It is well-past dark and the fields around our yard are just now falling silent. Outside the yellowed soybeans have been harvested and our little plot feels vulnerable with the naked ground all around it. The kids and I picked up some pumpkins to ward off the colorless look. We bought them from a local farmer. I want to call him a spry old man, but he is probably my father's age and my father is not old, merely mature.
Inside, I am baking a fresh pear cake. With an abundance of cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves and ginger, its baking is better than any candle. If it were to become a candle I would call it Happy-Harvest-Home and burn it through Thanksgiving. I am out of fresh pears, and my trousers do not want me to continuously bake cake until then, so the candle really is a better long-term solution.
Why a solution?
What is the problem?
Although I love the change of seasons, each and every one, Autumn, with its quick-burning blaze of colors soon becomes dead and brown to me. Maybe a scent will remind me that a year in its maturity might still be spry.