![]() I pine for an autumnal wind rustling the trees in a pumpkin patch. Yet I can’t help myself from yearning for an idyllic fall made up of apple orchards and When Harry Met Sally sweaters. If I’m lucky, I experience a couple forlorn weeks of fall in November, but the concept of four delineated seasons feels fantastical in a delightfully pedestrian sort of way. ![]() ![]() Growing up in central Texas, I only ever knew two seasons: summer and not-summer.
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