For lack of support and too little love, you divorce Tennessee and go to one who is handsomer, wealthier and warmer, such as San Luis Obispo, and next summer you write a letter back to Gainesboro, all about your new life, a new religion that isn't based on guilt and ritual! no! it's based on mutual respect, a willingness to explore our spirituality, and you write all about your new friends, your inquiring intellect and your success, and tell them you made a rational move, and all is well for a while, til October rolls around, and you miss the delicious sadness of fall, the blazing yellow poplars, and oaks turning red, the smell of potatoes, wood smoke, and rotting logs. Having lost October, you've become an occupant of a house, a credit-card holder, an insuree, a face on a driver's license, and devoutly wish for someone in rolled-up shirtsleeves, to whom you can bring lemonade, while he stops the chainsaw for a few minutes, or that a giant earthquake would hurl you into the Pacific.