Dear Curiosity Journal,

It’s bittersweet when the season ends, when the forecast of the first frost hands us our marching orders. Although we continue growing in the greenhouses until mid December, there is something rather conclusive about the first dip below 32 degrees. We match the energy of the chipmunks filling their cheeks with hazelnuts and sprinting off to their stockpile. The gardens are still so robust, so there is a sadness to seeing them go. On the other hand, it’s the light at the end of the tunnel for rest from the labor, a winter’s reprieve from bending over, which sings lullabies to weary bodies. We both hate to see it end, and desperately need it to end, a curious entanglement of farming.