Autumn Joy

The following piece from A Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges is one of my all-time favorites.  The memory of the smiles on my grandbabies' faces, the glowing tree we played beneath, the warm sun and the crisp air alternating dominance.  Mmm.  Yes, I do like autumn.  

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Autumn Joy

September 2009

T

he change of seasons is one of those things that catch writers by surprise. We always notice it and it always is new to our senses.

            I noticed autumn the other day. I was taking a walk with my grandbabies in the sunshine. Anna was properly holding to the side of the stroller which contained her two brothers. We were chatting about motorcycles and trucks as they passed us by. A luscious, Saturday stroll casually going from here to there when all of a sudden we were confronted by a carpet of golden sunshine.

            Of course, I am a grandmother so I do my best to maintain proper decorum at all times as is becoming a lady of my age. (You can laugh out loud here. That’s allowable.)  So, when I saw the leaves I did what any Bapka of my stature would do. I stopped. Pointed. Shouted!  “How fun is that!” 

            Well, those well-behaved grandchildren of mine didn’t know what I was talking about. They looked up to see if it was a bird or a cloud or a star. All of which I have been known to call to their attention. They looked down the street to see if a car or horse or being of distinction were coming toward us. Then they looked at me in confusion as if to say, “what now?”

            I smiled coyly and stooped to pick up a HUGE ARMFUL of golden drops of sunshine. Laughing as I did so, I threw them like snowflakes over the three astonished children.

            “Let me out of here!”  Mavrik shouted with joy as he pushed his way out of the stroller. He is always the first one to guess Bapka’s games. (It started with blocks and Godzilla, but that’s another story.)  

            Anna squealed and joined the melee. Before long, a storm of golden maple leaves clouded the air and almost covered Arthur whose giggle could be heard above the noise.

            We played as long as we wanted then we went on.

            Funny how we never found quite another likely pile of leaves to play in. There were other piles of fallen leaves, but not quite the same. Not as soft or bright or tantalizing.

            Autumn is not my favorite time of year. There are many shadows that pull at my heart in autumn.

            And yet . . . who can resist the smiles that overwhelm the shadows?  I visited New York first in autumn. My sister and I bridged many, many years on those October walks in the City. First days of school, of course, are part of autumn. Teaching and learning are two of my favorite things. St. Catherine University is a splendid place in autumn.

            Autumn is also the time of year when God gave us Arthur back.

            Autumn. Smiles. Golden drops of promise. Yes. I do rather like autumn after all.

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Wanted: Lost Words

I’m not sure where my words went.  Have you seen them?  I figured they would inundate me the moment I walked across the stage and got that long awaited diploma cover.   I half-expected them to jump out of the rose bushes in the English Garden during my last stroll.

But they didn’t.

They are frighteningly quiet.

Well, I shouldn’t say frighteningly or completely quiet. 

I have heard some whispers in the distance.

Sappy, syrupy, sashaying phrases tripping over the clouds and whisping away in the wind.

But I don’t want those words.

And I don’t want the sad ones, either.  You know, the ones tucked away in the drawer of memories.  I take them out when I want to cry, but I’m so sick of crying.

I need a little laughter and so I’m looking for the guffawing words.

But I don’t know where they went.

It’s not like I don’t have any laughter or funny events or things that make me smile.

I seem to have a plethora.

I mean, have you ever spent ten minutes with Anna the Angelbaby?  Oh my word!  That girl is guaranteed to make you smile.  She is five now, you know, and so she can go to choir, be in children’s church and say stinkin’.   

Just like her brother.  Who is six.  Which makes him every much older.  He graduated, too, you know.  From kindergarten.  He’s kind of a big deal.   He plays baseball and got a homerun.  That will make any Bapka smile.  Broadly.

Don’t even get me started on Arthur and his tendency to pick and choose the people he wants to populate his world.  “He is not my friend.”  Not haughty, just definite.  If you wear the Arthur Stamp of Approval, you are kind of a big deal.  

Eli just smiles.  All the time.  At everything.  And hugs so gently and sweetly it has to make you smile.

See?  Now you're smiling and I've only talked about my angelbabies.  I have kids, too, you know.  Those boys of mine are crazy!  Forever up to something.  Graduation Day, for example.  Full of pomp and circumstance.  I wanted a nice picture, a formal picture, before the green doors of the chapel.  Famous, pompous green doors, by the way.  

"Sit up there, Mom," says the younger.

I do, of course.  Trying to be dignified with the cap and gown and diploma cover.  It was a little breezy.  The breeze caught the gown and let's just say it was a moment Marilyn Monroe would have been proud of.

Do you know what those sensitive, caring, wonderful little boys of mine said?  "I got that one.  We'll keep it for the funeral."

Which, of course, made me laugh.  The things they say crack me up.  Maybe it's only me, but I think they totally have the Ewend sense of humor down to a science.

There is an abundance of pleasantness in my world.

The happy, silly, giddy words just don’t seem to apply.

Maybe the problem isn’t that there aren’t any happy words, but they are so scattered across the landscape I can’t seem to capture them.  Like a Monet, they cannot be appreciated when viewed too closely. They dot together in random patterns seemingly nonsensical until you take a step back.  Then, yes, then, the masterpiece is revealed!  

The sunny days in the field with casual conversation about cows and poppies; the common threads of children and work and life shuffling through the papers at work; the vitamin D soaking, park bench sitting, stranger listening nights along the river; the colored pictures and snapshots freezing moments all lumped together make a veritable wildflower field of words. 

Not of a particular event, but of many.  Not of a specific person, but of many.  Not one memory, but many.  That’s where the words are hiding. 

Hey, thanks for helping me find the words again.  I thought for a moment I had writer’s block.