Open Writing

The other day I discovered a web page that offers spectacular pictures from many locations in the Antarctic. The pictures also include shots of the living and working conditions of the researchers there, and it illustrated for me how humans differ enormously in their tolerance for weather extremes and also sunlight depravation.

I suppose it touched a nerve, because, although I never have been medically diagnosed, I know with certainty that I suffer with Seasonal Affective Disorder, (SAD) as it is called. If I’m denied sunlight for extended periods, my spirits droop. It wasn’t until I was drafted to Italy during my military service that I became aware of how debilitating, typically English weather had been for me. Suddenly I was alive and energized.

This dependency on sunlight was a strong factor in my desire to settle in Florida, once I could choose where I lived, rather than have my location dictated by my job. The 1,800 mile long, narrow peninsular that is the state of Florida, has very consistent and well-defined weather patterns.

The weather in the southwest where I live is almost always sunny and cloudless in the winter, and it rarely rains. The past four years have been even more arid than normal. It’s quite unusual to have a gray day, so it was a surprise when I awoke recently to leaden skies and light showers. It was even more surprising to have those conditions remain that way throughout the day, clearing only towards the early evening.

You might think that experiencing the occasional overcast day would be a welcome change from constant sunshine, but my reaction was the opposite. It reminded me of all the disappointingly miserable summers I had experienced in England, in the days before it became commonplace to take off for a week or two in Spain, or Yugoslavia as was, or nowadays more exotic destinations. In my time, the average annual holiday was a week or at most two, spent usually in Wales or the southwest of England. If it rained for most of the time, perhaps next year would be better.

I have spent much of my thirty-odd years in America, living in regions where cloudy, rainy days are not unusual, but at least it was warm in the summertime, and my frequent business trips took me to sunnier places. I was surprised that my recent gray day brought with it a flood of memories; most of them poignantly sad. When the sky on that day cleared towards sunset, the memories intensified.

As a child growing up in England, often I would wake up to the sound of rain, driven by the wind against my bedroom windowpane. Looking out onto the street, I’d see people leaving to catch the tram to work, leaning into the wind, and holding their umbrellas in front of them to fend off the almost horizontal shafts of rain. If it was not a school day, I’d cling to the all too often, forlorn hope that the rain might stop for at least a little while so I could play outside. On a school day, I’d cringe at the thought of spending seven hours in damp clothes and soggy shoes.

My gray, Florida sky cleared at sunset, just as would often happen in my childhood, redoubling the sadness I felt at being denied my freedom all day. My father would look out at the reddening sky and make the same observation every time: “Best part of the day. Better day tomorrow though, red sky at night and all that.” I was not mollified; my day had been washed out by the rain, and I didn’t believe the old saw anyway.

A winter snowstorm often would unfold in the same way; the flakes thinning out in the afternoon and ceasing just before sunset. I didn’t experience the same sadness on such days, because usually I had spent some time outside, sledding or building a snowman, but the pale, afternoon sunset, for me, was always tinged with melancholy. The blanket of snow rendered our neighborhood even more hushed than usual, and the only sound to break the silence would be the sudden and strident alarm call of a startled Blackbird.

It was this remembrance of my melancholy that drew me into borrowing my title from the acclaimed book written by Kazuo Ishiguro, and later made into a movie by my namesake, Ishmael Merchant. The main character, an aging butler, reflects, while writing his memoirs, on what “might have been” if he had not dedicated his life to his employers.

In his mind, the “remains of the day” had parallel significance, representing on one hand the evenings, when he might have time to himself after his duties, but also the time left to him in his life. I suppose I identify with him in both senses; in remembering the sadness of my childhood rainy days and evenings, and also reflecting on my own age and mortality.

# # #