A perfect autumn day for a homecoming

Last week I attended a university homecoming reception, one in which a university’s Class of 1973 was being honored, a class of which my wife was a proud member. I registered for the reception to represent her, which may seem a bit odd, but it felt important. It was a beautiful event, held in an old campus dining hall that, if you squinted just a little, could have been the Hall of Christ Church in Oxford, or the Great Hall at Hogwarts Castle where students gathered for meals.

It was one of those perfect autumn days, trees reaching peak colors, the temperature just cool enough to require a jacket, sun shining, just the kind of day I recall more than 50 years ago when I would regularly hitchhike from my own school to visit my best friend, a brilliant woman who held that position until late 2020. I was doing fine until I walked into the hall and encountered my wife’s 1973 senior photo, along with photos of other class members who had passed. That one caught me off guard.

I wore a lanyard with my wife’s name on it, but it didn’t seem to matter. Some thought it quite cool that I would attend for her, while others seemed to know who I was. Recently I was told that I am ‘rememberable,’ an odd distinction, but I’ll take it. A little out of my element and still shy, luckily a woman from the university shepherded me around the hall, introducing me to others, and letting me talk about my wife to anyone who would listen. I made every effort to be charming, not tedious, but one never knows. I hope smiling helped.

Sometimes meeting new people is no more than that; “Hi, how are ya? Good to meet you,” no pressure to ever see them again, or say anything meaningful, but this felt important. My heart may be failing but it was all in, conversing with other elderly people who, on a daily basis, continue moving forward, sometimes stumbling headlong into a future they have realized they cannot predict. It was Sinatra singing something about days growing short in the autumn of his years. And there we were, all in it together, sometimes moving, sometimes stumbling.

Out here winter will be coming on fast, but meanwhile, dozens of very active Carolina wrens stopped by my place after a recent heavy rain, bathing in a large puddle that had formed on my lane. When not bathing they chased each other with extraordinary aeronautical skills, swooping high and low, enjoying their time. After a couple of days, they moved on. I hope they visit you.

Out on a nearby two-lane I passed within three feet of a red-tailed hawk on the side of the road, refusing to move, guarding her prey. I was so impressed with her courage I had to turn my vehicle around and take a few photos. She did something I’d never seen before, hopping across the busy road, and dragging a dead animal behind her. I couldn’t tell if it was a dark rabbit or a young raccoon. Anyway, she made it and it was one of the coolest, bravest actions I’ve encountered in a while. As I took her photo she looked at me with the look of an age-old, hostile question: ‘What are you looking at?’ Her ability to ignore and work through the serious dangers and difficulties around her was impressive, reminding me of a woman I once knew in an old photo.

Kurt Ullrich lives in rural Jackson County. His book “The Iowa State Fair” is available from the University of Iowa Press.