O is for October

It’s that most wickedly wistful of months, the one you step into only to find yourself knee deep in some sort of nostalgia or yearning—maybe for something you used to have; maybe for something you’ve yet to have.

It’s the month in these parts when you’re reminded what orange and blue can be together, and something akin to belief tells you they were meant to be.

It’s the month I had to drop my outdoor wedding into.

But the O of October—and so much of October here is oh, oh, oh—the O of October is like the low branch of a tree begging you to climb into it. If your legs and arms can vault and steady you into position, you can swing one leg over, steady yourself. You can lean back into O’s curve for a seasonal spoon. Surely, once balanced, I will dangle one leg off the side and set it swinging. Maybe I’ll remember to wear a straw hat and bring a piece of wheat to chew on. Together O and I will become a 19th-century decorative initial, a delicious drop cap.

P is for Presbyopia

It’s here.

Admittedly, the last year or so I’ve had trouble reading the tiny type on shampoo bottles and CD liner notes.

But yesterday, sitting on the couch, reading a hardback book in what must be 12-point type, I found I had to move the book farther away.

I couldn’t believe it. I played with it for awhile. Bring the book close to my face—type goes all blurry. Pull it away—it reappears, all clear.

I know this happens to just about everyone on the planet who lives to their Middle Ages. But you’d think people who’ve had bad vision all their lives would be cut some sort of break.

OK. Whine over.

On the plus side, it’s my twenty-first wedding anniversary. (With any luck at all, I’ll be able to read the dinner menu.)

Q is for Quaking Aspen (Populus tremuloides)

It’s 2:30. You’re caught up, mostly. Come on, go outside. It’s wacky warm out, for October. How many more days like this do you think you’re going to get?

There. Feel that breeze on your exposed skin? Won’t be long before you’re trying to remember what that’s like. Just look how fiery red the sumac is. And there—there’s a warbling vireo. What’s he still doing here, and why is he warbling?

Now, isn’t this better than sitting at your desk?

Stop under a quaking aspen. All the leaves are busy catching the wind. That sound, that whisper—you recognize it. Feel that breeze on your exposed skin? Won’t be long before you’re trying to remember what that’s like. Come on, come outside. Shimmer and shake.

Join the quotidian quiver in the quiet rush to winter.

R is for Roller Derby Name

For Helen and Deloney

I’ve given it a lot of thought, and still, in light of the brilliance that has already occurred in roller derby names (see R is for Roller Derby), I’ve managed to come up with only one. So, for the roller derby life that exists only in my mind, I will hereby be known as:

Bella Coast

Warlike and fast. Breezy, even. Kick some ass and look good doing it.