Crisp wind blowing out of the north, gave us a hint of the early winter. It is the 2nd weekend in November. Tradition. Our treadmill lives have afforded few rituals, fewer traditions. Save one...just like the 36 years before today, we walk the leaf covered hills of Augusta. The winemaker dinner was better than last year. The small shops sporting their best holiday attire. The bonfire and the roasted corn beckoned us again as we toasted to another year gone by. The owners of the bed and breakfast are closing down after this season. They have seen as many seasons pass in this small village as have we. We were assured that they would pass the torch and to return next year. But that is next year and this is today and this is tonight. The port and chocolates greet us again upon our return. By the intermittent glow of the fireplace, we look out from the 2nd story onto the quiet street below and our conversation drifts to the past. Tomorrow we plan the future. See you next year.