“I’m so glad 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
The human mind’s filing system resembles an enormous computer spread sheet in that it can sort and categorize experiences as we wish. Although we cannot physically enter other time zones, we can travel to them in our minds. October forms a special territory of its own in the geography of my life: my childhood, teenage years, the best day of my life when Bill and I were married, and memories of Vicki girl and the Grandboys.
I love the poetry of James Whitcomb Riley who connected with people because he was a master at evoking nostalgia for days gone by, the simple life and simple folks, and the everyday beauty of nature. He became America’s best loved writer and made $1,000 a week — a huge sum back then.
My fourth grade teacher, Miss Myldred Dowell read “The Bear Story” to us and took our fourth-grade class to Riley’s childhood home in Greenfield. Dan Kendall, the moderator of a book discussion group loves Riley’s poetry. You can go to the Internet and find the Indianapolis Public Library’s recording of Riley reciting some of his poems, including Dan’s favorite,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock,
And the clackin’ of the guineys, and the cluckin’ of the hens,
And the rooster’s hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it’s then’s the times a feller is a-feelin’ at his best,
With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.
They’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here—
. . . the air’s so appetizin’; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.
The turning of the leaves brings forth various images from the past, blended with present time. One time I suggested to my siblings that we all gather for a picnic at Brown Co. State Park. Brother Earl wisely declined. Arnold and Virginia picked me up at my apartment in Bloomington where I was attending graduate school at I.U. The others were to meet us at the park.
Unfortunately, no one designated a place for the four carloads of us to meet. The traffic around Nashville was bumper-to-bumper. We drove around and around for an hour in the large park before the three carloads of people finally found each other. All of the picnic tables were taken. My hungry nephews and nieces were whining. Finally, a park ranger took pity on us and let us use a table in his front yard.
The adults had reached the point where they didn’t want anything to eat. Virginia and Beverly began arguing about who messed up the plans. Their husbands, Arnold and Charlie, who were both usually peaceable fellows, took my sisters’ sides and threatened to hit each other.
This picnic was my mother’s first date with Edgar, Charlie’s uncle. She was mortified and said, “I can’t believe that my family is acting like this.” Edgar, whom she later married, said, “Now, Ruth, don’t give it another thought. We’uns in my family have bodacious fights.” Several months later, Sister Christine sent a card: “Let’s have another reunion somewhere at the Grand Canyon.” I thought it was a hoot, but the others were not amused. wclarke@comcast.net