A year ago this week I handed in my notice at work, and 48 hours later was on a plane to Chicago with B.; ten hours after that installed in a booth in a bar with a giddying choice of brews before us and sliders on their way.
We marched each October, fall, autumn, me and B. together Statesward and up into Canada too: typically a tri-city trip with an Amtrak treat worked in (our favourite mode), the location, location, location determined at first by the opportunities the job provided by way of council meetings of a sort, well, certainly the start-point, but in the other places we were not without branded and friendly connections too; connections that introduced us to new experiences, beers, ice hockey.
So we’re all drinking as leaves fall to the ground, drinking to toast our annual routine, the harvest, the right time of year to be in Eastern cities, to see the Maple Leafs, to flutter down the map on a train that slows through Mystic; a vacation in the calendar’s Golden Section that will shore up the remainder and warm us through winter. Those puppies in that Pet Shop, Christopher St.
Shall I rewrite or revise my October Symphony? This year there’s no North America trip, decided (perhaps too hastily in hindsight, too casually that’s-how-it-is, at the start of the year) in line with that handed-in notice. So now that orange-flamed festival, red brick and the colours of beers, breakfasts, are missed things, mourned; the parade cancelled.
How I may have let October, our October, down. But then again, Poindexter, how we’ve simply got it all ahead instead.
© Steve Mitchell, Fisher Lane, 2012. My October Symphony, Pet Shop Boys, 1990