Ach! October

You chug the last of your eye-opening campfire-style coffee. Water and a handful of grounds boiled muddy brown in an old-fashioned kettle. Coughing, you spit out a couple of grains that slipped past the cheesecloth strainer. None too carefully, you set the yellowed, chipped Dresden cup on the matching saucer. Matching, except it’s slightly less yellowed with age. The clink of the two pieces making contact doesn’t faze you. Once your mother’s pride and joy, hell, maybe even her mother’s before hers, it’s simply another vessel to you. An old one at that. Everything and everyone wore a few battle scars with age. You certainly have your share. 

Scraping your chair against the hardwood floor, you rise stiffly from the table. Damned arthritis, you think. You leave the plate from your daily breakfast fare behind, empty now except for crumbs. It's the same breakfast every morning. Three eggs, three sausage links, and three pieces of honey-buttered toast. All hastily made and tossed onto a plate. Belonging to the same set of china, the dish has as little sentimental value as the cup and saucer. You are far from being a sentimental man. 

With the early hours waning, you pull your longish, still coppery hair—what remains of it—into a ponytail. Nearly ready, you reluctantly don your last clean flannel shirt. It’s your least favorite, the one saved for laundry emergencies because of its color. Red, with yellow and black outlines creating large checkered patches, it’s as offensive to you as your hair. You had to wash it a dozen times before it faded enough that you could almost stand it. 

A few minutes before seven, it’s still mostly dark when you throw the door open. The lack of light has you glancing at the calendar on the kitchen wall near the back exit. Night seems to linger longer than it did just twenty-four hours ago.

“Ach! October,” you exclaim disgustedly. While everyone else seems to love October, you hate the month. First of all, like the fading shades of your shirt, your hair, and even your mother’s… grandmother’s?... dishes, the colors of autumn have always been too vivid for your taste. Second, October means adding to an already long list of chores: raking many bushels of leaves. Third, and most objectionably, are children banging on your door. The ones threatening tricks if they don’t get treats... treats you never buy. 

Walking outside, you squint through the early morning haze to give your farm a quick once-over. All would be well, if it weren’t for that damned screeching of school bus brakes.

You'll always be proud you stopped land developers from forcing you to sell your home. Proud, too, of the way you thumbed your nose at the evil bastards after you won the eminent domain lawsuit. To your dismay, the victory hadn’t stopped developers from building around you. 

The neighborhood turned out to be one that young families gravitated toward. Tree-lined and quiet (except for the distant sounds of children at play and lawn mowers at work), it's like living in the country at the edge of the city. Because your land is long and narrow, your neighbors aren't far away on either side. With many families nearby, you're guaranteed your share of dissatisfied trick-or-treaters. 

That often means extricating toilet paper from your tree branches. Often, after they're chased away, smartass teenagers too old to beg for candy decorate your property.

“Stanzel Nielson, you’re a mean, old man!”  You hear that about every Halloween.  Old, yes. Mean, no, although you convince them otherwise when insulted. 

“Remember Hansel and Gretel?” you growl. “Well, consider yourself Hansel (or Gretel if female), and me, the witch. Now git, before you become my dinner!” He or she usually gives up and runs away crying. Naturally, that incurs the wrath of parents, who then come pounding on your door.

You typically ignore them. Occasionally, though, a pissed-off parent doesn’t give up easily. So you answer. Pointing to the porch lamp, you snark, “See that thing? Off is the signal for don’t bother; there’s no candy here. Educate your urchins. Better yet, walk with them when they go begging.” Despite the neighborhood's relative safety, you criticize their parenting skills. “The streets ain’t a safe place for kids anyway, ’specially at night. And ’specially when all manner of ghosts and goblins are floating about.” You flash them an ominous leer that even sends the parents scurrying away.

Truthfully, you’d never harm a child. After all, you aren’t mean. You’re just good at pretending and don’t believe in wasting a penny of your pension on Halloween. You don’t receive enough pennies to waste on such frivolity.

But mostly, you want to be left alone.

Limbs protesting, you feel tiredness sinking into your bones more than usual today. You think about taking a nap this afternoon. Seventy’s old enough to justify a midday snooze, isn’t it? For now, though, there are chores to do. You trudge down the path through the small fenced pasture and feed your two sheep. Johnny and Amber are useful. They keep the grass short, and shearing them helps bring in a few extra dollars when you sell their wool.

Next stop: the chicken coop, home to a dozen hens and one rooster near the rear of the property. It’s Roger’s job to wake you up and to make sure there are future generations of chickens. That’s important considering it’s how you get your daily supply of eggs. Good ol’ Roger. That son-of-a-bitch is the true definition of mean! He'll peck your ankles to shreds if you forget your overboots.

You feed the birds, promising Lolita (your favorite… she never attacks your ankles) you’ll collect eggs after taking care of Dolly. She provides more milk weekly than you can drink… usually five or six gallons more... which you also sell. Twenty-five bucks last trip to town. It was a good week.

Dolly moos loudly and turns away, swishing her tail when she sees you coming. You almost swear she thinks giving you her backside will make you go away. She continues mooing loudly as you herd her into the milk stall. Once there, she even manages to land a good kick to your shin before you lock the kickers onto her back legs. Rubbing your shin, you think, yep, she’s definitely whining about rough hands yanking her teats. After the kick, she turns her head as if threatening to nip your leg.

Although she can’t reach you, you instinctively move the milk stool over a couple of inches. “Knock it off, old girl. I’m tired this morning and in no mood for your shit! Damn if you ain’t getting as mean as Roger!” She moos once more wailfully. Then, possibly deciding it’s best to get the torture over with, she settles down so you can get the job done.

When she's milked dry, you let her loose and throw a generous supply of hay into her pen. Next, you collect eggs from Lolita and company. Looping the handle of the egg basket on your left arm, you head back to the house with the milk pail in your right hand. You’ve considered buying a pig to fatten for next year’s winter since one can never be too self-sufficient. This morning, you’re rethinking that idea. A couple of hours of chores have left you not just tired, but dog-tired. And there’s still much more to do. One side of the barn roof needs patching. A small garden of seasonal vegetables needs weeding and….

You stop mentally running through the overwhelming list.

It’s too much. You’re too pooped to even think about it. Maybe you’ll make that early-afternoon siesta a late-morning siesta. Then, with any luck, you can attack the garden before nightfall. The roof? That can wait another day. You should still have several weeks before you need to worry about the livestock this winter.

Back in the kitchen, you strain the milk, filling two one-gallon jugs and a one-quart pitcher. After cleaning the mess you've inevitably made, you rinse the bucket and return it to the mud porch. Then, you turn on the tap, add a generous squeeze of Dawn, and put the breakfast dishes in the sink to soak. Finally, the extra snooze calling your name, you head for the sofa.

The moment you stretch out and close your eyes, there’s a soft rapping at your front door. You ignore the interruption. Another round of rapping. You again ignore it. And then a third time, followed by a lilting voice, “Stanzel Nielson, I know you’re in there. I saw you go inside. Please, I won’t take long.”

You curse, force yourself to get back up, and yank the door open. Warily, you eye the strange young visitor. She looks like a sweet teenager with shiny, big sky-blue doe eyes and a pleasant smile. However, your head begins throbbing when you see her ridiculously bright blood-red sweater. The matching stretch pants and nearly matching tennis shoes make it even worse. “I don’t know you. What do you want? And how do you know my name?” You want to ask which planet sold such irritating red attire, but you’re too tired to bother.

“Mr. Nielson, I’m Alana from down the street.” She inclines her head in the general direction. “My parents and I moved in a few weeks ago next to Mrs. Clark. She gave me a list of our new neighbors when I told her I wanted to meet everyone and give them a little gift. Something to say I’m here and I’d like to get to know you. She warned me not to bother you.” The girl shrugs. "But I thought you sounded more like a lonely old man than a mean one. Like maybe you weren’t used to someone being nice. So, here I am, being nice.”

She digs into a bag, one of those big, heavy-duty plastic bags sold at grocery and dollar stores. This one has bright flowers plastered all over it. You blink at the gaudy print. In her hand when it emerges is an equally garish, fluted-edge plastic tray of cookies. Even the icing is nauseating to look at: bright purple, hot pink, and sunny yellow.

“Do you have some fresh coffee or a glass of milk we can have with these?” she asks sweetly, looking expectantly past you, presumably toward the kitchen.  

You move slightly to the side, hoping to obstruct her view. There’s nothing to be ashamed of and nothing to hide; your place is as neat as a pin, but it’s your place. Your haven, where the world wasn’t welcome. 

“No,” you declare shortly. “And no, thank you," you say, nodding at the cookies. “Now if you’ll excuse me…” You try to shut the door. 

Alana sticks her shoe out, effectively blocking you, and then winces when the door hits her foot. “If you don’t feel like enjoying these with me, I understand since you don't know me,” she says, “but I’m still leaving them for you.” You back away a step so she can’t reach to thrust the plate into your hand. With a disappointed half-smile, she adds, “I’ll set them on the doorstep in case you change your mind." She turns to leave, then faces you again. “I’ll be back in a few days with more.” 

“That’s not necessary,” you inform her curtly. “Save yourself the time and trouble.” This time, before closing the door, you push her foot out of the way with your own, paying no mind to her protest. You want to return to your sofa. That nap no longer calls your name; it screams it. 

Sleep immediately finds you.

Two hours later, you wake with an urgent need to take a leak. Sitting up and rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you find the nap helped. You hadn’t realized how restless your sleep must’ve been the night before, but the siesta has done you good.

Curiosity getting the best of you, you peek through the curtains on your way to the john. Sure enough. The girl had, indeed, left the plate of cookies on your porch. They were half-gone, eaten by raccoons or other critters. You shake your head and don't bother to move it. The animals can finish getting a sugar high for all you care. 

Three days later, Alana comes back, this time with a tray of pumpkin cupcakes. They’re a little harder to ignore, even with their orange frosting. Anything made from pumpkin has always been a weakness. Despite temptation, you do, albeit reluctantly (they're pumpkin!), ignore them. Acceptance would equal encouragement. You don’t want that. She doesn’t belong here.

She doesn’t need encouragement, though. You figure she must love to bake. Every three or four days she returns with various brightly colored sweets. And every time, she's wearing loud colors offensive to your eyes. 

The entire month is sheer repetition. Three over-medium eggs, three sausage links, and three pieces of honey-buttered toast daily. Alana returns every few days with baked goods you refuse. You’re so tired each day that you need a nap to get through the rest of the day and the rest of your simplest chores. By the end of each day, you’re too tired to cook. You resort to canned soup for dinner, when you bother with dinner at all. You haven’t weeded or picked ripe vegetables from the garden. And you definitely haven’t had the energy for bigger chores, like patching the barn roof. 

You start to wonder if you’ll still be around for your seventy-first birthday come spring. The perpetual tiredness has you, for the first time in three decades, considering a trip to the doctor.

Earlier than usual, on Halloween morning, there’s a familiar rapping at the door. Wearily, you answer the door, to again decline Alana’s offer of treats. 

The sight of the girl stops you cold. She looks considerably different from her first visit. Her doe eyes are no longer eager with anticipation. The irises are now a cloudy blue rather than the bright sky blue you remember. And for the first time, she's dressed in brown, head to toe. You’re shocked to realize you miss the harsh colors.  As much as you’d hated them, the outlandish shades were… well… they were her. She didn’t belong in brown any more than she belonged here. And how had she gotten so damned thin overnight? Or have you failed to notice she’d been losing weight all along? 

“What’s wrong with you?” you demand. “Are you sick or something?”

“That’s why I’m here today, Stanzel Nielson. Instead of bringing a gift, I came to tell you…” She stops and scrubs away a tear sneaking down her cheek. Throat bobbing with the effort to explain, she continues, “Yeah, I’m sick. Dying. At first they told me I still had a few months left. Now my oncologist says the cancer’s spreading so fast I likely only have a week or two. She says if there are affairs I need to put in order, I should get it done. So that’s what I’m doing.

“One of the things I had to do was apologize to you. I wanted to become friends because I thought you needed one. I’m sorry I won’t have time for that to happen.” Unexpectedly, before you can react, she reaches out and hugs you. It's a strong hug for arms that seem so fragile. 

Ach! October. No matter how inviting it is to others, nothing in your world seems to end well in October. 

The hitch in your voice surprises even you when you manage to croak, “I’m so sorry.” You’re also surprised to find yourself hugging her back. You’ve developed a unique sort of friendship, even if neither one of you had recognized it as such. You hadn’t realized you’d begun looking forward to her brief visits, despite always shooing her away. 

“You need to know, young lady, that you succeeded, and that I’ll miss you coming around.” You pull back, not bothering to wipe the unexpected wetness from your face. How long has it been since you’ve shed tears? You can’t remember for sure, but it would've been as a kid. “Now save your strength. Go on home and rest. Next time, I’ll visit you.” And you mean it. 

Before the day ends, you chase a dozen young beggars from your property. Come morning, you clean as much toilet paper as you can from your trees. 

Your promise to visit Alana goes unfulfilled. Only two days after dropping her bombshell, she's gone. Heart cracking, you weep for the second time since childhood. Three days after her death, you pull your only suit from the closet. And for the first time ever, you plan to join a crowd.

Starting your truck, you pause before leaving. Instead, you lean back and survey the colorful autumn leaves. It’s curious you no longer hate them. Now, the vibrant hues simply remind you of the young friend you didn't realize you had and you’ll never see again. An unexpected sense of loss amplifies your recent weariness. In the background, you hear Dolly’s mournful mooing, and register how it matches your own frame of mind. You need to leave now to say goodbye to Alana, but...

The sudden, intense wave of exhaustion makes it impossible to keep your eyes open. You allow them to close... for just a moment. The moment passes. You don't awaken. Instead of saying good-bye, you'll see Alana again after all. Is it possible that neither of you truly belonged in the world you left? You never felt as though you did.

You didn't get to see or appreciate the way fall's brilliance morphed into the bleak shades of winter. But is it also possible it wouldn’t have mattered in the end?