Every young couple – and old ones, too – have a favorite song. For Karen and me, ours has been “September Song.” We listened to its words and melody when we were dating and at our wedding as well as at its annual celebrations – along with those times when the music was suddenly played during the autumn of the year. The month of September, itself, has been a special month for us. September is the beginning of that magnificent season when the forests become aglow with reds and golds. It’s the time for the next cycle of events to start. My own annual year began, not with January or even July (as some fiscal years do), but on September 1 with the opening of the academic year. For more than eight decades, September and its moments have been magical. This is no longer true in September 2021.
This year, this month does not begin with magical moments. It begins with a storm called Ida. Her winds and waters have brought devastation to New Orleans and the Gulf Coast as well as New Jersey and the Northeast Coast. Floods overflow not only the bayous of Louisiana but also the subways of New York City. The residents of Philadelphia and New Brunswick suffer along with evacuees from Houma and Grand Isle. Meanwhile, in the West, lands and towns burn to the ground because of raging fires. California’s forests are closed. Lake Tahoe is a smoldering ruin. In 2021, September’s song is one of tragedy, not of hope.
This September also marks the end of our twenty-year war in Afghanistan. Usually, the end of a war calls for joyful celebration, for the arrival of a longed-for peace. Not so for this two-decade conflict thousands of miles from our shores. For many, now is not the time for rejoicing but rather for finger-pointing, for the assignment of blame. We see the videoed deaths of our military and of Afghan children and ask “why?” Why were we there; why did we leave? Why did we leave the way we left? September’s song is one of death, not of hope.
This September we remember what destruction occurred on the Eleventh day of the month, twenty years ago. One hundred floors of the Twin Towers in New York City collapsed to create a mountain of rubble, brought into existence by two airplanes. The largest office building in the world had one of its five sides crash down as the result of a third terrorist-piloted airliner. A fourth flight ended in a field in Pennsylvania, because of the courage of its passengers who thwarted the actions of still another terrorist pilot heading toward our Capital City. September’s song is one of terror, not of hope.
This September we continue to suffer and die from a pandemic virus. Many once held the expectation that this attack would be concluded by the use of a new vaccine. Although the method for the elimination of COVID-19 became available several months ago, there are vast numbers of people who refuse to accept it. They claim the vaccine was developed too fast, without proper testing. It’s too experimental. Some claim the liquid to be injected contains nanoparticles the government will use to track them down. Meanwhile, our children wonder about the safety of returning to school this year. Should face-masks be mandated or left up to the discretion of parents, school boards, or the state or federal government? For an unexplainable reason, our citizens would rather die than lose their so-called freedom and live. In 2021, September’s song is one of confusion, not of hope.
This September there continues to be angry people who exhibit road rage or shopping center rage, depending upon the location where they feel extremely threatened or merely annoyed by another person. In Texas, everyone is now allowed to carry a gun, openly or concealed, with neither training nor a license to purchase the firearm. In Washington, D.C. and around the nation, there are those who view the invasion of citizens into the U.S. Capitol as being exuberant tourists and not rabid insurrectionists. Throughout the country there are those who are deeply angry about changes in abortion laws, in civil rights, in our culture, itself. In 2021, September’s song is one of division, not hope.
This year there are many versions of a September Song. In the past there have also been alternate words depending upon the singer. The lyrics of the currently popular group, Earth, Wind, and Fire, differ significantly from those of the early musical, “Knickerbocker Holiday.” Even Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra could not agree on the role of the young man and his song for young women. Nevertheless, the two crooners were in agreement for the chorus: “Oh, it’s a long, long while from May to December … But the days grow short …When you reach September … When the autumn weather turns the leaves to flame … One hasn’t got time for the waiting game … Oh, the days dwindle down to a precious few … September, November … And these few precious days I’ll spend with you … These precious days I’ll spend with you.”
These are the words Karen and I recall in the memory of our heart. Now at the outset of our ninth decade, they are even more relevant. We live together in the moments of our own September. Our days dwindle down to a precious few.
These words should also be the words others might follow. Our life ahead of us has fewer precious days than the ones we have left behind us. These days should not be a time for tragedy, death, terror, confusion and division. These precious days must be days of hope … days to spend together with the magic of autumn leaves. “Autumn Leaves,” of course, is still another song. Another promise for completion, for expectation and for hope.