What? November already?

I must be slipping. Here's the most beautiful song about October ever written. It's not really about October but it captures perfectly the mood I often find myself in around this time of year. The lyrics are by Johnny Mercer, whose widow gave them to Barry Manilow. Barry composed the music and performs the haunting result:

When October Goes (3:58)

If Putz were still around (and I'm not sure he isn't, although he hasn’t posted anything since January 2014), he would be clapping (and he may very well be).

Autumn is always nostalgia time for me. This year autumn has been late arriving. In just the last couple of days have the the familiar reds and golds and oranges and yellows returned to north Georgia. It's my favorite time of year.

Here's a poem of mine the leaves inspired a few years back. The Carolyn mentioned in the first line was Carolyn H., a longtime friend from our church. On June 29th of this year she died at the age of 86 in Pensacola, Florida. She may be clapping too.


October 25, 2004

Our friend Carolyn came over for lunch
And as we finished at the table
Someone said, “Let’s go for a ride!”
So into the car we piled,
Like children giddy with anticipation,
Not knowing where we were headed
But eager to be having an adventure;
And someone said, “Where shall we go?”
And we said, “We don’t know!”
And someone else said, “Name a direction!”
And because the fall thus far at home
Had been drab and disappointing,
We headed north toward the mountains, laughing.

Five hours later we returned,
Tired but invigorated,
Having been to Helen and Unicoi Gap
And Hiawassee and Lake Chatuge,
Making all of the hairpin turns
And ascending, always ascending, until
We crested and began to descend
Through another set of hairpin turns,
And all the while we oohed and ahhed
And said how glad we were that we had come,
Drinking in the brilliant reds, the dazzling yellows,
The shocking oranges of autumn, the mountains ablaze
Against a clear blue sky.


Here's to old times, old friends, new times, and new friends.

I hope I didn't leave anyone out.

My mother died on October 4, 1957. I hope she is clapping too.

What is so rare as a day in October?

Well, to be mathematically accurate, a day in February (28 days vs. October's 31). But that's not what I mean. Today the three of us--my wife, my dog, and I--attended two football games. Two of our grandsons were playing, one in a local megachurch's league and the other in the county's youth football association. The first game started at 9:30 a.m. in Canton and the second at 12 noon in Woodstock. The morning was gorgeous, sunny, with a little breeze. Temperatures were in the seventies. The leaves were just beginning to change colors. Fluffy, white clouds dotted the azure sky (in novels, the sky is always azure). We even noticed a large hawk or eagle circling high overhead, never moving its wings, gliding silently on the updrafts. It was a great day for football.

Elijah's team won 24-0; he made a spectacular interception plus several key blocks and tackles. Later, Noah's team won 13-0 with Noah doing the honors as quarterback; he threw one long, long pass that ended in a diving, fingertips reception downfield that impressed the entire crowd. My son helped move the yard markers, and my daughter-in-law took photographs from the sidelines. Jethro was the hit of the younger set, licking the faces and hands of all comers. We had to drive eight miles to the first game and ten more miles to the second, but nobody complained because the trees were a sight for sore eyes.

Back when I went to school, the English teacher made us memorize part of a poem by James Russell Lowell that began, "And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days." Well, Mr. Lowell, sir, I beg to differ. With sincere apologies, I vote for October.