October's song needs composing

The Boston Herald

BEVERLY BECKHAM

We look too much to museums. The sun coming up in the morning is enough. - Ralph Ellison

Especially these mornings. You wonder why anyone hasn't written a song about them. October deserves music and lyrics, long sighs, and an emcee's "Ta da!" Pink dawns that bloom into sparkling white days. Clean, clear air with a chill that somehow warms. Deep shadows. Green lawns. Roses AND mums.

It doesn't get any better.

So where's the catchy tune? Something stirring like "Autumn Leaves," but one that doesn't morph into a love song. "The falling leaves drift by the window. The autumn leaves of red and gold" is a nice beginning. But, "I see your lips, the summer kisses, the sunburned hands I used to hold" ruins it as an anthem for a season.

Other months have songs. "April in Paris. Chestnuts in blossom.” "It's May, it's May, the lusty month of May." "June is busting out all over."

Holidays have songs, too.. "It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas." "If you're Irish, come into the parlor." Occasions have songs. "Sixteen candles make a lovely sight." "I'm getting married in the morning." Even places have songs. "I Left My Heart in San Franciso." "Chicago, Chicago" "New York, New York." "Almost Heaven, West Virginia."

“Almost Heaven, West Virginia?” What about almost heaven right here and now. Isn't October in Boston a bit of heaven, too?

We think we have to drive to Vermont to see beauty or the Berkshires or the White Mountains. We think we have to have a wide expanse of space, of trees without buildings, of hills and valleys and streams to enjoy an October day. But all we have to do is open our eyes and look around.

"Now these are the joys of October days: the red of ivy upon the wall, and purple asters all in bloom; grapes in heavy clusters among their frosted leaves; and in the distant swamps the maples red and yellow," David Grayson wrote in "The Countryman's Year."

In October, the country comes even to the city. Mornings are smothered in mist, the air sweet and sharp. Sweater weather. But by noon the sun is like a hot compress on our backs and off come the sweaters until a cloud moseys by and there's a chill again. "Notice me," October continually says, tapping us on the shoulder the way a child does. "Pay attention."

People pay to visit the Greek Islands because of the light there, because it reflects off white buildings and a blue sea. Because there is nothing like it anywhere.

Except once in a while here in October when the air is as clear as glass and the sky is Windex blue and the trees are turning color, but not all of them. There is green and red and orange. And the black of long shadows. And a sharpness to everything, a crispness, as if outlined in black, as if an invisible optometrist fitted us all with glasses that gave us 20-20 vision again.

All you have to do is walk through Boston Common and the Public Gardens or drive anywhere. Everywhere is beautiful these days.

There's a song. "Everything is beautiful, in its own way. Like a starry summer night or a snow covered winter's day." And there's "I see skies of blue, clouds of white, bright blessed days, dark sacred nights. And I think to myself, what a wonderful world." And there's always "It's Today": "Light the candles. Get the ice out. Roll the rug up. It's today."

"Moonlight in Vermont," "Sunshine on my Shoulders," "Starry, Starry Nights."

But nothing about October in New England.