The last few days of Indian summer warmth were still fresh in Sarah’s mind, but now the temperature was beginning to cool and the air blew a crisp kiss across her cheeks. The light jacket was loose around her as she absent-mindedly followed the tractor path that separated the orchard from the edge of the woods. Each year the woods prepared for winter by trading its soft blanket of green, draped lightly around its shoulders, for a much more vibrant quilt of crimson, russet, and gold; a quilt that would soon be thrown down to warm its feet.

As she strolled, she shuffled her feet through the fallen leaves. The path hissed the forest’s commanding whisper, “Hush…Hush…Hush,” with each step she took, telling her to grow quiet with the season.

The hustle and bustle of summer was slowing down to a time of thoughtful meanderings along the orchard’s edge. It was a time for reflection. It was a time to take in all the sights and sounds of nature. It was a time for one last gust to the senses, before the long hibernation of winter.

She walked without purpose. She had nowhere to go and had the entire afternoon to enjoy getting there. The path followed a straight line; the apple orchard filled the expanse to her left and the changing woods loomed to her right. Straight ahead, beyond the orchard, the woods hooked to the left and began to encircle the orchard and its rows of gnarled fruit trees. The sun shone down through the clear autumn sky, emblazing before her a wall of autumnal color; color that could only be matched by the eventual awakening blooms of spring.

Sarah filled her lungs with a long, cool surge of fragrant air. The apples in the orchard had been picked only days before, leaving a few lingering stragglers on the ground to be transformed into the sweet, intoxicating aroma of ripening fruit. Occasionally, a waft of smoke would drift her way from the neighboring farm; smoke from leaves raked into colorful sky-high mountains, and then set ablaze on an alter of thanks for the summer’s blessings.

She stopped her slow sojourn and listened to the laughter of children playing in the remaining unlit leaf mountains. The sounds rang out as only the peels of children’s laughter can. It was the sound of happiness that knows no boundaries and will not be stifled by thoughts of the coming winter. It was the same laughter that will echo again from ridge to ridge, as sleds slip down the hillsides covered in blankets of sparkling snow. It was the same sound that, only weeks before, filled the long hot hazy days of summer. It was an unmatched, joyful sound that knows no season.

Turning her back to the lingering laughter and facing the fading glow of the afternoon sun, she resumed her aimless trek. Unfortunately, afternoons slip away far too early at this time of year and the shadows were growing longer as the sun started its eventual descent into evening. The balmy temperature began to slip more dramatically, causing Sarah to snug the light jacket close around her and pull the collar up to keep the chill off her neck. Her hands grew cold and she brought them to her face to blow warm, moist air into her cupped palms. Briskly she rubbed them together before thrusting them deep into her waiting pockets. Her breath was becoming a light fog, floating from her lips in short bursts of gray vapor.

The setting sun, and the coolness it was bringing, hastened Sarah’s steps. Reaching the far end of the orchard, she turned around and made her way back along the tractor path. Her strides took on new purpose as she briskly made her way back toward the awaiting farmhouse and the warmth it offered.

A fresh cup of hot chocolate celebrated her return to the back porch. Holding the mug tightly in her hands, she eagerly allowed its warmth to flow through her fingertips and start to chase away the chill. Steam rose from the rim and filled her nostrils with the sweet, addicting nectar of chocolate. Taking a sip, the warmth slipped down her throat and filled her entire being with a feeling that only chocolate can bring; only chocolate can satisfy.

The creaking porch swing invited her to sit and take in the lingering glow of the setting sun, as she continued to take in the intoxicating warmth of the drink. Yes, winter, with its dreary contrasts of black and white, would soon be upon her. But, for that one immeasurable moment in time, Sarah sat with her hands cupped tightly around the warm mug, close to her waiting lips, admiring the awe of nature’s canvas; hazily painted in hues of crimson, gold, russet and sunset.

 

Larry Wilson is a mostly lifelong resident of Niles. His optimistic “glass full to overflowing” view of life shapes his writing. His essays stem from experiences, compilations and recollections from friends and family. Wilson touts himself as “a dubiously licensed teller of tall tales, sworn to uphold the precept of ‘It’s my story; that’s the way I’m telling it.’” He can be reached at wflw@hotmail.com.