October

October is slipping through my fingers, and I don’t know how many autumns I have left. Eventually, the kids will take the car keys and shove me into assisted living, where I plan on starting a shoplifting ring.

On a sunny October morning, I pull out of my driveway to take it all in while I can.

It’s 7:30, and I’m heading east toward Sturgeon Bay. The sun tints the morning sky with orange, yellow, and blue watercolors.

I cross Sturgeon Bay on the Steel bridge and turn left onto 3rd Avenue.

On the sidewalk, there’s a middle-aged guy in shorts. Why do some men wear shorts when it’s thirty-nine degrees? Maybe something was not right in the home they grew up in.

I continue west on 3rd until it becomes Bay Shore Drive.

My goal is the Bluff Lands State Natural Area. In ten minutes, I park in the small gravel lot and hike the trail. 

It’s the peak of the leave-change season when the trees show off before they go naked. The maples are the worst. Their colors go from burgundy, like dried blood, to yellow, like a happy face icon, to flaming red, like flaming red. Maples need therapy to address their overwhelming desire for attention. With their crimson displays, sumacs should also talk to someone. Basswoods and cottonwoods are big, old, weedy trees with sad, dingy yellow leaves. Aspens desperately wave goodbye when the wind blows. However, oaks maintain their dignity with deep brown foliage that often hangs on throughout the winter.

I walk to the top of the bluff and rest on a bench facing west. Looking out over the bay, I see a boat sailing towards Marinette or Menominee. They are heading to winter storage. With the temperature in the 30s, that’s a miserable ride. Years ago, I made similar teeth-chattering, soul-freezing trips. With a solid and steady wind out of the northeast, these sailors got lucky. They can make the trip without having to tack.

The sky is too beautiful to be believed, like something from a painting by an Italian Renaissance artist.

On the walk back to the parking lot, there’s a pile of coyote crap infused with the hair of its last meal. It looks like he had a rabbit for dinner. Yum.

I drive back through town, spy another guy in shorts, and head to Southern Door County. 

Several billboards advertise harvest festivals, during which merchants try to squeeze the last few bucks out of the tourists before the trees go bare and the snow flies. These gatherings have bounce houses, food trucks, corn mazes, and pumpkin-spiced everything. If you find me at one of those abominations, please call 911 because I have had a mental health breakdown.

The harvest is done. Most farmers have turned over the soil and hunkered down. The fields seem to say, “Thank God that’s over.” However, some growers want a head start on next year, and they have sown winter wheat. The new plants poke up their heads and give the fields a fresh splash of light green paint.

A few farmers sell pumpkins from tables they set next to their driveways. We need a law banning pumpkins sold at Walmart, Target, Fleet Farm, or any publicly traded company. We have no idea where those pumpkins came from. For God’s sake, it could be California. Our local pumpkins have Wisconsin accents and know how to handle their beer. 

There are homes with inflatable Halloween decorations and fifteen-foot-tall witch or skeleton statues. All this poop comes from China. The Chinese must think Americans are insane since we buy this stuff.

I slow down because twelve wild turkeys are crossing the road up ahead. Turkeys are just plain dumb. You don’t need to slow down for crows. They know a thing or two and fly away quickly. Turkeys lollygag along. No wonder they became food.

For years, I have been studying animals while driving through the countryside. I honk the horn when I see cows, horses, or sheep in a pasture. The cows and horses ignore me and continue grazing. They never look up. Although I imagine they mutter some expletives as I pass. But sheep jerk their heads up. They seem to be saying, “What the hell was that?” Some start running towards the gate at the end of the field. What a bunch of sissies. Unfortunately, there are no sheep out today.

I spot neighbors pulling out their dock. Like the people sailing towards winter storage, they’ve made a rookie mistake.  Taking out a dock on a pleasant Saturday in September with temperatures in the 70s is a delightful experience. If your timing sucks, it’s a freezing, windy, and wet nightmare. 

The last thing I notice is a Ford 8N tractor with a for sale sign on the grill near the ditch in front of a house. The owner wants it out of the barn before winter sets in. This machine survived the Second World War, the Eisenhower administration, Vietnam, disco, and so much more. If I could, I would buy all of the little old tractors.

And as I pull into the driveway, my kids are waiting. They’ve come to take the car keys.