Here in New England: Jasper in Autumn

Dear Jasper: It is now early summer in New Hampshire; you are 13 months old. In three more months, autumn begins, and that is what I want you to know about.

My son Dan tells me you are growing fast. He has moved you from a carrier on his chest to a pack on his back. I saw you on your first birthday in May; I was there when you took six or seven steps on your own, before your legs said, “We’re good for now.”

You live more than 5,000 miles distant. Dan says that one day, when the long hours of travel from Hawaii are easier for all of you, he will bring you to us, our house, near where he grew up. When that happens, I have plans.

In my mind you will be 4 or 5. My own earliest memories begin then, so I am hoping your first days of fall will stay with you always.

You do not know seasons. What you know is perpetual summer—you live with the sea and tropical plants and trees laden with coconuts. You do not know cold nights or how, as September turns to October, trees of deep green become red and yellow and burnt orange, the hills on fire with color.

So I want to tell you about autumn where I live. And what we will do, when you are here.

We will drive on back roads, and you will see bright trees reflected in lakes and ponds as if they are growing in the water. There is a small mountain nearby that is famous for thousands of hawks that glide on the autumn wind, and people come to the summit just to watch. We will climb up and take our time.

There is an apple orchard not far away, in Vermont. Your dad will lift you to a branch, and you will tug the apple free and then take a bite. I come to this orchard every fall for their cider—made from heirloom apples, varieties that have survived for centuries. I hope that when you take your first gulp, it also stays with you.

Most of all, I want you to know our backyard in fall. The woodpile is weathered, dark; the wood itself is light to carry. I will place a piece on the chopping block and close my hand around your small fingers. We will raise the little ax together and then lower it, the wood splitting in half. You will feel strong and powerful. I did that before with another little boy.

A river flows past our backyard. If we are lucky, the blue heron that lives nearby will fly low, wings spread wide. Every summer two Canada geese raise their goslings on the river, using our grass as their dining hall. Sometimes they linger here deep into fall, and you might see them, the babies all grown by now.

We have two black walnut trees that drop hundreds of walnuts every year. They carpet the lawn, and we have to be on the lookout because they can drop on our heads. You and I will gather them together; I love their scent, like limes. We will fill baskets with walnuts and acorns and drive to a forest, let the animals find our gift.

Once I wrote that my wife, Annie, who you call “Banannie,” described autumn as “a time of goodbyes.” Days grow shorter and colder, leaves drop, and a new season arrives, one without these colors. After too-few days, I will take you and your mom and dad to the airport, so you can fly back west. In my imagination, as I write these words, I will lean down and you will say, “Poppy, it is so beautiful. When can I come back?”

Mel Allen is editor at large for Yankee and the author of Here in New England: Unforgettable Stories of People, Places, and Memories That Connect Us All (Earth Sky + Water LLC, 2025).

Mel Allen

Now editor at large, Mel Allen's first byline in Yankee appeared in 1977 and he joined the staff in 1979 as a senior editor. Eventually he became executive editor and led the staff as editor from 2006 to 2025. During his career he has edited and written for every section of the magazine, including home, food, and travel, while his pursuit of long-form storytelling has always been vital to his mission as well. He has raced a sled dog team, crawled into the dens of black bears, fished with the legendary Ted Williams, profiled astronaut Alan Shephard, and stood beneath a battleship before it was launched. He also once helped author Stephen King round up his pigs for market, but that story is for another day. Mel is author of Here in New England: Unforgettable Stories of People, Places, and Memories That Connect Us All (Earth Sky + Water LLC, 2025).

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