New Englanders

Autumn, my favorite season, carried us quickly through the months of September and October with dazzling displays and fabulous weather interrupted  only briefly by a winter storm. Although many of the neighboring areas experienced power outages, downed trees and snow and ice, the storm brought us only a dusting of snow and an end to the brilliant crimson backdrop behind the house that had showcased a lush stand of Boston Ivy.  The maple out front is almost bare but the oak is reluctant to shed the reddish-brown leaves that gives such fullness to its tall stature.  Rem and I have spotted three hawks in the last couple of days and, like much of the urban wildlife we encounter, they seem unfazed by human proximity. Rem worked hard to shake the small tree by the park to get one hawk to fly so that we could see his wingspan. And the bird only flew to the next tree. One dad warned us about the squirrels this time of year as we witnessed an increased brazenness exhibited as squirrels jumped into momentarily neglected strollers and bags. Craig watched a squirrel devour a bagel while fending off other squirrels on his walk to work.

The kids enjoyed Charlestown's celebration of Halloween.  Rem basked in the attention as he marched in the parade and trick-or-treated through the neighborhood around Bunker Hill. Our neighbor led the girls expertly to the most generous houses and buildings in a shared candy-crazed quest to fill bags with sugar. My parents, as usual, were with us for most of October contributing to the whirlwind pace of passing time. Dad astutely recognized the anonymity factor still present for us here when, amid the Halloween throngs at the foot of the monument, he remarked that we didn't have to check our behavior because we wouldn't run into anyone we knew. But even Dad is slowly spreading roots into the New England soil. He recognized a costumed boy that Rem plays with at the park and could call him by name, is a "regular" at a neighborhood barber shop, and joked with the priest about particular athletes who are, unlike Brady, Saints (this, a New Orleans reaction to a homily directed at the children about the saints in their lives). A fisherman friend of a friend of Craig's provided the Cheneverts with fresh lobster yesterday morning and although we did use a little crab boil and couldn't help referring to them as really big crawfish, we felt very New England-like around the dining room table last night.

The children's routines, so similar to our life in Asheville (except for all of the driving), help us to feel increasingly at home in this foreign place. I do still waver in the favorite local road feature: the roundabout. I cannot cross the four or five lanes of traffic with the required local swagger and speed and I still look when moving from one lane to another on any street. And with the end of daylight savings time, I'm not sure of what to make of pitch-black darkness at five o'clock. By the looks of it, I'll have lots of evening time to ponder the affects of such short days.