Autumn Blooms in anticlimatic

It’s an exquisitely warm first day of autumn, and me not being one to let such things go to waste I spent most of it strolling the neighborhood scenery with my hands in my pockets. City trash pickup is coming soon, and people had begun setting out their bulky garbage. Worn out sofas. Unwanted night stands. And in front of one house, a cardboard box of old solar powered yard lights. One of which was still working, and extremely bright right after sunset. I grabbed it as I passed.

The bridge over the river wasn’t far, and I just couldn’t help myself. I found the center of the river, which was flowing away from the bridge and from me into the dark winding forested preserve. With one or two calculations, I chucked the solar torch across the road and over the far railing into the dark, about where I thought the river probably was, and spun around to face the foaming black and grey water far below. Enough time passed that I thought I missed the river completely, or that it sunk, or got hung up on a branch- but then all of a sudden there it was, bobbing along like a gigantic firefly away- away- away, into the forest. For a long time I could see it winking in and out of view between the branches. And then it was gone.

I know it’s littering, but…fuck it. I’ve collected a dozen garbage bags of trash from that river basin on various group cleanup initiatives, so it can owe me a solar torch.

From there I wandered into downtown and my thoughts took a darker turn. I kept seeing various places whose shapes yet retain their integrity from multiple decades ago- which often cause my perception of reality to twist- like a rag in a wringer- just for a moment, putting me back in that surreal gritty world that I yet remember as yesterday- half populated by retired ancestors long dead now, boomers in their 20s and 30s living it up, and millennials…who were exclusively toddlers and babies at the time.

Next to the park, Pennsylvania Park, which yet bears its train tracks from back in the day when train was the most used means of getting into town, is a popular bar. It’s somewhat indoor/outdoor, and occasionally boasts live music or a DJ. Tonight it was just a jukebox going, I think, because the song about having margaritas and anal sex with a stiff beat was absolutely pulverizing all of the park with its neon din and youthful shrieks.

I watched the place rock from across the street for a while and time shifted on me. It used to be a 40s themed diner called Jespersons that closed most weekdays at 4:00 pm- a bright white interior with a dim light theme, that specialized in home made pie and a reasonably priced lunch special of a sandwich with soup. It was always quiet in there. The owner was quite old, and soon to retire and sell. Occasionally the “round table” of Greatest Generation gentlemen, of which my grandfather was an official member, would meet there. If I happened to be walking past and saw him sitting in there with either Dave, boot shop owner and historian, his closer friend Denny, Big Al, Archie, any of the other lads- I’d let myself in the bell-ringing door and go give him a hug and a hello. Often I’d get sucked into the group for some pie or lunch, on them of course.

The light used to flow into that building through the blinds in stark lines.
Everyone I remember seeing in there, down to the owner, is dead.

And now it’s neon purple, and twerking. C’est la vie. I feel like there are moments in the lives of people, and society as a whole, that resemble different plants as they grow, bloom, wilt, and pass.

I found Jespersons as it was wilting, but at the time I was blooming, so the memory of it will always feel conflicted. I believe those are the ones that endure the longest.

Last updated September 24, 2023