Growing up as a kid in New England, I always knew when the seasons were changing long before the calendar told me.
Hints included: the Christmas music filling our local mall, the flowers and allergies that followed spring, the blessed day when our county’s public pool opened indicating school’s end was just around the corner. However, no season was as noticeable as fall. When fall came around, I saw the trees turn a rainbow of warm colors, the temperature drop, and my overprotective mother tying whatever scarf we had from last winter that wasn’t torn or covered in mud. The smell of pumpkin seeds and apple pie filled every American household and picking the costume that was both creative and practical became a game between the neighborhood kids. Another tell-tale sign of the autumn season is the big AC/heating truck I saw parked in front of my house every September. My dad, being the cautious man he is, always made sure our heater was in spic-spec shape before the harsh winter of the north came around. While the winter was great for playing hockey with my brothers, snowball fights, and mom’s hot cocoa, without a perfectly working heater there was no way to keep the chill out of our bones. There are somethings even a log fireplace can’t fix. So, like clockwork I’d see the man clad in a jumpsuit and a tool belt crawling around in the vents of our creaky old house making sure that this winter would be a warm one.