“That Monday in October, 1943. A beautiful day with the buoyancy of a bird…in the park…we giggled, ran, sang along the paths toward the old, wooden boathouse…leaves floated on the lake; on the shore, a park-man was fanning a bonfire of them…Aprils have never meant much to me, autumns seem that season of beginning…”
— Truman Capote, in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
Fall is my favorite season in the city. The days are cooler, but the sun shines bright. School has started and there seems to be a sense of purpose in the air.
This week felt different as I started to work with my students in person once more. The walks through Brooklyn seemed like the old days, only months ago, with a stop in a diner for a cup of coffee and a “Welcome back!” from the owner. We caught up and I checked in on his staff, many of whom have served me for years and even remember my order: “turkey burger deluxe and coffee, right?”
On another afternoon I was thrilled to find my favorite Italian bakery open, ready for me to purchase fresh-baked bread, and exactly the cookies my family bought when I was a little girl and we were going to visit my grandmother.
In Manhattan, after a doctor’s appointment, I sat on the steps of the Met, which swirled with activity, unlike the sad days of April when the steps were empty, and the sounds of sirens were everywhere. I watched a pigeon give me the eye as I munched on my pastry while hyperactive fountain sprays rose and fell before me.
Back to school has a different meaning this year, as I, too, am a student again, this time taking a slightly different path from writing and literature into the world of American History. This is an area that has always interested me but unfortunately has had a kind of four-year-cycle shelf life. Every presidential election I ponder the meaning of the Electoral College and subsequently do nothing about it.
This election is more anxiety producing than any in memory and taking a class, in addition to writing postcards for the Biden campaign, has given me that sense of purpose. Otherwise, as I stared at my ceiling in despair, I felt like I was standing by an ocean and watching a sinking ship.
I walk across 82nd Street, past stunning 19th century mansions as I listen to Ella Fitzgerald: “Autumn in New York is often mingled with pain…” Although mums line stoops and pumpkins are starting to appear, everything is changed this year. I long for the bright spirit of an October Monday in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, until I remember that this scene takes place in 1943 and the U.S. had already entered World War II.
We are fighting our own sort of war this fall, both physical and ideological, with massive casualties and no end in sight. On the bad days, I want to lay my head down and weep, as the sadness seems to overwhelm. On my few good days I feel better for the comfort that comes in small moments...a casual conversation, a cup of coffee, and the bright sun of a fall day in New York.