Thirty days hath September,
April, June, and November,
All the rest have thirty-one,
Except February, twenty-eight days clear,
And twenty-nine in each leap year.

 

At the onset of September, I’m on alert for the first frost, longing for the pumpkins I wish I’d planted. In my fantasy farm life, I sow a late garden, a patch of turnip greens, mixed with some collards. I’m industrious in using the remaining corn stalks to satiate my cows, preserving hay for January. Once the stalks are all harvested, I disc the ground with my fancy-schmancy, climate-controlled John Deere tractor, turning the soil for its winter rest. I walk my pumpkin patch, coaxing a few more pounds out of the prize winner that is sure to secure my position as champion at the State Fair. The weight of the pumpkin requires a comma. Standing on the platform with the hog, chicken, and heifer winners, dressed in flannel, I beam with pride and acknowledge the other winners with a nod of respect. In a moment of altruism, I donate my pumpkin to Trader Joe’s, because dang if they don’t transform their entire fall store menu into pumpkin. They even have pumpkin tortilla chips, which will become Emily’s Tortilla Chips in honor of my pumpkin.

Alas, to the disappointment of me and my kinfolk, I’m no farmer. On the downlow, I had prolific basil plant this year, but what actual benefit does basil bring to the greater universe? I’m leaning toward keeping my croplet to myself.

Some people don’t dig fall. Perhaps it’s the end of summer and the beginning of the journey toward dormancy and death that could be perceived as troubling. Perhaps it’s all the hype about Halloween and the over-the-top consumerism toward pumpkin spice, but dang, why hate on a season that brings such vibrancy?

It’s hayrides, high school football games, fairs, leaf piles, festivals, and blankets. It’s blue jeans and jackets and bonfires. It’s hot cocoa and snuggling and the best time to hole up on a porch in the afternoon as the sun casts long shadows on the earth. I feel reflective this time of year, a reminder of the cyclical rotation of the earth, the changing calendar, and maybe some year soon, when I get my priorities in check – the proud moment when I take my crown as queen grower of the state’s biggest pepos. Girl got dreams.

Much of my life is a mixture of wishing for what could be and dealing with what is to be. In recent years, the thirty days that hath September have served as a teacher of the balance of peaks and valleys of life. It’s as if those 15/15 know that at any given moment something fantastic or something awful can lift or shift your path.

Right off the bat this year, on the first day of September, just as I was fixing to romanticize about a field of pumpkins, Jimmy Buffet, captain of all things ocean and lime, passed.  A sadness descended over our household as Smokin’ Hot Love Biscuit pulled out his old vinyl, listening and remembering. We went to the local Tiki Bar to raise our margaritas to the king of the parrot heads, as salt rims around the world toasted that it was “5 o’clock somewhere” – possibly on the coastline of heaven. We will miss you, Jimmy.

Three days later I turned fifty-six. I love birthdays as I’m a real proponent of parties and presents. And cake. I’m a huge fan of cake. Beyonce and I share a birthday and we both married Carters. This is a secret that she and I keep private, but it still makes me happy to know of our kindred lives. My brother emailed his annual epistle of his recollection of the day of my birth. It’s lengthy in its reporting of events. This year’s edition climaxed with him working tobacco with our other siblings when the call came to our grandparents’ house that I had arrived. He used the word toil in a message on my birthday. There’s no joy or balloons or confetti in the greeting, which is more about him than me, so I reply a simple, “Thanks.” Beyonce = peak. Sibling = valley.

At 3:22 AM on September 9th, I started my third leg of Blue Ridge Relay. It was dark as I wound around the curves of Highway 226, every foot strike through the rolling hills inching our team toward Asheville. The senses of the night enveloped me. Dogs barking in the distance, the running water of a stream, the eyes that my lighted gloves skimmed over – all helped to quicken my stride. It’s hard to explain the appeal and pleasure to those who are strangers to the BRR. A team of twelve women, three handlers, lots of training in the heat of the summer, and 208 miles across the beautiful Blue Ridge create this religious experience. Perhaps there’s an internal wiring in some of us to set the hard goal and do the hard thing. Totally righteous, dude.

I don’t listen to music when I run this race, and on this middle of the night turning to morning part, I lifted the light of gratitude in memory of my mom on the 17th anniversary of her death. She taught me how to do so many things, the most important of which continues to be how to fully live with gusto and grit.

Lots of friends also have September birthdays and I’ve been celebrating with them. Each contributes high degrees of value and joy to my life, and I’ve marked their existence on the planet and presence in my hemisphere with cake and icing. When you think about it, every day is somebody’s birthday, so why not inject a little mylar balloon kind of celebration in their honor? I don’t think there’s a ration on projecting happiness toward others. It doesn’t feel like a toil at all.

Ten days of September remain. I’ll have a doctor’s appointment. John will go to Harmonica Camp. Ryann will return from Milan Fashion Week. I’m sure that I’ll strike the notes of most all the emotions. In my humanness, I will feel all the feels and probably cause all the feels. The climb to the summit of the peaks and the stumble, (sometimes plummet,) to the lows of the valley is part of the rolling landscape of September, which hath thirty days, folding into the calendar of time.

As the coolness arrives this fall, may deep, restful sleep settle all wanting souls with visions of pumpkins.