Dancing in the darkness of November

Every November for more than three decades the sweet ghost of my mother pays me a visit. She took leave on a cold November day when I was in my thirties and now I reside uncomfortably in my seventies, filled with regret, about her in particular and, in general, about others I may have hurt over the years. My love for my mother was abidingly deep, however, I could have been a better son: I’ll leave it at that. Sometimes I can drown a few doubts and regrets in a decent Scotch, but not in November, not with Mom so close at hand.

The month is dark enough without me nattering on about death, loss, and regret. Sorry. My mother relied on a church during her dark days and believe me, she had them. Mom suffered from depression, and her own troubled mother met death in what used to be called an ‘insane asylum’ in Illinois in the 1950s. The same insanity has visited me since I was a child, as it does so many around us. Mental health has deservedly become a hot topic today, particularly as it relates to young people. I’m glad. The genetic propensity toward glass-half-emptiness is one of the reasons I chose cats over children. I’d have been a lousy father.

Speaking of darkness, the deer out here are much darker than they were a month ago, their grayness a sure sign that we’re traveling hard toward winter. I see them multiple times a day, hanging out near my garage, or racing across a field in front of the house, racing because male white-tailed deer are chasing females, as this is the rutting season, a time for breeding. I feel sorry for the females. Males become stupid, throwing caution to a cold wind, doing whatever is necessary to catch a female and impregnate her, their idiotic behavior makes them more susceptible to being hunted and being hit by cars and trucks. Occasionally a late-season motorcyclist will hit a deer, and that seldom ends well. There is a moral in here somewhere about males in general, but I’ll leave that to you.

Down in the hollow, leaves from a cathedral of walnut trees lie on the damp ground, turning into mulch the way nature intended. Beautiful coyotes continue to pass through every couple of days, yipping, keening, letting me know of their presence, reminding me that they too share this world with me. It’s easy to be contemplative out here, yet I need to remain aware that out in the real world there is hatred and killing on a grand scale, oftentimes in the name of some god or other. It has always been thus, however, history doesn’t make it right.

I travel very cautiously on the highways at night this time of year, as all elderly men should. A few nights back there was a brief flash in my headlights when a small white and tan Eastern Screech owl crossed my path. Generally content in my aloneness, there are, however, occasional moments when a fellow human passenger would be most welcome, especially when magical scenes unfold, like seeing a lighted owl in flight on a dark autumn night. There is a slight hollowness to telling my cat Luna about what I witnessed out here, but it’s OK because now I’m telling you, and I truly appreciate the opportunity. So let us, you and I, put on some music and fox-trot or waltz our way across November, just like Mom and I once did. It promises to be worth the effort.

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