Periodically I look through my checkbook to see where all my money has gone, and every New Year’s Day I look through my wall calendar to see where the time went. Both bring reminders of pleasure, mystery, remorse, and resolve. And both affirm my status as an old Luddite, relying on objects unknown to most people under 20, which will soon be artifacts for future curiosity and amazement.
One thing about a wall calendar is that every flip of the page brings a new picture. I try not to look at all the pictures when I first get the calendar so that I can be surprised each month. Last year I saw 12 Impressionist and Post-Impressionist paintings, many jogging my memory about what I had learned in my college art history class. For 2025 I’ll be looking at months of mountain wildflowers in places I have never been. For January I’ll enjoy the scene above Rohr Lake in British Columbia, with its expansive field of pink asters, the snowcapped mountains rising in the background. A new picture means another month has zipped by but also means a fresh page to fill.
In reviewing 2024, I see recurring meetings that gave a kind of routine to my life. And like a lot of people my age, each month brought at least one medical appointment. There are squares with “lunch” written in, reminders of a social life that existed in the daytime rather than any night life to which I couldn’t see to drive anyway. Scattered way too far apart are “Fran,” “Ann,” and sometimes “F & A,” making me resolve to see more of these two good friends and colleagues from my teaching days. Maybe this year “Hair” will occur with more regularity, which would mean scheduling ahead, not waiting until one day I wake up and my hair is suddenly too long and I have to scramble for an appointment.
Names like “Jake,” “Dave,” “Will,” and “Jim” appear in different months, which might make one think—for half a second—that I was cycling through several romances. If that were so, I should remember who they were. I do recall Jake as the young man who came to fix my gas fireplace but didn’t. Will is my financial advisor with whom I have a conversation a couple of times during the year. He explains things I never understand but pretend I do; he’s such a nice young man I don’t want to cause him stress and even if he explained it again, I would still be listening with glazed ears. I can’t think of anyone I know named Jim and decide it must have been someone I talked to for the Press.
The real mystery is “Dave,” who appears three times in one week in January, one morning and two afternoons. That’s my son-in-law’s name, but we would certainly not have arranged formal meetings. And anyway, he would be at school. I can’t think of another Dave or what whoever he is came here for or where I went to meet him. Just when I had put him out of mind, he popped up on a Friday afternoon in early May.
There are a number of names other than friends that I figured out, some with more difficulty than others; they were people I interviewed for the paper. Seeing them reminds me of the interesting conversations I had, either in person or on the phone. So many talented people—author, artist, musician, journalist, weatherman, traveler. I learned a lot from each of them.
Another January mystery occurs on the 29th where “water” appears. Was it a reminder to water the only houseplant I haven’t yet killed? But why would it appear only once? Were we supposed to turn off the outside water? But why so late in the winter and on such a specific day? It was only after I stopped fixating on what it could mean that it came to me—someone was coming to check if there was lead in the pipes. (There isn’t.) A short-lived mystery was “spec” on Dec. 10, 5 to 6. It would have been no puzzlement at all if I had added “trum.” An inked and underlined “May 30” remains an unsolved mystery—along with Dave.
March 23 is heavily circled around “Lentil.” That was the day of a baby shower for my granddaughter—a celebration of Lentil before he became Roman three months later. It’s weird to think back to that day before Roman was here and we knew what a delight he would be.
This “year in review” has brought happy memories and a resolve to identify the names of mystery people on my 2025 calendar. I already have a problem on Jan. 28 of this year. “Doc” appears, and while I know that’s short for doctor, it will take me a while to figure out which one of the many that is.
Carlene Phillips, author of “A Common History: The Story of Harvard’s Identity,” is a regular feature writer who pauses from time to time to reflect on the humor in the everyday.
