October 21, 2014
We went to a pumpkin patch on a picturesque farm north of the city this weekend. Truth be told, their patch was somewhat depleted, but the trees were aflame and flashing their stuff and the farm had a good variety of gourds and soft-hued pumpkins (peaches-and-cream, silvery green, inky gourds and a few spiky chestnut burrs).
Marguerite found a winner and rolled it back up the hill from the patch with a little friend. We sat next to a great French family on the plane our way home from France this summer and met them there for an outing together.
Poor Colette. She had a rough day. It was blustery and cold and she was counting on some horses that didn't readily appear.
We stopped at a quintessential New-England white church with gravestones mottling its claim. Got out and crunched the leaves under me and wandered among the headstones for a moment thinking they were lucky souls to rest in such a peaceful spot. As we drove along, trees churning by, I realized how fall in the northeast feels native to me - like a moment of home for a season.