I suppose I’m restless enough at the close of any season to happily anticipate the next one with all it can bring. Having grown up in
New England though means that by mid-August, I’m totally over summer. I have an unconscious, internal itching to dig up my wool sweaters and jeans, always forgetting that those clothes will feel torturous until late September or early October, and then only in the mornings and evenings.
Up north back in the late 1960’s, we didn’t ride our bikes off to the first day of school until after Labor Day, and I remember wearing a sweater as mornings were quite chilly. Here in
, kids could ride the bus home naked and not be cool enough. I wait with cups of ice water to greet red cheeks and sweaty bodies from a long, sweltering bus ride. I walk to the mailbox and returning dripping as though I’ve stepped into an oven. Autumn can’t come soon enough for me. Atlanta
Honestly, I’m always more excited about fall fashions than spring ones. My boots are waiting to be worn and fun layers and textures are calling. I mean, a good turtleneck, a chunky knit sweater, a smokin’ pair of jeans, some Frye boots – what could be better? I want to build fires in the fireplace and make hearty stews. And who doesn’t relish stepping outside with a steaming cup of coffee to the gentle bite of dry, cool air that doesn’t hang in walls of humidity but blows lightly through one’s hair?
From the start of school, I’m sniffing about like a rabbit for the smell of fall. At the first cool breeze and scent of leaves in metamorphosis, their true colors emerging, and that je ne sais quoi, this girl is getting’ happy.