Over night, every night, another tree explodes with color midst the Blue Ridge Mountains. This morning, we woke up to a gorgeous crepe myrtle that's now all orange. Just a couple of weeks ago, it was so pink you wanted to eat it.
Here they come: dogwoods, sourwoods and maple are already turning color. Reds, whites, yellows, oranges. Ahh. Deep colors. How much longer will they hang? Depends on the wind that shimmers through the trees.
Yesterday, we went to a crafts show in the next burgh across the holler. At a show last weekend, the Mystery Woman spied a little carved bear she wanted but we hesitated and it was gone. The artist promised more. So we drove on two-lane mountain road that was overflowing with bicycle riders. With no shoulders, it was too dangerous for my tastes. And too steep.
We stopped to buy firewood from a roadside pickup truck entrepreneur and a guy on a motorcycle stopped to complain (through a British accent) about the number of bikers. And -- lord, god -- did we stumble upon some mighty fine BBQ at the Green River.
This year, the acorns dropped all at once. Our street was covered. A sign, locals say, that there is some heavy winter a'coming.
Bring it on. We’ve got firewood, fleece, a warm dog – and each other.