Sunshine to start, then a few afternoon clouds. A stray shower or thunderstorm is possible. High 53F. Winds N at 5 to 10 mph..

Clear skies. Low 34F. Winds light and variable.

We got married this time of year. The actual day was a matter of choosing an available Saturday, but we agreed that exchanging our vows would happen in the midst of autumn.

With family and friends joining us on the Town Park stage (I believe we were the last of such gatherings permitted there) we leapt into the rest of our lives. A few golden leaves still clung to the shivering aspens and the day gave us both rain and sunshine. Nearly every year for the past 29 years, the Dearly Beloved and I meet at the stage on October 9. We pack a light repast and, if work schedules allow, bring bubbly along to toast another milestone of our wedded lives.

We’ll miss visiting the shuttered-for-the-season stage this year. I’m in Oregon, helping my busy kids with my grandson. It’s a joy and a privilege to not only have a job in which I can work remotely, but to be able to drop into life on Cornell Street, not as a guest, but as a helpful member of the family. It’s a good gig, this grandma thing. But watching my social media feeds exploded with the valley’s dramatic autumn palette, topped with snow that very well might stick around, and watching October 9 approach on the calendar has left me emotionally toggling between two worlds I love. It helps, as always, to be here now and look outside the window before me. The beauty here is nearly as swoon-inducing.

An advantage to living in this part of the world — and one that figures large in this gardener’s psyche — is the temperate climate. Much of the local flora is still popping with color, even as the leaves begin their inexorable decline from branch to duff. Oregon is famous for its fruit, berries and vegetables — the corner grocery store’s produce section signs boast “Locally grown” over bin after bin of apples, squash, onions and yes, pumpkins.

We visited Topaz Farm on Sauvie Island this weekend where endless acres of yellowing vines knit dappled shade over pumpkins of every shape, color and size imaginable. A sea of sunflowers nodded in the warm breeze and from the farm stand’s grill, the aroma of grilled corn and sausage drew us in. It was hard to choose the right pumpkins for the front stoop, so the steps are now crowded with our selections — squat red, petite white, enormous orange, striped green. The mums I aim to plant in the window box this afternoon will complete our autumn masterpiece. We declared it “the best day ever.”

The fall season could indeed be declared the best season ever. No wonder it has become, in the world of weddings, a popular season to say “I do,” rivaled only by June. When the Dearly Beloved and I chose it, the fall wedding wasn’t quite the thing it is now, but it was obvious for us. My favorite color is yellow; his is orange. My flower designer and dear chum, Blossom, went to town with sunflowers and all manner of blooms in rusted and sunny hues. The merry processional down the River Trail from the park to the Depot was invigorating and sharpened appetites for both the groaning board and the polka dancing on tap.

We pledged our partnership as the days were sliding into the darkness of winter, the seasonal transition that is not so much a death as it is a contemplation. Fall is a fine time to ponder a future, a commitment, a journey. In the fall we move away from the lasciviousness of berries and stone fruits, to the embrace of soup and the fragrance of the warm spices — cinnamon, nutmeg, mace. Another blanket for the bed, a clean filter for the furnace.

There’s snow at home; it’s in the 80s most days here. But it’s still fall. I was born in the fall. I was married in the fall, and my favorite holidays are nearing. My culinary excursions will warm the kitchen as my little gas grill’s season winds down. We don hunter orange caps for hikes and the cat stakes out the sunpools in the living room. I celebrate fall for countless reasons, but mostly because of October 9. We set sail into possibility on a ship painted yellow and orange. Our family and friends crewed, and Grandma Fran led the conga line. The air was brisk, hinting at woodsmoke, and fallen leaves crunched underfoot. Our life as two officially began in the fall. I loved him then, and I still do.

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