It’s September! How does the song go?
“Oh, it’s a long, long while from May to December. But the days grow short when you reach September.
“When the autumn weather turns the leaves to flame one hasn’t got time for the waiting game.”
This haunting song has been around since the 1940s. It is one of my favorites, especially Sinatra’s version. I didn’t understand it then. I was too young. I finally did quite recently when I started to feel September in my years.
It is still summer in Atlanta. The temperature has for about a week now held steady in the lower 90s or mid to high 80s. It is still warm and humid. No way has it cooled. Not yet.
But yesterday at the Forum in Norcross, while shopping with old friends from Manila, we sat on park benches and enjoyed the gentle cool breeze. We asked a passerby to take our picture with one of our phones.
He was gracious and obliging, like a typical Southern gentleman.
Autumn is on its way. By the time it officially gets here on Sept. 22, I will be in Las Vegas. I will miss the breathtaking change of colors in this beautiful part of the world. Someone once asked: “How can there be so much beauty when everything around us is dying?” It is truly a dazzling and beautiful but very brief season.
I don’t remember what fall looks like in Sin City. But I may catch some autumn splendor when I get to Vancouver and Seattle, in October. I will be home when winter comes. I feel like I have been away too long.
It startles me that we are but a “hop, skip and a jump” away from Christmas. And since this is the first “ber” month, will we now start hearing the usual jingle of silver bells? It’s way too soon! What’s the rush? Can we wait a little longer, please?
Time to remember
We had a fun and happy weekend in my sister’s house. An old friend and her daughter drove in from Fairfax, Virginia, to visit. That’s a long way across the country. It’s a 10-hour drive. That’s love. It was wonderful to see them and to just sit around and chat remembering how it used to be.
Nenita lived on Calle Arlegui, a short walk to Holy Ghost College and to our house on Legarda where we gathered in the sala around our Packard Bell radio/phonograph/recorder, trying to mimic Doris Day and Jo Stafford.
We talked about old times, the war, the bloody liberation of Manila. We giggled like schoolgirls remembering our old romances, and laughed about hiding behind the grotto to share our secrets and love letters, sneaking out to the movies, and watching NCAA basketball games. We had crushes on the players and proudly wore their team colors.
We went to dances and the young men back in those days dressed up and looked handsome and dapper in their well-pressed slacks, starched shirts and sports jackets. No one wore torn or ripped jeans and everyone wore shoes. They smelled of Florida Water or Old Spice.
We remembered walking on Aviles in the evening to get an ice cream cone at Milky Way (then a kiosk across Malacañan). It was safe. It was fun.
And it was remarkable that no one talked about regrets. No one lamented her mistakes.
Without a doubt this was a gathering of older and wiser (?) “super” lolas with heads held high, showing off their bruises, scars and all, with no trace of bitterness or rancor, just grateful to have come this far and still raring to go!
I guess the time does come when even the hardest times lose their sad and dreary colors. I believe that God is good and tweaks our memory a little. And the nasty stuff just fades away.
All about me
As often as I am on Facebook, it still does not cease to amaze me how some people love to ventilate gripes and do their dirty laundry online. It really is none of my business but I am puzzled.
I have come across too many personal “true confessions” and I wonder why we think everybody (anybody) is our shoulder to cry on. One can confide in a close friend or family member. But to post it for the entire world to see? I find that a little bizarre.
But many people love to talk about themselves. Your reaction or reply does not really matter. It is always “back to me.” Now they found Facebook.
All at once I wonder. Am I like them? Does the conversation get boring when it wanders away from me? Please God, I hope not.
Precious moments
Whatever the weather, my day is all sunshine and rainbows when I can have a few moments conversing with my children or grandchildren. Life is fast and they are busy and hardly have any time to spare. I, on the other hand, have no pressing agenda. So whenever I can sit with them and “talk story,” it is precious and I feel honored and blessed.
Now I ask myself, do I really listen? Or am I just biding my time so I can reply and teach, talk about my life and tell them how it’s done so they can learn? I must confess that this often crosses my mind even as they speak.
Or do I listen to understand?
And suddenly it hits me: What right have I to give them a piece of my mind?
The only thing I can give them is a piece of my heart.