- Kurt Ullrich lives in rural Jackson County.
Every November, for over three decades, the sweet ghost of my mother has visited me. She took her leave on a cold November day when I was in my 30s, and now I live uncomfortably in my 70s, filled with regret, for her in particular and, in general, for others I may have hurt over the years. My love for my mother was always deep, however, I could have been a better son: I will leave it at that. Sometimes I can drown some doubts and regrets in a good scotch, but not in November, not with mom so close.
The month is dark enough without me talking about death, loss and regret. Sorry. My mother relied on a church during her dark days, and believe me, she did. Mom suffered from depression, and her own struggling mother died in what was once called an “insane asylum” in Illinois in the 1950s. The same madness has visited me since I was a child, as this is the case for so many others around us. Mental health has rightly become a hot topic today, particularly when it comes to young people. I am happy. The genetic propensity for the half-empty glass is one of the reasons I chose cats over children. I would have been a bad father.
Speaking of darkness, the deer here are much darker than they were a month ago, their grayness a sure sign that we are fast-tracking into winter. I see them several times a day, hanging out near my garage, or running across a field in front of the house, running because male white-tailed deer are chasing females, because it’s rutting season, a breeding time. I feel sorry for the women. The males become stupid, showing caution in the cold wind, doing whatever is necessary to catch a female and impregnate her, and their idiotic behavior makes them more likely to be chased and hit by cars and trucks. Sometimes a late-season motorcyclist hits a deer, and it rarely ends well. There’s a moral here somewhere about men in general, but I’ll leave that to you.
At the bottom of the hollow, the leaves of a cathedral of walnut trees lie on the damp soil, turning into mulch as nature intended. Beautiful coyotes continue to pass by every other day, yapping, howling, making me aware of their presence, reminding me that they too share this world with me. It’s easy to be contemplative here, but I must remain aware that in the real world, hatred and murder are widespread on a massive scale, often in the name of one god or another. It has always been this way, but history does not prove it right.
I travel very carefully on highways at night this time of year, as all older men should. A few nights ago, there was a brief flash in my headlights as a small white and tan screech owl crossed my path. I am generally content with my solitude; there are, however, occasional moments when another human passenger would be welcome, particularly when magical scenes unfold, such as seeing a lighted owl in flight on a dark autumn night. There is a slight emptiness in telling my cat Luna what I witnessed here, but that’s okay because now I’m telling you and I really appreciate the opportunity. So let you and I put on some music and foxtrot or waltz our way through the month of November, just like Mom and I once did. It promises to be worth it.
Kurt Ullrich lives in rural Jackson County. His book “The Iowa State Fair” is available from the University of Iowa Press.
