A new fall season. Driving to Gloucester yesterday afternoon for a wedding (having fought my way through Friday-afternoon traffic on 93 and then 128), I noted once again how much the fall season in New England makes my heart sing. There's something about the light and the air. And, yeah, the trees are nice, too.
There are so many associations: Growing up in the Adirondacks, on top of West Mountain. Literally. Spending time on Lake George throughout the summer and into the fall, on my dad's speed boat. Sensing the shift in the wind moving through the leaves the third week of August. Watching the summer tourist season at my dad's motel come to an abrupt halt after Labor Day. Gathering up my belongings and making the trek to Albany, back to boarding school. Then, later, to Boston and Saratoga for college.
I moved to Boston from Glens Falls 30 years ago this fall for my first grown-up job. I had a broken heart at the time, but it healed. I lived in a tiny little neighborhood in Watertown's East End, next to the Mount Auburn Cemetery. There were railway tracks running through the backyard, plus a silo nearby from a breadcrumb factory that leaked flour and left our cars with a light dusting from time to time. I liked to say it was the neighborhood that time forgot. A true cul de sac, filled with families, where I felt very safe as a young woman living alone in her $400/month apartment.
That was the start of my love affair with Watertown, Massachusetts. It's been my home for all but five of my 30 years here. And now . . . and now, I am about to move to Brattleboro, Vermont. A new New England adventure as I settle into my 50s.
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