October

October has always been my favorite month, except for the last day. I don’t like Halloween. I never have. I think it’s creepy and spooky and weird and the colors are orange and black, which are yucky.  October has the coolest name of all the months because it's so round.

 

I have always loved October because in New England the leaves begin to turn and it is beautiful; reds and yellows and oranges that make the landscape glow. The air becomes crisp and cool and sweaters offer comfort and softness against the skin. Apples are in season. I told a friend a few months ago that I don’t like apples. I discovered this week that this isn’t exactly true. I don’t like apples unless they’re Mackintoshes and I haven’t had a good Mackintosh since I moved to South Carolina; that is, until this week. I bought two and ate one. I went back to the store today and bought six more. They’re from New York. And they’re wonderful.

 

When I was little my mother would make stuffed pumpkin for dinner and it was one of my favorites. She’d make Indian Pudding too. My grandmother would once again make pots of oatmeal in the morning that would bubble on the back of the stove. 

 

The World Series is in October.

 

And my birthday is in October.

 

My favorite birthday cake is yellow cake with chocolate frosting, with those yellow, blue and pink candles that have white stripes spiraling down the side. I pluck the candles out and suck the frosting from the end. Everyone sings “Happy Birthday,” and after making a wish and blowing out the candles, everyone applauds, as if blowing out little candles is the best thing anyone has ever done in the world. But they’re not really clapping because you have blown out a few candles. They are clapping because they love you and they are celebrating you.

 

I’ve learned a few things through all the birthdays I have celebrated.

I’ve learned that having children does not make me a mother, but that loving them does.

I’ve learned that I am not afraid of death. (I learned this one Halloween Day when I was working part-time at a bank and found myself looking at the end of an armed robber’s handgun).

I’ve learned that the best friends are not the friends who share your sorrows but the ones who genuinely share your joys.

I’ve learned that doing the work that you love brings happiness no matter what else is going on in your life.

That one’s past may be inescapable, but it is not irredeemable.

That there is no such thing as “unconditional love,” because my love is conditional. It is conditioned upon the requirements that you don’t abuse me or intentionally injure me or those I love.

That high heels are stupid.

That there really is nothing quite like a little black dress.

That cowboy boots are “me.”

That pineapple on pizza is just wrong.

That the only way to eat ice cream is in a cone.

That surrounding oneself with beauty is not a luxury, it’s a necessity.

That neglecting to add oil to a car for a whole year will blow out the engine.

That saying, “the moon is beautiful,” is a prayer of praise.

That I am responsible for only about half the things I feel guilty about.

That there really is, “No place like home.”

 

I share my birthday with Gandhi. And this year it also falls on Yom Kippur.

Jews will fast. The people of India will give candy away in the streets.

And I will eat cake.