I can’t help it. I’ve steeled myself for days not to say it. It’s trite. It’s cliché. But it’s impossible for me not to say…
… isn’t this a great time of year – the crisp air, the rich colours, the smell of woodsmoke in the evenings…I love fall, all of it, even the thin frost that came and saw off what was left of my tomatoes and basil (thus putting an end to my nightly bruschetta snack). Fall is the season when I feel alive again after the heat of summer, a time to don colourful chunky knit sweaters and cozy up to a sweet apple log fire on a Saturday night. It’s a short season (in this northern part of the world), and perhaps all the more glorious for that.
Whew. Got that off my mind. I’ve been deliberately not blogging because I knew I wouldn’t be able to not say a word and nonchalantly write about other things while my mind screams out “Autumn, Autumn, Autumn.” So the decision to just go ahead and say it was a relief.
Why make such an issue of it? Because everyone says the same things this time of year, and frankly it drives me nuts when everywhere you turn writers are churning out messages of autumn splendour. I vowed never to use the terms “crisp air” or “rich vibrant colour” again, and swore not to rave on about apples, sweaters and fireplaces.
What can I say? I am no match for Mother Nature, and she wins.
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