Autumn in New England

It was one of those days you sometimes get latish in the autumn when the sun beams, the birds toot, and there is a bracing tang in the air that sends the blood beetling briskly through the veins.

Jeeves and the Old School Chum by P. G. Wodehouse

If you are an observant, long-term reader of this blog then you already are seeing a few contradictions with this post. It is entitled “Autumn in New England” and I moved away from New England a year and a half ago. Additionally, while it is about autumn, the quote is mostly about Old England and not New England. Those are both valid points. However, I am feeling more than a little homesick for autumn in Connecticut and this is a purely self-indulgent post so we are going to ignore both those valid points.

Ohio, where I live now, is pretty and the trees are pretty but it is not a state that does fall foliage on a grand scale. You are not confronted with rolling hills of reds, oranges, and yellows. The leaves do not fall in a blanket everywhere you go. It is a very pretty world but not a glorious one. I admit I might be a bit biased in favor of New England but the east coast does have the edge in the sheer number of trees.

While we are talking about fall done right, I want my apple orchards to be simple places where you pull off the road, grab a bag at the farm stand, and wander to your heart’s content picking all you want from whatever tree you want for as long as you want. I want to pick some wildflowers, a pumpkin or two, and the last of peaches while I am there. I don’t want a commercial experience. I want a nature-filled experience. (Before any Ohioans protest; I am sure such a place exists. I just haven’t found it yet.)

I came across a quote today that I like. I know nothing about the author or the book this quote appears in but it sums up how I feel and maybe explains the nostalgic, slightly homesick way I have been feeling lately.

We leave something of ourselves behind when we leave a place, we stay there, even though we go away. And there are things in us that we can find again only by going back there.

Night Train to Lisbon by Pascal Mercier

Something of me will always be in New England and a fiercely partisan part of me will roll my eyes wildly if you ask me, as someone did recently, if there is any pretty fall foliage on the east coast. I will wax lyrical about the colors, the crunch of the leaves, and the brisk autumn air. If you value your time, don’t let me get started on the joys of a walk in the woods in October. Because autumn in New England is simply the best.