"Fall cozy," a term I stole from somewhere, but from where, I cannot remember. A nod to whomever it was that provided it to me. It is a perfectly descriptive couple of words. As a chill creeps into the air and leaves begin to die their beautifully colourful deaths, I am always overcome with a delicious feeling of anticipation. This feeling is common to many, but perhaps more so to women who seem to develop a nesting compulsion, much like that of squirrels. Every squash encountered MUST become soup. Each apple, a pie. And before the month is out, the freezer will likely be stuffed with hearty good things made from the season's harvest.
This year I hold out no hope for a full freezer, but I do hold out perpetual hope for the perfect Fall Festival. I have attended many fall fairs in the hope of catching hold of a certain essence. An earthy gathering of wooden stalls selling homebaked goods and fresh produce. Livestock shows, of which I know nothing about but find fastinating all the same. And those quirky produce contests where a pumpkin might be awarded a red ribbon for it's enormous size, or a squash awarded for it's ressemblance to one of the prime ministers of the past. Simple games for the kids. No smoke belching carnival rides, just burlap sacks for potatosack racing, and barrels of apples for bobbing. Perhaps some open air fiddling under the stars?
I think that Road to Avonlea is responsible for much of what informs my ideas about such things. I do realize that we're living in a different day and age, but I yearn for what was. If any of my rural readers can direct my yearnings, or squash them entirely, please do. I'm tired of searching.
