I love October.
I love the cool evenings, the smell of burning wood as people light their fireplaces as the warm summer evenings give way to that crisp coolness that comes through the walls, through the window panes, through the bones of the old folks, as the cats come in early and stay in later, curl up somewhere and wait for April, as soups and stews appear magically inside homes with warm breads, and afghans are thrown on sofas and chairs because people will need them to stay warm, not just for decoration.
I love it when the leaves turn color, and dark clouds begin to form off in the distance promising rain to come, winter on its way, the introduction of yet another season, fall, people all covering up with multi-colored jackets and closed-toed shoes, with signs and arrows on the country roads pointing towards pumpkin patches, cheap children's costumes spilling out of bins in the dime stores, huge bags of chocolate candy on every counter wrapped in orange and black plastic with see-through black cats and witches covering the candy inside.
Soon the October colors will be replaced with turkeys and pilgrims and Thanksgiving, and snow for some, and ice, and sleet, and winter storms that will keep our friends inside for days on end, stories they will tell everyone they can reach: "We haven't been able to leave our house for ten days now," and the days will seem to be four hours long at best, like being stuck in a coffin waiting for the tulips to appear, but not in October, because in October the days are still long enough, the sun is still bright enough at noon, and we can still remember the summer and the melons and peaches and beaches and our tomato gardens that spilled red fruit onto our plates for months.
Get ready for the heating bills to go up. Dig out the sweaters and umbrellas, the long pants, the heavy denim, gloves, extra blankets, the down comforter and duvet. Pack away the shorts and tank-tops and sunscreen.
I love October.
I love the sight of Derek Jeter, the Prince, being fabulous, one amazing and astonishing play after the next, always the gentleman, always prepared, always 120% for his team, beloved by all, admired by everyone, toast of the town, a legend in his own time, the Captain, the man who does not fade as the season goes on but instead delivers magic in October, year after year.
And I love the sound of K-Rod's bat swishing helplessly through the air as the worst pitchers in major league fan one after the next by him, K-Rod flailing around like a blind old man, unable to hit anything, pathetically being called out again and again, sent back into the dugout with his head down, muttering one excuse after the next while the fans boo and once again call for the team to dump that loser, the man who always freezes in post-season, the man with no real guts, no cajones, the dude who backs down when it really counts.
(K-Rod Strikes Out Again)
I love every K-Rod post-season at-bat. I love to see him fail again and again. I can't help myself, I just detest the guy. Sorry Kate -- I got nothing against you except you've got bad taste in baseball players.
(K-Rod, Caught Looking, Strikes Out Yet Again)
I've got to get all my Yankee T-shirts washed, on hangers. Get the playoff schedule written on my calendar so I don't miss one minute. I want a Yankees-Dodgers World Series and if we get one, I will wear the Dodgers hat that my brother gave me, and a Yankees t-Shirt, and will feel ambivalent as I cheer Derek and Joe Torre, but will love every minute of it. Derek is the Prince, and Joe Torre is the Master. I love baseball. And I particularly love baseball in October.