It is autumn now, up here in Maine. As if on cue, the days have turned appreciably cooler, the mornings downright cold. The leaves of the silver maples along the river behind my house have reddened along the edges, a preamble to their cascading to earth in swirling droves. In my neighborhood, I hear the sound of axes and chain saws. Their rhythms are hurried and incessant, as if in apology for being so late at the task of cutting and splitting the firewood that will be a bulwark against the winter that already nips at the heels of fall.
Autumn plainly is the season that most befits Maine, showing it off to maximum effect.
The sight of an apple orchard splaying itself out alongside a white clapboard farmhouse, the trees slowly balding yet still holding onto their stark red fruit, is beauty in the extreme. I watch as children scurry among the windfalls while their parents reach for the bright-red globes of the Cortland, Wealthy, and McIntosh. Soon the cider will begin to flow, and when the sweating jugs finally land on the kitchen table - nirvana. Several years ago, I had a visit from a dear German friend. Proud, talkative, and aggressive in celebrating the virtues of his homeland, he spoke of German culture as something so intense that he could not bear to be away from it for long.