Our daughter’s favorite musical artist, Noah Kahan writes, “And I love Vermont, but it’s the season of the sticks.” Meanwhile our son has coined this transitional season between soccer and skiing as “the season of cold butter.” Whether you are like Noah Kahan or Carver Krill, the season of sticks and cold butter are not always pleasant ones.  We aren’t quite there yet, but it’s rapidly approaching as we reached peak foliage last weekend.  The coming weeks will be generally brisk and always damp or straight out wet.  This is why the butter is cold in the morning even when left out on the counter.   When one heats with wood or coal, one generally waits until a stretch of cold weather hits before starting those first fires, otherwise homes are too hot when the sun comes out later in the day. Thus, when Carver goes to butter his toast, the butter is cold and firm.

We remind our kids how lucky we are to live in one of the most beautiful places on earth; yet, they turn to us in utter dis-be-leaf at the people who casually pull their car over on the hairpin turn of our 50 mph road to get out of their car and take photos of the foliage.  On these occasions, I do let them call these careless leaf peepers idiots.  Last weekend, while driving home from our soccer game “North of the Notch,” traffic moved at an unbe-leave-ably slow pace as we counted cars from Delaware and South Carolina and Tennessee.  Our 13 year old, not for the first time, questioned, “Don’t these people have their own leaves at home?”  I explained that our leaves are the most beautiful due the mountains, and our red and orange maple colors, blah, blah, blah, and she just shook her head like an old man, pointing to some young people who had just pulled over on Interstate 93 to take selfies.

I’m missing my mom, as is the rest of our family.  I’m trying to channel my mom’s positivity, “finding the joy” as our minister friend, Marcus, spoke at her celebration of life.   Two old friends have reached out to tell me how much they remember that phrase from his eulogy.  And then two others within the same days asked me why I don’t appear to be writing much anymore.  The last one on this site is dated almost two years ago.  One woman was my OB/GYN during my last appointment where we discussed perimenopause at length, and I left there thinking more about why I needed to start writing again and finding joy and less about perimenopause and turning 50.  

And then today, I attended a funeral in my hometown of Merrimack, NH for my high school friend, Sam Epstein. I saw four friends I was close to growing up, along with my own high school soccer coach, Laurie Rothhaus, who still gives the most amazing hugs. I drove by the 7-11 where we used to ride our bikes to get slurpees, and it’s now a rather unsettled looking GUN-AMMO store. I noticed that our favorite Mexican restaurant, Tortilla Flats, was also turning 50 this year, according to the giant sign out front, like many of my classmates from 1993. Reconnecting with these old friends and listening to Sam’s teenaged children share what an amazing dad they had reminded me of the sometimes beauty in our sadness.

So last week, instead of necessarily “finding the joy,” I found some orange in the form of this single last beautiful Mexican sunflower blooming in my school’s front garden while waiting for a parent who was taking a very long time to pick up their middle school soccer player from our game.  In finding this orange, I was struck by the beauty, the strength, the bold color, and the scent.  Despite being tired and sad a lot of the time and frustrated by there never seeming to be enough time, I remembered my orange.   

At first I was annoyed that the Reeve Foundation cut back my blogs to just three a year instead of one per month.  They explained about budgetary cuts, etc, but I counted on that money as part of our regular income.    So then I got to thinking about how I could use my strengths as a writing coach to find another job for supplemental income, because, well, our season of cold butter kids are extra expensive in the winter when ski racing.  I put one note on my social media offering up my expertise as a college essay consultant and this fall I’ve had 10 clients from all over the United States thanks to my Connecticut College connections and Loon Race Team families.  Ten was plenty, and these are the kids applying for early action places, so I’ll have room for ten more soon enough.  And I love it.  And I’m really good at it; I’m going to adjust my website to allow for people to find more information.  That is a pretty awesome orange indeed for this writer- wife- teacher- mom. 

So Noah Kahan reminds us of the season of the sticks; Greta continues to love Noah Kahan and question all leaf peepers; Carver and Geoff lament the cold butter season, and everyone but me patiently awaits snowflakes.  Yet, no matter the season, there is orange to be found, even just in the warm hug from an old friend.  

NOTE: Just in case Noah Kahan ever reads this… we attended his first Fenway concert this July with dear friends, and he was a wonderful reminder for old and young alike to keep those big dreams full of orange– and of friendship.  

NOTE: Our children have asked me not to write about them growing up, but this one is more about me growing up, so it should be acceptable. 🙂