by Canadian Artist Matt Vegh 
Dawn came in quiet this morning, slipping between the live oaks with that pale, honeyed glow that only shows up when October finally decides to be kind to Texas. I was out on the front steps before seven, mug of chicory coffee cradled between both hands, barefoot on the wood boards that had finally lost the baked heat of summer. There was an honest-to-goodness chill kissing my ankles. Down in the ditch by the dirt lane, the tall yellow grasses were standing still, waiting on the sun to lift the dew off their tips.
You can tell right away when the sky wakes up in a generous mood. The horizon had that wide, untroubled pale blue you only find out here, miles away from big-city rush. Sitting out there in my oversized tie-dye cardigan, silver-streaked hair still wild from sleep, I took one deep breath and knew exactly what this Friday was meant for. The air was dry, sweet, and still. The weather was absolutely perfect for putting up Halloween decorations.
Tubs from the Shed and Morning Dust
It takes a little muscle and a whole lot of goodwill to haul the big plastic totes out from behind the lawnmower. Spiders had already spun their own genuine cobwebs across the lids during the summer months, which made me chuckle because I was about to go to all the trouble of hanging fake ones right back up. Mother Nature always beats us to the punch when it comes to spooky art.
Opening those tubs is like opening a letter from who you were twelve months ago. Out came the smiling paper skeletons with their loose metal brads at the knees and elbows. Out came the big balls of black yarn, the rusted tin jack-o’-lanterns with candle stubs melted flat inside their bellies, and the bundles of dried corn husk I tied together with frayed twine two falls back. Everything smells faint of dry pine needles, paraffin wax, and old shed wood.
Being a bit of an old flower child, I have never been much for the gory side of the holiday. I leave the severed rubber limbs and blood buckets to the haunted houses downtown. What speaks to my soul is the harvest mystery of it all: the way the days get shorter, the way the night calls for a flickering candle on the railing, and how a grinning pumpkin on the stoop feels like an open invitation to every passing soul. It is about celebrating the shift, greeting the darker evenings with wonder, and making sure the little ones walking home from the bus stop catch a glimpse of something that makes them smile.
Burnt Orange Ribbons and Saturday Anticipation
Now, any good neighbor around these parts knows you cannot truly deck out a porch in October without paying proper respects to the weekend ahead. Tomorrow afternoon the boys take the field, and as any true-blue Texas Longhorns fan will tell you, burnt orange fits right alongside autumn gold and pumpkin rind. I tied big loops of burnt orange ribbon around the dried corn stalks lashed to my porch posts, weaving them right alongside strings of warm amber twinkle bulbs.
There is a rhythm to working with your hands under a mild morning sun. You stretch up on your tiptoes to tack a wooden black cat above the screen door. You untangle a five-dollar strand of ghost lights that got knotted up like fishing line, humming whatever old song drifts through your head. I had a little Willie Nelson playing softly from the kitchen window, just loud enough to keep me company while I worked my way around the cedar railing.
Every so often, a truck would rumble past along the caliche road, kicking up a rooster tail of chalky dust that drifted off into the pasture. Every single driver tapped their horn and threw a hand up over the steering wheel. That is the rhythm of Texas culture that settles deep down in your bones. We see each other working, we wave, and we wish each other well without having to say twenty words about it.
Leaving the Latch Undone
By eleven, the porch looked alive with friendly mischief. Paper bats fluttered in the light cross-breeze under the eaves, and three fat heirloom pumpkins, blue-green and lumpy as river stones, guarded the front step. Sweeping the dry leaves off the welcome mat, I felt that sweet, steady current of gratitude that comes from making a place feel warm and loved.
To my mind, Southern hospitality is not something you save up for fancy company in the parlor. It starts right out here at the perimeter of the yard. When you dress up your gate with a wreath of autumn vines and set out friendly faces in the window, you are signaling to the world that you are home, you are grateful, and you are ready to share whatever goodness you have got going on inside. As a lifelong Southern hippie, I have always believed in the power of putting peace and love out into the breeze. What you pour out into your front yard has a funny way of making its way back to your kitchen table.
Karma is simple when you keep your heart open. Give out sour thoughts, and life turns sour on the vine. Give out color, warmth, and an easy grin, and before long, folks start coming up the path just to say hello and see how your morning went.
Oak Embers and the Afternoon Drift
Right on cue, my neighbor Miss Clara walked her spotted hound down the fenceline. She stopped by the mailbox, tipped her sunhat back, and hollered up to ask if those were the same cloth ghosts her grandkids helped me hang up three years ago. They sure were. We stood by the porch rail for ten minutes talking about the sweet weather, the high price of hay, and how the Longhorns were looking on defense this week. Before she headed back, I handed her a jar of peach preserves from my July canning.
Around noon, the hunger caught up with me. I walked out back to the pit, swept away the stray twigs, and laid down a handful of dry post-oak splits over some coals. A curl of thin, blue smoke began to climb straight up into that spotless October sky, smelling of campfire, seasoned iron, and honest comfort. I put a rack of seasoned sausage links on the grate to slowly take the smoke while I poured a tall glass of iced peppermint tea.
Later on, folks from down the road will smell that oak smoke drifting across the pasture and wander over to see what Zenna has got cooking on the fire. There will be cold drinks in the cooler, football talk out on the porch swing, and children pointing up at the paper bats dancing under the roofline. That is all life ever asks of us, really: wake up to the good weather, hang a few decorations to make the world a little brighter, and keep the grill warm for whoever needs a place to sit. Hook ’Em, y’all, and have yourselves a blessed weekend.
