dreams of autumn

I am so happy that is at least technically autumn. Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur should come when it is cool, when the apples are fresh and numerous and varied, and when baking a pie is a pleasant thing. I made my first pie of the new season this past weekend, and it was a thing of beauty. (It also tasted pretty darn good!) Today I think I will branch out into making an apple cake, one that also looks fun from the bundt pan.

My house has Cortlands, Haralsons, Honey Crisp, and Ginger Golds right now. And still I want more varieties and more options.

I was going to paste in photos of the varieties, but instead I include a link to the Minnesota Apple Growers Association. Look, drool, bake.

Happy Autumn!

Legacies

I wrote this poem about my father's death, and its subsequent impact on me.


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Legacies

I

I drive like my father.
I never really noticed before
But during my long commute
On the open interstate
I can now see.

My left knee bent, 90 degrees,
Supports my left hand —
Back on the knee,
Fingers curled round the wheel —
My right hand occasionally lends support
But usually rests, gently,
On my right thigh.

The realization shocks me,
Driving into the sun
On the anniversary of his death.
Another brilliant October day.

His legacy revolves around cars.
When the phone call came,
I was painting the new garage.
That cool October day,
Leaves surrounded my feet.
My purple sweatshirt was streaked with
The signs of my marginal competence.
Inside the phone machine blinked,
And I heard my mother’s voice
Apologizing
For telling me of his death
By these mechanical means —
Of the unexpected stalling
Of a life I had never been without.

II

Autumn had always been my favorite.
New plaid skirts and knee socks,
Sharp pencils and smooth paper —
Did I become a teacher from that love?
He calmed my annual fears,
Assuring me that I would do just fine.
The glory of the trees would
Line our river valley
Masking the industrial ruin
In a riot of color.
We’d watch the World Series together,
Especially if the Pirates played.
Baseball linked us
Across our age and gender.

After that call I cried for my loss,
But also for my little boy’s.
He’d never know my gruff, burly dad.
He wouldn’t remember him at all.
So we watch the World Series together,
My son and I.
And every time I look at him,
I see my dad.

The cemetery is an isolated island
On a deer trail
In a sea of corn.
At his funeral,
Yellow leaves floated
In the breeze.

III

I came to dread October.
T.S. Eliot was wrong, I thought.
So many people died in October —
Autumn was cruel, indifferent,
Killing off parents
As if they were no more than the leaves
That could return in spring.
Yet my father’s memory and spirit
Return mysteriously.

The first time that I parked my car
In that coveted, close spot
At the crowded mall lot,
I thought it chance.
But then it happened again
And again. And again.
Everywhere I went.
Then I knew.
He’d given me his special gift —
His luck at finding
The perfect spot.
So when it happens —
Every time —
I whisper “Thanks, Dad.”

IV

Can the patterns arise?
Move and shift?

After my car pulls into the lot,
I emerge to hear the sound —
Familiar, yet barely —
At the edges of recognition.
The sensations wrap about me —
The chill dense breeze,
Trees dancing to music of their own making,
Brown leaves playing tag —
All part of the acrid tang
Of ripeness and decay.

My head tilts upward,
As if of its own accord.
The darkness of inverted Vs
Perforate the cool blue
Gradually, consistently, persistently
Moving, shifting,
To become the southbound giant.

The geese honk.
I accept the complexities of autumn.

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