Turning the Page into September

I once heard someone say that everybody has one bad month that rolls around each year like clockwork. The idea is, no matter how you try, that month gets you—old hurts, hard memories, or things that keep going wrong.

For me, if I ever believed such a thing, it would be September.

It starts with my sister Deirdre’s birthday on the 3rd—nothing bad there, except it reminds me how fast time slips away. Then there’s September 9th, when my stepdad, Delmar, passed on. The very next day is my mom’s birthday.

If she were still with us, I’d probably hear her voice calling her and me “the aught babies” of the family—born in years ending in “aught” or zero and proud of it.

Then comes September 11th, and that one packs a wallop. Like everyone else, I remember where I was when the towers fell.

But for me, that day also carried three other weights. I worked 12 hours in the newsroom, knowing that when I clocked out, I had nowhere to go—Mary and I had separated the night before.

The images of dust clouds rolling down New York streets yanked me straight back to Beirut, 1983, and the panic attack that followed nearly flattened me. In the early morning hours of the 12th, hollowed out, I made a choice I’m grateful every day didn’t end the way I thought it might.

And then, as if September hadn’t already stacked the deck, the 24th rolls in—my mom and dad’s wedding anniversary. Married in Reno, Nevada, in 1956, before shipping off to France.

Given all of that, it’s clear why I believed in the “bad month” theory. September was the yard sale of my sad memories, all spread out on the lawn at once.

But this year, I’m doing it differently. I’ve decided to unsubscribe.

I don’t mean just mentally saying, Oh, September isn’t that bad. I mean actively refusing to let a month tell me how I feel. It’s a bit like telling the weatherman you’re going to have a sunny day even if he swears there’s rain coming. Sure, the sky might be gray, but you can still make soup, put on a favorite record, and call an old friend.

Here’s the truth: those hard days happened, and nothing I do will erase them. But I’ve realized something—it’s not September’s fault. September’s just a collection of days.

It’s not out to get me. My grief, my memories, my aches—they’re mine, and they’re part of my life no matter what the calendar says.

So I’m reclaiming the month. This year, on Deirdre’s birthday, I’m sending her something that’ll make her laugh—a ridiculous gag gift she’ll probably keep out of pity.

On the 9th, I’ll raise a toast to Delmar with his favorite soda drink, the one that is pure sugar but tasted like heaven to him. The next day, I’ll bake a cake for my mom, sing “Happy Birthday” to her picture, even if Buddy-dog gives me that look that says, “You’ve lost it, old man.”

As for September 11th, I’ll remember the lives lost and the strength found, but I’ll also make sure to sit quietly and breathe. No panic this time. Just steady breathing and a cup of coffee in the morning sun.

And the 24th? I’m thinking a trip to Reno might be in order—not for a quick wedding, mind you, but to tip my hat to the place where my folks began their long and winding adventure. I’ll stand in front of the courthouse, and imagine them racing down the steps and turning north to the Mapes for their one-night honeymoon.

Some people let certain months own them, like a landlord collecting rent on their mood. I’ve decided September’s not getting my rent check anymore. It can sit there with its stack of old memories, but I’m bringing new ones to the table—ones full of laughter, cake, and maybe even a road trip or two.

After all, the calendar may roll around the same way every year, but I don’t have to. I can turn the page any time I want.

And this September, I’m turning it with a smile.