An Autumn Interlude
San Juan National Forest, Colorado
I love October, the ideal month of reflection and repose for a memoirist.
The days leading into winter darkness speak of closure, gracing us with colors that delight, momentarily, before fading into swathes of gray. Driving into the forest of autumn, I am reminded of endings; my mother's final decline; the old neighborhood now gone to recent fires; a beautiful lover from my youth, now forgotten--apart from occasional dreams--and the summer months I spent in Colorado, exploring the charm of small towns. Indeed, time is marching forward with a host of memories in tow. The magnificent colors of change are unfolding, one leaf at a time, as winter begins to chill the evening hours.
Winding through corridors of gold, wondering about the adventure to come, I am startled to notice dark clouds creeping over the sun, not for the fading light they create but, rather, for the compelling change of atmosphere that emerges. Suddenly, the morning becomes unfamiliar, and time lingers at a standstill; a distant house takes on the aura of days gone by, bringing to mind stories of pioneers and westward expansion. Then, just as quickly, the clouds depart, casting their animated shadows over mountains, as the road before me continues to unwind and I return to the present moment. Soon, the dogs and I will approach the Priest Gulch Campground for our final stay in Colorado, surrounded by gold aspens enjoying their final moments of splendor.
Once situated in our campsite, I marveled at the array of fragrances and colors that introduced the season. Glorious! There is something truly remarkable about mountain air. And the Dolores River did much to elevate my experience; sheets of undulating water created a rich spectacle, refractions of sunlight that resembled shards of glass quivering with their own energy. Then, a yellow jacket flew into the RV, and my mood changed dramatically.
After a brief walk into the forest, my feet sinking into mud from recent showers, I found myself wondering about my mother. How would she have viewed my nomadic journey through middle age?
Perhaps you guessed from the picture above that glamor suited my mother more than rustic life. Sadly, after she passed away in 2009, her brother (my uncle Bob) and I became estranged in our shared grief and never reconciled.
I've always loved this picture, as it captures my mother's great warmth and kindness.
After the years we spent being partially estranged, she and I reunited shortly before her death, as the dark corners of dementia began to engulf her. And yet, even then, we shared moments of joy, as I fed her and listened to whatever she wished to say during our final visits. The soft rhythms of the Dolores River bring all of this to mind.
As for my father, if you guessed from the photo above that he was complicated and deeply intense, you would indeed be correct. A World War II veteran, who saw horrific combat during the Battle of the Bulge, he loved his Tanqueray London Dry Gin. Yes, he did.
Although I am a beer and coffee drinker, Dad and I are still similar in many ways, with our great love of books, music, and sunlit mountain ranges. He was one of the group vice presidents for the Purex Corporation and, along with my mother, always encouraged me to read and cultivate my mind with new ideas.
By the time he passed away in 2001, we were no longer on speaking terms. To this day, I'm not a fan of gin.
Why do I mention these details, having digressed quite a bit from my original theme? As a writer, I love to wander in order to discover unexpected features in the landscape, fresh ideas ripe for exploration and analysis. However, these interludes are more than a mere indulgence; in sharing them, I hope to inspire you to reflect on your own history, the less enviable aspects as well as the beautiful moments. In short, the common ground of our humanity is precious, our virtues as well as the many frailties we share.
And, with that in mind, I simply cannot forget my grandmother.
Interestingly, she spent her life keeping a wide variety of secrets, one of which likely had to do with her ethnicity. Although she always claimed to be mainly of African ancestry, and vehemently denied being a Jew, I've always wondered. And, the fact that my mother spent years attending synagogue in Los Angeles, as well as being active in Haddasah, only serves to deepen the mystery.
The drive to my next destination in Gallup, New Mexico was equally splendid, filled with color and the softness of autumn sun.
After an interlude of reflection, I consider how well my life eventually turned out, long after all was said and done. I had a wonderful career as an urban park ranger in San Diego, serving from 2001 to 2022. These days, with a refreshing career shift, I enjoy working as a nonfiction writer, graphic artist, and guitarist, traveling by RV with my two dogs in tow. In no small measure, I am grateful to my relatives who inspired me to embrace the strange beauty of life.
Thank you for joining me here! If you enjoyed the essay, please share it on social media. Cheers!