I first heard a creak, followed by a slight clattering in the metal pipes, another creak, and a faint bubbling sound almost reminiscent of what one hears when the hose is turned on outside and you are still inside. My nose confirmed what my ears had already caught wind of. It's that mild something-could-be-burning familiar smell, which made my brain automatically think I inadvertently left the oven on. No, I didn't leave the oven on, the heat kicked on. My home is heated with water, running through copper pipes, jutting along the baseboard of one wall in every room. It's 1962 nostalgia at it's finest.
But the simple automated action of the heat turning on, surprised me.
The weekend was beautifully warm, full of sunshine, hiking in tank top weather, and today, the thermostat read 65 degrees in my house. The calendar tells me I should be wearing sweaters and jeans, that it's time to put away my sandals and take out my wool knee high socks and leather boots. While I long to wrap myself up in my dormant cozy clothes, I'm not quite ready to say goodbye to the warmth and sunshine filled summer days. By 7pm, the sun has dipped on the other side of the mountains and our wool throw from Iceland has never looked better. Autumn, sweep over me with hot tea after dinner, my 12 year old Brooklyn hoodie, and those fuzzy lined slippers that have been waiting patiently for your return.