Quite rightly

It was bound to happen, and it finally did this week: My whirlwind, madcap existence on the highways and biways of Pennsylvania (Harrisburg, Bedford Springs, Harrisburg, State College, Harrisburg . . .) caught up with me and waylaid me with a "champeen" head cold.

I'll spare you the gories, which really weren't all that gory, but I do love to whine when I'm feeling low. Instead I'll share with you these "mellow yellow" photos I took from my living room while convalescing on my sofa, sniffling (and possibly sniveling) into Kleenexes, slurping chicken matzo ball soup (from an old Southern recipe, I can assure you), and counting the number of residents of Llanview who have suddenly ended up in Paris, Texas, for the reading of Asa Buchanan's will. (I'm channeling the universe of One Life to Live, just so you know. And, for the record, we're up to 18 residents so far--19 if you count Jessica's "alter" Tess and 21 if you count Viki's.)

No, mellow yellow isn't the color of the contents of my sinus passages, thankfully, nor my complexion from having become all jaundicy orange by chewing too many vitamin C tablets during my recent infirmity. Instead, the phrase captures my little corner of Pittsburgh right now, which seems to be experiencing a very late fall this year, with the leaves on my neighborhood's trees hanging onto their branches and their peak color. Even while the season's first flakes of snow fall around us.

I'd like to say I have enjoyed the fall, but I've barely been in town the last month or so, and I'm off again on Sunday, this time to Kansas for a Thanksgiving with family. But I didn't want to let the season slip by completely without capturing a little of the color on camera. Because the first steady rain or windy day will blow it all away in a snap. And then those of us in Cold Country will be left with nothing more than gritting through chattering teeth serious death threats in the direction of Punxsutawney Phil. He better not dare see his shadow on Groundhog Day, we'll mutter. No freakin' way he better promise us an additional six weeks of winter, we'll curse. 'Cause seasonal affective disorder payback is a mutha, Phil.

And, really, the season is just too splendid to mess it up by having groundhog blood on one's hands.