Wet October Night

Indian summer is a long ago dream now, as the wood stove creaks and sighs in the background of my warm rooms. The last of the tomatoes simmers into sauce on it's surface, the perfect dual use for the wood gathered all spring and summer. The grapes have been stemmed, crushed, pressed and safely tucked away into their next phase. Many gallons of wine red and white are finding natural yeast, and already taste like wine after 2 weeks of nothing but this air.  One batch of Pinot Noir jelly sits on the counter, slowly thickening into it's jell.
The jams of cherry, strawberry and plum have a new shelf, under the green beans, applesauce, over the pickles, tomatio sauce and potatoes.  The second most comforting thing next to a woodstove is a full larder. It's just a used bookcase we found at a little Lafayette thrift store for 20.00, but it holds the winter's goodies and lots of work in a nice arrangement rather like a gallery of food behind glass.

October.

Soon we will celebrate the Day of the Dead. Harvest time and the light change makes us think of our mortality it would seem. We approach winter with all the best intentions, and yet our own unknown expiration date is always there somewhere, and we think of those who have gone before, hoping they will light the way for us, because love is the thing which survives death.

Here I wash the floors, scrub the sinks, hang the laundry by the woodstove - ah- it serves three functions tonight.
 The air outside is almost tropical, the drops of rain huge and random. I watch the progress of Hurricane Sandy 3000 miles away, and wonder if there is any relation to our rain storm, maybe they are second cousins once removed? There is poetic justice in the concept that a big storm is interrupting the presidential election campaigns. I wish the common people, the workers who make the rich rich, I wish them to be high and dry. As for the rich, if global warming sends a flood into their luxury, there is some justice in that. (Not that I wish it at all. In Catholic School I learned that is a sin, and I think it still is wrong, to wish misfortune upon others, even cretins who are insensitive and speak leisurely of rape.)
On this peaceful night the air is inky black, no moon shines, the middle of autumn. It becomes time to vote, and to harvest walnuts for Christmas fruitcake. It becomes time to stand back quietly and notice the work of busy months past. We become what we reap, what we sow, as the light decreases slowly toward solstice.