The last week or so I've been lamenting that we ever moved back to California from New England. The primary reason? The fall colors. I've been forgetting about the most miserable week of the year in January where you feel like your pee might freeze inside your body when you go outside. And the gross humidity of summer that made me throw all green-ness to the wind and run three large air conditioners constantly in our 900 sq.ft. condo. But fall.
Our favorite fall event was the Ashfield Fall Festival, held on Columbus Day weekend in a tiny hilltown. The churches all serve food, local performers grace the stage, and kids run a game area with all homemade games. We learned the first year we went that we had to take cash; no one took credit cards, and the closest ATM was 6 miles away. We also learned our first visit that our first stop should always be the old town hall to line up for fried dough with maple cream dripping off it. We'd get our dough, sit on the steps with other families, and get sticky while listening to a bluegrass trio standing off to the side.
On Sunday we found our Fall Festival here, in Los Altos. Instead of taking over the main street and the common, we got the California version of a common--a cordoned off parking lot. There were carnival rides and crafts, a climbing wall, a stage with a mediocre band, a few food stands, and a classic car show. It felt rushed and busy. But maybe I just felt rushed and busy, not able to take a California fall for what it is--a slightly cooler version of summer with scarecrows and pumpkins--and longing for the simplicity and tradition of a small New England town.
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