My favorite season is the briefest–Indian Summer. Grace Metalious, author of Peyton Place, captured it perfectly:
“Indian Summer is like a woman. Ripe, hotly passionate, but fickle. She comes and goes as she pleases, so that one is never sure if she will come at all. In Northern New England, Indian Summer puts up a scarlet tipped hand to hold the winter back a little.”
Last week, I was in New England and it was just as Metalious described it. In Vermont the undulating green mountains were stippled ochre and orange. Stunning.
It’s another Indian Summer day here in the Midwest. Only a few are left. I’m heading into the woods for a long walk.
(Photo is of my son and his best friend taken with my new Nikon, which is a peach of a camera.)