Transitions

The autumn has arrived, and we've all been caught off-guard.

Seemingly a week ago it was the begining of August and we were preparing for the arrivial of best friends and family and the visitation of family on their turf.

A week ago, in mid-September, the landscape was verdant green and warm. Today the sugar maple out front is a quarter brilliant red, and pockets of red and orange line the commute. In the middle of verdant green.

A hurricane approaches, Kyle, the first for Maine since Bob in '91. Oh, do I remember that one, as I was getting ready for college, and there was swimming in Eric Roy's flooded back yard. Locally, we're getting into the autumn cooking season, with a righteous black-bean soup tonight, and apple cider pork and Octoberfest on the horizon. Woodsmoke permeates and if the temps are still in the '70s, they're dropping overnight and will drop soon for the rest of the year.

It's the most wonderful time of the year. Save for the budding leaves of early May, the heat and recreation of high summer and the frigid snow-banked dead calm of winter, of course. Right now it's the most wonderful time of the year.

I'm glad to be here.

Upon Returning

We arrived at PWM around 5:15, after ten hours spent in lines, terminals and metal tubes 39,000 feet above the 45th parallel and a decent stretch of Canadian air space. Alas, our luggage decided to linger for a bit at JFK. Word is that our bag will arrive in Maine around 11:45 tonight, and will be delivered sometime, to some address, tomorrow. I hope this is the case: I'd love to get my clothes and kicks back, to say nothing of my shaving implements, and all the wife's toiletries. This, I suppose, is the price paid for a smooth series of flights free from delays - taking away free food and encouraging the American caste system in general by cramming more and more plebes into steerage with just enough leg room to probably avoid deep vein thrombosis and denying access to first class loos just isn't enough, apparently.

Ah, the glory of flight.