Pumpkins

Los Angeles, California

Like a child waiting for Christmas, I always approach October with happy anticipation. Ok, did I just write always? In truth, sometimes the anticipation is more desperate than happy because we are often held hostage by heatwaves and the accompanying brush fires in September (and even later). It has been said that California has four seasons: Fire, flood, earthquake and awards. Regardless of happiness or desperation, I always look forward to the landing of October. It is when pumpkins come out in the markets and farm stands, and their images start appearing around my house, on trays and tea mugs and coffee table coasters. On October 1st I drink my first cup of tea from a mug with a pumpkin or Jack O'Lantern on it. Pumpkins abound. And they are accompanied by a bit of Dia de los Muertos decor which includes a few candles, plates, and tins holding chocolates. I caved to the D de la M after seeing the movie, Coco. Joel and I saw it in a theater the day the film opened, and we were practically alone. I think there was also a father and young daughter in the theater. I tried so hard to hold back tears at the end, and then turned to Joel and saw his tears. No point trying to stay strong. It was such a tender, lovely film.

But, back to pumpkins. I always thought I loved October so much because of my birthday. But when I have asked other people about their favorite months, it never seems to be the one into which they were born. So, maybe it's just that transitioning thing. We don't get much of an autumn in Los Angeles, but we get traces of it. There are some sycamores on my property so I do see leaves change. But let's face it, no one would take a cruise to see the fall colors here. Still, historically, October was a month when we were settled back into school, and the relentless heat was waning. And my birthday was coming. And then, Halloween. We elementary school kids were sent out into the night in our costumes. No adults came with us. No one harmed or hassled us. We didn't live in Mayberry, but compared to the surveillance millennials were under, it was a lot like it. There was so much freedom. We were always being dropped off by parents. At friend's houses, at the park, at the movies. We were little kids, but we knew not to get into anyone's car, to look both ways before we crossed the street, and to be home before dark. If something bad happened to a kid in Wisconsin or Rhode Island, our parents might read about it in the Los Angeles Times, but there was the perspective that not much bad was happening in Burbank, California. The only fears were that we might fall down a well or the Russians might nuke us. There wasn't much to fear in the neighborhood.

My dad called me punkin, from the time I was little. I was a rather round thing when born (though not orange). I never asked him how he came up with this nickname for me. Maybe it was because of my birthday, so close to Halloween. Mom sewed the costumes for our ice skating shows and they did double duty for Halloween. They didn't always hit the mark. Amongst the witches and hobos and ghosts, I would appear as a French maid or a Can-Can dancer. Oh well...

I really jumped the gun, making chicken stock last weekend in anticipation of chicken soup. But it's not too early to have apple cider in the refrigerator which can show up in a rocks glass mixed with dark rum with an even darker rum float on top. A cinnamon stick gets dropped into Irish oats as they cook. And the regular baseball season comes to a close. It's October. It is finally here, and my anticipation settles into the annual bliss of apples and pumpkins and corn mazes. Time for another birthday. Time for another year to begin to wind down. Orange isn't the new black, but rather the herald of another season passing. Summer is gone; fall has dropped. Call me crazy, but I am so ready for this.