A suntanned neighbor sees our fire and drops his Coors box in the pit. This weekend for him's a tippling affair -- a farewell bender to tanktopped bliss. The fire's for this year's storm-felled tree. In the cool morning Big Boy works the chainsaw while we drag the branches one-by-one he frees, turning the old corpse to ashes and logs. Party boy thanks us and heads back for greasy breakfast, coffee and a nap. But what for some marks the season of slumber for me portends the end of humid langour. Harvest time, the overwinter crop Racking and cold crashing a first homebrew. Pumpkin carving, taking in the dock. Brisk cold and business yet looked forward to. And forward still, I toast a hard winter. One that chills the buzzing insects and Harleys. The kind that puts the coors-light lunkheads and air-conditioned urbanites to semi-sleep until April.