2018-09-13 / Opinions

Why can’t the month of October have six weeks?

By LORAN SMITH
columnist

There is nothing redeeming about September and we’ve got three weeks to go. If you are into football as most of the world seems to be, then September may be a favorite month. While I like football very much, I’d like to shorten September to two weeks and make October a six week month, provided that we could have six weeks of October weather.

In most years, you notice that there is a slight improvement of the weather after Labor Day, but not so much so last year and this year either, thus far. The beginning of this month I awakened early on Labor Day morning. It was very pleasant and comfortable. I even took a windbreaker to the office where it is cool before daybreak. Buildings get hot when people fill it up.

Much of Labor Day was spent in schizophrenia. My split personality was down when I thought about the dog days of summer hanging around. It was on a high when I thought about October’s balm. October is my favorite month of the year and I could pay exalted tribute to this classic spot on the calendar every day.

September is not so bad if your team is winning. Then there is the Harvest Moon which sometimes falls in September. This year it is Monday September 24, and I can’t wait to hear, “Harvest Moon, Way up in the Sky.” What a song! Such romantic lyrics! But, I still want to get away from September with the greatest of alacrity. And, bring on October with the greatest of alacrity.

I want to give September the back of my hand, October a champagne toast. October warms the heart, speaks to the soul. I can’t wait for what October brings:

Fire in fireplaces with wood stacked neatly on a side porch.

Harvest displays on porches and at store fronts all across the landscape – from Coolidge to Green Bay.

Cookouts as dusk accentuates the calm that the end of the day brings to our neighborhoods.

Hay bales in the fields which make you think of peace on earth and goodwill to men.

The doe and her fawns that bed down in our liriope. I can remember when I believed that if I were ever to see a deer, I would have to journey to Lapland.

The eight-point buck that casually walks across the street from the Fitzgeralds’ as if he owns our neighborhood.

The fox at the end of the street which runs pell mell from the Roberts across the street to the Nolands’, which is worrisome. I don’t want a rabid varmint in my neighborhood. Such things happen, you know.

The return of the trout to the lively Chattahoochee at Helen, one of Georgia’s garden spots – not the tattoo parlors but the river. I can’t wait to return to the Nora Mills Dam where the browns and the rainbows are biting, the mallards are swimming, and the Canadas’ honking overhead. Friday night lights which are bearable. Teenagers playing a game which enraptures an entire nation. Little kids playing their own games on an embankment, parents working the concession stands – but not all since a goodly number are out in the stands second guessing the coaches and others hurling epithets at the officials. You have to accept that as part of Americana as much as the deer in the liriope and the trout fighting with you on the Chattahoochee.

Apples in North Georgia – not what they once were, but thankfully still with us. And also Apple knocker, the bootleg liqueur which, managed right, is as good as a shot of Grand Marnier. Those who can make it, according to my mountain sources, are dying out – not likely to be replaced by the “next” generation.

The turning of the autumn leaves which still leaves one breathless. Mother Nature at her best, leaves us thankful and awed.

September, you need to get with the program.

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