Kage Baker had a special, personalized ritual for every season, every holiday. And most months.

September required a drive North. We took provisions of the last plums, the first cider,  Empire and Burgundy apples, local cheese and sourdough bread. We would drive until the road North was barely wider than our car. Then we’d stop and get out where the sea crashed only yards below us; we’d stand on cliffs of sandstone and nephrite, where the edge of the continent crumbled into green and golden pebbles under our toes.

And in harmony, we would sign the hymn to September:

Now is come September, the hunter’s moon begun

And through the wheaten stubble is heard the frequent gun

The leaves are pale and yellow, and kindling into red

And the ripe and bearded barley is hanging down its head

       All among the barley, who would not be blithe?

      When the ripe and bearded barley is hanging on the scythe.

  The spring is like a young man who does not know his mind

The summer is a tyrant of most ungracious kind

The autumn’s like an old friend, who loves one all he can

And he brings the bearded barley to glad the heart of man.

  Ch.

The wheat is like a rich man, it’s sleek and well-to-do

The oats are like a pack of girls, laughing and dancing too

The rye is like a miser, it’s sulky, lean, and small

But the ripe and bearded barley is monarch of them all

  Ch.

Now is come September, the hunter’s moon begun

And through the wheaten stubble is heard the frequent gun

The leaves are pale and yellow, and kindling into red

And the ripe and bearded barley is hanging down its head

Ch.

The harmony is silent, except in my head. But I have bread and apples and cheese. And North is still there.

So … Closing Early For Maintenance. Now is come September.