Please don’t say ‘Remember me?’

As I write this dusk approaches, a glass of amber liquid sits to my left, and a rafter of 10 turkeys has just walked past the front of the house. Yes, these were turkeys, not guinea hens, which is an identity mistake I made recently. I had the right family but the wrong bird. What were birds endemic to Africa doing out here? Anyway, my visitors … three adults and seven little ones stopped for a few moments in the newly mowed field before they reached the tall grass to the west. The adults were about twenty feet apart, hunkered down. One imagines they were protecting and watching the little ones scattering about, but it’s hard to say for sure. There is so much we don’t know about wild animals.

Recent reports indicate that turkey numbers are declining rapidly in Iowa, something wildlife experts find concerning and they say that some of the decline can be attributed to nesting issues and fertility problems. They don’t mention death by lead or steel shot, so I’ll let it lay and move on.

In a closet just off my living room, I have kept two baskets and a box, all filled with cards and correspondence, most from three and a half years ago, when my wife died. Many, many good people sent kind words. When I receive these missives I read the words once or twice, fall apart a little, then put them with the others. Last week I filled up a large garbage bag with all of them and sent them to the dump. I trust you’ll understand.

Also last week I was sitting in a chair out on the drive, reading a book, and listening to a jazz radio station coming from my garage JBL Monitors. A classic came on, a Dave Frishberg song first made famous in 1967 by the talented singer/pianist Blossom Dearie called, “Peel Me a Grape.” Maybe you know it. The version on my radio was by Ramsey Lewis and Nancy Wilson, but it was OK, because instantly I was back in New York City with my wife, sitting at a small table a few feet from a black grand piano in a little cabaret called ‘Danny’s Skylight Room’ watching Ms. Dearie perform. It was an odd name for the venerable club, as there was no skylight. Anyway, it was a magical night and after her performance, we had a chance to talk with her, and we spoke of her time in the 1950s and 1960s when she and my wife’s Iowa-born-and-raised pianist uncle played in the same revues and clubs around town. I miss those days, those people, and sometimes I feel like I’m only in these stories because I once loved someone. Now I’m lost without her.

My age is catching up with me, and may well pass me. I’m convinced my writing is failing me. I make errors, and I repeat myself. My ability to recognize people I should know has greatly diminished. Good folks say “Hello, Kurt,” and I have absolutely no idea who they are. The worst ones are, “Hey, Kurt. Remember me?” Please, please don’t do that to me, because I fear you’ll be hurt if I say, “Sorry. No.” I’ll be smiling, of course, if that helps. Perhaps I should simply say, “Of course, I remember you,” in the hopes that nothing more important than how much rain they had in their rain gauge is discussed. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. Perhaps I’ve stumbled upon the beginning of wisdom here, though admittedly I knew very little more than a half-century ago and I’m still pretty clueless, but I’m learning. Like so many other things, summer fades. Of that I’m sure.

Kurt Ullrich lives in rural Jackson County. The Dubuque Telegraph Herald recently published a 60-page magazine of Kurt’s columns. The magazine can be purchased here