Sep 272022
 

©WholesomeNsuchArt

Autumn used to be my favorite time of year. Notwithstanding what lay ahead—the abundant snowfall, lack of light and bitter cold that were and perhaps still are a feature of Wisconsin winters—I welcomed the restart September implied. Some of my hopeful mood had to do with the start of a new school year, some with the meaning of the season to my parents, casual followers of Judaism whose children eventually failed to connect. Most of it had to do with the sights, sounds, and smells of the season. Rustling leaves, brilliant colors from gold to umber. All things apple and most things pumpkin (except coffee). The light is different, too, diffuse, filtered.

But the loss of my husband on September 11 made it hard to enter autumn. Then my sister died some years later, on November 30th. Grief now bracketed the season. Autumn was as many others had always seen it—a time of endings.

Flash forward to 2022. At the end of one of the worst late spring/early summers in memory (yes, even worse than the height of the pandemic), I ought to be “over” this next season. I’m not. For one thing, I live in the Northeast and autumn is our time to shine. While the south battles excessive heat and terrifying storms and the west deals with the threat of wildfires, we have been favored with blue skies, changing leaves, and perfect temperatures. Given how hot it was this summer, I wasn’t even sure we’d have any beautiful fall days. This year, at least, we do.

I eat, dress and exercise differently in the fall. My favorite outfit is jeans, a sweater, and a jacket. My boots, my sneakers, my hiking shoes give me far more joy than sandals ever could. I’ve been on my bike for the first time since before the surgery. My refrigerator is stocked with apple cider, my shelves with canned pumpkin. I’ve got toe warmers and snuggly socks and a comforter I love on the bed.

According to everything any of us will ever read, I am in the “autumn” of my life. Maybe that fact, along with my body’s refusal to stave off time, ought to depress me. Some days it does. Other days, I hop on the bike or take a walk in the neighborhood, breathing in air that is neither humid or hazy. I can make plans; everyone has plans in the fall. I can also plan not to make plans and curl up in front of the fireplace to read or watch TV.

Autumn used to be my favorite time of year. It will be again.

Sep 092021
 

Last week, someone hacked my Facebook account. My clever friends knew not to answer the strange messages, which read, “Hello: How you doin?” as if a non-English speaker had been watching too many episodes of “Friends.” By the time we all reported the hacker, they had moved on.

Still, the message prompted a couple of thoughts. We ask each other how we’re doing all the time. But what is it we really want to know? Or rather, how much do we want to know?

Let’s face it; the question comes with built-in, often invisible boundaries. It’s a little bit more than “hello” or a passing nod. But how much more?

The short answer is context. When you ask, are you checking in after a specific event, i.e., your neighbor just had a baby, or your friend was in a fender-bender? Are you passing the time of day? Are you inquiring about someone you know well, know in passing, don’t know at all, or haven’t seen for a while? Do you expect an answer? Are you prepared for one?

I sometimes ask people how they’re doing. Not just to be polite: I ask people I care about, people who seem distressed, or people with whom I’d like to have a conversation. I don’t pose the question casually these days. Maybe because I’m aware that quite a few people are struggling with how they’re doing. We seem to be simultaneously starved for companionship and leery of anyone’s judgement. Most of us are feeling a lack. Plenty of us are anxious or grieving.

I’m especially sensitive to that idea when 9/11 swings around. This time of year, the question of how I’m doing comes back at me. Twenty years is a big anniversary for those of us whose personal loss combined with a national period of mourning. Nevertheless, between the passage of time and the many other momentous occasions we’ve collectively experienced, people will forget to ask during this week.

That’s fine with me. I’ve long ago relinquished the idea that my pain is lesser or greater than that of anyone else. The loss of my beloved husband in a terrorist attack will always be a major loss in my life. But other events large and small have also caused injury. My struggles with the older version of my body. My sister’s recent death. The level of misinformation and disinformation lodging itself into the cultural conversation. The rising hate and fear-fueled division. My own anxiety concerning current events and yes, my own resentment at how hard I have to work—how hard we all have to work—to see the good in the world.

But maybe the work is the point. Maybe having to be so damned resilient is how we become better people. Overcoming loneliness or depression or distress, looking out instead of in, facing the unknown, forcing ourselves out of our comfort zones even if the pandemic and the increasing number of weather events keeps us physically in place for a time. Insisting on hope, even in small doses.

So, to those of you who have written or texted or posted or called to or to ask how I’m doing or to tell me you are thinking of me: I’m doing better than okay, and I’m thinking of all of you as well.

You might also be interested:
https://www.nytimes.com/2021/09/08/nyregion/9-11-new-york-remember.html

Jan 182021
 

Memory is a brain activity by which we encode and store data. As we all know, the process often produces untrustworthy results. When I couldn’t find my glove this morning, I “knew” absolutely that I’d dropped it last night when I walked the dog. I went back to the exact spot and searched. It wasn’t there. When I came back to the house, I discovered the missing glove in the pocket of a coat I don’t remember wearing on the night walk.

Such things don’t yet worry me. I can still retrieve the numbers, codes and digits I require. My basic data storage and retrieval is still operational.

I’m more caught up by what we mean when we talk about memories, our recollections of the past. I have specific visions I can see: my uncle’s farm, my family around the dining room table, my fifth-grade classroom. Some of these images are sharp, others are hazy and filtered.

One oddly specific detail I do recall is riding an old-fashioned streetcar–the kind that ran on tracks and connected to overhead cables. The last trolley in Milwaukee, where I grew up, stopped running before I turned nine. If I was riding at that age, I must have been with my mother. It’s hard to imagine her sending me alone. I was not an adventurous sort and even a familiar ride might have generated some concern on my part. We didn’t have cell phones from which to send anxious text messages and receive reassuring replies.

So perhaps she was with me and I can’t picture it. Nor can I swear to the time of year, although I feel it might have been early autumn.

What I do remember is looking out the window and noticing a woman in a turquoise dress. What used to be called a housecoat, with buttons (maybe gray) up the front. An everyday dress. She was substantially built, I think, not likely to be bothered by the stiff breeze off Lake Michigan. Permed hair, I think, maybe brown or blond. She was carrying something, a purse and maybe another bag. Just then, a stray gust kicked up her dress and revealed a black slip beneath.

Why do I remember this event after so many years? I’m not sure. I know that after a while, I made a point of pulling up the image of the woman in the turquoise dress with the black slip just to see if I could. It was like a game, a challenge I gave my brain to hold onto the picture. Not because what I noticed was so unusual or amazing, but because it was so ordinary.

That memory seems to be divorced from any emotional context. I’m amused at its persistent presence, but that’s about it. It doesn’t trigger in me a sense of pleasure or pain. The smell of baking bread, on the other hand, reminds me of my childhood. Not because my mother baked, mind you, but because downtown Milwaukee was home to a large Wonder Bread factory. Other sounds summon up snapshots of a ballgame, an afternoon sledding, a spring day. Those memories make me smile.

Remembering people is harder for me, especially those whose permanent absence is a constant ache. We’ve all received instruction in the throes of grief to “remember the happy times” or to “make new memories.” I haven’t been able to effectively manage either of those brain exercises, to tell the truth. The death of my sister is too recent, too raw, and too seared on my brain to spend much time fondly recalling our madcap road trips together. Touching that part of my life hurts as much as touching a hot stove.

I’m told this will pass.

As for making new memories, that’s also been a challenge. The pandemic has stalled my attempts to find comfort, let alone accumulate new experiences.

This too shall pass. At least I want to believe it will, and that someday I can welcome back old memories and welcome new ones.

In the meantime, I’ll place myself on that old streetcar and become, once again, an eight year old girl watching a woman in a turquoise dress walk down the street, her black slip peeking out from underneath her hem.