The summer heat of Florida is unrelenting on this first day of September. As I sit in the manufactured cool of my office, I gaze across the room at the wall calendar hanging gingerly from a pushpin, too small to tolerate the weighty suspension. You know the kind of wall hanging I’m referring to, sent unknowingly to you from some company trying to hawk their wares. My eyes drift down through the numbered days and my thoughts drift to glorious memories of autumn in the Northeast. Instantly I am bathed in colors reminiscent of crisp fall days, and stoked in the aroma of leaves freshly fallen, now the fuel for a crackling fire. I’ve heard a friend refer to this special time of year as “this riot of color we call autumn”. Longing for cool days and cooler nights, I must wait patiently for our Florida change of seasons. These changes pale in comparison with other regions of the country, as we go from summer to winter. To say the least, fall is quite unremarkable here.

Autumn in the Northeast, now that’s a change of seasons! No doubt about it. September begins the unstoppable transformation in leaves that has captured my memories this day. What a wonder it is. Sugar trapped in appendages drinking away the green of chlorophyll. The process is one of decay and finality as the leaves fall to their death on hardening ground as we creep toward the inevitable. Leaves have a jolly last laugh at old man winter don’t they? Surrender eminent, leaves of Oak and Maple burst into a chorus of “gold, red, orange, and yellowy yellow” before succumbing to their ultimate fate. One last colorful celebration before being raked into heaping piles, only to have the strike of a match be the last thing they hear.

Cooler temperatures bring out the first turtlenecks and sweaters of the season. Away go the flip-flops and out come the Timberland hiking boots. Fall weekends include raking the aforementioned leaves, now too numerous to control as they descend from above. Driving along tree lined country roads to my favorite farm stand, passing fields of pumpkins and hay, now baled and being put up for winter. Rumbling through the crushed stone parking lot, I go inside to find wicker baskets filled with gourds, Indian corn, and all varieties of fall squash.

This particular farm stand is known far and wide for their freshly pressed apple cider, that nectar that makes it’s annual appearance about the same time you feel that first blast of cold air down your neck. Fresh cider, an unmistakable libation made from apples just harvested, chilled and crisp, and pressed into a glorious liquid submission make my mouth water at the very thought. From the orchard come Macintosh, Rome, Gala, Granny Smith, Honey Crisp, and when eaten, crunch with freshness, exuding their juicy goodness, my chin often the receptacle. Chilled apple cider has a bold sweetness and subtle tang like no other. When paired with one of the farm stands homemade, fresh from the fryer cinnamon donuts, autumn comes to fruition in my experience.

Chilly autumn days, my favorite sweater and boots, a glass of fresh apple cider, and a warm cinnamon donut. These are the thoughts that carry me away today, far away from the hot, steamy summer in Southwest Florida.