It is autumn now but winter is coming

It is still autumn, but winter is coming, and already we are talking about getting out our winter coats, and clothes, and get them ready for cleaning. The electric heat is already on in a couple of the rooms, and soon Ma will be calling the folks to turn on the gas for our heater. Downstairs in the basement that could be an apartment for someone but is now mostly a storage unit for one family member (my stuff there pales in comparison), we shall be turning on the electric heat so that the pipes do not freeze, and bust as they have done in the past. It is vital that our basement not get flooded again, as the insurance folks have informed Ma they will no longer pay for any damages.

I was half joking when I told one of the friendly cab drivers that Ma’s house was a candidate for “Flip This House!”

The way some houses are built, sometimes you do not know when a minor disaster is going to strike. There were a few times, during the winter when our laundry room/utility room flooded, and the way to stop that from happening was to expand the wall behind the washer and dryer. Then there is always the water heater going bust, no matter what season is, and perhaps this piece should be about water instead of winter. The fact remains though, that in the wintertime, even greater care needs to be taken when it comes to this house remaining in one banged-up piece. It is that way for a great many houses.

Thinking of Ma’s house in the wintertime reminds me of her parents’ house in the summertime. When the monsoons came, particularly in certain parts of the Punjab, the rains brought down some homes, especially if they were made out of adobe like Nanaji’s was. Throughout the years, when Nanaji was still alive, one part of the house, whether it was where the outdoor choola was, or one of the rooms would fall apart. And each time it would be repaired – with adobe.

Some years ago, the rains destroyed a chunk of the same house that BaRe Maamoo had inherited. This time he decided to rebuild most of the house in brick. And it has worked for the family so far. Though it would have been nice if he went the extra step and put in a toilet to sit on rather than squat over a hole. But perhaps in time, this too will change.

With winter, there are other issues as well, to borrow from Robert Frost, “the woods are lovely, dark and deep” but on a snowy evening or day, things come to a slow halt especially for Ma and I. Once the beautiful snowflakes fall and transform into ice, it is nearly impossible to walk outside. Ma is not into even trying it sometimes because a fall in her condition would be disastrous, and after what happened to me last winter, I am more hesitant to head out on a cold wet day myself. The treacherous conditions are in part why some people especially the elderly become snowbirds and go to warmer climes for a good five or six months. I wish Ma could do that as well. And to think once upon a time, we all survived cold harsh Minnesota weathers with much less than we have now (or about the same), and Ma used to carry her youngest children in both arms while traversing blizzards on snow packed grounds. One of those stories to tell certain wimps today who shriek bloody hell at the sight of five snowflakes!

Until then it is autumn, and an autumn where I am is not quite as beautiful as one in Portland where there are more trees, and the Park Blocks, among other places are covered in red, orange, golden and brown leaves. And on a particularly windy day, watching the multi-colored leaves rise up from the dust and do a circle dance. While most people just would walk on by, I used to stand and stare at it, fascinated, marking it as one of the loveliest things to remember about a dark autumn day.

It is autumn but I can feel winter coming.

I walk into the kitchen where Ma is chopping onions. It is much warmer there than the rest of the house. I preface what I am about to say by asking her not to get upset and confide in her about why I get nervous at times about her being alone in the kitchen, and various parts of the house.

“Khalaji fell down in the kitchen.”

Ma keeps moving around slowly, now with a little bit of a limp, “Your Khala had a stroke.”

“But yeah, that’s exactly what I mean, Ma. One moment she was fine, and from the next moment on she was never the same again.” She goes back to chopping onions, “It just scares me a little. That image of her pops up in my head, especially when I know you’re alone – and with all your health issues.”

“You shouldn’t worry too much baby . . . .” She knows I’m about to say something, “I mean I don’t think it’s wrong for you to feel that way, but don’t think like that too much.”

She keeps slicing the white ball, until it whittles to thin slivers in a plate. I tell her I will check on her later and walk away, knowing she’s right. I don’t want to curtail her independence, or keep a check on her every movement. Nor do I have any control on what the future may bring. I return to the coldness of my room and try to focus on my work.

It is definitely autumn right now, but I can feel winter coming.

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the title of this was inspired by a sermon by my spiritual father, who in turn was inspired was a pastor who delivered a sermon called "It's Friday but Sunday's coming" I do not know if my title has the same hopeful message though.