In the early dark with fall so clearly in the air, I find myself missing New England and can't, for the life of me, think why. I think of woodstoves, leaves turning into the colors of fire, the promise of snow and mornings so bright they hurt your eyes and so cold they freeze your breath. Jacket weather, Nana would say, Don't forget your mittens.
On the mountain, two cords of wood would've been delivered and neatly stacked in the front yard. The screen porch would be abandoned til spring while frantic squirrels darted about gathering their winter food. We'd have mounted bird feeders on the back deck and Indian corn on the front door. If I were home, it would be maple syrup season on the farm and the thought of the old sugar mill brought back a quicksilver rush of memories - a gallon can of of syrup arrived each winter from Uncle Byron and it nearly lasted us til spring - my daddy would make Sunday breakfasts of pancakes and sweet french toast, an apron carefully tied around his blue dress pants and his tie tucked into his shirt, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows and the sound of New Orleans jazz in the background. Not the hugely popular and well known artists but the likes of Illinois Jacquet - Ssssh! he would say, pausing in mid pour of a pancake, Listen to that saxaphone!
Winter jackets and scarves and boots would appear and Nana would find her mink collared wool coat and galoshes (an odd combination if ever there was one) and we all waited for the inevitable first winter storm. I remember Villager sweaters and wool skirts - jeans to school was an unthinkable concept back then - and shiny new boots from Jordan Marsh or Filene's. My daddy even wore a hat in those days, a Homburg with a crisp brim if he was going to work, otherwise a crumpled old fedora he refused to throw away. Everything seemed to change with jacket weather and the dying of the light.
Some years there would be a reprieve, a few last golden days of Indian summer in late October or even November, a time to treasure and hold in your heart through the offensive and often brutal, unending winter. It was in just such a time that the Gypsy King died. Services were held in the small chapel at the funeral home and I clearly remember my daddy telling me that the old man had been a lesser sort of king that the title suggests. He laid in his coffin, stern faced and stripped of jewelry, wearing a startling red vest and surrounded by family - immediate, long lost, or out of favor, they all came to pay their respects, honor their tribe and make amends where necessary. There were no women in beads or peasant skirts, their hair flowing over their shoulders while they danced barefoot, no tambourines or Gilbert Roland look-a-likes swashbuckling around the casket. These were simple mourners, ill at ease in conventional black suits and long dresses and although there was an occasional flash of gold hoop earring, it was mostly a traditional affair and I was bitterly disappointed. Be patient, my daddy told me, It's not over yet.
On the fourth day, the funeral procession formed in the street - the old man's body in a hearse, mourners in limousines - and at the front, a magnificent, saddled but riderless white stallion, led by an old woman in a bejeweled peasant blouse and an ankle length, brilliantly colored skirt. Her white hair cascaded to her waist, her wrists and arms were a maze of bracelets, she wore tiny cymbals on her fingers, bells around her slim ankles and flowers behind her ears. She was everything I had imagined and hoped for.
Sometimes we're forced to make concessions to jacket weather and conventional behavior.
Other times we're angry enough, brave enough, or constrained enough to set the gypsy free.
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