My neighbor, Andy Dallos, took the above photo earlier today. It’s of the tree located across the street from our house here in New York. The thing is absolutely breathtaking—at certain moments, with the sun is hitting it just so, the tree appears to be on fire. It’s that orange, that red, that yellow.
Throughout the course of a year, I’ll insist to the wife that we need to relocate to Southern California, oh, 234 times. The sun, the beach, the waves, the lifestyle, the nature, the weather, the weather, the weather, the weather. I desperately want to head west. And yet, fall in the Northeast is awesome, especially on days like the one that just ended. It was my son’s seventh birthday party, so 20 or so kids filled up our front lawn to play touch football and engage in tug-of-war and burst through an obstacle course. One could hear the crunch of dried leaves below little sneaker soles; one could smell the crisp air. The sun was shining, the breeze was soft. All I wanted to do was stay outside, and listen to the laughter and feel the breeze against my cheeks. It was happiness—complete, immense happiness.
Soon, the cold will arrive. I’ll be shoveling my driveway and taking my dog out in the 5-degree hell and swerving my car left and right over a patch of ice. Fall will be gone, my misery will bloom and I’ll wonder—dammit—what the hell I’m doing in New York, once again miserable.