by Joseph F. Persinger in “The View from Poverty Ridge”
The poet James Russell Lowell (1819-1891) asked the rhetorical question: “And what is so rare as a day in June?”
My answer would be: “Just about any day in October.”
October is such a dramatic month, bringing with it all kinds of changes, an explosion of color, and a spiritual magnetism that makes us want to roam the fields and forests and get close to the earth.
Crisp breezes clear away the oppressive haze and humidity of summer; the more annoying varieties of insects give way to inoffensive grasshoppers and singing crickets, and the bright colors of pumpkins, apples, pears, persimmons, and yellow corn stir memories of earlier days and visits with grandparents when such bounty was picked fresh from the tree, vine, or stalk.
Other months may display their allure in more refined, subtle ways; in comparison October’s cloak of many colors is almost too gaudy — the burnt gold of the hickory tree, the fiery orange of the sugar maple, and the multi-colored tapestry of black gum, sumac, and sassafras immodestly screaming, “Look at us! Take our picture! Aren’t we beautiful?” October refuses to be taken for granted.
October skies also tend toward the spectacular, never understated. Is there any other time of year when the sky is that blue? Even on stormy days, some dazzling effects are created — a row of brightly colored trees glowing against a backdrop of massive blue-black storm clouds, made even more vivid by sunlight suddenly breaking through on the opposite side of the hill. As night approaches, the setting sun bathes those same clouds in slowly changing pastel shades of yellow, blue, lavender, and red, and as that scene fades to black a fat orange moon rises from behind the ridge and begins its trek across the night sky.
The winds of change are in the air. Wood ducks and geese suddenly appear on farm ponds and lakes, moving in silent swirls in the early morning mist rising from the water; deer make their way from the woods through the pasture to yet another woodlot, disturbed by hunters or by farm machinery moving through the ripe corn and soybean fields. Domestic animals’ coats begin to thicken, reminding us that these golden days of autumn will be short-lived, soon to be replaced by the gloomy, wet chill of November.
To some people, autumn is a sad time — they see the falling leaves and withering grasses as symbols of death, and they long, instead, for spring and the resurrection. True, there are fleeting moments when a rush of fragrant windblown leaves triggers a brief flash of unexpected melancholy — thoughts of a long-lost friend or relative or fading images of pennants flying and marching bands drumming, flaming leaves against the sky when we were all so young.
But to me October is a celebration, the grand finale in which all the promise of the spring and summer is gleaned from the fields, forests, and orchards and piled high on wagons, in baskets, and on tables, stored away in bins, cellars, and cupboards to see us through the dormant chill of winter to the start of another cycle.
October is bigger than life, a month when all the senses — sight, sound, taste, touch, and smell — are stirred and enticed by nature at its finest.
“Then, if ever, come perfect days…”