Well, shut my mouth ...

People sometimes ask me why I live out in the country (or, as my children used to say, in the wilderness). I wish they could see what I'm seeing right now: sunshine turning already beautifully colored leaves into stained-glass-brilliant reds and golds.

It's "peak weekend" in my corner of upstate New York, where you can find people walking and driving around slack-jawed and speechless as they take in the show the maples and other hardwoods put on this time of year.

I need go no further than any window in my house to see what they're seeing. I am surrounded by hillsides that, at any given time of year, make me feel as if I am indeed far from civilization -- when, in fact, the nearest grocery store is only a 10-minute drive away. I have, as they say, the best of both worlds.

And yet ... I felt a pang of jealousy earlier today as I drove atop a nearby hill on my way home from church. There's a lovely house with a view of the Susquehanna River valley that would take your breath away on any given day. This day, though, I found myself wondering how the people lucky enough to live there manage to tear themselves away from their windows to do whatever else the day demands of them. They could sell tickets to that view and probably make enough to pay their heating bill for the next few months.

Now, back home and working at my dining room table, I pause every few minutes to peak at the hill to the east of my house to see which trees are catching the sunlight at the moment. In a while, I'll rouse the dog and take her for a walk down the road for another chance to drink it all in before the colors fade, the leaves drop and, all too soon, the curtain falls on this show of shows.