Once more October has returned, and unleashed the strings of my heart. With it's effortless grace and gossamer wings, it has always been the most favorite of my days.
Early on in life, I remembered the joy when the winding days of September ended with the return to class, and a new pencil box, and the gleeful anticipation of three birthdays (my Father's, my Mother's and then my own) arriving in tandem. One of the passages I wrote in "Thy Name is Woman" described my feelings as follows:
"I have always loved October in New York. Everyone seems to walk quicker on the streets, and if we go out early in the evening for our walk, the sky turns pink and purple as we come back towards the river. The wind smells as sweet as the river, and then when the lamplights go on, the streets are so beautiful. Once it gets darker earlier as September ends, we can't take walks any more until next year. I wish I could have gone tonight."
Our walk, of course, was the favorite treat my sister and I enjoyed with my Mother and Aunt Helen on a warm city evening. In today's terminology, charity events are linked to "The Walk." In my days of childhood, "The Walk," was akin to a glimpse into fairyland accompanied by an adoring Godmother.
Of course, that was not the reality. For many good reasons, I was the bane of my Mother's life. A child she could neither understand nor comprehend, and one of the many punishments meted out, was being left home from "The Walk."
Quite often, "The Walk" would be introduced into conversation after one of the many tumultuous encounters between my Mother and I. There were multitudes of reasons for our constant friction. Most likely today I would have been diagnosed with one or several of the ailments attributed to difficult youngsters. The reality was I was different, and this was an embarrassment to my Mother. I was awkward, introverted and shy, and at times defiant.
Because of my loneliness, I spent more and more time reading, writing and drawing. All activities considered a waste of time to Mom, who was efficient, precise and energetic. It was a volatile mixture of temperaments resulting in ugly scenes culminating in the punishment of being excluded from "The Walk."
The prelude to "The Walk" was watching my Mother transform from a weary housewife into what I truly believed was the equivalent of Hedy LaMarr, one of my favorite screen actresses. Mom would slip into one of her flowered cotton print dresses, run a comb through her dark bob, put on her pearl earrings and lightly brush her lips with a tube of Tangee. Then she would take her coat which was the color of bruised strawberries from the closet door and say, "Are you ready?"
The route for "The Walk" was always the same, east on 58th Street running parallel to the Park and strolling slowly along the line of marvelous hotels, The Plaza, Essex House, and the St. Moritz until we reached 5th Avenue, the Mecca of everything beautiful. As we strolled along, we would study the beautiful people exiting and entering cars and being welcomed by doormen in red coats and gold braid. It was truly a trip to Neverland. Once we turned back west, sometimes we would stop for a small glass of orangeade at a Nedick's or perhaps a Hershey bar from the corner drugstore. The real treat, however, was the time being spent in my Mother's company.
Now so many decades later, my sister only remembers the orangeade, and I remember the countless times I was exluded from the excursion as a punishment for my behavior. Probably this memory has festered throughout the later years, until finally, I realize how wise my Mother was. She taught me to be self-reliant. In her wisdom she foresaw a time when every woman has to rely, not on her husband or lover or child, but ultimately herself. I learned that quite early in life, when I listened to the wooden door close and the footsteps go down the stairs to begin "The Walk."
Tuesday would have been our wedding anniversary. It is not the first one I have spent without the beloved companion of my life. Last year for some obscure reason was easier. I think I still was in a state of denial. This year the reality is difficult to escape. He is gone, and I am alone.
There are many ways to deal with this, and the temptations are multitudinous and varied. I tried one this morning after my solitary breakfast, wallowing in self-pity, I read old letters, looked at pictures of what once was, and wept copiously. That helped not at all.
Then I tried to pretend that life was as it was. I shopped for a dinner we once both enjoyed, put a carafe of white wine in the fridge, and perused old CD's that had been in his glove compartment. None of these things eased the pain, and I soon became aware that nothing would except the acceptance of reality.
We had been blessed in ways too numerous to count, but mostly by the gift of spending the majority of our days together, truly both good and bad, but always shared. And the alone time comes as part of life's package. My Mother knew that early in my life, and attempted to teach me a lesson she was unable to communicate with words. She taught me one of life's most valuable lessons. She taught me that I could handle being alone.
The Cardinal returned this morning to the small scrap of land that separates our house from a neighbors. This is the 50th year he has returned. Admittedly, my knowledge of the longevity of aviarn life is virtually nonexistent, so we were never certain if it was the same Cardinal or one of his descendents. I think unrealistically we always hoped it was the same one arriving at approximately the same time each year to greet us in its incredible plumage.
He always spotted it first as he finished his morning coffee, and would call out, "Anne, come look." It was just a second or two as we stood together in admiration before the bird would fly away, but it was an annual event. Whether it be goodbye until next year, or enjoy the autumn, winter is around the corner, we never decided. Just a brief moment in time, we shared and enjoyed together.
This morning as I gazed out the windows at the falling pine cones, the Cardinal suddenly reappeared. For the first time I can remember, he stood absolutely motionless and made eye contact, or so it seemed. He seemed to be saying, "Where is he?" He looked at me for another second and then flew away. I think he knew, and I don't think he will return.
