by Felicia Donovan
I was born in the Fall, thus I claim it to be "my season." This colorful rite of passage embodies everything beautiful about New England. It is a gift wrapped in orange, red and gold to be slowly unwrapped each day.
For many of us blessed to spend our Falls in New England, the season often kicks off with a bumpy ride on a teetering golf cart deep into the apple orchards. We are given careful instructions by our driver on the proper way to pick apples. "Twist the stem, never pull it. Place it gently into the bag to prevent bruising." As soon as the driver leaves, we eagerly twist off a few samples to make sure they are plenty ripe. Sometime later, laden with heavy bags and sticky hands, another cart returns us to the farm stand where we eagerly devour hot apple donuts made right before our eyes. Our appetites satisfied, we stroll into the blueberry fields where my young friends and I let our imaginations run wild. We are in the middle of a fairy forest with hidden doors and wild creatures.
The next weekend finds us at a Pumpkin Festival along an estuarine center. I watch scarecrows being built and go on a scavenger hunt. A bearded man carves a giant pumpkin into a gargoyle. His t-shirt reads "Real pumpkin carvers have guts." I stuff myself with pumpkin muffins.
The leaves have already begun to burst into color though we know we are nowhere near "peak" yet. "Reaching peak" is a concept as nebulous as trying to predict the winning lottery ticket. Meteorologists pore over weather patterns and temperature trends, but Mother Nature makes her own schedule. One good rain storm can wipe "peak" out nearly overnight, as can abrupt temperature swings. New Englanders don't worry about such things. We know peak by the waves of color on the landscape. We know peak by the bright red maple leaf floating down the river. We know peak by the moments that take our breath away.
