October

October has been misplaced in a most glaring manner.

Normally, I am not terribly persnickety about where we situate our months.  January is fine where it’s located.  Some years, I will admit to wishing January was closer to July so we could have a few warmer days.  But I muddle though.

April looks lovely sitting there between March and May.  When spoken, April tastes like sugar on my tongue.  Songbirds sing in the mornings.  I can return to my once snowbound cabin nestled in the toes of the Great Continental Divide.

June: absolutely.

September is perfectly stationed to usher in the “ber” months (translated in Montana as: brrr, it’s getting cold).  Give me those cool evenings, warm days, big skies, and calm evenings.  Mountains stand taller in September.  Bluebirds gather into cheery flocks that twiddle about the fences along our country road.

All the other months are fine in a workmanlike manner.  No issue.

Now, back to October.

I have no particular complaints with October’s associated weather.  We are transitioning between hot and cold—I totally get that.  I have no issue with the spelling (as I do with February and, frankly, calendar).  My problem is this: the name October literally means “eighth month.”

Hello, October, you are not the eighth month!

I know it’s not your fault, October.  I understand that you are a vestige from the Roman calendar.  I appreciate that some late-coming goobers threw January and February up into your face.  But don’t be strutting around the calendar like you are the “real” eighth month.  Because you’re not.

--Mitchell Hegman.