OLD LOVE

  

Every once in a while, we hear stories of two old people, who once knew each other, finding each other again in the twilight of their lives. Maybe they were classmates or grew up together; maybe they once dated and it didn’t work out. Sometimes, they had married, raised children, and either lost their spouses or had marriages that just never worked out. No matter the circumstances, their paths crossed once more; something from the past rang a tiny bell and an old love that simmered, but never died, comes around again. Like a hot coal that lies unnoticed in the ashes of a bonfire, a spark gets struck once more and love is rekindled. These are the Cinderella stories that often bring a smile to our faces.

 

But all too often that’s not the case, and those same two lonely old single people sit in their homes, not knowing what to do. They’re torn between an old love that no longer exists, or being hurt once, they’re now gun shy. They remember the loved ones they spent so many years together with. They wonder what people will think if they try and turn a page and wring out what little happiness that may still be there in their hearts and souls—if only they could find someone to share their dwindling days with. They’re tired of cooking a special meal and being the only one at the table; tired of planting flowers no one will see; tired of dressing up with no one to impress and nowhere to go. Mostly though, they’re tired of not having anyone to love and care for. From the Movie A Love Story came the quote, “Love is never having to say you’re sorry.” I think back to my life with my wife and if there is one thing that will always bother me, it is the times, I hurt her and never said I was sorry. Apologies are a way of healing. Healing allows you to move on, hopefully wiser for your bad experience. Healing is a lot like a scab on a wound. It takes a while but eventually it falls off and is forgotten.  It’s then that you move on. My wife once bought me a Valentine’s Day card that had a musical device in it that played the theme song from “A Love Story.” I kept it in my night stand and every year on that day I would open it and listen to it again. Then the year after she passed, I opened it and the battery was dead.

 

I like to think of old love as a more perfect love than young love. For many of us, we have so many of life’s memories and lessons to share with someone else. We’re not dead yet, and we still have a few things left on the bucket list. We once knew love in a different time and a different place, and now we recognize it again, rearing its head and beckoning to us. We’re not as foolish and ignorant about the subject as we were back then—when we jumped in with both feet.  In our old age, we’re not being driven by roaring glands and foolish dreams that young love can sometimes have.  So, this time, we put just our toes in the water. We find the pond warm and welcoming. We find it as a place where we learn to laugh and love all over again. We find ourselves so much more patient and conciliatory than we used to be. We realize we’re not starting over. We’re just writing the epilog and maybe, just maybe, if we let it-- it will be the best part of our story.

IT'S GOING TO BE A WHILE

                                                           

I had a friend who referred to herself as sundowner. Often a term that is used for dementia patients who become more nervous, agitated and confused as the day draws to a close. But for those who haven’t been diagnosed with memory problems the term can still apply. My late wife had such fears and sadness at the sunset. She didn’t like the darkness and her mood would darken, right along with the sunset. I haven’t had that experience myself, for I must admit that night time for me, gives me a time to wind down and recoup my energy and relax my mind. I look forward to a quiet evening and a good night rest.

 

There is however something that does alter my mood and cause me anxiety and its not the end of the day or a month. It’s the end of a season. You see I have always been a spring and summer person. Spring, because it’s kind of a reincarnation of mother earth- and summer well, because its summer- and here in Minnesota in the land of all the lakes it doesn’t get any better than that. I’m not going to write about spring, we will save that for actual spring but I am going to talk about the end of summer.

 

Ironically its because the sun shines as much as it hides away that summer happens. So many things that depend on summer weather and soft warm breezes happen because of and in the summer season. Our society to some existent builds its most active schedule around the summer months. Weddings, family get -togethers, vacations at the lake and road trips to name a few. It’s the time when mother nature’s babies are born and raised. Schools are out and leisure living is at its best.

 

Then the days grow short and the leaves change colors. The gardens are empty, the flowers have all gone away. The crops are harvested and the kids go back to school. It gets dark earlier and light later and you find yourself wearing extra layers to ward off the cold. Oh, there are some things that are unique. The colors of the leaves for one and for some, the hunt is on. The bugs are dead and the lawnmowing stops. But it’s all so short lived, for in a matter of weeks a cold wind, rain and a stiff breeze takes all the leaves back down to earth to become a soddened mess. The hunt is over, the screens come down and the windows close and your home goes from a gathering place to a much-needed shelter.

 

There are few select people who find some good in the winter months. Those healthy enough to take the cold and play in the snow or plow the snow. I once did that too. I ice fished and snowmobiled, cross country skied and yes there is a certain amount of monotony that can creep in with 80 degrees and sunny every day but not so much with twenty below and cloudy. We’re Minnesotans we say and we brag about our macho survival skills but in the end when there’s no one looking, we shiver and shake like everyone else and wait for summer. I have told people in Arizona what it’s like in January here and they just shake their heads and say why?  

 

To those who are sundowners the new day dawns within hours and things will be all better again. To those who are summer people. It’s going to be a while.

THOSE FALLING LEAVES

                                               

Today as I write, it’s a beautiful Indian summer day and a few lonely oak leaves float lazily down from their lofty perches, and settle into the many puddles of leaves that are starting to dot my lawn. For me, they are reminiscent of many things in my own life, but none so strong as the fact that they are in their death spiral; their job is done, and now they rest. For the summer months they were vibrant, full of green color, and part of a vast family of leaves that formed the canopies of the trees that shaded my house and rustled quietly in the summer breezes. They had a purpose, a place in nature, and a job to do—but now they are relegated to shriveling up and returning to the very earth they came from, their life cycle complete.

 

Our own lives are somewhat the same, but much more complex, because even when we are gone our accomplishments will live on, and hopefully, we won’t go to our end in someone’s mulch pile. We have this uncanny persona to influence other people who will, in turn, emulate our character, and hopefully, enrich this world and make it a better place. Each year the tree starts with new buds, void of any kind of personality, and they only do what their predecessors have done over and over again, until at last the tree dies and they with it. Each leaf is its own entity and has no dependence on the others. But in our lives, we build on the accomplishments of those who have gone before us, and those who surround us. We don’t have to start from square one, when we begin, because someone else has already done the work for us and left those indelible imprints in our minds and hearts.

 

All the leaves of the trees perform pretty much the same chore for their host, the tree. But our lives are so different, and a cornucopia of different talents, abilities and aspirations, and when we blend them together with others, we have this homogenous result, forming a more perfect union for all of us. I often think, “What would my life have been like without my parents’ influence and their effect on my development…without my beloved wife, who steered me in the right direction and propped me up when I was falling, and then gave me wings to go places I never dreamed of going.” I didn’t want to be like a leaf; I wanted to have some sort of legacy when my life was done, and with her help and the help of others, it has come to fruition, but history will be my judge, not I. 

 

Sometimes at night, when I miss her the most, I think of the words of Nat King Cole who sang so beautifully, “And now the purple dusk of twilight time, steals across the meadows of my heart. High up in the sky the little stars climb, always reminding me that we’re apart.” Music has always been my crutch. I have always felt that it’s such a shame that too many of us die with most of our music still inside of us. “Though I dream in vain. In my heart it will remain. My stardust melody of love’s refrain.”  When I think of her and so many others, I don’t want to cry because it’s over; I want to smile because it happened. 

 

Wow! To think. All of that came from a few leaves drifting by my window. Life is good in Mike’s meandering mind.