It’s a Saturday afternoon in late October.  Shepherdstown, WV is bustling with activity, and although it is warm, the mood is still autumnal—the air smells of burning wood and incense coming from the shops, and there is the crackling of leaves under our feet. We have a late lunch of salad, cream of mushroom soup, and French dip with pommes frites in a cozy bistro with real French doors (painted black and extremely narrow). My wine is served in a simple water glass and it’s on the warm side, but still very good. After lunch we walk the streets, poking around in vintage shops and second-hand bookstores and the farmers’ market where locally grown lavender hangs in bundles. On a side street I see a woman wearing a scarf the way my mother used to wear hers. She is carrying a tree branch from her property over to a pile of kindling in the back of the old graveyard next to her house, and she looks very serious about tidying up. I notice the sign at the entrance to her garden that says, The Garden of the Four Sisters, so I peek in and see a garden still blooming in fall with asters and chrysanthemums and dahlias and a fat cat sitting in the sun.