The Grey Months

I note a call from friend Mark concerned over my welfare after reading last week's gloomy post. He needn't have been worried. Once the cherry blossoms bloom around the Tidal Basin, the melancholy will dissipate -- somewhat.

January through March are optimal for expending effort which bogs down in slush. I may rise sluggishly at lunch, treking next door to the Holocaust Museum, enquiring once more, about the fate of lost relatives, to no avail. Or make an appointment at St. Francis of Assissi to apply, to join, only to be stood up by the membership chairwoman. Shopping trips for a perfect pair of warm shoes prove fruitless upon discovering the next day, upon the train platform at 4:45 a.m., that my feet are still freezing.

What leads from this darkness?

Seven books from the University and another seven from the public library lie atop the shelves. Short books, mind you, since concentration is hard to maintain during the grey months. A perfect conversation, in keeping with the situation, within one, occured amongst two men deciding it would have been better for Gertrude Stein to have committed suicide in the ocean, clutching a knapsack of books, rather than weighing her pockets with rocks, in case there's time to fill in the heavenly waiting room.

On top of the pile, in easy reach, is a collection of columns by Red Smith, the classic baseball reporter. He writes of young rookies like Sam Mele, Alvin Dark and Bill Rigney, who in my time, I knew only by their grizzled faces on baseball cards, staring wistfully into the distance, as managers of mostly failed or one-hit wonder championship teams.

Friend Larry and I exchanged emails this past week describing ultimate baseball thrills. I offered hearing Mel Allen's broadcast when Mickey Mantle won game three of the 1964 World Series against the Cardinals with a home run in the bottom of the ninth, and then rushing madly into the library to tell mom, who would have been searching tranquilly amongst the shelves for her usual Tudor historical fiction.

Larry writes, "My mother let me stay home for game 7 of the 1960 World Series under the pretext of some minor Jewish holiday. However when Maz hit the homer I ran toward the school to let everyone else know."

In yet one more of an endless series of editorials by many writers attacking baby boomers, Rod Dreher says, "the culture warrior's of the previous generation were not wrong to question conformity but they went too far. They have deprived their sons of authoritative tradition, both in word and example, and with it the ability to transcend the adolescent state."

Transcend? I've never cottoned much to adulthood. As I looked around the room at a
birthday party for a 75-year old friend last weekend, I saw the old men who've transcended. They in their suits; me in jeans and what my wife contends is the shirt of the 16-year old skateboarder.

The hell with adolescent transcendence. What markedly distinguishes the grey months, and ressurects body and soul, is the traditional purchase of the first pack of baseball cards for the season (and let me tell you, the 2008 Upper Deck set, is magnificent.)

The local rag carried an article last week entitled 'Funeral Fare >> Food is Big Part of Healing,' listing easy recipes for funeral potatoes, a 'cheesy hash-brown casserole;' funeral Raisin Pie; and funeral beans with bacon bits. Marcia Armstrong writes, "For the congregants, comfort means ham biscuits and little sandwiches, brownies and tortes. Instead of just going through the motions of serving the food, we have to make sure we serve the family with compassion and a caring spirit. We are there to comfort."

There's no need for comfort minus loss. No Spring, without first enduring the grey months, in which I grasp desperately for small comforts wherever they may be found. It's invariably in small places, in the concern of friends over my well being, in possibilities of thrills to come, in a wife who adorns our home with the aroma of baking bread, and in living a life where you never grow old. Don't worry. I'll be better soon. On opening day.