I enjoy shopping at farmers' markets all year 'round, but there's something special about visits in the fall. The air is as crisp as the Macintoshes and Macouns making their annual debuts at the orchard stands -- we grip our cups of steaming cider to ward off the prickling chill. Somehow the mums glow against the backdrop of both azure and gray skies, and the bluegrass trio's songs are softer, slower, more pensive. It's somber in a way, but it also feels like a celebration: Mother Earth's last hurrah before she sleeps.
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