In the Berkshires of Western Massachusetts, a raw wind bears a touch of Canada, blowing the green out of the leaves, quickening our walk, kindling our appetites, and chilling even staunch New England souls like myself who regard Old Man Winter as a minor deity.
I want to plunge my hands into the guts of pumpkin. I want to take a hayride, to bounce against the soft warmth of hay as the tractor pulls our wagon through mazes of 10-foot corn. I want to bite into an apple and taste the crisp sweetness of autumn’s bounty. I want to snuggle under a blanket and listen to the wind as it quiets the bugs, the birds, and all else that crouches mute under the waning moon.
