Fall Memories

Lovely photos and great journaling. I think I also am missing the date gene, because like you I remember events but not dates. I like the flower ellies you used and the lovely fall coloured papers.

Thank you, Pippin. It's good to know I'm not alone. Maybe we have other capabilities that the date-people don't. ;-)
JOURNALING:
[This was originally written in 2001.] Most of the people I know remember the dates when friends and family members have died. They say things like, “I’m always depressed at the beginning of March.” Or “Next week is the 20th, I’d better give Mom a call and see how she’s doing.” I understand their feelings of loss and sadness. I miss the same people they do. But I associate people with places and events, or with certain objects, not with dates. I can't tell how much time has passed. ("Do you realize you've been working for six hours?!" Nope.) I can't tell what time of day it is. ("Hmm, it must be about 4:00…" Really? Why?) I can't remember important dates. ("Why didn't you send me a birthday card?" I thought it was next month&hellip >>I completely relate to a book I found at an Indian pow-wow titled No Word for Time. It’s more fundamental than linguistics, however. I understand the concepts of time, the passing of time, and the fact of chronology, but I think there’s an actual gene for recognizing time spans and another one for remembering dates—and I don’t have those genes. Never have. Probably never will.>>All this to say that when my nephew Ray died at the age of 30, I can’t even remember the exact date of his death. Oh, I remember where I was when I heard, and who called to tell me, but not the date. We were very close. With our dark hair and eyes, we definitely looked related. Some people mistook us for brother and sister, others thought he was my son. He certainly looked more like me than my blond blue-eyed daughters!>>Every fall, Ray would come over and visit while we cooked kielbasie, cabbage and potatoes. No one else in my family liked it so it became our own little ritual. A time to work together, talk about his college classes and his plans after graduation, to talk about God, Christianity and personal faith. >>He’d complain about his current job. I’d show him the latest pictures I’d taken. After years of enjoying and celebrating autumn together, we decided that if I bought a larger kettle we’d both have leftovers for the days following our party. >>So, in October, 1996 (I had to look this up), I bought a huge new pot, shiny, silver, just waiting to be filled with delicious food. I could hardly wait for the day to arrive. But then, early one morning, I got the phone call from his brother. Woke me up out of a sound sleep. I couldn’t believe it. I sat in bed, crying, while my husband waited anxiously to hear what had happened.>>I made phone calls. I hugged my sister—a lot. I called my daughter at college and gave her the bad news. We made arrangements to bring her home. I went to the funeral. I cried over old pictures. We told stories and laughed together. Life went on.>>It’s now been over five years since RJ died. I miss him at family picnics. I think of him every time I see a calculus book. When I see someone slide through a stop sign, I can hear his hilarious movie quote, “I, like, totally paused!” These things—movies, math, food,>conversations—will always be associated with RJ, which is why I haven’t been able to cook kielbasie, cabbage and potatoes.>>I absolutely cannot bring myself to use that brand new, shiny pot. Every time I look at it in the cupboard, or my husband suggests I use it to make more soup or chili than usual, tears well up in my eyes, my stomach churns, and I just cannot do it—no matter what the date is.

Beautiful journaling! Thank you for sharing this poignant piece of your heart. It's good to read about others who are grieving, and realize it's a common experience, in spite of our smiles.