3 cent stamps . . . and other relics

     In our high school years, Belton lived fifteen miles away.  By today's measures, it may as well have been fifteen-hundred.  Remember . . .  no iPhones, no FaceTime or texting,  nor any other gizmo's.  Well, perhaps Dick Tracy's wrist radio.  (Who was Dick Tracy?  Go ask 'an old  person' about that comic strip  detective.).  A three minute telephone call between our towns cost 25 cents.  Although gasoline cost but 25 cents per gallon, few high school students had ready access to an automobile (at least in our socio-economic cohort). So, if we wanted to 'communicate' more often than the occasional face-to-face visit, we resorted to writing letters.
  
    A few years ago, I came across some of Belton's letters in my 'archives' a few days before he was to come to lead worship service in a near-by church.  Doubting that he would recognize me across fifty or so years, I identified myself and gave him the bundle of letters.  In his opening comments to the congregation, he mentioned our brief conversation and the letters.  The shocker, he indicated, was that they all bore THREE CENT STAMPS.

    I remember the  arrival of mail addressed to oneself as a 'big deal'.  As a high school freshman, I pestered the clerks at our small-town post office to know when the next delivery was arriving because I  expected a letter from my new 'girl friend'.  One day, Mrs. Lane, a somewhat mischievous sort, wrote on the outside of a newly arrived letter: "Censored by Clerk Lane".  The small post office at my undergrad college was swarmed when the mail was boxed.  Although my brief military service was all within the U.S., it is difficult to describe the scene at 'Mailcall' when the First Sergeant called the names . . . slowly, one by one . . . of the day's recipients.

    As an academic historian 'in an earlier life', I relied heavily on preserved letters for much of my research such as my MA thesis on the first President of Wake Forest College.  And there is great poignancy in the letters  home by Civil War soldiers, many of them barely literate.  Such linkage to one's personal past likely will be increasingly transient with our new modes of 'reaching out' to 'touch'.  Just today, I deleted dozens of old, now inconsequential emails. (I can't imagine an historian of the future finding anything significant therein.) 

   For reasons of economic necessity (it was the time of the Great Depression of the  1930's), my parents lived briefly in different locales just prior to my birth.  In going through some family 'treasures' with them in the 1980's, I was surprised when dad literally grabbed a packet of letters, blushed and quickly put them under lock in his office.  I later learned that they were 'love letters' he had written to his wife back in North Carolina.  Reading them after his death provided a greater appreciation for that period of their lives.

     A largely vanishing art form, such communication is now  derisively labeled 'Snail Mail' and the USPS  seems to attempt offsetting revenue losses with increased rates (soon to be 49 cents) and diversified services.

   What, then, is this vestige of other times . . . the personal letter, handwritten or typed ? (My paternal grand-father used an electric typewriter that always seemed to race ahead of his fingers.)  
In part, it is akin to some of the rationale (in the last post) of viewing old photographs, thereby deepening one's perspectives on life, relationships, meaning, history . . .BIG MATTERS . . .  that transcend an amnesia-prone 'right now'.  

      Create a little 'future history' . . . send someone a hand-written
(unless your script, like mine, resembles hieroglyphics; in that case, type it.  Whoops, not many typewriters around now either, are there?) letter.
    Satchel

   
   

Picture THAT

   Recently I sent my brothers a photograph taken of me in one of my Christmas naps.  Given my fondness for naps and the presence of mischievous folks with cameras, a few such photos exist.  This one startled me . . . not because it was I but because it looks so very much like our dad.  One brother said that it was chilling when he saw it.  Dad's two brothers also noted the very strong resemblance.  Well, that very good man has been deceased for 21+ years and he is still missed, not morbidly, but missed.

         Perhaps because of that photo, or perhaps because we took so many pictures during vacation, or perhaps it was a picture of my now 40-something daughter's fifth birthday that was posted recently ; at any rate, in the past few days, I have been reviewing the many snapshots in the albums that our parents assembled over their years.  Some of them date to the 1920's, perhaps a few to earlier times.  

     As I have noted several times in this blog, living in the past is not healthy; visiting there and, perhaps, learning and attaining perspectives can be enriching.  Mom and dad had pictures of many of our relatives and friends.  Of some of those snapshots, I took pic's with my iPhone and emailed them to my cousins.  Seeing how we used to look can be instructive on several levels, one being to cherish the 'right now'.  As the old proverb has it, "We get too soon old and too late smart."   

     In the gallery that follows, the faces will be familiar to only a few readers.  My hope is that you will consider this an invitation to 'dust off' your family albums and take a retrospective walk.  It might even prompt you to a sentiment like that the Statler Brothers sang: "And can you believe the dresses that they wore !"   

      

l

Left: Mom and Dad ca. early 1980's;   Right: Mom and Dad in Chapel Hill, NC ca mid 1930's

                                               Dad, his Dad and an unknown (to me ) child
                                                                 Around 1954

Above with my brother Den around 1943;

Right, our "Baby Brother", Bob  1948

Below: As Bill Cosby said, "I started out as a child."

 

                Satchel

January-itis

      Looking out our kitchen window early this morning,
I fondly remembered 'Sunny California' of a couple of weeks ago.  As I have 'muttered' a few times on this blog, Winter is hardly my favorite season.

    I have some understanding of the importance of Winter in the rhythm of life.  News articles this week reminded us that the populations of insects, pests, and other annoying 'critters' likely have been reduced by the recent 'Arctic Vortex'. Great! I am pleased for whatever benefits might occur.

     Recently, I re-read Parker Palmer's Let Your Life Speak and noted that he extolled the many benefits of Winter . . . both on the calendar and within one's Inner Life.  And, I remember the basic point of the song, The Rose…"far beneath the bitter snow lies the seed that with the sun's love in the Spring becomes the Rose."  Still, I feel more drawn to a line from a Shel Silverstein poem: "Must we always have Winter; Can't Springtime just stay?"

      My aversion to cold is directly related to the scene in the above photograph . . . the Marsh Chapel Plaza at Boston University. In the background is the Charles River that seemed to provide a wind tunnel right off the Atlantic Ocean. Though this particular snapshot was made some years after the academic year of 1960-61, it is a sight that I came to know well that year. My dorm room was on the top floor of the building on the left (just out of the picture). I remember snows from early December through until March . . .at least that's 'my version'. At any rate, my Southern thermostat never adapted to the rigors of New England. My brother in New Hampshire has braved 40+ Winters there.  Now that he has retired, he is heading for warmer climes in the Far East for a few weeks's respite.

     Where I live, temperatures earlier this week were single digit with wind chill factors below zero. Gratefully, there was no accompanying precipitation.
Recently I read the quip that 'if you wear flip-flops and mud boots in the same week, you must be from
North Carolina'.  Today, the projected temperature is mid-60's with possible thunderstorms. Just a few minutes ago, the tornado warning elapsed.  But then, I remember, this month was named for Janus, Rome's 'two-faced' god.

    A hopeful aphorism: "If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?"  Well, it will be good to see the lilies in bloom.

In the background, however, I hear my dad's gentle reminder: 
           "Don't wish your time away, son".

      Satchel

"Sorryness . . ." or is it "Sorriness" ?

       When I told a colleague that I was spending Christmas vacation in Los Angeles and Palm Springs, California, he predicted 'You're going to get sorry.'  He was not suggesting 'sorry' in the sense of 'regret' or 'remorse'; rather, he was jesting that the experience would render me 'worthless'.

     Over the last week and a half or so, there were times when I was convinced that Will was correct.  The contrasts ---between
what we experienced on the West Coast and the routines of home; and even between LA and Palm Springs --have been striking.  Our son's apartment is on the 12th floor of a building in downtown LA. From there we had a panorama of 'skyscrapers', traffic, holiday lights and even the 'Hollywood' sign on the distant hill.  Palm Springs itself was , well, 'different' and with more  allure to decadent 'sorriness' in the form of warm temperatures (70's and 80's compared to the chilling 20's, 30's and 40's back home), an outdoor pool and jacuzzi, delicious food served in a most comfortable ambiance {Not a paid advertisement: in Palm Springs, go to Billy Reed's restaurant.  We became 'regulars', recognized and warmly greeted by the staff.}, and grapefruit trees just outside the door - - - from which a few were 'liberated' for our enjoyment.  And, naps became a regular part of the daily rhythm in both locales.

                        (A study in contrast: Los Angeles at night and a 'typical' view in Palm Springs)

   (Invitations to 'sorryness' in the form of Billy Reed's trademark cinnamon roll and the strawberry cake)

      Immunity against total decadence came in several forms:

i) Walking.  The apartment is conveniently located near several good restaurants.  Beats searching for a parking spot and I am certain that we logged a few miles.

ii) Hiking . . . many miles on some  rugged (for me, at least) mountain trails around Palm Springs.  Both the Indian Canyons area and the wilderness of Mount San Jacinto provided exertion as well as awe-inspiring vistas.  Retrospectively, I wish  we had gone to the latter location earlier in our visit and  spent the day 'soaking it  in' with time for reading, writing, reflection as well as exploration.

     No Rattlers seen;  Reflection of tram car on mountain
   side;  'on the trail'     

iii)  Christmas Eve Eucharist service.  Being reminded that there is 

a transcendent 'More'.   

iv)  Being with people I love, 'missing' others who are important in my life, and remembering those now dead who enriched my life along the way.

I hope that your Christmas was enjoyable, restorative  and not too 'sorry'.

Satchel

"Digger" and Laura

             I have noticed the interweaving of a few 'themes' in these posts: Karakters appears pretty regularly; as do Nicknames and Whose Shoulders do you Stand on?  And, I have been chided . . . gently . . . that another theme is "I grow old".  I prefer not to think of it as  'getting older' but as attaining new vantage points or perspectives.

       Sometimes there is a kind of merging of themes as I reflect (or muse) upon important people, times, events that have been influential in setting or modifying the course of my life.  Such it is with this post.

    How could someone with the nickname of Digger not be a Karakter, in a good sense.  And, a spouse of that same karakter is one in her own right.  Have you had enough birthdays to remember the radio personality, 'Digger O'Dell, the friendly undertaker' ?
Well, the Digger of my acquaintance is now a retired United Methodist minister.  Before our lives intersected in 1960 at Boston University School of Theology, he had earlier been a mortician ---
hence the moniker.

     Since that year, as often happens, our careers have put us in different parts of the country with infrequent opportunities for face-to-face visits.  That one year has proved to be among the 'pivotal' nodes in my life.  And, Digger and Laura and their one year old son were major influences.

    A bit of context . . . our parents, though not wealthy, had largely underwritten my undergraduate education and in that last year, a second son had begun his studies at the state university.  Mom and Dad continued to be supportive, including financially. While I had a tuition scholarship and a couple of part-time jobs, often there was "too much month at the end of the money" and I was reluctant to ask more of them.  Consequently, there were some slim times along the way.  Somehow, Digger learned this.   I began having invitations to their home on week-ends; occasionally an envelope with a bit of cash would appear on my dorm door.  The inscription was something like "Have a peanut on me."

    Their residence in the Boston suburb of Braintree became 'home' and as part of saying 'Thank you', I would occasionally baby-sit their young son.  That 'child' is now an internationally respected PhD research scientist.  How quickly they grow up ! while we sometimes flatter ourselves that we are the same.

    Digger and Laura have shared their creativity and talents in many ways.  Though she was not enrolled at the seminary, her voice instructor recognized her great ability and had her become a member of the venerable Seminary Singers.  A nurse by training, she and Digger have enriched the lives of many persons in the places where they lived.

    A few years ago, upon retirement, they moved to Florida.  He became a  staff member of the large United Methodist church in their city.  There he continued to provide numerous creative touches, including  the annual Christmas festooning of the sanctuary.

    I was somewhat surprised when I realized that we were last together in 2006.  I was certain that it was just a couple of years ago.  He had come our way to say 'Good bye' to his former secretary who was dying.  He stayed with us for several days and it was a much too short visit.

     Recently, I had attempted to contact them and discovered that my information was outdated.  They had 'vanished'.  So, I went to their son's website for his email address and within a day had the new information.  Because of new health circumstances, they had moved to a retirement community in Venice, Florida.  I called them the next day and 'caught up'.

   I learned that they are expecting Jamie and his new family for a Christmas gathering.  Here's a heart-felt wish for the fullness of the time: "Have a peanut [of gratitude] on me."
     

    (The top photo of Laura, Digger, Jamie and Rex was actually taken in the Spring of 1961; the lower one of us  was made in the Summer of 2006.)

   Satchel

Marlin . . . In Memoriam

                                 Kenneth Marlin Mathiesen, Jr.
                            1938-2013

      Today I received notification of the recent death of a man who was one of my best friends in high school.  I met Marlin in 1954 when my parents moved to a new town between my sophomore and junior years.  For those two years, we were great friends.  After graduation and my college career beginning a few days prior to his, he accompanied my parents as they drove me to the beginning of a 'whole new world'.   Personal and professional moves over the intervening 57 years meant that we 'lost touch' and saw each other infrequently, primarily during holiday breaks and, later, at class reunions.  We were last together in 2006 at the Fiftieth Class Reunion.

     But during those two years, we accumulated a gamut of experiences that still live in rich memory.  He was a stellar high school football player . . . a hard running half-back on our six-man team.  Even more, he was an outstanding student. (He went on to become a physician like his father.)  Mathematics has never been one of my strong academic suits . . . and the Physics class we took demanded some precision with formulae.  Our combined efforts (with frequent assistance from his dad) produced some intriguing (to us ) experiments: we learned why the surface of bridges cooled more rapidly than roadways; we built 'radios' powered by razor blades, coiled wire and wire antenna that actually picked up the broadcast from a station in the state capital, some 35 miles away; but the one that was the most  fun was  building a still.  The only product that came from that was distilled water, but  we learned the fundamental "how to's".

    We double-dated (the term will mean something to those of us of a 'certain age') to a Perry Como concert at Duke.  He frightened me and our friend, Larry, one Sunday afternoon by driving his dad's big Oldsmobile 105 mph on a straight stretch on US Highway 64.  Thank goodness we lived to remember that craziness.  It was still a topic of conversation for us at the last reunion.  Though his family were 'pillars' of the local Seventh Day Adventist Church, he was active in our Methodist Youth Fellowship, probably owing in large part to a girl friend's presence. 

     Of the 43 of us who received our high school diplomas that Spring evening in  1956, nine have died.  First there was Irene ("Moosie"), followed (not in order) by Herbert ("Shane"), Nancy, Velna, Billy Joe ("Chubby"), Steve ("Speedy"), Tommy Louis, Newton, and now, Marlin.  Something within wants to deny the rapid passage of those years and the subsequent mortality of those (then) youth.  Perhaps there are "lessons" to be derived from pondering all that; but for now, as Mr. Hope sang, "Thanks for the Memories".
    
   Satchel

". . . WITH EVERY CHRISTMAS CARD I WRITE . . ."

        Forget the "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas" part.
We had one of those just three years ago.  The storm warning caused us to abbreviate our Christmas at the beach and scurry home . . .bread and milk in hand . . . arriving just minutes before the snow began.

        This year other words in the song have renewed significance for me . . .   those of the title of this post.  Last night we sat at the kitchen table and enjoyed the annual tradition of writing Christmas cards.  (When I googled the history of Christmas cards, I read that the custom originated in the UK in 1843 and migrated to the US late in that decade.  So much for the arcane history.)  Notice that the word is "write" rather than "address". We included a brief note in each card.  Sometimes our cards are the sole contact we have with folks during the year.  The card and note are ways of saying "We remember you and your place in our lives."

     As a youth and teen, I did not like cards addressed to "Mr. and Mrs. Parents and Family".  For some reason, that felt like second-class. We (the brothers) had names and when someone included us, I was pleased. Over time, I suspect that I have continued that  slight; but I am trying 'to do better'.  Our parents received lots of cards, in part perhaps attributable to a  3 cents postage stamp. (It was the 1950's after all !)  I choose to believe that it was also because they had many friends and family. For a few years, they actually incorporated the cards into their interior decorations by attaching them to door frames. 

    Mr. Hall and his brothers expanded the options of card styles, etc. and hence put their hallmark on the custom. (Forgive the deliberate and lame pun; but there actually were the Hall brothers.)  

   When I was in college I learned that not everyone sending a card was motivated by seasonal cheer.  Home for Christmas break, I received a card from an upperclassman whom I hardly knew. Likely I thought something like "that's nice" but wondered 'why?'.  The answer came in the Spring when he ran for Student Body President.  And, of course, there are the "We are glad that you are our customer" kind.
Usually, my curmudgeon side kicks in and I just trash those.

    Among the more memorable was one from a friend, claiming financial difficulties and written on a folded sheet of paper:
    "Money's tight and times are hard.
       This, my dear, is your Christmas card."
In the years since, I have seen variations (some not here repeatable) and suspect that the ploy was not original with him.

     Alas, postage is no longer 3 cents . . . so that may impact how many cards we send this year.  Yet I am not ready to adopt the above  sentiment.  Remembering family and friends --of then and now -- is increasingly important. Since it is now the 21st century, even a greeting sent by email is acceptable.  

    And, who knows ---if I become too sentimental, I may just write about 'Fruitcake' next time.

     Satchel

"How are you going to write about THIS ? " . . .

      ... My cousin Pam asked during last Friday's Family Reunion.  THIS was the evening-after-Thanksgiving gathering of  some hundred or so relatives and in-laws from my maternal grand-parents' family. The occasion was  our more or less annual get-together. Cousin Jenny and husband Ray again offered the spacious Family Room of their home for the evening.

     It was a well-fed crowd . . . continuing the talents of my grand-mother, there are many excellent cooks among her progeny.  My personal favorite remains Aunt Rachel's Chicken and Dumplings.  When I arrived, a couple of my cousins told me that had her delicacy arrived before I, they had intended to hide them from me. "Thanks" guys !

    Rachel is the only one of my grand-parents children still with us.  She and Uncle Lewis's widow, Ivy Marie, remain a cherished link to other times and people. Not unlike many of their contemporaries, our grand-parents had many children . . .12.  Of those, ten grew to adulthood; one was a World War II casualty; the oldest daughter's only child was still-born. The other eight provided 24 first cousins. Two of those are deceased, one having died just a couple of months ago.  Eighteen of the remaining twenty-two were present, along with spouses, children, and grand's. My own two living children had to be elsewhere. (My daughter and her family were en route home after a several day visit with us.)

   Not surprisingly, there is a wide age span among the cousins . . .78 to 48. (Good grief ! In writing that , I realized that some of us are old enough to be the parents of others of us !)  Six of us were born during or pre-World War II.  So, several of my cousins belong to the "Baby Boom" generation.  Clarice's daughter, Mona, orchestrated photographing the various groupings within the family.  Given the census, that endeavor took several minutes.

     Cousin Roy (of hiding the dumplings plot) gave us his annual gift of Birthday/Anniversary/Pictures calendar.  Over the years these have become treasured repositories of photographs of the "dearly departed".  This year he added some statistics . . .  243 birthdays and 54 wedding anniversaries are included in the current edition; of those, only 24 actually have our Grand-pa's surname and two others have it as their first or middle name; attendees' ages  ranged from 90 years to one month.  And, he added, "the most interesting fact …most of us still speak to each other".

    A lot of good stories were told . . . and retold. My oldest cousin Clarice told some about me that I could have sworn were fabrications.  She insisted otherwise.  The 'noise level' was at several decibels.  And a frequently asked question was "who is that over there next to … ?"  Sadly, there are many stories that will never again be told because the tellers are deceased. My wife aptly observed that along with the many photographs, we need to record some of that rich (and otherwise non-repeatable) lore for future generations that might have interest.

                     (The stories they knew. Grand-parents with their surviving children around 1926. Rachel was not born yet.)

      As I have frequently noted in these posts, "Family" is not a universally good experience.  When it is basically healthy, it provides much that enriches.  A lot of that was evident last Friday.  Thanks.

   Satchel

WE GATHER TOGETHER . . .

      With Thanksgiving Day coming soon, the hymn

"We Gather Together" likely will be sung often.  Except for the most introverted and reclusive persons, "gathering", "belonging" and sharing life with like-minded and affirming persons are strong yearnings of the human spirit.

     While much of life is a solitary endeavor, there is a huge difference between solitude and loneliness. "Lonely" can occur  even within a large group. And,

FAMILY  is the large group most in our cultural psyche at this time of the year.  Undoubtedly, there is much authentic love within many families.  Still, there are families where the best that can be mustered is to "make nice".

     Recently when I mentioned "We Gather Together" to a client, she replied, "But no more often than we have to . . ."  Just this week, two clients have graphically emphasized that they want nothing more to do with members of their families.  Long standing conflicts, disputes, hurts,  and dislikes have a way of surfacing (some  might say "exploding") during the holidays, even when there are not face-to-face gatherings.  Holidays get-togethers are not always Norman Rockwell-ish.

     Having honored that caveat, what about folks who are genuinely glad to see each other ?  Shared experiences, shared memories, mutual respect,  shared accomplishments as well as losses . . .these ties can have the effect of knitting otherwise lonely, isolated persons into something that transcends our individual identities.  And, sometimes we are fortunate that our 'Families' include those with whom we share 'blood kinship'.

   Happy Thanksgiving !

     

      Satchel

"ARE YOU STILL IN THE BLOGGING BUSINESS ?"

    So began a recent e-mail from a niece when I had not posted after a longer than usual quiet time.  Allowing for the hyperbole of her inquiry, the interval had been longer than typical.

     When in seminary in Boston, I made the acquaintance of a then-notable Episcopal rector acclaimed for his pulpit eloquence and substantive sermons.  Following a rejuvenating vacation on Cape Cod, he acknowledged that he had "about reached the stage where I had nothing to say and no great desire to say it."  I admired his candor and wish to avoid platitudes and inanities.  It is not always possible to be creative on   a schedule.  Friends who are professional writers have told me that there are times when 'the juices do not flow' and various 'techniques' are helpful in moving through those times.

      Sometimes the "well is just  dry".  Ernest Hemingway when asked what made good writing said something to the effect of making the seat of  his pants adhere to the seat of a chair for long  periods of time.  No doubt, there are times when the answer is to 'keep digging' and maintain the discipline.  At other times, backing away from the effort and allowing the  springs to refill on their own timetable work better.  While 'Papa' Hemingway and I move on differing planes of literary skill and style, I also do not 'write for  
a living', so other matters intervene.  

    "Stay tuned."

        Satchel

      

THE NEXT GENERATION . . .

      This week I received from my nephew a text message telling me that he and his wife have a healthy 7 pound 9 ounce baby girl.
The previous day his sister posted a picture of her baby girl born last Spring.  And, earlier this year, another niece had twins . . .a daughter and a son.

     Just in the ten-years-and-younger generation of our extended family, I count my daughter's two adopted children; one brother's children have six 'little ones'; the other brother is the grand-father to three.  And, I have four grand-children over twenty years of age, and one of those has two sons.  How did these 'children' get old  enough to be married and having children?  No doubt, our father who would have been 102 last Tuesday and his father who would have been 130 (!) on Friday, once wondered something comparable about their progeny.

     Over Thanksgiving many in the extended family will gather (as has been the custom for many years) at the North Carolina brother's farm.  Already we know that some of the 'children' (over 30, mind you) will be unable to attend this year.  Others will have their 'introductions' to wide assortment of individuals known collectively as 'family'.

    Somewhere in Holy Writ is the reminder that "a generation comes and a generation goes".  But while we are here together . . .
(complete the thought . . .).

      Satchel

Hill Country

     The colors, the chill in the air, seasonal symbols and images, driving through the clouds (or was it fog) of the mountains, (somewhat) vigorous walks . . . October up here 'restores the soul'. 
A week is an appetizer, just enough to stimulate a strong desire for 
MORE.

    I find great   fulfillment in my profession; still, sometimes it 'makes sense' to get away, to 'recharge'. Leonardo daVinci said it well centuries ago:
   
   "Every now and then go away;
     Have a little relaxation
       for when you come back to your work
         your judgment will be surer . . .
    Go some distance away because more of the work . . . can be seen at a glance, 

   and a lack of harmony or proportion
     is more readily seen. "

October Golds

&

Reds  

Morning is Breaking   

Getting away bears looking into  . . .

       
       Satchel

"Now October Has Come Again . . ."

       "Now October has come  again which in our land is different from October in the other lands.  The  ripe, the golden month has come again . . . October is the richest of the seasons: the fields are cut, the granaries are full, the bins are loaded to the brim with fatness, and from the cider-press the rich brown oozings of the York Imperials run. . . .There is a smell of burning in small towns in the afternoon . . . The oak leaves, big and brown, are bedded deep in the yard and gutter . . . Fire drives a thorn of memory in the heart. . . . All things on earth point home in old October."
      Thomas Wolfe, Of Time and the River

    
               This is my favorite month.  Lots of memories, images, and hopes cluster around these 31 days.  During sweltering summers and frigid winters, I often quip that it is a good time 'to have an indoor job'.  Not so in October.  Not too hot; not too cold, the variations of temperature beckon to the outside. 

     And, the colors!!  The expanded version of Wolfe's quote extols the splendor and  variations of the hues across the land.  The sunlight is liquid gold and flame red.  There simply is an unparalleled beauty and fullness about the 'right now' of the month.
"The ripe, the golden month" the author rightly called it.  A colleague told me that the tastes are what make this a special time for him . . . the pumpkins, the apples, the spices.  All five of our senses are energized in particular ways in this glorious month.

     Yet there are also strong suggestions of the transitory nature of life wrapped into the beauty.  My dad who was born in October (22nd) and died in October (2nd) referred to the month as a  'melancholy' time.  Summer is dying and, as Wolfe noted, "over all the earth there [is] the premonitory breath of frost".  The awareness that nothing is permanent (including ourselves) brings great resistance and protests.  Can we not 'freeze frame' this beauty and hold onto it for as long as we wish ?!

     Among the strongest images that Wolfe's passage evokes is the longing for Home.  In the novel from which the quote is extracted, the young man has returned to his parents' home after the death of his father.  The cry of absence for what is gone is more than palpable.  Few words come close to capturing what is likely a universal human desire . . . home . . . real, idealized or wished for (I know, do not end a sentence with a preposition .).
Sayings and slogans about home are everywhere, some bright and cheery; others conveying a harder edge: "Home, Sweet Home"; "Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home"; "I'll be Home for Christmas"; "Home on the Range"; "Home is where you hang your hat"; Robert Frost: "Home is where when you have to go there, they have to take you in"; or, as  the Statler Brothers once sang about a 'successful' music star: "He never sees the lights of home, 'cause there's no home to see."

    What then is the power within this image- HOME - whether or not one has had a nurturing experience ? (And, listening to some of my clients' stories, I know that 'home' was not always a safe haven.) Among the nominees,  I would include a sense of belonging, of being connected to something  beyond just ourselves . . .  a place , a people, where and with whom we could (ideally) be ourselves and have that be accepted and acceptable.  Mary Pipher's title comes close filling the 'spot' . . . The Shelter of Each Other.

     "The ripe, the golden month" . . . one of Nature's gifts to us !
Enjoy.
     
         Satchel