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George Smith: I don’t believe in fairy tales

October, October, oh wherefore are thou . . .


The sun came up Saturday morning, but you had to have faith that it was up there somewhere. Down here what we got was more chilling and more wet. A shiny coat of that wet on the patio brick was not all that beautiful.

According to the calendar that came with this computer, it was the 27th day of October . . . the gentlest month of the year. The month of quiet nights, mild days, blue skies, and no need for roll-on deordant under your arms.

Friday, two days back if you’re counting, the sun hid behind a day of drizzling clouds, a temperature in the 50s, and a need for two pair of white socks to keep your feet warm.

Saturday at dawn’s gray breaking, it was more of the same. The only difference is it was another day toward  November and a need for three pair of white socks . . . if you could get your feet in your shoes.

By late Saturday, the cold drizzle had drifted off toward Washington, D. C., and places beyond. At this writing, the weather man has promised a fine church-going day for the faithful. That’s Sunday, Oct. 28th.

In other words, my favorite of two months (May being the other), was more like an open furnace door for days on end. I spent a lot of time pulling  100-feet of water hose around a wild life sanctuary which the blonde created out on our patio back in May.

 In a way, the gray and the drizzle were welcome, but most days of this year’s not so gentle.  October 2018 brought back memories of cotton-picking time and big black Buicks out on the highway going where I wish I could go.

You’ve heard me sing that song before, but not in the month of October.

Actually, I’m not really as upset about the first 26 days of a not so gentle October as I sound. From those long ago back breaking cotton fields of late September into October, I have some tolerance of heat if not affection.

It’s the cold and months of icey feet, numb hands, and two pair of white socks that have me in a knot. Even with central heat and lovely blonde in bed with me beneath a fuzzy wool blanket Friday night, I went to two pair of white socks.

I close my eyes heading into peaceful slumber and I hear again the cold wind whistling ‘round the tenant shack we called home.

But even in the darkest of clouds, there is a silver lining.

I’ve drug that 100-feet of hose around the blonde’s wild life sanctuary for the last time. It was a chore I did every other day. Now, all sorts of green stuff in huge red clay posts are yellowing.

A huge racoon that waddled across the patio near the midnight hour recently and a opposum with  little jerky strides one dawn will now have to find sanctuary in the wild growth that makes my privacy a precious thing year round.

It really has been a few months of beauty “out back,” but I’m ready for a fading if not the cold. That 100-foot hose is tight in its reel. I haven’t used it in over a week.

But I know what goes around comes around.

Along about this same time in the year of 2017, the queen of her castle, soared my hopes with:

“I’m going to keep the patio simple next year.”

A month or so ago, watching her “king” jerk and yell at that 100-foot hose she again sent my hopes soaring with:

“I’m going to keep the patio simple next year.”

To paraphase an old country song, I’ve got some choice ocean front property just across the street I’d like to sell you.

One other thing:

The biggest lie ever on the face if this earth is a man’s home is his castle.

I don’t believe in fairy tales . . . do you?


George Smith can be reached at 256-239-5286 or email: