This weekend was a lovely weekend away, with a visit to family on the farm where I grew up, and a loop around through the mountains of north-central PA to lunch with my step-daughter at college.
Western NY is lovely at the close of summer, gardens bursting with tomatoes and beans and pumpkins, the corn drying on the stalk and the leaves not quite turning.
The temperature has dipped and the air has cleared, with enough chill to warrant blankets. Over my shoulder I pull the quilt made for me by my paternal grandmother, scraps of fabric of unknown provenance stitched together, more practical than lovely. Such a change a day brings. Just last night I slept fitfully in the clammy air, dreaming of an autumn that never seemed to arrive.