs with the sharp, tart taste of the fading year.
One of my favorite things about Autumn is getting cold water from the tap again. I also love ski caps and sweatshirts and lumberjack flannels. After having worn as little as possible all summer long, it's fun to put on an extra layer and feel the exhilaration of being dressed exactly right for the temperature. Even the playful nip of cold around the ears is heart-warming somehow, like Autumn's kiss of peace.
I don't know what it is that is so magical about the way the seasons change, but it never ceases to capture me. Even here in California, land of the sovereign sun, the drama of the ancient cycle is unmistakable. Granted, our rituals are somewhat lest dramatic than those of our eastern cousins: we don't have cranberry harvests or icicles or breathtaking forests burning with reds and yellows and oranges. But there is still firewood to stack, boots to oil, tire chains to inspect. There is the promise of crackling fires, the suggestive warmth of a chainsaw muffler against dusty denim.
And apple pie. Don't forget the apple pie.
Image courtesy of minigallery.co.uk