October, it’s not your fault that you live next door to November (rude neighbors, always shouting cold wind until late into the night, leaving their dead leaves and bare, broken twigs on your lawn, slamming their doors, scaring the birds. Entirely uncivilized behavior). I would wholeheartedly adore you otherwise.
You’re full of obvious charms that everyone seems to love about fall (insert here the orange pumpkins, the soup, the snuggly sweaters, the excuse to stay in bed with a thick book). I’m not immune to your beauty.
It’s me, not you. It’s just my failure to be zen, to live in your Froot-Loops-colored, slanting sunlit moment. Instead, my eyes are focused on what comes next. You’re tugging at my hem telling me to look and I’m distractedly wondering where the snow shovel is and wondering when the snow tires should go on the car.
But Saturday. Oh, Saturday! You were a perfect October day, beginning with a chance to browse the farmers’ market, bursting with the last blooms of the pre-frost fields. Then on to the annual Sheep & Wool Festival in the water-colored Tunbridge hills.
Sheep, goats, alpacas, llamas. Sheepdogs, yarn, felting kits, roving. Friends, fried dough, french fries. All this and the chance to sit on a still-green hillside with the sun against our backs, watching the festivities below. Just enough shade to feel a slight chill. Just enough sun to feel gently baked.
Saturday was a perfect October day.
And then Sunday was even better… I’ll tell you why soon.
Grongar 