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I can’t say I’m unhappy when temperatures get warmer; I’m always sick of winter by February or March. But I don’t like spring. It’s rainy and muddy, always colder than it appears to be when you look out the window. Bright sun reveals filth previously hidden by snow and gloom. There may be a few tentative flowers and a bud or two, but the “great outdoors” remain forlorn and unappealing. Frisbees, bicycles and skateboards compel you to take life in hand when walking or driving.
It’s presumed that you’re gleeful regarding the onset of warmth–a warmth that hasn’t quite arrived, or worse, has appeared momentarily as a tease. You’re expected to unwrap winter layers and expose yourself to chill weather, smile as if you’ve been released from a dungeon. Spring feels less like a season of rebirth for me, than a cause of dread–the end of the excuse for a cozy winter hibernation, and realization that I haven’t accomplished what I’d hoped and will soon be plagued by temperatures so hot that I’ll be unable to think, mobilize, or fulfill any goal. What good is “spring in your step” when you’re stuck in the mud, a common springtime hazard?
Spring cleaning? It means tackling those corners and high places you’ve avoided all winter (or longer). And, ick! The things you find…a good feeling when it’s over, but taxing on body, mind and emotion in the process.
Fall is my season, the cool breeze after summer’s heat, the riot of colors and cascade of leaves (Can you tell I live in the city and don’t have to rake?). The anticipation of another school year, even if you’re too old to attend you’re never too old to learn something new. Sign me up!
I’m in the fall of life now, and hoping for a long season. I’ve pretty much finished clearing out the corners and dark places of “life-spring,” survived the foolhardy. So far “life-fall” has been great–travel, weddings, grand-babies…a few tense moments, but eminently agreeable and always interesting. Our fortunes have dwindled somewhat but we’ve been blessed with good health. (OK, there’s the requisite aches, pains, and sleepless nights, but nothing dire.) I have a fine partner to share the tribulations with, friends (virtual and flesh), honorable and successful children, and the “grands”…well, they’re a hoot!
I’ll be entering late Autumn soon. It’s the season that brings my favorite holiday–Halloween! Permission to be who ever you want, to rollick in a secret identity you’re afraid to reveal normally. Apple picking, pumpkin pie, the most fun time of the year!
When I was a kid, folks my present age were old. They behaved like old people; they were treated like old people. No one seemed to realize there was a choice to be anything else. Maybe it was because their health wasn’t as good as ours is today, or because the world wasn’t as readily available to them. They forgot who they had been and became generically Old. (O.K., there were a few exceptions…Ruth Gordon…).
I hope to get older because I still have a lot to learn. I’m looking out for my health but I haven’t stopped living. Competent at making a fool of myself, I’ve lost the fear of revealing my foolishness. I look forward to embracing the Halloween of life.



I’ve moved several times in the last fifteen years. Moving is a cleansing experience–you go through your “stuff”–organize, eliminate, rediscover. My grandparents moved across the ocean in an age when communication was done with pen and paper, and carried by slow moving vehicles. I recently discovered that my grandfather’s thirteen siblings spread all over the world: Europe, America, Africa, Australia. Adventurous Partingtons set off from the Isle of Man as early as the 1600‘s. They weren’t afraid of change.

We were determined to stay in New York City or one of the nearby boroughs and I had to make sure there would be room for kids, grand kids and friends to visit. We found an apartment the right size and configuration, but I realized I’d have to rethink my “stuff.”  In forty years of marriage and sixty-plus years of living, you accumulate a lot of “stuff.” Your husband accumulates “stuff.” Your children leave their “stuff” for you to take care of. Even if you religiously edit through the years, “stuff” accrues. I watched many episodes of “Hoarders” to prepare.

My husband remembered what we’d paid for things (especially furniture), but didn’t want to acknowledge “cost effectiveness.”Ie: if you spend a ton on an armoire and then sell it cheap on Craig’s List, you must take into account thirty years of use. This goes for chairs, lighting fixtures, bric-a-brac, etc. And, why keep a fire screen when neither you nor your children (who don’t have the same taste as you at all) have a fireplace? I could go on…

Then there were my books. My beautiful books! With every move, more of them gone. Furniture, objects–put your feet up and your drinks down; I have little attachment. But my books were my friends. They were my life in other people’s words, people who never met me but knew me better than I knew myself and could explain things more coherently. OK, yes, I have friends–human and creature–and a full, to over flowing, life. But I love books! They charm me; they carry me away, they protect me from the harsh corners of reality. There were times when I hid behind them, times I stood in front of them and defended them.


I took ten shopping bags of books to Housing Works, but as I packed remaining books into boxes, my heart sank. We would not all fit into the new place–well, we might fit but there wouldn’t be room for tai ch, and certainly wouldn’t be room for grandchildren to frolic.  The dilemma dogged me and put me behind schedule. Movers arrived and before I could do anything about it, they threw books into boxes. Everything went into storage for a month while hubby and I roamed from place to place in a fog of exhaustion and anxiety. Moving day arrived and boxes were piled to the ceiling in the new place. I unearthed my sweatpants and coffee maker, and looked, with trepidation, at the book boxes. I visualized Hoarders houses with their narrow pathways and precarious piles.

I asked for help.

She packed and I called out–“no,” “yes,”  “no,” “no,” “maybe.” In the end, I got so caught up that I decided the “maybes” should go also. Twenty-five boxes of books, loyal friends, went to the used bookstore. No more donating, we needed the money.

They paid me $600 dollars, which no doubt means they were worth $6000– at least.  Those double paperback scifi books from the 60’s, the Philips: Dick and Jose Farmer, gone. The literary finds, obscure writers unearthed after many hours grazing in used bookstores. The hipster sagas, immature adventures and the embarrassing romances. I have a terrible memory but I know they’re all in there somewhere and made me who I am. They’re the palimpsest of my psyche. The physical traces of where I came from are now gone.

The books that I kept are the intensely significant: Marquez, Millhauser, Flannery O’conner…books by friends: Emshwiller, Eakins, Rutkowski…and reference: tai chi, dictionaries, Ricky Jay…They stare at me in disbelief and pride of relevance. I dust them regularly and consult them occasionally. The space around me has opened up to air and light. I miss my books–and I don’t miss them. I hope that they’re not so much “left behind” as “gone on” to entertain, influence and, yes, insulate others.