A field of farmland comes into view, apart from the busy, polluted highway just miles away. My brothers perk up in excitement at their first visit. Dad pulls over onto a makeshift parking lot, which is a small area of grass marked with large, moss covered boulders. Tables with various freshly picked vegetables and colorful trampolines for children greet all visitors. Beyond that is where half of the other people are headed: the hayride. I hastily unbuckle my seat belt and join my family.

The air smells clean and crisp, without any exhaust or smoke to plague it. My hand suddenly itches for a paintbrush the minute I step out of the car. I muse at how graceful the autumn view is, with the sky meeting tall, golden grass. Orange and red leaves top the tall trees, with hints of darkened green at the edges. I think about the shades of nature almost impossible to capture; swirls of brown within the yellow, the red splashed with sprays of purple.

As the light breeze picks up speed, I pull my coat tighter around myself and bury my cold hands in my pockets. Apple trees line one side, while the other is flat with large, orange pumpkins entwined with thick vines. Clumps of violet appear within the depths of large bushes. My mouth starts to water; it’s not possible to visit Boston without imagining what it would be like to bite into fat, ripe grapes or feast on warm pies made of sweet organic apples.

An old scarecrow is propped up on a plank of wood, waving with a sleeved arm with straw protruding from holes where crows have pecked them. There’s no doubt that the frayed, pink smiling figure has lost its battle with the birds. A dirt path leads to a small fenced lake with a horse stable near it. The path goes on until it’s only a few yards away from a forest. Returning with an empty cart is the tractor. The tractor itself is the only vehicle on this farm that I have seen so far, aside from the parking lot.

I drop a few bills in the hands of the girl with large thermoses and she hands me five steaming cups of hot chocolate, and I pass them to my parents and siblings. The rich, creamy liquid warms me, and I wrap my numb fingers around the Styrofoam cup. Our group is next, and we climb into the hayride. The cart is a bit itchy with the stacks of hays as seats, but I’m glad to change into ways of the country. The truck rumbles to life when the last passenger seats herself.
Most of the animals are being led inside since it is getting quite cold, and farmers are busy harvesting the last of the fruits and vegetables before the frosty winter air arrives. There are plump cows, and horses savoring their last bit of fall air by running with their trainers. Their legs pound the weathered ground and their manes fly in the wind. A teenage boy with a straw hat rides a white stallion, and it leaps over a hurdle in one precise flex of her legs. The horse slows to a trot, and her rider returns her to the stables. The trip seems to end rather quickly, and I look ahead to see that we’re back at the apple orchards.

We shop a bit for vegetables and try many delicious pies from pumpkin to a Mississippi Mud one. I’m quite disappointed to find out the trip has come to an end. When we return to the warmth of the car, and later to the busy highway, I decide that a trip to the splendor of nature is better than any amusement park ever made.