There’s a beauty in fall unlike any other seasonal change, a richness of color, spectacular in, well, death, as it were. The bounty of summer growth gives up the ghost for winter’s sleep, one could say, in the ultimate color display.
The harvest is what is to be celebrated this time of year, were we still tied as closely to agriculture as our forebearers. Each household would have stored away what it grew, and old heads would calculate how well they’d survive the cold times, based on stored hay and canned preserves. Here in urban times, we think more in terms of the coming holidays and where we’ll go on vacation. Someone else has done the canning.