October Again

 October is the best month, even the sun coordinates its rays to match the colors of the season. The entire month of October is comprised of those small “best things in life are free” moments. Unlike some months that just hang around, not doing much, like August or February, October moves through the air at bullet speed while at the same time asking us to slow down, savor the moment and pay attention. ‘Stop and look at me’, October screams; ‘slow down and listen to my voice whispering through the trees. Watch me while I change my colors from day to day. I’m here now, but I won’t be here for long’. 

I can envision Robert Frost (easily my favorite poet), strolling through the Virginia woods: “The month is a treasurer, spending its wealth of golden and red hues, but its joy is temporary as the sun steals the morning's dewdrops. It's a time of both beauty and melancholy, a vibrant, yet fleeting, celebration before the quiet of winter arrives.”

He suggests that October is more than a pretty face. There’s a deep undercurrent to the month. October is the time to sit a spell, to enjoy that last moment of peace before the holiday season arrives in full force. Plans for the months ahead can be reviewed at leisure. It is a month of both anticipation and participation. Of course, the snows of winter are not far way. In anticipation, firewood must be racked by the door, leaves need to be raked, AC fluid must be replaced, oil will need to be changed and summer sunshine fruits will disappear while squashes and other fall vegetables make their presence known at the dinner table. It’s a noisy time too. Geese make a racket, idling in the cove’s waters while arguing with each other about which direction to take and when to do so. Overgrown summery plants scratch against the screen windows as reminders that it is time to be cut back and put to bed before the snows ahead. And the month ends with the final participation of October: children calling ‘trick or treat’.

November rightly makes the turkey population nervous. For those old enough to remember the most famous quote from the "WKRP in Cincinnati" turkey drop: "As God as my witness, I thought turkeys could fly!" uttered by Arthur Carlson. Other memorable lines included Les Nessman's frantic report, "Oh, the humanity!" and then came Dr. Johnny Fever's dry conclusion, "For those of you who've just tuned in, the Pinedale Shopping Mall has just been bombed with live turkeys. Film at eleven”. Yes, November is a busy month and then comes December.

Christmas catalogues will fill mailboxes with overpriced ‘get them before they are all gone bargains’ for the holidays. December’s a month of red cheeked frenzy and chaos. Whatever the denomination or affiliation, there are holiday trees to set up, decorations to put up, familial reunions to coordinate, cookies to bake, midnight masses to attend, menorahs to light, gifts to ship and cards to mail.

Right now, though, we are in that sweet spot of October magic. That moment of warm weather, clear skies, richly colored trees and that still and smoky aroma in the air that only October can bring. Again (be patient with me), Robert Frost wrote: 

O hushed October morning mild, thy leaves have ripened to the fall.
 Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild, should waste them all. 
The crows above the forest call; tomorrow they may form and go. 
O hushed October morning mild, begin the hours of this day slow,
 Make the day seem to us less brief.
                            

Release one leaf at break of day; at noon release another leaf; 
one from our trees, one far away; retard the sun with gentle mist;
 Enchant the land with amethyst. 
Slow, slow! 


Columbus Day - Fohgeddaboudit

 In 1485 Christopher Columbus sauntered on up to Spanish Queen Isabella with his smooth words: “Izzy, looking good, babe; nice threads, by the way. And while I have you all shined up, could you do me a solid and hand over a few ships and some pesos so that I can take the boys out for a summer jaunt? We’ll head out to Asia, after which I’ll bring back a ton of gold, exotic spices and lavish silks for more bewitching outfits. What do you say? C’mon. Trust me.” What woman could say no to that, so off he went, leaving Spain on August 3, 1492 with three ships in his fleet: the oft celebrated Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria. After a grueling five weeks with albatrosses circling overhead and sharks circling below, Columbus and his crew, not having a reliable GPS or even a sextant or chronometer, famously arrived at the islands of Cuba and Hispaniola, not Asia. As we all know, his “buon giorno, I brought the cannolis” was met with ‘meh’. 

In fact, other than the same name, Columbus Day in the USA has pretty much nothing to do with the original Christopher Columbus and the story I’ve just told. The true origins of Columbus Day in the USA began as a response to the March 1891 lynching of 11 Italian immigrants in New Orleans; still the biggest lynching in this country’s history. 

From the 1880s to the 1910s, 60,000 Sicilians migrated to New Orleans; so many that the French Quarter became known as “Little Palermo.” But here’s where it gets interesting: New Orleans Police Detective David Hennessy and his cousin Michael who, as corrupt cops go, were as corrupt as they come, shot and killed the chief of detectives, Thomas Devereaux, who was on to them and their nefarious shenanigans. Claiming self-defense, the Hennessys were acquitted but were fired from the force.

Years later, the new mayor, Joseph Shakespeare, hired Hennessy back, with a promotion to chief of police, no less. Ever faithful to his duplicitous ways, Hennessy quickly became entangled with crime in the Italian community and, in May 1890, a group of dockworkers were shot at and wounded by who knows who or why, but hey, they were dockworkers, probably union organizers (you know what I mean). Hennessy provided witnesses from the police force to back up the defendants’ alibis. After the guilty verdicts, he pledged to aid in their appeal, kinda like Anthony Scotto, the big NYC mafia boss who was named a delegate for the DNC. Nothing like playing both sides of the fence.

On October 15, 1890, four days before the retrial, Hennessy was walking home when a group of assassins ambushed him. Wielding sawed-off shotguns, they shot him multiple times before running off. Hennessy died 10 hours later. He only whispered one clue as to who did it: “The dagoes shot me.” (Cue the Godfather theme.)

Immediately, Mayor Shakespeare ordered the New Orleans Police Force to “arrest every Italian you come across, if necessary.” Casablanca hadn’t been filmed yet, but he pretty much supplied the soon to be iconic quote by Chief Renault to ‘round up the usual suspects’. Most of those arrested were released, except for 19 particularly swarthy looking ‘dagoes’ who remained in jail to await trial. Of the nine who went to trial the following February, six were acquitted, while a hung jury resulted in a mistrial for the other 13; never a lucky number. Later it turned out that they actually were innocent, at least those 19 were innocent. Whodunit was never determined. 

Outraged, the Committee of Fifty (a group of local scholars and businessmen) organized a public meeting the following morning to decide what to do next. William Parkerson, a local attorney, political leader and ally of the mayor, addressed the crowd of thousands of angry citizens: “When courts fail, the people must act.” Storming the Bastille was still recent history so they all knew to grab their pitchforks and march to the Orleans Parish Prison, easily breaching the walls of the jail. The mob lynched 11 of the prisoners, then shooting them to death. One of the victims was reportedly shot 42 times (you gotta admit, that was cold). The mob took two of the prisoners who didn’t immediately perish from their wounds and hung them outside the jail (jeez, that was even colder). Eight prisoners escaped the carnage. 

The Italian consul in New Orleans, Pasquale Corte, petitioned Mayor Shakespeare and the Louisiana governor to bring in the National Guard, to no avail. Immediately after the mob’s assault, Corte sent a telegram to Baron Francesco Saverio Fava, Italy’s first ambassador to the United States:“Mob led by members of Committee of Fifty took possession of jail; killed eleven prisoners; three Italians, others naturalized. I hold Mayor responsible. Fear further murders. I am also in great danger. Reports follow.”

Baron Fava and the Italian Prime Minister reached out to Secretary of State James Blaine, whose defiant stance created an impasse. After all, they were just a bunch of dagoes. Needless to say, Italy was outraged by the lynchings. Both countries recalled their respective ambassadors. Further stoking the flames, members of Italy’s parliament introduced a resolution calling for a retributive naval assault on the Eastern Seaboard. 

Now President Harrison had an international crisis on his hands. Harrison was already facing a difficult battle in the upcoming 1892 election and needed the immigrant vote as his saving grace. But the 1891 lynchings in New Orleans delivered a severe blow to his support in the Italian community. Harrison told Attorney General William Miller to launch an investigation into the Hennessy case. Finally, the President resolved the international conflict with an offer that couldn’t be refused: $25,000 indemnity payment to the Italian government. Restitution, payoff, whatever; just vote for Harrison.

With the issue behind him, Harrison still had to deal with outrage in the Italian American community. The country was already named after an Italian: Amerigo Vespucci. So, to mollify the villagers, on July 21, 1892, out went Harrison’s proclamation of “Discovery Day,” a one-time celebration of Columbus. In truth, Harrison really didn’t know of any other Italian explorers in history besides Giovanni Caboto, aka John Cabot. The one day holiday served as an apology and the formalization of an event already loosely celebrated in Catholic and Italian communities. 

Along came the Knights of Columbus organization, founded in 1882 by a nice Irish boy, Father Michael Joseph McGivney, to further promote these festivities as a rallying point to unite American Catholics of all ancestries. The Knights of Columbus continually lobbied for the day to become a yearly tradition and, in 1934, President Franklin Roosevelt declared October 12 as Columbus Day. Later, in 1968, President Lyndon Johnson signed legislation making it an official federal holiday to begin in 1971.

That’s the story. Now everyone knows Columbus Day’s origins had little to do with Christopher, Isabella or 1492. The holiday emerged as a recognition of the Italian-American and Catholic communities, not to mention the 11 who were lynched. 

Undaunted, here we Italian-Americans are today: two Supreme Court justices of Italian descent (Antonin Scalia and Joseph Alito, in case you were away that day). Enrico Fermi, who created the first nuclear reactor and was a member of the Manhattan Project. Giorgio Armani’s threads, Puccini and Verdi’s operas, and for the roadies: Ducati, Ferrari, Lamborghini. Scads of movie stars like Sophia Loren, Marcello Mastroianni, Gina Lollobrigida, Giancarlo Giannini, Virna Lisi. And isn’t there’s a pizza joint on almost every street corner. Yes, we Italian-Americans have integrated into the mainstream of society and perhaps Catholics are no longer considered a minority but Viva Columbus Day. Just saying.

Indian Summer

Smoke from a distant fire is an old song about the consequences of an event which, even if far removed, continues to have a palpable effect on the narrator's emotions and perceptions. Indian summer is that late summer phenomenon; how that last wave of summer reminds us of what was.

It’s early in October. Already Canada geese have stopped to rest by the cove, waking us early each morning, allowing us a moment to listen in on them as they discuss their next road trip south. Having read the Farmer’s Almanac, the local folk already have pulled out their sweaters, preparing for the winter that, apparently, is just around the corner. Of course, I deliberately refuse to believe that the trees will be bare in a fortnight. Yes, the nights are cooler; that slight but insinuating cold wisp of wind from the south occasionally makes its presence known at the back on my neck. Frank Sinatra’s famous September Song is once again hitting the ‘golden oldies’ air waves and our town, stoically, makes ready for the warm bed of winter; bales of hay in fields and chrysanthemum bouquets at doorsteps begin to appear. Even so, I’m not ready for “the autumn weather to turn the leaves to flame”. Indian summer is just around the corner, I assure everyone who will listen; my olden days spent in the great north coming back to haunt me. The weather will be warmer in a moment and bring with it its Indian summer. I pine for that short sweet kiss of one last summer moment in October that will arrive everywhere, not just here in this country but all over the world and even as late as November in other countries; that magical mystical smoke of a distant fire is readying to appear.

The Summer of San Martino (Estate di San Martino), as it is known in European countries is a traditional Italian expression for an unseasonably warm and mild period in early to mid-November, coinciding with the Feast Day of Saint Martin on the 11th. The Feast Day is named for a legend that Saint Martin shared his long and heavy cloak with a beggar shivering in the cold, after which a warm, sunny spell ensued following his act of charity. In Germany, the Netherlands and Eastern Europe this warm autumn period is also known as Old Wives’ summer, with an understanding of "old" to mean "late," alluding to the late, warm days of autumn. And in Turkey, this time of year is called pastirma summer because it’s a perfect time for preparing the cured, salted meat called pastrami. 

The Algonquian people believed that the weather condition was caused by a warm southwest wind sent from their Great Spirit ‘Cautantowwit’where the Spirit's house is located. The Natives would routinely use this brief period of warm fall weather to gather a final round of supplies before winter’s hold set in. The connection between Indian summer and the smoke from distant fires is captivating and evocative. The "smoke" from an Indian summer has both historical and meteorological origins.

William Faux, an Englishman in Illinois, noted that “the season, called the Indian Summer, which here commences in October, by a dark blue hazy atmosphere, is caused by millions of acres, for thousands of miles round, being in a wide-spreading, flaming, blazing, smoking fire, rising up through wood and prairie, hill and dale.” By at least the 1810s, the link between burning fires, smoke and Indian summer was clear. The Natives’ burning of the land created the smoky atmosphere and the prairies of the eastern plains, which were “burned toward the close of the Indian summer.” 

While early American sources speculated the smoke was from those fires, atmospheric conditions today explain the hazy effect. The more prosaic explanation is that an Indian summer is a period of unusually warm, dry and calm weather in late autumn, following a cold snap or frost. This is caused by a stagnant high-pressure system that traps air near the ground. This stable air stratification concentrates smoke, dust and other aerosols near the surface, creating a hazy effect. Other atmospheric particles contribute to the haze. In the Great Smoky Mountains, the natural haze is caused by volatile organic compounds emitted by vegetation, which scatter blue light. 

Literal and objective pronouncements worked hard to take the ghostly magical moments out of the Indian summer legends. Having said their piece, as the hazy weather events continued, but the practice of the New England area tribes’ land burning did not, the association between the smoky haze and burning grounds gradually diminished. Instead, the image of an Indian summer evolved into a time of peaceful tranquility and starry eyed contemplation for poets, authors, and artists. 

I remember reading David James Duncan’s writing in The Brothers K: “Then in October, Indian Summer, the air turned so soft, the sunlight so fragile, and each day's loveliness so poignantly doomed that even self-ignorance and restlessness felt like profound states of being, and he just wandered the empty beaches and misty headlands in a state of serene confusion and awe.”

Clearly, the Indian summer narrative has since recast itself as a grand metaphor to describe what has become of us in our later years: a happy, serene moment near the end of a life; a time of looking back with pleasure and gratitude for the life well lived. For me, and for others of our age, as I sit on the dock and watch the geese, an Indian summer can still bring that last day of walking barefoot in the grass before the cold winds of winter arrive.