On the year anniversary of our moving day, the family traveled to two of the fall festivals we missed last year because we were schlepping boxes. Maybe because I’m a glutton for punishment and need to pack as much into a day as humanly possible (well, inhumanly, but I always did have unrealistic expectations) or maybe because I felt like I had to make up for time lost last year, we visited a farm open-house of sorts to celebrate their yearly press of apples for cider and then a local park arts-and-crafts-music-storytelling-farmers’ market-hayride-proceeds-benefitting-the-community-garden extravaganza. It was the quintessential New England fall day. The leaves and fields and skies just opened up in a beautiful way. In a way that they can nearly anywhere, I suppose, but which seems to be happening more since we’ve moved.