Seasons come and seasons go

Autumn is one of my favourite seasons—summer being my favourite, I think.... I'm not very good at choosing favourites. But I like everything about autumn, actually, except that it leads to winter. 

I like it when the leaves turn fiery red and, in turn, transform the green mountains into a golden-hued peaks. I like it when the sun sets and turns everything a brilliant, burning orange.

I like the First Day of School and Thanksgiving and Halloween and Thanksgiving (again).

I like wearing sweaters and socks (but not shoes—ugh) and having the air be crisp and cool. It's a reason to enjoy hot apple cider and warm pumpkin pie. I like those things, too.

I don't like it at all when the trees fling off their leaves and stand around naked. 

How do they decide to do this? It doesn't make any sense. 

Here are two trees—the same kind—side by side. One has fully embraced the inevitable winter while the other is desperately clinging to our dying summer. 

Personally, I'm a clinger. But I've already broken out the sweaters, so...am I also a mutineer?

A couple of weeks ago when it was really cold—last week?—I whined to Andrew that fall was a useless season.  "It's just the gateway to winter!" I pouted. Then lied, "I hate it!"

I don't hate all of fall. Just the part where it morphs into winter. 

"Perhaps," he suggested, "If you thought of winter as the gateway to spring, winter wouldn't seem so bad."

I don't know. Winter and I aren't very good friends. Maybe this year I will try to be a little more welcoming, but I don't think I'll ever embrace it with the same reckless abandon that the trees do.