That special kind of rain Saturday, October 14, 2023

  


The rain comes slowly at first, a few drops splattering on the concrete in my back yard, then as a steady drizzle, and finally a downpour.

This is not the warm spring rain that we welcome as a final relief to the chill of winter, but the introduction of the new season and the threat of cold we can expect.

Columbus Day weekend and our visit to Cape May marks the change, one marker Mollenkott, my literary professor at college used to dread, telling me how when I reached her age, I would dread it as well, Autumn signally the end of life, while I admired the change of leaves.

I’m less a fan of summer than she was, or for that matter spring, all symbolic of the dreariness of life, while dramatic autumn puts obstacles in front of us, a challenge to survive the cold, we lasting out the worst life can offer in order to see the spring again.

There is beauty in this transition, a meloncoly that I’ve felt almost from the day I first opened my eyes, craving those days when I could look out at the changing weather from the protection of my room in the old house or from the porch, as if the worst of life could not touch me.

I still feel that way, even though I’m now passed the age Mollenkott was when she gave me her dire warning.

In LA, I missed the rain most, even though winters there tended to have rain. It was never the same in a place that has no changing seasons, just the endless grind of sameness Autumn here defies.

I like Portland better because of the rain, and would sometimes stroll those streets without umbrella like a plant desperate for nourishment.

Now, I look out at the back yard from a room surrounded by windows, taking in the change, as the ivy that covers our fence and the walls of neighboring buildings turns red, and then eventually brown, before finally seeing each leaf drop to the ground, setting up our Thanksgiving ritual of raking and clearing away the poke berry in order to welcome winter and set up regrowth for next year.

I still get the same chills I got as a kid, feeling safe and secure, when in this life, nothing is safe enough or secure enough, our world constantly bickering over what is real or unreal, who is worthy or not.

I feel sad in a strangely pleasant way, as if I need these moments, this rain, in order that at some point, I might feel happy again.

This time of year always sets the tone for upcoming year, foreshadowing some issues I might face, a phone call one year with a friend whose death in January will make that call all the more important, or the hints of medical emergencies that might end me up in surgery the following spring.

When I lived in a rooming house in Montclair, I used to walk out into the local park just to feel the breeze and the kiss of drizzle, a strange kind of love making I crave.

In the end, it is these moments that mean the most to me, the sadness that promises to bring joy eventually.


Day to Day menu


email to Al Sullivan

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Positive omens? Dec. 24, 2023

Image
      In a week heavily endowed with omens, I thought for certain seeing the funeral procession on our way to Asbury Park posed a dark day ahead. After the amazing omen from our Thanksgiving trip (the whales), I hoped for nothing to counter this positive vibe. The trip down went smoothly, with the except of a few whacko drivers pretending to be Indy 500 racers, and we parked in our usual spot near the top of Asbury where it interacts with Cookman and took our usual stroll, peering into the old merry-go-round house before passing the fake Christmas tree of lights, the Empress Hotel (with its rainbow street crossing) and down the board walk from the Casino to the Coliseum. Even though we had arrived late, the boardwalk was largely empty – although there were a few groups of people on the beach, foolishly standing on the slick jetty stones to pose for pictures. Even inside the coliseum, the only crowd was at the coffee shop, and even this was less well-attended tha...
Read more

Natural law October 18, 2023

Image
    I saw the pigeon after I had put out stale bread for the birds to feed on. He looked healthy, although he clearly had troubles since when the other pigeons flew off when I came into the yard, she did not. She was either injured or young, but she could not fly, walking around on the concrete in search of food while the others later congregated under the feeder where small birds dumped seed on the ground where they could feed. I spread some seed near the crippled bird only to have the flock of healthier birds swarm down on it, stealing whatever seed it could reach. Worse still, the two young cats that come and go from our yard took notice of the pigeon and began to stalk it. I had seen these cats hunting smaller birds a few days earlier, managing to catch one, which they tortured (played with) for some time before mercifully murdering it. I did not want them to do this to an even more helpless bird. I shooed the cats away. Eventually, I took up the bird, put it i...
Read more

The more things change Dec. 11, 2023

Image
    The rain came in spurts as I made my way to Secaucus for my usual Sunday laundry. I don’t always go to Secaucus, sometimes returning to the old neighborhood in Passaic -- as I will likely do next Sunday when I visit the grave of Peggy, and the graves of my ancestors in the other Lodi cemeteries, dating back to John the Baptist Sarti, who arrived here just after the Civil War. But most weeks, I don’t want to travel that far as was the case yesterday, when I parked near the laundromat, put my laundry into the machines, then headed off to the Dunkin a block away for coffee, a Dukin I briefly worked for after I got fired from the Garfield Dunkin just before my wedding in October 1990 (a time when I had four part time jobs, three of them at different Dunkins, and a fourth as a cleaner for a firm that manufactured elixirs straight out of the 1800s. My history with Secaucus goes back to the 1960s when Hank and I used to pass through it on our way to New York City, at a time...
Read more