A Time of Quiet Reflection

An Alleshouse family picnic, with Dad on the left, Grandpa Alleshouse on the right, and Uncle Paul between Aunts Marge and Ruth on Townview Circle in the early 1960s.

For those weeks when the sun sets early here on the North Coast, we lean into the long nights as a time of reflection and memory.  And when memory takes over, the people and places we’ve loved emerge as fully formed images of times and places to hold tight.

Some years those images come from the pages of my well-worn address book as I write New Year’s greeting cards. Every year, a few more names are annotated as now gone – and a few more are added to its fading pages. The oldest entries are family and friends from home in Ohio. There are college year friends, the friends we made as young parents, then the colleagues from our middle, heavy-lifting years when we somehow raised children and worked demanding jobs. And there are the precious recent memories from the time we spent in Southern California with dear humans now on the list.

Memories also fly during and following laughter filled zooms with high school classmates as we plan a big reunion. We start off with the important work – the weekend to choose and the events to plan. Quickly the work devolves into a series of “do you remember whens”, that lead to laughs as the faces on the zoom quickly resolve into our 18-year-old selves.

My college roommates began virtual gatherings early in The Pandemic. That was so wonderful, it hasn’t stopped. Every week we catch up on lives we’re leading 40 odd years after we all shared a dorm.

I still hear the voices and laughter of my long-departed aunts and the few uncles I remember. The sweet near whisper of Aunt Mary’s kindness, Aunt Ruth’s perpetual chuckle over the equally perpetual pot of coffee, Aunt Greta’s Eastern European accent as she carefully shares only the good memories of her youth in Yugoslavia.

My parents re-emerge at this time of year. Happy fun memories of annual concerts and recitals that crowded the year-end calendars. My mother passed on when I was in my early 20s, so that’s when the memories stop. Dad was present when I married and the children arrived – so memories of his calm quiet include his humming along as first Clare, then Ben pretended to read stories from books far beyond their picture book stage.

And we remember those who left well before their time. My nieces Megan and Brittany should be home with family preparing to celebrate the holidays. And they, too, have passed on, leaving behind memories of their once easy childhood laughter and energy.

I’ve learned to hold tight to those who are still here to create memories for the coming years when long winter nights lead to reflection. And to cherish the images of those who now are part of memory, as they remain as dear today as they were when the memories were created.