OUT OF THE BLUE

October. Not a mellifluous word. Unlike April, May and June, not a name for a baby girl, either. But oh-so-welcome.

Looking through hundreds of columns from a dozen publications, I see a pattern: In my life, seasons call the shots, index the memories. Subjects range from Cape Cod Julys with three kids and a cranky basset hound to skiing in March, when a warm sun turns powder to slush. May means dreaded hay fever. Gray, raw November finds Tom turkey thawing on the screened porch. August is when denim blue ring binders and black and white-splattered composition books fill the stores.

But for me, the most beautiful, the only perfect month, is October — even though here, the feel of October may not arrive until the calendar says it’s the early days of November. I’ll know it’s October because one morning I’ll wake up to air squeezed dry of humidity and temps beginning with a 5, not a 7. The afternoon sun may fall low on the horizon but our pines don’t respond by turning a New England red, yellow and orange.

Years ago, I found one scrawny maple bordering Dollar Tree on Brucewood Drive. Its few leaves were bright red. I make a pilgrimage to it every October.

These autumn allusions result from living most of my life in New York, Vermont and Canada — also Asheville, which puts forth a decent October although nothing as pungent as MacIntosh apples being pressed into cider. The finest French pastry cannot compete with October’s first cider doughnut. But watch out. Every rose has a thorn. This process attracts yellow jackets eager for a last sting before the first frost.

Without October, hooded sweatshirts would be superfluous: too hot for September, not warm enough for November. All summer I daydream about fleece against bare skin. That and football, from the days my son was the high-scoring running back on his high school team. Otherwise I’m cool on football — a brutal sport, difficult to understand, painted in mud, blood and sweat on the evergreen turf.

Corduroy and flannel appear on autumn’s fashion runway. Nobody rakes leaves in Yves Saint Laurent.

October, I’ve noticed, reverses summer’s deleterious effect on appetites. Soup and stew reappear with chewy sourdough for dunking. Oatmeal regains its stature, in bowls and cookies. Beer is celebrated, as though it needs a fest. After months of grilling, cooks fire up the oven for a meatloaf to create thick sandwiches on rye for Saturday’s tailgate with real football folks.

I looked up holidays assigned to October; most are silly and commercial except for National Breast Cancer Awareness Month, when pink rivals Halloween orange and black. One year KitchenAid marketed a bright pink stand mixer.

In colder climates October stands as the bittersweet portal to winter. Not here, where golf is played on Christmas Day and nobody buys snow tires. But to me, month number 10 will forever remain the glorious conclusion, the reward for surviving June, July and August when the electric bill is more dreaded, even, than the bugs.

So, once again, welcome, October. I am so ready.