We’re lucky in New England. We enjoy four distinctive seasons. Here in Boston, winter is pure magic, with the trees along Commonwealth Avenue outlined in tiny white lights, and the strong scent of wood burning in fireplaces permeating the neighborhood. Spring is a riot of color in the Public Garden, with beds of tulips at every turn. In summer, sailboats meander down the Charles River, and the Esplanade is home to the Fourth of July fireworks. But it’s in autumn that we’re at our best. Potted mums and squatty pumpkins adorn window boxes and doorsteps. It’s time to don a comfy, bulky sweater, drink a cup of hot apple cider, and go leaf peeping, as the crisp air nudges the trees to turn hues of golden yellow, sunset orange, and fiery red.
Over the weekend, my family and I visited a farm just outside the city. It’s one of our favorite seasonal traditions. After picking a bagful of local apples, and pumpkins for the hearth, we treated ourselves to still-warm cider doughnuts. The foliage has not yet reached peak color. But the people-watching was well worth the trip. There were couples holding hands, children running around, families enjoying time spent together.