I would sacrifice some non-trivial amount of my life if I could live all of it in the Fall.
It's not that I dislike the other seasons, they're lovely in their own ways. I'm a New England boy, and four distinct seasons have always been a part of how the world works.
But Autumn is when it all happens. Plants ripen, the air smells right. It has some rot in it from dead leaves and probably a little wood-smoke from somewhere.
I'm feeling particularly grateful for the Fall when I smell the tiny wisps of smoke. I'm thinking about friends and family on the West Coast, choking in clouds of it and fleeing wildfires. With the recognition that recurrent and amplified disasters like this are tangible pieces of climate change, the current perfection of a North East Autumn feels more precious and tenuous.
So we try and preserve what we have. Fall is when the wine making happens. Or, around the Kron place, a thick, bubbly, and coarse grape cider.