It is familiar territory, this hole.
It's like that distant cousin who comes to stay every year for a week at about this time, uninvited, unwelcome and unwanted. Putting his feet on the furniture, eating all your food, and then getting drunk on an old bottle of peach schnapps and barfing all over your rug. Just when you think it can't get any worse, he "borrows" your car and runs it into a tree... and, of course, he doesn't have insurance. And even though this guy is family, you hate him. You hate his visits, you dread hearing him ring the doorbell, your stomach curdles because you know what lies ahead. And it sucks.
And yet. It seems that lately, somehow he manages to leave you better off than when he shows up. After his hellish stay, as he's jamming all his faded Ocean Pacific tshirts into his high school gym bag that serves as his suitcase, you look around and realize that he's somehow managed to fix the coffee table, restock the pantry, steam clean the carpets and hammer out that tree-sized dent in the car. And on his way out the door, as he gives you that big old bear hug that you only get from family members, you realize: you're actually going to miss him. Because without him showing up and fucking everything up so royally, you never could appreciate the aftermath and recovery so acutely.
So it's that time again. The time when we're standing at the bottom of a very big hole indeed (although there have been deeper holes, to be sure), and peering up at the blue sky above. We're used to this hole. We've been down here before. And even though we're not able to climb out of that hole every year in time to see the rest of October before it passes by, maybe this year we will. Maybe, despite the setbacks and injuries and cold bats and Rayknob-slobbering press, the men in red can pull it together and dig their way out to keep October alive.
Grab a shovel, and start digging.
on October 15, 2008 9:50 AM
I ain't singin' yet.