“October inherits summer’s hand-me-downs: the last of the ironweed, its purple silken tatters turning brown and tiny starry white asters tumbling untidily on the ground like children rolling with laughter … Queen Anne’s lace is now an heirloom, a faded wedding veil, and the mullein’s tall stalk holds a few late, yellow flowers like drops melted and run down the side of a candle.”
— Rachel Peden, “Rural Free” 1961
Walking barefoot into autumn, I remember being scolded for this offense as a kid. The heavy dew seemed to feed the weeds that I loved gathering. An irresistible pull walked those bare feet toward bittersweet and honeysuckle, along the tree line where Queen Anne’s lace stretched high and low, so bountiful.
Maybe if I took a bouquet of colorful stems to my mom she would ignore my dirty toes peeking out from my overly long, hand-me-down jeans.
Somehow, even then I knew that October was a special gift, set aside in its own parentheses of time. September had meant summer was over and we had to head back to school.
November was coming, bringing darker days and bitter chill. October was blessedly pure, colorful, tranquil and a happy time on our busy farm.
Dad loved harvest time, in spite of the long, demanding days in addition to milking times. Breakdowns, a constant, feared possibility, meant he tended to keep spares of just about every necessary part stocked in his machinery shed.
If a neighbor needed a spare part before Dad did, it was his kind nature to offer it. “We all know the cost of anything isn’t nearly as important as the cost of time wasted,” I heard him say so many times it has stayed with me all these years.
The vibrant days of October still tug at my sentimental heart. While on a quick trip to town recently, I spotted a Gleaner combine working its way across a cornfield, dust flying. I thought of Dad, teaching me the moisture content surely wasn’t going to be an issue when dust is that pronounced.
All of it made me wish I could grab some of his favorite snacks and drop by the field to surprise my dad. His smile would have lit up the combine cab.
I can still hear him say, “How’s the prettiest girl that ever came down the road?” (a greeting reserved only for every single female in the family) and together we would enjoy some junk food for just a few minutes — priceless, enduring minutes.
A man’s gotta keep turning wheels under the grand October sky. Hold on tight, dear ones. These are the days you will reach back for, long after the sun has set.
