Early morning, September 20 and the winds are becoming cool. The leaves have yet to change but the hints of an upcoming season are proof that autumn is in the mail.
There is no real sentiment about now or at least for the moment, as it or was or as it should be. I am awake (of course) and sifting through the million thoughts that keep me awake at night.
I remember a warm sunny morning at the birth of autumn. The leaves on the trees were beginning to change color. The world took on a different hue. The mountains around the farm were colorized with different shades of red and yellow. The day was golden to say the least and I was young. My life was ahead of me and at the time, my 11-month stay at a facility was behind me.
I am not sure what I thought would happen. I am not sure what I thought I would be or where I believed I would end up. I am certain that at the time, I never thought that I would ever look back and regard this moment as importantly as I do now.
The Old Man used to tell me there was something I needed. He told me this one thing is the exact thing you need to get through life. He called this stick-to-it-iveness. This means no matter what comes or what happens, no matter the pain or pleasure, no matter the passion or the problem, whatever you choose to do with your life, and I mean what you really choose; you have to stick to it no matter what comes your way. Otherwise, the consequences are severely unfortunate.
There was a quiet little stream that ran down through the rocks on the side of a mountain. I remember that everything was so crisp and green. The leaves on the trees and the earth was deep and rich with color.
I had never walked in the mountains before. I never went on a hike or went anywhere other than my normal running grounds, which were less than beautiful and far from this colorful.
It was the end of summer, 1989. I was still feeling achy but the aches were improving. I was only in a few days, and by this point, I was unsure when I would ever be back home again.
I know it has been a while since my last letter to you. So much has happened and I’m not sure if I know exactly where to begin.
I’m not even sure if you would believe me if I told you, but anyway, here it goes, Mom.
Are you ready?
I’m not sure if you get the news where you live but life has been interesting down here to say the least.
There is a deck that runs around the upper level at the back of my home. The view faces the Cobus, Horse Stable, and the Catamount, and Panther Mountains. It’s a nice view. I think you would like it.
At a time like this, I ask myself, “What would Mom say?”
With everything that goes on and with the world in a “time-out,” so-to-speak, I wonder what Mom would say about all this.
I assume Mom would tell me not to worry. I am sure Mom would tell me, “this too shall pass.” She would always say this when times were bad.
I admit it. . .
Time slips away from me. There are days when I run into myself as I come through the door. I burn the candle at both ends because life is a busy place to be. The toughest part about this are the moments I miss because life is always on the go.
I admit to the phone calls while driving in the car. I do this because these are the best times to talk without interruption or distraction.
The only problem is the moments are limited. The list of calls and people I need to catch up with is long, which means that time slips away. This means the distance between phone calls can grow longer than they should be.
There was a little stream that ran parallel behind the place on Lindell Boulevard. I’d walk there sometimes to enjoy the calmness of a Florida afternoon in Delray. There were so many things to notice, like the palm trees, or the pool behind the complex.
Some of the rear facing apartments had patios, which were mainly rented by people with grandchildren.
Most often the patios were empty with only a few toys that grandparents kept safe for their grandchildren whenever they would visit. There was something to the atmosphere that was comforting to say the least.
Old October and I was young on cold morning and the rain came in rushing in. The streets of Midtown West, the 7th Avenue Garment District woes and crazy times, rushed with people in quick hurries to beat the out-of-nowhere storm, which came in suddenly and without warning.
And me, there I was in a window seat at a coffee shop, writing a letter to my Mother, looking out the window and watching everyone scatter and run for cover.
I watched businessmen with briefcases put their newspaper over their head to shield them from the heavy rain.
Large gulp-sized drops fell from the sky and spattered on the ground in a chattering sound that could be heard from my place inside, safe from the rain.
Some were readied with umbrellas and some just ran through, trying to avoid the downpour, to avoid the curbside puddles, and the dirty splashes from crazy cab drivers, swishing through the street, eager to pick up a fare and make their ends meet.