It’s autumn in New York… well, almost.  Most of the songs and poems are about spring in New York, but it seems like so many New Yorkers actually prefer the fall.  Maybe it’s the steamy summer, packing into stifling subways where your stop involves stepping onto the humid platforms suffocating you with a sort of slimy scum of sweat and grime that makes for such a grateful welcome to the crisp chill that signifies the change of seasons.

 September, for me, reminds me of the Santa Ana winds of California.  When summer lingers and turns to dry, hot days that compete with the brush fires to desiccate the landscape.  I remember last year, my first autumn in Manhattan, I watched the news out of California – the devastating fires… with a sad sort of homesickness.  Saying good bye to the warmth of the summer days makes me homesick for dazzling, ever sunny Southern California. 

 Perversely, I remember being in LA and wishing for the change of colors – the falling leaves, the cool winds as children headed back to school, and the rains that required rain boots and rain slickers.  Now, I live here, and I face each of these harbingers of autumn with a certain reticence and even a little bit of dread.

Tonight… horrors.. a frost warning!  My body cringes in anticipation of the shivering, bluster of cold air, howling winds, and soon to be acknowledged temperatures plunging below 60!  How do I reconcile the pleasure of falling asleep with the windows open and snuggling deep under the duvet with the disappointment of waking to the early morning chill and walking to work with my chin tucked firmly into my collar, bracing against the wind of the Hudson?

 It’s autumn in New York.

As ever,

K. Quin