Autumn's Images.

I am obsessed with fall.

I know August has barely ended yet, but I am already excited. September and October are my favorite months of the year. I put up with the other 10 just to get to those 2. I have lived in New England my whole life and I don't think I could ever go anywhere that doesn't do fall like we do.


I love the cool air; something just feels fresher when you breathe in. I love sweaters and hoodies. I love hand-knit beanies. I love light-weight jackets and pants with hole-y knees. I love the colors, the bright, glowing reds and crisp, burnt oranges. I love sitting cozied into a blanket. Corn mazes. Apples that go crunch as your teeth first break their surface. I love pumpkin pie made from REAL pumpkin, not the kind that has been captured and packed into a can. I love fires bonfires and the sound of wood popping. I love the sound of a light breeze pulling leaves from the trees and bringly them slowly down to tickle the ground below. I love the noise feet make as they shuffle through the fallen leaves.

Fall is seriously the best thing ever.

So, I am beginning a series. Partly for photography skill building, but mostly for my huge love of autumn. I'm going to document what I see as a Isabella Kiss/New England fall. Starting now...

 There is something in this bucket that reminds me of fall.
And it is not a pumpkin, a corn maze, or a flannel shirt. I'll give you that...

Odd looking blueberries, you say?
No. Wrong.

These are wild grapes. They grow (yes, wildly, hence the name...) in my yard towards summer's end. Today my brothers loaded a bucket with them. I got really excited. I love them! (the grapes...well, my brothers too, but we are talking about grapes here.)

First off, you need to know I do not like regular grocery store grapes. They are squishy and nasty, in my opinion. But these are different. They are smaller. Dark purpley-blue. And are mighty tart, some more so than others. Inside are little seeds, which you could spit out, but I rather enjoy them; they make your tongue tingle.

I think my love of these sour little buggers goes back to my early childhood (just like most of what I love). I remember as a little kid...like 5 or younger... I was at grandmother's house a lot while my mom was working. In her backyard she had a bunch of wild grapes growing from a...it was like a canopy...A tent of grapes? My Hungarian grandfather had built it. My uncle, who was in college and living at home at that time, would put me on his shoulders so I could reach and we would pick the grapes. We put some of them in a container, but we ate most of what we picked. They were deliciously sour and tongue tingling.

Every time I pop a wild grape in my mouth, that is what I think of. And it is a fond, fallish memory.