There’s something magical about the first dip into cold weather. Part of it is the ritual of seasonal change: the throwing wide the quilt to land on the bed after its long sojourn in a closet, the clang or click of the heat coming on with a touch of the thermoset, the winding of an old or new scarf around my neck before I slip on the jacket that’s spent months useless in a basement box.
There’s the refreshing and even jarring step outside, the air bright as cool water before the comfort of the heat in the car returning to us after months abroad.
Now it’s late October, and the balance point between seasons – those days of sitting on the porch in shorts and sleeveless top, and nights of sleeping with a blanket and no a.c. on — has tipped over. A month from now, the novelty will have worn off. A season from now, I’ll be craving a bout of spring. But for the moment, I’m so grateful for the exquisitely well-lit blue of the sky, the maple trees on Tennessee St. that are half green and half orange-rose, and the hard frost turning the mornings to silver.