Autumn Hugs

On my way into the local market two afternoons ago, I parked the truck behind a car with Connecticut license plates in front of the Inn, and swept passed an attractive woman entering a navy-blue SUV from Pennsylvania. Two out-of-state license plates in one milk run to town. You know what that means: it must be autumn, our Shangri-La moment, which attracts pilgrims from everywhere to witness nature at its sensuous best. Work has stopped for many of the plants and animals, the next generation of biting insects are larvae at the bottom of ponds and rivers, and it is warm enough for tomatoes on the vine to keep ripening. The conditions are ideal for flip-flops by day, and sweaters at night.

The fall colors—the “La” in Shangri-La—are emerging in the usual way between our cabin and the pond. One small, scruffy maple, close to shore, is already barn red. It is always the first to tear away the ribbons and paper to unwrap the change in season, to the consternation of its neighbors, I believe, who are only beginning to slip into something more colorful. It is a maple tree not unlike my grandchildren—in the car before everyone, ready for the fair, with no regard for feeding the dog, turning off lights, or closing doors.

Fall has arrived, and we should hope, so will the pilgrims. We are as well-prepared to greet them as I can remember in the years we have been here. In Hancock, the local businesses are fully open, and producing pheromones attractive to pilgrims. I feel the same about neighboring villages, including Peterborough. Wandering in and out of shops, the scent of it all is good. The goal is to avoid startling the out-of-town herds with the smell of, How does one get through the winter? If we can get a few of them to settle here, tell their friends, bit by bit, we may be able to keep all of our schools and shops open.

It is more complicated at home, where I am convinced my wife has developed Seasonal Adjustment Disorder (SAD). This is more about darkness, I think, than cold. We climbed Thumb Mountain last week on a crystal clear morning and sat for a while. I was careful not to depart too much from discussion about the panoramic view of Mt. Monadnock and surrounding hills. We busied ourselves identifying the distant bodies of water, supported by Google Maps. But there was no avoiding the carpet of red leaves already on the ground at the summit. “Ugh, look at all these leaves on the ground!” said my wife.

Secretly, she loves the fall and winter. We became entangled with each other through the fall and winter (how could she not love them?), and so many of my fondest memories are of her dressed in bright snow garb, wrapped in scarves, her head tucked down inside high-collared coats. “Oof, it’s cold,” she would say, once she was close enough for a hug—and, to this day, I have found a hug to be the best antidote for SAD.

Hugs are a great antidote for every manner of despair—seasonal, economic, and political. I don’t know anyone right now who does not need a hug. With that in mind, may I request that if you encounter one of the herd from “away” this season—a fall pilgrim—coming or going from one of our shops or restaurants, don’t sweep by. Hug them.