“I’m so glad that I live in a world where there are Octobers. It would be terrible if we just skipped from September to November, wouldn’t it?”
— L. M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables
Along with December, October is my favorite month because it’s full of the vivid colors of autumn and the muted hues of the fields bronzed by soft, golden sunlight. Also, the Octobers of my life have been loaded with experiences. Growing up in Knightstown had an impact on the geography of my internal being. I know very few people there now after being away for nearly sixty years, but memories of the town, its people and its events warm my heart. Of course, there were unhappy times and a few mean-spirited people, but I prefer to view my youth through the golden sheen of reminiscence.
My past Octobers become the present within me whenever I choose to open the “October” trunk in my mental attic. Here Wanda Frazier and I are, gathering pretty leaves on the way to school to give to Mrs. Wagoner, Mrs. Rogers, Miss Dowell, Miss Newby or Miss McShurley. After school we rake up a big pile of leaves at the edge of Carey St., jump in them and then set them on fire. (Parents were less nervous then. They didn’t worry that we’d cut ourselves with hatchets or set ourselves on fire.) The potatoes that we roast — Oh pioneers! — are black and hard.
Those were the days of hayrides and wiener roasts. Here’s a recipe that I call “October Delight” that equals any gourmet meal that I’ve consumed in fine restaurants: Sharpen a green stick. Rake up a big pile of leaves and set it on fire. Roast hot dogs over the embers followed by marshmallows toasted as you prefer. Bill likes them golden and puffy. I set them on fire so that they’re blackened and caramelized.
Here I march around and around the gym during a costume party sponsored by the town fathers. Mother shows Rex Mattix and me how to make tic-tacs with notches cut in wooden spools that have string wound around them. We sneak up on the Holidays’ porch and scare them with the hellacious noise.
Vicki was here this week, and we drove through Irvington. “Oh! They’ve got the windows ready!” My childhood reminiscence is overlaid with memories of the girl Vicki. She loved painting on the merchants’ windows and entering the pumpkin carving contest because the merchants donated cash prizes. She and her chum, Sheila, brought home big sacks of candy from trick-or-treating during those innocent days when we didn’t have to worry about doctored treats. Later the grandboys came to visit and hid plastic spiders that they got at the Festival — “giggle, giggle” — in the kitchen drawers.
I open another trunk in which is stored the happiest day of my life. The date is October 25, 1963, the day Bill and I were married at the Wanamaker Baptist Church near the school that used to be on Post Road. It’s hard to believe that we are celebrating our golden wedding anniversary. You cannot quantify time. In one way, it seems like a long time ago. In another, it seems like our precious days flashed by in an instant.
Bill does not enjoy autumn: “Dying,” he moans. “Everything’s dying.” Trying to console, I say, “Dear, nature is just going to rest.” “But these leaves will be gone forever.” To please me, we’ve taken several leaf-peeping expeditions to southern Indiana, Kentucky, Maine and upstate New York’s Adirondacks.
When the autumn weather turns the leaves to flame
One hasn’t got time for the waiting game.
Oh, the days dwindle down to a precious few
September, November . . .
And these few precious days I’ll spend with you.
These precious days I’ll spend with you.
— Kurt Weil, “September Song”
As I enter the November of my years, I am content. wclarke@comcast.net
