September's Sad Song

My “Autumn in New York” has nothing to do with Ella Fitzgerald’s words, but the wistful longing tone she gave her lyrics, mirror my mood.

“Autumn in New York

Is often mingled with pain

Dreamers with empty hands

They sigh for exotic lands

It’s autumn in New York

It’s good to live it again”

I’m about as far from Manhattan as one can get in New York, closing our little lake cottage as she celebrates 125 years of gracing Mountain View Lake’s shore. Confetti in leaf-form floats from trees with the gentlest of breezes, scattering golden, burnt orange, and crimson decorations that land languidly until Finn and Maisie stir them, chasing any ducks who approach their territory.

I have no “glittering crowds in canyons of steel,” no “gleaming rooftops at sundown,” or “benches in central Park,” to bring “promise of new love.” Instead, I have sunlight’s scattered diamonds dancing on the lake’s surface, an old tire swing where my toes dip into the crisp quiet shallows, and mountains of old love shared these past 16 summers on Sunset Ridge.

I slide my kayak down the launch for one last paddle.  Shall I go left or right? Down river my twelve-year-old neighbor, Ambrose chides his little brother, “Can you stop being so annoying for just one minute,” while steering his boat back to shore. I grin, then glide left, my decision made.

The lake feels deeper today, more water beneath me, flowing for the dam that hems it in.  The weather called for clouds all day, but I squint at blue sky, searching for remnants of flocks I’ve watched all summer.  Three ravens flush from a pine tree and do a little half circle back into the cover.  When we first arrived, sixteen summers ago, we weren’t used to these great black birds that hopped along roadside, and our daughter christened camp, “The land of the galloping crow.”

I approach the fallen tree that extends to form a lovely little duck dock.  For the past month I’ve examined the Mallards resting on it as I glide by, considering it a great omen if “all my ducks are in a row.” Today the shapes silhouetted on the perch are two or three times too big to be my Mallard friends.  “Geese,” I sigh. “I see you’ve chased off my good fortune.” Unlike the usual lilting quacks of warning, these guys honk as I pass, growing loud enough to force two of their nearby swimming fellows to take to the air. I watch the log interlopers to see if they’ll join, but they remain spectators, honking all the louder while waddling in place, long necks extended to see where their friends land.

Will this be the last time I jokingly judge my day based on duck orderliness?  I remember the first few times we packed up and left the camp, Dan would gaze wistfully over his piece of the Adirondacks and say, “I always worry I’ll never see it again when we leave.”

“Don’t be silly, of course we’ll be back,” I would reach over and pat his hand. But we have no such guarantees; so even though he doesn’t worry anymore, having gotten back here year after year, I am increasingly asking myself how many more times I’ll be strong enough to get in and out of my boat, how many more times I’ll hear a Loon’s haunting tune, how many sightings of the Eagle, how many more campfires with my family, “docktails,” with my neighbors. . .

“Can you stop being so annoying for just one minute,” I repeat Ambrose’s warning to myself. 

There is no denying that one day I’ll have my last paddle. So today, I'll enjoy it like it’s never happening again, and let that be enough. September’s song doesn’t have to be sad. I line it up gracefully in a row on a log with other ducky memories—and won’t let it be driven off by some silly goose.