MY
YEAR
Donald
A. Windsor
A
calendar year is analogous to life itself. It starts out rough, but
full of hope, and it ends in a crescendo of gloom, worry, and
despair. Along the way it celebrates the exciting joys of youth in
spring, the smug satisfactions of adulthood in summer, and the
apprehensive exhilaration of maturity in fall.
As I
advance in age (83) and approach my own reluctant demise, I currently
see myself dwelling in the waning days of November. Almost all
flowers have quit blooming; darkness is triumphing over daylight; the
headwinds seem to blow ever harder and colder, and I become weaker
and weaker.
Here
is my personal year, the calendar superimposed atop pivotal points in
my autobiography. I travel through this cycle every year and find it
to be very therapeutic.
At
sunrise on the day after the winter solstice, I am conceived.
On
Epiphany I am born.
On
Groundhog Day I start grade school.
On
the vernal equinox I start high school.
On
May Day I become a soldier.
On
the summer solstice I become a research biologist.
On
the autumnal equinox I become an employed family man, fathering four
children.
On
Labor Day I retire from employment.
On
Halloween I become a grandfather.
On
Thanksgiving I have a heart attack and undergo life-extending
surgery.
At
sunset on the winter solstice, I die.
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