uilding over and over each time we’d throw ourselves into those soft, billowy piles. Ahh. The smell of the leaves, the crunchy sounds, the cool crisp air, the sun shining down. The perfect place for a nap.

My sister taught me how to rake leaves into make-believe houses that could be as big as the yard and redesigned a

I really like this time of year. … I guess I should elaborate.

Autumn has always been magical for me. I grew up in New England where autumn is an assault of color at every turn. The old, worn down and softly rolling mountain ranges throughout the northeast become blanketed with a blazing quilt of red, gold, purple, orange — just about every color nature has to offer. It’s beautiful, warm, comforting. It’s magic.

We had a huge Sugar Maple in our back yard that turned completely red just before releasing its leaves for the approaching winter. Our yard was full of trees, mostly pines and maples, and we didn’t have to go far to watch this amazing transformation from full, lush green through vibrant reds and yellow, to warm browns, golds and umbers, and finally to the stark naked branches ready for the icy blast of a northeastern winter.

My father worked six days a week, leaving the house early in the morning before the rest of us were up and coming home just in time for dinner. And so, Sundays, particularly Sundays in autumn, held another magic for me. My father was the best leaf-raker ever.

He had a method all his own and he could build the most glorious mountains of leaves that a child could ever wish for. And let’s not forget his amazing patience building and rebuilding over and over each time we’d throw ourselves into those soft, billowy piles. Ahh. The smell of the leaves, the crunchy sounds, the cool crisp air, the sun shining down. The perfect place for a nap.

My sister taught me how to rake leaves into make-believe houses that could be as big as the yard and redesigned a m

nge — just about every color nature has to offer. It’s beautiful, warm, comforting. It’s magic.

We had a huge Sugar Maple in our back yard that turned completely red just before releasing its leaves for the approaching winter. Our yard was full of trees, mostly pines and maples, and we didn’t have to go far to watch this amazing transformation from full, lush green through vibrant reds and yellow, to warm browns, golds and umbers, and finally to the stark naked branches ready for the icy blast of a northeastern winter.

My father worked six days a week, leaving the house early in the morning before the rest of us were up and coming home just in time for dinner. And so, Sundays, particularly Sundays in autumn, held another magic for me. My father was the best leaf-raker ever.

He had a method all his own and he could build the most glorious mountains of leaves that a child could ever wish for. And let’s not forget his amazing patience building and rebuilding over and over each time we’d throw ourselves into those soft, billowy piles. Ahh. The smell of the leaves, the crunchy sounds, the cool crisp air, the sun shining down. The perfect place for a nap.

My sister taught me how to rake leaves into make-believe houses that could be as big as the yard and redesigned a

s amazing transformation from full, lush green through vibrant reds and yellow, to warm browns, golds and umbers, and finally to the stark naked branches ready for the icy blast of a northeastern winter.

My father worked six days a week, leaving the house early in the morning before the rest of us were up and coming home just in time for dinner. And so, Sundays, particularly Sundays in autumn, held another magic for me. My father was the best leaf-raker ever.

He had a method all his own and he could build the most glorious mountains of leaves that a child could ever wish for. And let’s not forget his amazing patience building and rebuilding over and over each time we’d throw ourselves into those soft, billowy piles. Ahh. The smell of the leaves, the crunchy sounds, the cool crisp air, the sun shining down. The perfect place for a nap.

My sister taught me how to rake leaves into make-believe houses that could be as big as the yard and redesigned a

me just in time for dinner. And so, Sundays, particularly Sundays in autumn, held another magic for me. My father was the best leaf-raker ever.

He had a method all his own and he could build the most glorious mountains of leaves that a child could ever wish for. And let’s not forget his amazing patience building and rebuilding over and over each time we’d throw ourselves into those soft, billowy piles. Ahh. The smell of the leaves, the crunchy sounds, the cool crisp air, the sun shining down. The perfect place for a nap.

My sister taught me how to rake leaves into make-believe houses that could be as big as the yard and redesigned a

uilding over and over each time we’d throw ourselves into those soft, billowy piles. Ahh. The smell of the leaves, the crunchy sounds, the cool crisp air, the sun shining down. The perfect place for a nap.

My sister taught me how to rake leaves into make-believe houses that could be as big as the yard and redesigned a million times in a million ways until they were the vision of what we dreamed of living in one day. Hours upon hours of pure joy.

We lived almost in the country and when I was very young my father burned his piles of raked leaves. I guess today we’re smarter about the risks of spreading fires and air pollution, but that sweet pungent smell drifting off the burning leaves and pine cones and pine needles is forever etched in my mind as a signal of the end of summer and the beginning of winter, with its promise of snow and Christmas presents.

Today, I live in a place where the leaves don’t turn many colors other than brown just before they fall, still half green sometimes. I miss the glory of a New England autumn. Still, when the weather finally starts to chill slightly and the smell of the air changes almost imperceptibly, I can see my father, rake in one hand, bushel basket in the other, working his way without much haste across our yard, building piles of leaves that he knows will surely be trampled at least a few times. I think it’s time for a nap.