Fall Flashback: Berkshire Leaves and Lost Layers
This past fall, the leaves began to turn yellow, brown, and red, signaling the change in season. As pumpkins started to grow, Charley made his return to the Berkshires. I wandered through town to grab my light roast coffee from Rubies, a cozy spot nestled in a quaint corner. Afterward, I couldn’t help but reflect on how the city’s constant hustle and bustle had me on the edge. My mouth watered at the thought of a wake and bake, even though I was on a cannabis break. I eyed my cabinet, already excited for all the cozy sweaters I’d soon get to wear. The dark green cashmere made me smile with optimism, reminding me that better days were on the way.
I slipped into my gray linen pants, preparing for another job search. Indeed is certainly no guarantee of success, so I scrolled through it like a new Instagram feed, applying to any disability equity and inclusion job that popped up. Frustration set in as I closed my iPad. Still no job. I yelled at the wall, letting the tension out.
To decompress, I called, “Roxy, come.” She jumped into my bed, snuggling up against me. She’s a feisty young puppy who sometimes shoves me away, growling when I try to pet her hind leg. After a brief standoff, she relents, nibbling as if to say, “Let me nap in peace, Charley!” But when it’s treat time, she’s all over my wheelchair, waiting for a piece of meat. She devours it like a war survivor facing hunger.
My house is full, and I feel trapped by the noise. The news blares in the background as my dad rants about the war in Israel. My mom, set up in her office, talks on the phone about new cancer treatments, advising patients on what steps to take. Meanwhile, I head to the kitchen to sort through my mountain of pills — it feels like we’re running a psych ward out of the house. After popping my meds, I get excited by the delicious smell of hot coffee brewing. I send a few work emails and dive back into LinkedIn madness, wondering if I’ll ever get a damn job.
Finally, I leave the house, entering my accessible vehicle from the back like a celebrity getting into a tour bus. I turn on folk music—Donovan Frankenreiter and Ray LaMontagne—and head to French Park to let Roxy roam free and do her thing.
Today, I ventured down a trail that was definitely not made for wheelchairs. It was a treacherous path called the Thomas & Palmer Brook Meadow Loop. The gravel hit my wheels like a steamroller paving a new road. My aide, Emmy, had Roxy trailing behind. We made our way down the path, laughing at the absurdity of a puppy chewing on moldy sandwich bread. Emmy shouted, “Drop!” and Roxy spat it out, and we both burst into laughter.
Emmy has been with me for nearly three months now. It’s a cool job, strutting through bookstores and going out to lunch while getting paid. If I had a job like that, I’d be smiling all day. But getting a new aide is like opening a new business — there are plenty of questions, tests, and adjustments. First, the basics: Can you cook? Can you lift me? Do you have a sense of humor? And can you see me naked without being weirded out?
Then the real work begins. I teach Emmy about the 23 pills I take every morning and explain my dressing technique, like a stewardess running through flight safety. "Shimmy the pants on," we joke. Over the years, I’ve learned each aide’s signature move — for Olivia, it was always “you freak.” For Pagie, it was the “delicious” hand gesture. For Michael, it was “Yalla, Yalla,” whenever we needed to hurry. These quirks make the routine feel a little less ordinary.
