Strate Talk

Nostalgic October

Last Friday I drove to the Echo Lake Cafe to have lunch with Barbara, another British War bride who summers in Ferndale and winters in Fern Valley, Calif. Our acquaintance began when she wrote a letter of compliments on my columns that depict England-our mother country. As I drove on that warm sunny day, ahead the Swan Range awash with golden foliage took me by surprise. The foothills were dotted with an array of fall colors as were trees and shrubs in passing gardens.

Over night it seemed, Mother Nature had waved her magic wand to bring forth a radiant Indian summer. A lump came to my throat and my thoughts drifted back in time.

Nostalgic, October-one of my first and favorite columns is for those who haven't read it and those who have, and for my dear friend, Barbara.

October for me is a nostalgic month.

Nothing broke the expanse of golden grain fields that extended to a cloudless blue sky the morning of our third day on the train from New York.

Our journey had taken 11 days from England, by train, then ocean liner, then train again to reach Montana's border. It was the 21st day of October 1944.

My husband, returning to his home state after four years of absence, had served in England and Europe during World War II, like many young Americans.

David, our 18-month-son and I were venturing into a new life in a state that is three times larger than England, the country we had left behind.

Two of Hubby's friends, were waiting for us in the mid-afternoon sun, and the warm fresh air was a welcome pleasure after the confinement of the stuffy train carriage.

We walked out of the station chatting excitedly. A huge dark red Packard was parked by the curb.

"It's as big as a Rolls Royce!" I exclaimed. "Only the very wealthy in my country could afford to own such a car."

We sat on luxurious leather seats. The car seemed to float through the center of Missoula. To me, we were traveling on the wrong side of the street.

"This is Higgins Avenue." Eleanor said.

"And that's the Clark Fork River" her sister Martha added as we crossed a bridge with a river flowing underneath..

"Now we'll turn onto Brook Street," Eleanor, our driver informed me.

I looked ahead and saw what I had only seen in pictures.

The afternoon sun filtered through a mass of bronze and orange leaves on trees that formed an archway over the street. A slight breeze caused sunlight to dance back and forth across the carpet of fallen yellow, gold and russet leaves that covered the road and sidewalks.

"This could be the gates to heaven," I thought. All to soon, we were at the end of the archway and in open sunlight. A part of me has stayed there forever.

We reached Hamilton as the sun was setting behind a towering range of snow-capped mountains For one who had never seen such a gigantic range, and accustomed to living in a country of rolling green hills, foreboding hardly described my inner feeling.

My husband said, "That's the Bitterroot Range and they're snow-capped all summer too."

Outside the back door of our friend's house, a tree bearing bright, red apples had shed part of it's crop onto the ground. I wanted to pick them up and asked why they hadn't been gathered before they fell.

"There's too many for us to use," one of the girls said.

"I know a lot of people in my country who would be glad of them," I told her.

In the years that followed-along with Mae, my sister-in-law, her husband Bob and their children, Sharon and Rod-I picked many full boxes of those rosy-red Macintosh apples. Mae taught me how to make apple butter with he firm, crisp fruit that were abundant in the Darby area of the Bitterroot Valley.

We spent many Sunday afternoons with family and friends gathering purple chokecherries to make into syrup and jelly. Each day's outing ended with a picnic, by a meandering stream and enjoying the last of autumn's sun.

Our children selected that special pumpkin from a neighboring farmer's field, to be carved into a face that would scare hob-goblins away from our door.

Bronze, orange, gold and russet leaves, squirrels caching pine cones, Jack-o-lantern faces, golden grain fields, cloudless blue Montana skies, Brook Street, trees baring rosy-red apples and snowcapped mountains.

October…Nostalgic October.