Is there anything more suitable than the last couple of weeks of October and the first week of November for the final battles of the election season?
Glorious Indian Summer (is it still okay to say that?) alive with bright promises under cerulean blue skies, crispy morning air, and the earthy odor of fresh pumpkin rising from the first cut for the Jack-o-Lantern. The year never looks so promising as when it's drawing to a close.
Then comes November, and the wind drives the bright leaves from the trees and the rains beat them into sodden heaps that weigh heavy on the rake when you lift them into the compost bins. The Jack on the porch acquires a dingy cast. His hat shrinks away and falls inside, tipping over the candle that once cast an orange glow through new-made eyes and gap-toothed grin.
Bright promises are in the air, but November waits in the wings. And no matter who has promised what, the cold winds will blow and the rain will fall and all promises, no matter how bright, will acquire a dingy cast and some will shrink and fall away.
The seeds of those promises, if they are tended, if they find fertile ground, might survive. But first, this October, we still have work to do. We still have to fasten the shutters against the cold wind and the driving rain. We have to be certain there is a place where the promises we want kept will be treasured and made safe.
We have to get out there and vote.