Rhetorically Elvis

The other night a photograph popped up in my Facebook feed. This photo, posted by Randy Burse, was taken during my college days which now are more years removed than I can readily recall. Even though time repeatedly adds space between then and now, the photo took me back as if that frozen moment was just yesterday.

That photograph was taken at a Halloween party during 1987. Those of us who were studying broadcasting, public relations, theater, and organizational communication at that time at Freed-Hardeman were involved in a faculty-sponsored group called COMMA, Communication Majors and Minors Association. We met several times each semester often networking with those from the real work world who had careers many of us aspired toward. Our group was small enough so that we all mostly knew one another. After four years worth of classes and COMMA meetings together, we also came to know our professors well. This group hosted a Halloween party inviting guests to dress up in costume for the night.

It was during those last few semesters when those of us with those specific majors turned our eyes toward tackling the big two courses we needed to complete to graduate. One course was Communication Theory taught by Dr. Steve Johnson. The other was titled Survey of Rhetorical Theory, taught by Dr. Gerald Fulkerson. These courses uncovered the backbone of how communication developed and behaved. They brought clinical views of the various ways we communicate for deeper consideration. These courses brought to light those important figures from long ago who began to analyze then record patterns then develop theories about how and why we communicate.

That said when a person is just looking for a career in broadcasting or public relations, this level of classroom study sure seemed heady stuff. As classmate Dawn Bramblett stated in a comment about the photo, those two classes were talked about by seniors in hushed tones when we were mere freshmen, a deserved tradition we passed along to others. These were tough courses with reputations that loomed all around us each year as we crept further down our academic path. That journey ended on the fateful first day of the semester when we walked into a classroom to finally read the course syllabus. Additionally, the two men who taught these courses expected serious participation and effort from those who made it to this point in their pursuit of a degree.

The photo shows left to right, myself, Dawn Bramblett and Christi Pugh. It was taken at the aforementioned party. At this point in the semester, the three of us, along with several others, were about halfway through “rhetoric”, as we often called the course. On this night, no doubt with rhetorical theory running wild in our minds, we attended the party dressed in togas. Adding to the visual, we wear leafy headdresses as if we just stepped out of Athenian ruins. Around our necks are name tags so that everyone could know who we were representing on this night. We weren’t sure if the ancient Greeks had any “My Name Is” tags back in that day, so Dawn’s excellent penmanship was put to good use as she boldly and neatly printed names on orange construction paper in large letters. We affixed strings to each paper then draped them

over our necks. Christi was Plato. Dawn was Aristotle. In the photo, I am turned sideways to the camera obscuring my name tag which identified me on this night as Gorgias, the “Elvis Presley” of rhetoric.

Remember, it was 1987. We were not far, geographically, from Memphis. It was a time when some felt Elvis was still alive and well. It was a time when the thought of Elvis Presley still had some cachet although I likely wiped that out with my appearance this night. As the “Elvis Presley” of rhetoric, I recall using a box of stick-on stars, the kind a Sunday school teacher may have let students place on an attendance chart years earlier, to attach them to the toga in an attempt to match Elvis’s rhinestone-laded jumpsuits. I wore gaudy sunglasses then wrapped fake sideburns around the temples of the glasses. Meantime, my friends, Christi and Dawn, were part of a larger group who appeared this night known as the Beatles of rhetoric.

Looking at the photo recently brought back a lot of good memories. As several commented on the photo, a bit of the backstory came to light. In a class session prior to this party, Dr. Fulkerson had likened Gorgias to Elvis Presley then likened other philosophers such as Plato and Aristotle to the Beatles as far as impact on the things we were studying at that moment. Several of us took Dr. Fulkerson’s explanation and ran with it in a literal sense to the COMMA Halloween party.

There is a bit more to the story though that I recall. Indulge me please as I attempt to add more backstory to this occasion. Hopefully, it will jog the memory others have about this event so that they can fill in more details.

The story begins on the first floor of the BCWE building on campus. The rhetoric class met several mornings each week in that first-floor classroom. During this particular semester though I had another course in the very same classroom. That other class was Communication Law, taught by the late Lora DeFore. This course met once a week in the evening.

This classroom was mostly unremarkable for the time, desks, chalkboard and a table for the teacher. There was one notable thing about this room though. On one wall hung a framed photo of an older woman alongside a small plaque with information about this woman. Sad to say, I do not recall this woman’s name. I do know though she in some way had donated resources to the school to help fund the building of the BCWE building. In return, the school honored her contribution by placing this nice framed photo on the wall in this room.

While the Communication Law course was interesting, meeting once a week for three hours after a long day came to be somewhat of a grind. I do not know who in that class looked at that photo on the wall then determined to make a small change to it. That isn’t important. But, one class meeting, someone had taken transparent tape then attached a small thin mustache to the space between the nose and upper lip of the lady in the photo. Our class met that night. We took a few minutes to chuckle at the photo then the class went on, and we forgot to remove the mustache.

Guess which class met the first thing the next morning in that room? You don’t have to answer since I meant this as, yes, you guessed it, a rhetorical question. For those keeping score at home though, Rhetorical Theory met in that classroom the next day.

At first, the Rhetorical Theory class went as it did every day. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. I sat about three-fourths of the way back in a desk near the middle of the classroom. As the class progressed, in the corner of my eye, I noticed my friend Scott Ballard seemed to be shaking. I glanced at him as he fought to keep from laughing out loud. I furrowed my brow at him asking him, without words, why he was struggling to keep his composure. He answered, without words, by cutting his eyes toward the photo on the wall. When I looked there, here was this sweet-looking grandmother figure with a pencil-thin mustache. I had forgotten about the photo, so it was now my turn to keep from bursting into laughter. Others began to take note of a growing disruption of the normalcy of the class. The suppressed laughter grew person-by-person and row-by-row from the back of the class to the first seat of each row.

At this point, Dr. Fulkerson understood something had taken over his lecture, he just did not know why or what. His initial reaction was to ask if his fly was open. His question allowed the classroom of students to explode in laughter. Some kind soul stopped laughing long enough to direct Dr. Fulkerson to the photo on the wall. Once he saw it, he laughed along with us adding a joke or two of his own, as only he could do with his wry, dry wit.

Dr. Fulkerson though was in a groove. He had material to cover with precious time slipping away. The whole series of events though had taken a toll on us as students. We could not stop laughing. We tried to suppress the laughter as we had earlier but trying to do so just made things worse. We tried to focus on the task at hand but learning about rhetorical theory seemed as far away then as the columns of the Parthenon. Dr. Fulkerson looked around at the ruins of this particular class session then ended it early, something he rarely did.

Sometime later, I am hazy on details, some of us began to dream of other ways to use the photo in the classroom so that we could, frankly, end another class session early. And, this brings us to Elvis Presley, and eventually, to Gorgias.

A photo of Elvis Presley was located. It was a profile of the left side of the entertainer’s face. A photocopy was made. This copy was taped to the frame in the right-hand corner making it look as if Elvis was looking down from above at the woman in the frame.

The Rhetorical Theory class met again. This time, Elvis occupied the picture frame along with the sweet-looking grandmother. Dr. Fulkerson though short-circuited any plans to derail the class by quickly acknowledging the picture. He chuckled at the feeble attempt to replicate the previous prank then transitioned into his lecture for the day. It is likely during this class period, Dr. Fulkerson looked over to Elvis on the picture frame and likened Gorgias to Elvis and other philosophers who followed as the Beatles of rhetorical theory.

Even though Dr. Fulkerson has passed away and Dr. Johnson retired, there is still comfort knowing students now still study the ancients, maybe even Gorgias. I am not sure how they remember his place in the great thinkers of that day and time. I just know when I think of him, I think of Elvis Presley but I also think of good times with good friends and I marvel at how all that comes back together now in the form of good memories.

~~~~~~~

In case you need your memory jogged about what life was like, musically, in October 1987, here is a playlist of songs from that time, along with one or two which just seemed to match the memory in some way.

Michael Jackson "Bad"

Bruce Springsteen "Brilliant Disguise"

Elton John "Candle In The Wind"

Heart "Who Will You Run To?"

Bourgeois Tagg "I Don't Mind At All"

Fleetwood Mac "Little Lies"

Swing Out Sister "Breakout"

U2 "Where The Streets Have No Name"

Richard Marx "Should've Known Better"

Cutting Crew "I've Been In Love Before"

REM "The One I Love"

Rosanne Cash "The Way We Make A Broken Heart"

Bill Medley and Jennifer Warnes "I've Had The Time of My Life"

Jimmy Davis and Junction "Kick the Wall"

The Replacements "Skyway"

The Beatles "Twist and Shout"
George Harrison "When We Was Fab"
Elvis Presley "My Way"

And, if you are really ambitious, read up on Gorgias, you know, the Elvis Presley of rhetoric.

Chicken Fingers For The Soul Or Something To Nibble On While Life Goes By, Dipping Sauce Optional

Is it a good sign when you are in the dentist’s chair with the dentist elbow deep in your

mouth and he starts singing along with the music piped into the room when the song is “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling”? Just asking. Dude could sing, I give him that.

Recently my wife and I were on vacation. As we prepared to go to dinner one evening, I straightened my shirt a bit and walked to the other side of the bedroom where I looked up at the wall expecting a mirror. Instead, a large screen TV was on the wall. I looked all around the room and discovered there was no mirror at all in the room. Makes me wonder do we really love that box and the stuff that emanates from it so much that it has become a more true reflection of who we are than something we can actually see in a mirror?

It’s October. Great. Pumpkin-spice scented toilet paper.

I know people use the phrase “falling off the wagon” and that is usually meant as a bad thing. But, what if that wagon is a little red wagon? Wouldn’t falling off that wagon be a good thing since some folks like to come along and “fix” little red wagons?

I have been around enough to understand to cringe when I hear someone nearby say "Hey watch this." Should I be worried though when I hear my three year old daughter say the same thing?

I don't often visit Arby's. I think I now understand why. I recently went there and found myself somewhat embarrassed being an adult and asking for horsey sauce.

One of life’s greatest pleasures is taking a Sunday afternoon nap on your couch. When though did the pillows that come now with modern day couches become so uncomfortable?

Speaking of naps, why is it when we are young we never want to take a nap and when we become older all we want to do is take a nap?

You would think that of all the words in the world that phonetic would be spelled the way it sounds.

I recently read that the longest recorded flight of a chicken was thirteen seconds. Really, whose job is this? Do chicken owners have their chickens practice for this?

One of my favorite writers of all time, Lewis Grizzard, has been dead now for twenty years. This is one of my favorite quotes from him: “The world around me is a tuxedo, and I'm a pair of brown shoes.” I wonder how the ol’ boy would feel in today’s world?

Autumn. Even the name is pretty isn’t it?

Sunday Morning Coming Down

It was an early Sunday morning. Jennifer and I had taken a few days to escape to the mountains. Before we knew it, time had raced by and now it was time to head toward home. On this Sunday, we had an hour and a half ride ahead of us before we reached the church where my Mom attends as we had planned to stop and spend some time with family before making the last part of the trip back home.

The towns and communities we drove through are rather familiar to me as I have passed through them for most of my life having grown up a few counties to the west. We drove through small towns, some with names derived from the Native Americans who once ruled the area, and communities, some seemingly no larger than the two or three houses your eye sees but no doubt have become endeared in the hearts of some who know the place as deeply and firmly as their first true love. Since I have seen these places many times before, the scenery is not that new to me although it is still spectacular at times. On this Sunday, things seemed different.

Autumn fog clung to the trees on the mountains temporarily veiling the kaleidoscope of colors the rain and cooler weather is producing. The morning sun chased us westward toward our destination and began to cut through the mist on the mountains to reveal a gorgeous, crisp fall morning. As the vapor lifted even more, a grander picture of mountains sitting in the distance seemingly stacked against one another came into view. The low hum of a CD set a steady rhythm in the background as the miles clicked away. The car’s heater provided enough warmth along with the rays of sunshine to keep the two of us toasty on our trip. Although I have traveled these roads many times before I sensed there was something slightly different about the journey on this day.

Most likely it all felt so different because this was a Sunday morning. The road was less cluttered with traffic but the times I have been on this road through these towns have mostly been during the week or late on a weekend. That was partly the reason things felt different on this day. The other thing that struck me was how unrushed the whole world seemed on the drive. It just seemed as if everything was less anxious, less uptight, more calm, more reasonable. It wasn’t just those things the senses could experience that felt that way then but that feeling just seemed to extend to the whole world at large at that moment. Those out traveling around didn’t seem to be in such a rush. It all seemed to make me think this is really how it is here when so many of the things that bear down and beat you down every day are stripped away for a time.

I felt if I slowed down enough or even stopped and began looking around I suspected I could locate a couple of good old boys hitching up a flat-bottomed boat to a beat-up old pick-up as a day of fishing and tall tales were just ahead for them. I imagined an older lady peeking out her window with the smell of coffee percolating in the next room as she pulled her shades open before sitting down to open her well-worn King James Bible, taped at the spine after years of correction and reflection, to begin her day. I visualized an older man, decked out in a ragged flannel shirt, faded denim jeans, old work boots and a frayed cap from a local auto parts dealer tossing out scratch to his chickens as a floppy-eared hound watched from a distance.

Knowing that a return to the usual hubbub of life’s routine waited in the week ahead, it made me want to stop the world at that instant. I wanted to find a front porch surrounded by enough trees so that small slivers of sunshine slid through onto the wooden planks beneath my feet while the leaves quietly rustled in the breeze. Our car though rolled westward toward our destination, toward the return of our day-to-day world as a Sunday morning came down.

The Steps

Few things seem to last. You know this is true once you buy a house. If you are a homeowner you know all too well how quickly you can begin to feel that the house you bought, the place where you plan to plant roots, make memories and live until someone plots your move to some facility where prune jello and warm milk are the soup of the day is nothing more than a place to shovel whatever money you might, or might not, have. Some days this is truly how I feel, despite all the good things that home buying brings.

I suppose this feeling deepens when I realize I am no handyman. It's the house exterior or the dishwasher or the toilet or the yard or the carpet or the heating system or dozens of other things that sooner or later bend, break, give up or die. There are some things I can handle without much problem but other things tend to crop up that baffle me, other things appear that terrorize me and still other things emerge that seem to live to taunt me in regards to the upkeep of a house. Top my ineptitude off with the fact that spending money to fix the problem gets thrown in the equation and you have a recipe for certain indigestion.

Ultimately, things have to be fixed despite my own incompetence and my own frugality.

A few months back, Jennifer almost took a tumble down our front steps. Well, okay, tumble sounds dramatic and life-threatening. I suppose if I were part of the news media these days, I would choose the word “tumble” to describe the fact that the front part of the bottom step, two inches from the ground, finally gave way. The step and it’s co-horts had been beginning to fade for some time prior to this fateful day. My attempts at nailing the boards back down and praying and hoping that my effort in preserving those steps a little longer would be enough to be make it all better came to a grinding stop that day. So, I began to ponder what I should do regarding the steps. And for a few weeks our front steps stood damaged but still usable.

As I pondered, Mom and Dad came to town. Before the day was over the steps were almost replaced totally with Dad taking charge of the project at hand. As we worked our way through the task the thought came into my head that I might have been able to have done this job by myself after all. Maybe. Maybe not. I’m glad I didn’t attempt it though. I would have missed the time I spent with Dad. Yes, maybe I could have replaced the steps without his help but I would have missed the teamwork, the jokes, the little hints here and there about how to tackle and defeat such a chore. I would have missed the little things I see in him that I sometimes see reflected in me, the slow yet steady pace that drives some people crazy, the slight hesitation before pounding a nail into the wood just so you can measure one last time how close to hold the nail without placing your fingers in too much danger and even something as simple as recognizing the sound I make when I clear my throat sounds just like him when he clears his throat.

Today marks my Dad’s birthday. As I grow older I find myself continually amazed at how he quietly serves as the rock of our family. I stand in wonder as stray dogs and cats follow him around as if he were a long lost friend. I smile remembering the nicknames he gave every grandchild. I marvel at how his great-grandchildren always want to be near him, how they reach out their arms for him when their eyes lock in on him from across the room. I nervously chuckle at his stubbornness because that is an inherited trait that hits a little close to home. I smile thinking about times watching him laugh so hard he could barely catch his breath and thinking how I always want to be able to remember that happy moment. I am touched knowing how he looks after Mom as her health slowly becomes a battle they will have to wage together. I am amazed that he still plants and tends a garden every summer. I am terrified knowing his eyesight is not what it once was and worry what will happen if it fades away more than what it already has. Today, I am glad we built a set of steps together.

There are so many memories I could relate at this moment. Some things though I like to hold near and hang on to a little longer. I do wonder though if one day in the future, way, way, way in the future, if I will be sitting on the front porch of this very house, where my roots are now planted and where new memories are being made, waiting for some folks in some medical coats to come to carry me down the road to a new residence. And as they tell me about the shuffleboard games and the tantalizing evening meal of strained carrots and unsweetened tea that await me I can imagine interrupting them to tell them to take it easy as they haul me down the steps because me and my Dad built them a long time ago. And we built them to last.

Happy birthday, Dad. And many, many more.

October 2009: Chicken Fingers For The Soul or Random Thoughts Floating Through My Mind Like High Puffy Clouds On A Clear Day

Random thoughts from today:

I took a short van ride this morning with a giant black Great Dane. The dog struggled to get his big body into a spot not inhabited by others. His face was accented by the graying hair on his chin. When I looked into the dog’s eyes he looked back the way an old friend looks back at you after having not seen you for a long time. I now wish that ride had lasted just a little longer.

My car radio presets get a good workout some days. This morning as I traveled to work and played radio station roulette, I landed on a “classic” country music station playing the 1970s Crystal Gayle hit, “You Never Miss A Real Good Thing”. Now that song is stuck in my mind. It's made me wonder if I underestimated the music of Crystal Gayle. Of course, the irony of it all is not lost on me...if I did not appreciate her music before then I did miss a real good thing.

I recently saw a young woman with a low cut top. It was one of those tops with strings that tie on the top of the shoulders. After she walked by I noticed on her left shoulder was a tattoo. The tattoo was a barcode. I know there are some things you cannot put a price on but I guess there are some things folks do try to put a price on, I just never expected it to be the left shoulder of a young woman.

I also recently saw an older woman, probably in her mid or late fifties. She was wearing a shirt with the word “Flirt” on it. I just hope this wasn’t a gift from her grandkids. And if it was, Granny, you didn’t have to wear it outside the house and you should have held out for a "World's Greatest Grandma" shirt.

Who designs the parking lots in larger shopping complexes? Do they ever return and park in these places? And why can’t some people learn to drive in parking lots, you know between the rows and up and down the correct way in the rows? And when some folks stop driving around the parking lot why can’t they park correctly, you know in between the two lines evenly?

If an atheist takes God's name in vain does that make him a hypocrite?

One of the best dinners I had recently was splitting a Subway sandwich with my wife while we sat side by side at a picnic table overlooking the river. The sun eased behind a bridge then lowered itself behind a mountain in the distance while we caught up on the day's events. The food was okay but the setting, the company and the timing was perfect.

Why do I have five name tags on my desk at work?

Isn't it amazing how some of the nicest automobiles apparently do not come equipped with turn signals?

I often walk around seemingly lost in my own thoughts. It used to be so nice because it seemed I wasn't alone in that habit. Now though I don’t get to do that very often as most people walk around with a cell phone stuck to their ear detailing their lives to some poor soul on the other end of the phone line. Of course they are loud enough so that anyone close enough can hear most of what is said. I do find some comfort in this phenomenon because from what I am able to determine by hearing one side of these calls, most people lead very uninteresting lives.

I am amazed that the button I spent 45 minutes sewing back on to a pair of my pants one recent Saturday morning is still attached to the thread and the pants. Now if I can just work up the courage to wear the pants somewhere.

Crayola does a great job with their colors. Still, they cannot match the blue of a clear sky in October.

Food and Death

Note: The following was written in the spring of 2003. Famed author Fannie Flagg ("Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe", among other works) visited our school then. On her visit to our library, Ms. Flagg was presented with a book library staff had gathered from school faculty and staff. The book featured memories of growing up in the South as well as uniquely Southern recipes. My friend, Sharon, works for the library and recently recalled my essay for this project and requested it be posted here. So, here it is, as it appeared in 2003, complete with a recipe for sweet iced tea. Sharon, thanks!

Death is one of those things we all experience. It seems to be something that also unites and reunites those of us who were blessed enough to be born and reared in the South and those of us who choose to live here after being born and reared here and who always seem to be drawn back here, irretrievably, no matter where we roam. Somehow in the midst of all this birthing and rearing in the South the lonesome experience of death is also present and almost always tied in with food.

My mother’s father died on the second day of October 1975. I was eleven years old on that autumn Thursday and had never entertained the idea that my grandfather, an ordinary man who stood ten feet tall in my eyes, would ever die. I had been grocery shopping with my parents that evening. As we came home, our telephone was ringing. It was my mom’s youngest brother urgently telling her he believed their father, my Papaw, was dying. As my mom and dad left I retreated a few hundred yards away to my brother’s house. As I walked there, an ambulance siren screamed in the distance. I recall stopping in my tracks as I watched the ambulance pass by realizing where it was going.

A few hours later, my dad returned with the news that Papaw had died. It was my first experience with death. It hasn’t been my last experience with the cold, clammy hands of mortality but looking back I understand it as an experience that still flavors my life to this day.

Two days later, my grandfather’s funeral took place. As we drove from the funeral home to the church, cars pulled to the side of the road out of respect for the deceased, in this case for my grandfather, and for our grieving family. In a white framed church in one of the most rural parts of already rural north Georgia, a congregation sang the grand ole hymn, “Farther Along”. Aunts, uncles, cousins, in-laws, or as some in the family refer to those who have earned their designation in the family by marriage, outlaws, were all there. After the eulogy, my grandfather was rolled out of the church in his casket to be laid to rest at the top of the hill in the cemetery behind the building. Only then, as his casket rolled past me and my family, did I cry…and I cried like I had been whipped. I also discovered during this time most everyone who knows you has no idea what to say or to do to make you feel any better although they try desperately.

Later that evening, our family gathered at my grandmother’s house. Her nine children and their spouses and their children crowded together to share a meal. Neighbors and church ladies had supplied plenty of food, no doubt some of it having grown in nearby gardens just a few weeks earlier. I recall there being some laughter there that evening as we sat down together. I couldn’t understand that at the time. I didn’t fully understand how the uniting and reuniting of those whose blood we share is part of the healing process. I also didn’t understand then the therapeutic powers cornbread, fried chicken and gravy, pinto beans and banana pudding have when the world has become a place where one of your heroes is no longer around.

Every third Sunday in August is Homecoming and Decoration Day where my grandfather is buried. It is one of those picturesque times of the year, every year, mind you, that many in small Southern towns can’t imagine life without. Family members return and bring flowers to adorn the graves of loved ones. The whole ritual is about missing and remembering those who have gone on to their reward and in some small way honoring what they still mean to us. We gather in the church for preaching and later outside the church building for dinner on the ground. Once again, food unites us in death.

Time has moved on swiftly since my grandfather died. I rarely get back for Homecoming and Decoration Day. I have buried the rest of my grandparents and other family members since then as well. With each death, we have been surrounded by family, friends and neighbors and by food…good Southern food like fried corn, fresh green onions, leather britches, chicken and dumplings, apple stack cake, cracklin’ bread and lots of sweet iced tea.

With each death it has also become clearer to me that those you know still struggle with ways to console you. They hug you and tell you how much your loved one meant to them and you often hear the words of your deceased loved one ringing in your memory about this person saying how they always had a ‘good turn to them’. These people you know almost always ask you to let them know if there is anything they can do to help. They realize though, as you already understand too well, nothing short of a miracle the width, depth and breadth of Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead can really make things as they were. Maybe this is why when someone dies in the small town South, neighbors and church ladies still fill dining room tables with home-cooked food, fresh garden-grown vegetables and desserts whose recipes are passed from generation to generation by memory. It is one very significant way people show they care. At a time in your life when the world seems darker than it ever has that care and concern mean more than you could ever express or maybe even comprehend. As you sit there with your family recalling good times and lamenting how we only see each other anymore at funerals you are filled with food and memories and your own mortality. Somewhere though creeps in the comforting knowledge as you look around at these people you love so much that there is a place where you belong and you know it is with them.

Sweet Iced Tea
Fill a mid-sized pan three-quarters full with cold water.
Place five tea bags in the water and bring to a boil.
Brew until the tea turns a muddy ruddy color.
Remove pan from stove.
Pour the contents of the sauce pan into an old clean plastic milk jug or large glass container.
Add cold water to fill the jug or container until it is about three-quarters full.
Add sugar to taste.
Cap the jug and shake well or use a large spoon to stir the contents of the glass container until the sugar dissolves.
Chill.
A few hours later, serve, preferably in a large glass with lots of ice.
Fresh lemon, not lemon juice, optional.

Shades of October

The approaching end of October gathers speed. The leaves on the trees continue to change color only to quickly find a new home on the ground. Once any existing fog rises in the morning, the sky usually explodes into a brilliant deep blue words can’t quite describe properly while the sun emerges from the horizon in a yellow-orange super-sized circle. The cool air in the morning lingers later and later into each passing day clearly signaling a change of season.

Another October is here, and now, like the leaves on those trees outside, is about to go away. What is it about October that almost always leaves me considering it’s merits more than any other month? October seems to be one of those months I can’t quite figure out and I'm not sure why.

Good things reside in October. My dad’s birthday is in October. He shares his birthday with his great grandson, Conner. Watching those two together, especially on their shared birth date, is truly one of life’s great joys. Conner’s mom, my niece, Carrie, has an anniversary with her husband, Russell, in October. My dear grandmother, Carrie’s namesake, celebrated her birthday on the 31^st of October. October also finds college football in full swing and the rivalry games all kick in during October making the good-natured ribbing between friends something to enjoy when your team wins and something to endure when your team loses. The change in weather is also a welcome relief from the usual four or five months of a hot summer.

At the same time though, it’s sad to look around and notice the green leaves and grass are giving way to less vibrant colors. A sudden wind can be a reminder that much colder weather waits and may hang around for longer than the last puff of wind that just blew by. I also always remember my grandfather died in October. His death was the first death I really understood. Understood is not the right word. I still don’t fully understand death. What I mean is he was the first person I had known who died. His death, and the realization we are all mortal, sticks with me thirty plus years down the road.

Maybe it’s because my job runs me hard from June until September and October is that moment when my running can slow down so I can regain my feet underneath me that allows me to give pause to October. Maybe it’s knowing that Thanksgiving and Christmas and a few dozen other important things have to be done in the sixty or so days after October ends that makes me consider October like I do.

So it comes down to a month of unfulfilled reflection and then at the very end of the month comes Halloween. At Halloween, Jennifer and I pass out candy to neighborhood kids, some too young to have any idea what the fuss is about, others who will stockpile their candy like a squirrel would hoard nuts for the winter and still others who should probably consider staying home next year to study for the SAT. Dressed-up strangers and neighbors ring our doorbell and ask for candy, so we willingly oblige.

Eventually, the last trick-or-treater will step off our porch and out into the yard crunching the leaves which have fallen during the week. The porch light will remain burning for a few more minutes before one of us determines this social aspect of Halloween is over. The candle lighting up the jack-o-lantern will be blown out. I will find the leftover candy and rummage through it as if I were looking for a long-sought-after treasure or like I were looking for answers on how to better understand October. Outside the moon will rise high in the black sky and the fog will quietly crawl in from October's shades.

And then tomorrow, November will arrive.