The October country.

And so it begins -- ever slightly, but begins.

OCTOBER COUNTRY...
...that country where it is always turning late in the year. That country where the hills are fog and the rivers are mist; where noons go quickly, dusks and twilights linger, and midnights stay. That country composed in the main of cellars, sub-cellars, coal-bins, closets, attics, and pantries faced away from the sun. That country whose people are autumn people, thinking only autumn thoughts. Whose people passing at night on the empty walks sound like rain...

--Ray Bradbury, The October Country

No point in fighting it; October is here. Let us not panic as I normally do with thoughts of how we are going to pay the Christmas bills -- yes, it will be tree-trimming time before we know it. But let's try to remember what October was like when we were kids. It was one of the loooooongest months of the year, because Halloween was at the end of it and Halloween was awesome. Also, the initial thrill of a new school year was long gone by now, and the days would drag on and on.

Now everything rushes forward -- the days may be long but the months are short. Can't we apply the brakes a little?

October was always my favorite month as a kid. I know some people always prefer the summer, and that's understandable if they have fun summer plans. I liked not being in school, of course, but I hated the heat and humidity, which usually get in New York City in spades. We did not have air conditioning. I know some people really enjoy the hot and humid weather of July and August, and yet these people are allowed to walk about free like normal people.

Ray Bradbury was the poet of October. He is -- wrongly, I think -- remembered as a science fiction writer. Mostly he wrote scary stories, travel stories, mystery stories, magical stories. He wrote the screenplay for John Huston's 1956 film Moby Dick. He wrote a lot of SF stories, yes, but he was not capable of writing hard science fiction, the way Robert Heinlein did. Heinlein had an engineer's soul and could do math. I get the feeling that Bradbury couldn't balance his checkbook. But who cares? He wrote like an October angel.

A friend of mine growing up would always be willing to trade his "left nut" for something of inestimable value -- "I'd give my left nut to have a date with her" "I'd give my left nut to play like Hendrix" "I'd give my left nut to drive a Testarossa" -- etc. I don't know what the going rate for testicles was supposed to be, but clearly he thought it was very high. If it still is, I'd like to make a deal regarding Bradbury's writing ability. My friend never found a taker for his nut, though, so I suppose there's no deal to be made.

I was thinking yesterday, on a bright, sunlit morning, that it was interesting that Bradbury chose October. November is far darker and more dank; December has the fire of Christmas to keep it lit, but January and February are desolate. But he was right. The turning of the leaves is more interesting than their absence. The dwindling of the sunlight is more dramatic than the dark. Those attics, cellars, and closets hide more secrets than the woods.

Slow down your October. Enjoy it. Listen for the rain on the empty walks, and wonder where the October people are going.