Things have been somewhat calm here on the Midwestern front. Fall is gently moving in to town. The leaves are changing to a lovely shade of red, then to a different hue of orange and finally jumping off the branch to the dreadful brown death that they are so destined for. Such is life for the fine piece of foliage who awakens our spring, shades us in summer and leaves us cussing as they litter our lawn like a million little peaces of candy wrappers. They once provided such great joy for us, and now all that’s left is the clean up.

Old men are turning on their leaf blowers to clear the natural debris from their yard to their neighbor’s yard – the neighbor without the lead blower, who in turn has to rake all his leaves and their newfound friends that jumped the border. The old man look out their window and let out a laugh at the young, poor neighbor as he tries to pick up the leaves and place them in an orange garbage bag with a pumpkin painted on the front of it – only to have the majority of them fall back on the ground.

But alas, Autumn has arrived for her annual visit. Supermarkets are filling up with the fruits of the harvest – pumpkins, gourds, squash – the smell of fresh apple cider is in the air. Bags of candy corn are filling the shelves beside chocolates wrapped in foil with pictures of spiders and cobwebs. Little girls who 11 months of the year run from such eight-legged creatures come running the other way, just to taste the sweet goodness that Autumn brings to town.

However, Autumn like the practical joker that she is fools us every year. Every year we get the feeling she’s coming to visit a little bit earlier. We can hear her coming. We can smell her sweet aroma in the air. However, like the Red Headed whore that she is, she leaves us after making us fall in love.

Every year it’s the same thing. We celebrate the jubilation of her arrival like a father with his prodigal son. Soon, all we’re left with is a mess of brown leaves and rotten pumpkins. Our cupboards are left with stale spider candy and our fridges stocked full of apple cider. We thought this was the year. The year she committed to us. The year that she stayed around a little bit longer… but no. Autumn is a gypsy. She’s moved on. Maybe it’s time we do too.

Soon however, Autumn will be leaving again. That’s not the bad news. No. The bad news is in fact; her older, uglier brother winter will be in town before long, depressing us to no end.