After a week of drenching, cold rain it seemed like summer was all but gone. I’d resigned myself to break out the sweaters, call the oil man for a delivery, and batten down the hatches until the first peek of spring.
Then, as it often does, this New England weather pulled a fast one, and the past three days have been as sublime as it gets here in the South Coast area of Massachusetts.
I’ve always loved that old saying that God gave us memories so we might have roses in December. But here it is the height of autumn and this blast of warm sun has me all but paralyzed with nostalgia.
I was already on melancholia overload as happens every fall, sort of the end-of-summer and back-to-school blues as bittersweet remembrances of beginnings and endings always hit me hard. Throw in a tender warm breeze, the skitter of fallen leaves, and the far-off scent of fresh cut grass, and I am gone.
It’s funny how the soul yearns for the past, when the present is just as nice. But there’s something about those days gone by, and people loved and lost, that cuts painfully deep on a day like today. Like the memory of my father burning leaves on the sidewalk, and
horse-back riding through the woods. Of long walks with friends knowing that the whole of a long, long life is still ahead.
I was amazed to notice this weekend that a bunch of my plants and bushes were so shaken up by Hurricane Irene that they have started to bloom again. This heat wave has really helped them along and I’m eagerly watching the garden as the colors pop out.
Which makes me smile as I realize that maybe just this once, the memories—and the big storm – have offered me a special gift. Yes, my vast collection of memories can provide me the proverbial roses in December, but right now I have the real ones in front of me in October. In some funny way I can’t explain, it helps.