Fall, won't you be my neighbor?

As it is nearing that time of year, my thoughts are consistently turning their attention towards Julian. It's the place I'll miss most, when I leave. It's tradition, and it brings a sense of harmonious calm, and comfort, when I think of the brisk, chill air, the wind in the russet-colored leaves, and the familiar faces of the local elderly folk who endure, day-in and day-out, the many tourists who draw near for that fine apple pie and a temporary mental dismissal of reality.

Fall is my favorite time of year. It boasts, humbly, of sweet, savory smells, blustery winds and coats and scarves of warm and endearing colors. It makes me think of Winnie the Pooh, and teases me with the wish for memories of FDR's fireside chats and the crackling of old radios as hundreds listened to the warmth of his benevolent voice. I ache for one of my grandfather's soft, gentle hugs as we curled up together on his sofa chair, him reading an old western aloud, and I (a child of five) listening to the age and wisdom which rang clearly throughout his sweet, old-man voice. I can't stop thinking about him, and the opportunities I've lost, in hearing the sound of his voice ring true once more.