OCTOBERODE

From teeny tiny pumpkins in the waning Autumn light,

To scarecrows smiling welcome as they rustle into night,

A goblet full of eyeballs and a pair of magic wands,

A fading-summer corner, with its almost-slumber fronds

Ghostly hands to guard the candy,

A bright wreath upon the door

And the bright anticipation for what Autumn has in store.

Caro did all of our decorating---all of it, from choosing and buying and unearthing from past years, to polishing and dusting and arranging everything.

And in this first almost-week's-worth of October, I hope you're all feeling the wonder of the season!

SHAKESPEARE AND SHERLOCK

We've been outside for quite a while, though it's a dull darkish day, like the few leaves gathering on the unswept patio. We brightened it a bit in the warm glow around the breakfast table, with cinnamon toast from a loaf of Amish wheat bread, bought at the so-bright-with-pumpkins outdoor market last week. The skillet-sizzled sides, sugar-crisped as palmiers, had a delightful crunch, and the still-soft insides were like cake in the bite. Tiny sticks of hearty gold Cheddar and crisp apple slices made a good Fall breakfast.

She ran upstairs, returning with two small new witch-hats; she put one on, and set the other atop my head, where I balanced it carefully on my bun. Hers, with the dangly tag still on, gave her the look of a bewitching little Minnie Pearl as she sat in the floor with four big bottles of Caro's just-bought spices, stacking them carefully one upon the other til she'd made a tower four-flavors-high.

Chris took pictures as she sat there in her little hat, and of course, I had to blurt out, "Double, Double, Toil and Trouble," which Chris answered with the next line, and we were off, through fenny snakes and eye of newt and toe of frog, stumbling the lines over each other, running on past dog tongues and bat's wool, as it got funnier and funnier and we were almost breathless when we finally halted the torrent.

After breakfast, she and I wandered the neighborhood, the tiny new hand-mirror (???) from the dog-grooming kit (!) co-opted by Sweetpea, as a spy-glass. She held it to the grass, to the berry-bush, to a pile of leaves, peering seriously as Sherlock, never heeding that she was seeing herself in every glance.

We were looking for CLUES! And we found quite a few---the cry would go up, "Ganjin, A CLUE!!" and I'd bend to look, the very spirit of Watson in my green clogs and tatty old sweater. We discovered tiny feather, more berries of more colors than you can name, a few still-bright rose hips---all of which I'll unearth from my sweater pocket a week from Wednesday. A pile of sidewalk chalk in the prettiest pastel green, the whole fat stick melted onto the drive by Saturday's chill rain, was now dried into a pile of enticing green powder. A few good stomps dispatched the little cloud back into the earth, and away we went---the Game was Afoot.

A short visit with our neighbor, a few turns of hide-and-seek in which she hides her face against a tree and counts, and I hide my face against the garage door, and---well---HIDE. We're still at the stage of if-your-eyes-are-closed-you're-invisible, with great hilarity and hugs ensuing every time I'm found.

Back in for a few moments for another cup of coffee and a potty-break, and that's about it from the Home Front.

The remains of the wonderful pot roast Chris did in a big pan on the grill yesterday will be our supper, with maybe a little pan of catheads and some homemade pear preserves on the side, so we're hoping to spend the day with Caro, getting all the leaf-swags and scarecrows and pumpkins and gourds distributed into their proper places. I LOVE Autumn!!!

What are YOU doing?

P.P. IX---MISS FLOY AND SARGE

Floy Whitten is the town’s other writer for the county paper; her Floy’s Flittings has its own little lattice-roses-bordered corner on the inside back page, and her regularly-printed poetry rhymes “hand” with “time” and the meter changes line to line, stanza to stanza. She leans toward flowers and trees and old times, and mostly Christian topics.

Miss Floy is newly retired from the county Welfare Department, where she worked for thirty-something years. She’s still known as the “spare-made” lady amongst the clients who came into the office, in contrast to the abundantly-contoured Mrs. Waddell who lives way out in the country over at Expedia.

Miss Floy wears her hip-length graying hair in a beautiful upsweep reminiscent of a Gibson Girl, the soft roundness of it like a shining brioche, and the effect completed by the little round bun atop. When she works in her garden, it’s as if a beautifully-coifed woman from the Gay Nineties has suddenly donned saggy-butt jeans and an old shirt, picked up a hoe, and landed for a time amongst the bean-rows, with the sun glinting from that glorious hair.

She calls people for news from their section of the county, and will sit there with the phone tucked aside her cheek, writing down the names and places they’ve been. And if there’s been a party---she’ll put down every detail, including tablecloths and menu and the honorees’ attire. If they haven’t been anywhere special or if they’ve just had their in-laws over for supper, she’s happy to jot down the recipes for the pot roast and Bundt cake, and print that---sitting there as serious as Scripture, getting every word, every step, taking down Cream a’ Mushroom like it’s foie gras, and asking “Now do you cream the Parkay first?”

Miss Floy will also shell your beans and peas and pick out your pecans; she keeps her flour and sugar and coffee and other dry goods in a Camistry Set on her red-formica counter.


She has a happy little dog named Sarge, taken in a year ago when her sister at Moon Lake fell heir to her elderly neighbor's three Pee-kanese. The old lady hadn't been able to care for the dogs very well in her last days, and the two females cost Sis ninety dollars apiece at the vet just to have that long, clotty hair got back in order. Miss Floy took one look at that miserable, tangled mass of long blonde hair on the little boy dog and had him clipped, high and tight. Even his long flowing ears are squared off at the bottom like the little Dutch-Boy on the paint can, and his muscular little body, clipped close to show his stance, looks so much more like Pug than Peke, it led to her nephew's calling him a Puke. He doesn't seem to mind, and seems to REALLY like his haircut.


And Miss Floy also writes little vignettes of local interest for the REA newsletter, published every month by the Power Company, and has quite a following amongst the rural set. Her piece on the Civil War autograph book, amazingly carried by Mr. Morris Steele's great-grandfather from his injury at Shiloh all the way through incarceration at Ft. Warren, collecting autographs and messages on every page, from Generals to guards to doctors to fellow prisoners, was picked up by the Commercial Appeal and printed almost word-for-word, though they DID send their own photographer to make the pictures.

MILA'S DAYDREAMS

OH, Y'ALL!!!

This is a rainy, gloomy Saturday, one for cuddling warm with a good book (Mma Precious Ramotswe in Blue Shoes and Happiness is calling my name this minute).

But I've just discovered something which I took just a minute to glance through, enchanted and delighted, and came to tell you to GO SEE IT RIGHT NOW, before I go back and look some more.

The site is called MILA'S DAYDREAMS, and features a sweet baby girl, sweetly sleeping as she dreams of beautiful adventures, always in wonderful scenes and vignettes---the best of Anne Geddes were MAYBE this sweet and captivating, but I just cannot tell you how much you'll enjoy this.

What a lovely bit of lagniappe, just skipping around amongst links between blogs, and there she WAS. Her Mama (and/or Daddy)---well, there's an artist whose heart is in her work.

The Mary Poppins one will make your heart melt right out of your chest, I promise.

HAPPY OCTOBER!

Photo by Janie @Southern Lagniappe

October gave a party,
The leaves by hundreds came;
The Chestnuts, Oaks, and Maples,
And leaves of every name.

The Sunshine spread a carpet
And everything was grand;
Miss Weather led the dancing,
Professor Wind the band.
-----------------George Cooper

I’ve always thought that the year should start in October instead of January. January just grabs ahold of you in an icy grip, keeping you befuddled with the aftermaths of the holidays and all that work and cooking and traveling and celebrating. January is a Pipsissewah of a month, a cold-in-the-head, car-won’t-start time of year, with grumpy people with their heads down struggling against wind and umbrella and ice, the mere feat of standing erect on skiddish streets a burden and a task.


But OCTOBER, now---October is just the best time of year there is, with the golden days and the whish of leaves and the turnings, turnings. The leaves turn and the birds turn South and the time turns from shorts and sandals to comfortable sweats and that favorite old sweater, taken out for the first time in two seasons, snugged on in a cool twilight, as the savory scent of something-in-the-oven wafts out in welcome.

Just walking around outside is a marvel---the air feels silky on your skin and the sun lights gently upon your hair, with a different scent, a different FEEL to everything---better and better as the season progresses. The sight of the harvesting, the change in the produce of the markets, the farmstands offering the crisp fruits and the cider and the huge orange bulk of pumpkns and gourds---we just went to one today, picking out two more cushion-mums, a loaf of wheat bread, six apples, and a watermelon-green-striped gourd like a bashful goose.

Somewhere a long time ago, I read a quote something like, “If I have but one month left to live, let it be October.” I would echo that---it’s always been my favorite time of year, with the air and the light and the rustle of leaves and just the OCTOBERNESS of it. Not because it’s cooler after the summer heat (which is important), not because it ushers in the Holiday Season (also a good thing), and not because of anything in particular which happens or has happened then (though we DO like Halloween).

That’s not it. The month has a personality of its own; it stands on its own, unlike any other time, and I’d know it with my eyes closed. There’s a huge daily enjoyment to the month, with all the sheer exuberance of the color and the brightness---you can just BE in the moments of it, and just enjoy. A simple walk around the neighborhood takes on a different slant---swishing your feet through the leaves, or seeing the swirls of leaves as they drift down like snow, or admiring the Autumn blooms and decorations on the neighbors’ houses and lawns.

Things to do the first few days of October:

Bake cookies with Sweetpea.
Go to Waterman’s Farm to climb the haybales, go through the cornstalk maze, and ride the hayride to the pumpkin patches.
Bake a Bundt cake---a beautiful golden-yellow one, fragrant with vanilla and cinnamon.
Decorate for FALL.
Simmer this beautiful Corned Beef for several hours in its tangy brine, then add in carrots, baby potatoes and wedges of tender cabbage---serve just at twilight on a cool night. It would be enough just to enjoy aura and the scent all day---there’s a satisfaction and a contemplation to having something savory going for supper, and knowing that it will take time and that things are progressing as they should.

There are lots more, and I’d love to hear YOURS.


HAPPY OCTOBER, EVERYONE!!