In this house, signs of the season change come upon us with the speed of a sudden storm. One minute we?ve got bathing suits and beach towels hanging on the back of the mudroom door, the next we?re digging through an assortment of jackets and hoodies searching for that one HUNTER ORANGE sweatshirt we must now wear each time we head out with the dogs.

Yes, hunters are again in our midst. I hate to generalize about people, you know, in general, but bear hunters have beady eyes and their wives won?t make eye contact with me as we pass each other on the road. Good thing, cause I?d put a hex on them. I would.*

Deer hunters are trouble, too, not least because they are legally allowed to shoot any dog they see chasing deer and as we all know, there are a couple of butterscotch-colored dogs we know and love that love nothing better than a wild and wooly chase through the underbrush, hot on the trail of some balletic doe whose every leap flashes her fluffy white bits at them.

But I must stop thinking about the hunters because it makes me ill.

In the bedroom we have replaced the thin summer quilt that I made for T back when I was his new girlfriend trying to impress him with my domestic abilities (and he fell for it, sucker) with a heftier, flannel-covered comforter. In the morning, I?m more likely to make a pot of oatmeal than throw frozen fruit into the blender for a smoothie. Over coffee, T tells me about his projects outside and they are less about mowing, raking, moving stone, and more about stacking up firewood firewood firewood. And, firewood. You can never have enough firewood.

Because I live in a region where winter spreads its joy from October to April, I am squarely in the summer lovin? camp. However, since I have made less enthusiastic remarks about the arrival of Fall this year, I feel obligated to share with you that just this morning, as I made the long trek home from Boston and turned onto my beloved road, there was an energetic breeze shaking the branches above me. I slowed the car to a crawl and watched as the leaves showered down around me in a tumult of orange, red, and yellow and I swear, as I bumped along at about 5 miles an hour, I felt like I was in my own private ticker tape parade.

All that was missing was a baby blue convertible with three teenagers sporting white gloves and bouffant hair-dos.

*Okay, I?ll be honest, I have put a hex on them, so if you?re standing at the register of your local grocery store and some middle-aged couple comes stumbing in?eyes burning, but they can?t even itch them because they?re desperately scratching at every inch of their skin that is peppered with open and oozing red pustules and, they are screaming in pain from the sciatica shooting up their ass, well, you?ll have just met our local bear hunters. Say hello for me, will ya?

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