They Go Round and . . .

I started thinking about this post in late September when hurricanes blew and rain darkened our late-summer streets. The temperatures had been in the high 70s, and I was still reaching for cotton and gauzy turquoise. Overnight, it seemed, October's chill slapped back and sent me rummaging through my closet. Now, I'm pulling on slacks instead of shorts and wearing sweaters to cover my arms, which had been sleeveless all summer. 

Food, not just clothes, alerts me to the changes of the season. I wince to find a half-full bag of beloved cherries rotting in my fridge. In the grocery store, I watch my fickle self walk past the display of peaches in search of Autumn's crop of apples. With these cooler temperatures, I want bowls that brim with soup instead of salad. Jim and I have replaced steamy cobs of corn with cheesy squares of cornbread. Several weeks ago, we slurped up the last of our tomatoes; lately, winter squash, turnips, and other gnarly roots have won us over. Ordinary summer satisfactions have withered, and we are on to new ones.

As I roamed the aisles of the hardware store the other day, the sharp blades of a fresh pair of clippers beckoned. Back home in the yard, I went wild, cutting back interloping vines that crawled all over my perennials as if someone said they could. Most of our tree leaves are still green, but some have fallen and taunt us from the corners of the yard. Before long, I’ll be out here in full force, putting my garden to sleep.

In late August, one of Jim's former work friends died. Pete had learned only two weeks before he passed that he'd been walking around with stage four pancreatic cancer. Although we hadn't seen him much recently, we'd known him since the 70s. Many showed up to pay respects, and while pressed together in the pew, I warmed to find familiar faces from the early days of Jim's career at Justice. The eulogies conjured memories of Pete's capacity for friendship. When people leave suddenly like that, I fumble with what to do with my belated thanks and goodbye.

After services, we crowded shoulder to shoulder in the church hall. Death is rarely easy, but with so little warning, Pete's demise shocked, moved, and raised questions that we explored while we balanced sandwiches, fruit salad, and cookies on wobbly paper plates. How did doctors who were monitoring him for less severe ailments miss such a catastrophic condition? What were his final days like? How is his only son, and is that his brother over there?

We took turns consoling each other and expressing sorrow to the family for their loss. Because most of us have reached our late 70s, we swapped stories about our growing limitations and physical ailments. We've followed Pete, it seems, to a door that remains ajar, and we’ve been stung into reconsideration. Just as certainly as the earth moves around the sun and we cycle through the seasons, we will all die. While marveling over what had happened to Pete, one friend put it squarely: "Let's face it, for every one of us, something is going to happen." 

When I reflect on seasonal change through the lens of inevitable death, I'm reminded of Steinbeck's description of discontent as the lever of change. From strawberries to peaches to apples and pears, each fruit rises naturally to the fullness of its purpose. In the natural ebb and flow of time, each season submits to the authority of the next. Spring stirs hope for summer's dance towards Autumn's crumble into Winter's cold. An implicit yes seems built into the year’s cycle, and I want to keep tasting all of it and everything before I die - the way life spirals round and round year after year, leading to forever.

On the Carousel of Time