seasons change but people don't

The other night I was laying in bed, after a deadly combination of red wine and white russians, and I had a thought that sent me absolutely crazy! Like batshit, I tell you! The thought was this: I am currently missing fall on the East Coast!

This has never, ever happened to me before! It almost came pretty close to happening last year, as I was preparing to move cross country with little more than a week's notice, but I stretched out my time at home, opting to drive faster and longer days so I could squeeze more time out of my last autumn.

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Like many New Englanders, autumn is my favorite season, and it's not just because of all that beautiful fall foliage we're so famous for (although it is insane, I promise you). There's something about the air. The way it smells (crushed leaves and bonfires), the way it feels (crisp and cool, almost brittle). For a brief moment in time, having to wear a scarf and a hoodie feels downright romantic.

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Fall in New England is fair season. I know I'm corny for it, but I absolutely love fairs. The Durham Fair is my personal favorite, although the big E is impressive and unbelievable in it's tackiness, and runs a close second.Here's the worst part about my mini-obsession with the Durham Fair: I never even go on any rides. Nor do I play games, or look at handmade candles and dream catchers. I go there for one thing and one thing only; the food. Fair food is hands down, my favorite, favorite guilty pleasure. Must haves at the Durham Fair include strawberry shortcake, clam chowder in a bread bowl, and a ginormous bag of kettle corn, and if you go to the big E, for the love of god, eat a cream puff!

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Fall in New England is also apple season. I mean, I'm sure it's apple season here, too, but I don't think California has quite the wealth of apples as a place like CT, and even if they did, they most certainly do not have Lyman Orchards, where you can get an apple cider and a cider donut and then, maybe even go on a hayride (do they still do that?) with a bunch of bratty, dirty kids. The best thing though, about Lyman's is the way their apples taste, straight off the tree. Simultaneously juicy and crunchy and altogether perfect.

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It breaks my heart to think that children in California have never spent an afternoon raking leaves in their yard and then jumping into the piles, running around smelling like damp earth with twigs in their hair.
If I had my way, for my birthday, I'd take all the people I love who live here and put them on a plane to meet up with all the people I love back home, and then we'd go have a bonfire in the woods, just like when I was 17.
I guess I'm just feeling homesick. Waxing poetic about the east coast and forgetting that after fall comes winter, which is bitter cold and, after Christmas, completely unbearable. I've heard rumors that the West Coast has it's fair share of fall activities, too. Harvest festivals and haunted houses. The air here at this of year feels warmer, but not altogether different. There's still that sense of changing seasons, some things ending, others just beginning. Who knows, maybe ten years from now, I'll be looking back here longingly, thinking how much I loved spending fall in the bay area.

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But for now, I'm feeling bittersweet. Almost enjoying the way my heart aches for what feels like home. There's something special about being here and missing there. When I was younger and the feeling of loss was a relatively new sensation, I would always go to my father with my troubles, bemoaning how much it hurt. "So let it hurt," he would say, "That's how you know it meant something."

love always