It is the time of golden autumn in Boston. Who in the world says “golden autumn”, or “golden fall” for that matter. Certainly no native English speaker does. Yet this wonderful metaphor is widely used in the Russian language to describe that magical time of the year when the sun still warms your face, but the early morning air chills. The trees shimmer in the breeze, their yellow and orange leaves sparkling in the last rays of the sun.
Fall is here. Bostonians are back from the Cape, and you no longer have to wonder where everyone went while driving down Mass Pike. Kids grew taller in the summer sun, and Susie Baby is back behind the wheel of her yellow school bus scooping them up from the Natick front yards. Walnut Hill School teens too have returned, tan and bright eyed, and their gossip and giggles fill up the quiet morning commuter trains.
Apples are crisp, and pumpkins are out. The Russians head out to Cape Cod to pick wild mushrooms, and I dream of Christmas and apple pie. Soon the chill in the air will turn to frost, and the trees will shed their colorful dresses. Winter will be here in no time, and I will be a little older still.
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