Dear Kid,

It’s October. You can tell because the iris leaves are turning brown, the tomatoes are just ripe for picking off the vine, the stores are putting out Christmas decorations, and Booker is shedding like it’s spring. The trees and Pi have changed their plumage (trees to yellow and red; Pi to purple [my hands are now slightly lavender from the hair dye]). Right next to the preliminary Christmas décor you’ll find mega bags of candy and marked down school supplies.

We are somewhat seasonally confused.

Every year about this time, Dad says, “Next year I’m going to start the tomatoes earlier. I’ll plant the seeds inside and move them.” So far, we’re still picking tomatoes around Thanksgiving. When Pi was little she couldn’t quite get her mouth around the words “little tomato” so the red fruit in the picture continues to be called “l’illa matatoes” in our house.

To no one’s surprise, the world is still revolving and the government may or may not be operating with its customary inefficiency. Journalists from all sides of all issues have opinions. Comedians from all points of view have commentary on those opinions. As far as I can tell, the tomatoes have no opinion other than a slight desire to be eaten rather than thrown at someone. (Tomatoes are not known as great thinkers.)

Grandma and Grandpa are traveling (not a surprise, I know) this time to north Canada. Nope, farther north than that. Polar bear north. Special outfits north. Are-you-kidding-me north. Looking for a guy named Kris Kringle north. Take two more steps and you’ll be in the film “Gravity” north. North. I’m pretty sure they won’t be picking tomatoes in October.

Love, Mom