Once again, I’m turning this space over to my daughter, who has a seasonal message for those of us already groaning at autumn’s arrival: Stop complaining and start marveling. Writing from Paris, she makes a spirited case for why no one does October quite like New England. I’ll let her take it from here. — L.M.
Of all the months living away and abroad from my native Massachusetts, October is when the homesick yearning hits hardest. That glorious time that officially signals out the flashy parade of summer’s abundance, where the fall foliage cozily embraces the communities and countryside, welcoming us back to an ever-evolving autumnal watercolor painting. The natural juxtaposition of bright orange pumpkins flashing defiantly through gloomy weather, carved smiles signaling the lead-up to Halloween night. October in Massachusetts promises crisp apples and crunchy leaves and forest foraging for the most irresistible hues of yellow, orange and red dancing from the leaves to the skies. If only I could draw all this scenery with chalk on the sidewalk of my grey European city and hop into it like they do in Mary Poppins.
I imagine most of my Northeast peers would more often cherish the bombastic and sea-sprayed summer months, but for me, no one does fall like New England. I’ve now lived across several cities and countries, where the season passes quickly and unceremoniously, particularly with the absence of Halloween and Thanksgiving. And what’s so magical about October itself? While September still carries sunburns and November commences the harrowing freefall into the start of winter, October is perfectly poised in between, the splendid midpoint between the apple-picking and the gourd gathering.
I live in France, where the fall is incredibly underrated compared to the titans of ski season, beach holidays and, of course, the undeniable allure of a French springtime. September in France is called “La rentrée” — a nationwide societal reset in September following the final thrills of the summer season, a period met with unanimous gloom. Now three years into this world, I’m more accustomed with the October offerings — some regional food and wine festivals, the occasional plans to mushroom-hunt in the countryside. You certainly won’t encounter pumpkin-flavored anything; even tracking down a single pumpkin itself is a challenge. “Olivia, I found a shop that has pumpkins!” excitedly texted one of my expat friends last week, along with a photo of four sad looking options huddled together on the floor of a florist shop, slightly misshapen and deflated.
In Massachusetts, it feels like you can’t turn a corner without the glorious reminders of the high season. Some of my fondest memories are associated with childhood outings to cider mills and haunted hayrides; even the mundane task of raking leaves led to the reward of stuffing the piles into homemade scarecrows on the front lawn. October is a magical dance with the last fruits and foliage and flora of the natural world before we succumb to root vegetables and pine trees and the bitter cold. It launches at us like the dazzling finale song of an opera or musical.
And so, as I type this all from a grey Paris morning, I remind my fellow Bay Staters to find time to cherish this seasonal chapter. I offer here no gardening advice nor horticultural education. I leave that to my mother and usual scribe of this article. I simply want to wax poetic of a month so precious and lovely and, if I may be incredibly biased, unrivaled by every corner of the world outside of New England. Hopefully, this has inspired some appreciation for this beautiful month in its final stretch. It’s not too late to bring home that pumpkin.
“O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall…”— Robert Frost
The Seaside Gardener
By Olivia McLean