My day was a study contrast when measured against yesterday. I started the day with breakfast with son Jamie at Ol’ South. It’s become a ritual we both enjoy on those rare days he can break away to visit me. He orders a Dutch baby, and I have corned beef hash—no egg, thank you, but lots of ketchup. On the way in we met a church friend—I introduced Jamie, and we chatted a minute. She told Jamie that yesterday I had eaten like a queen, referring to my blog post about my wonderful lamb chop lunch at the Modern Museum. That’s why I almost called this post “From the ridiculous to the sublime…”—I went from a sophisticated and gourmet-like lunch plate to hash for breakfast and loved them both.
Jamie had come to install my new computer, so when I left at almost eleven to go to my neighbor’s funeral with Christian and Jacob, I left him here.
David, Susan’s 93-year-old father, died suddenly last Thursday night. I haven’t been to my church much lately—transportation and mobility problems—but I went on the walker today, with Jacob and Christian. The service was lovely although the congregation was small—I realized that what my mother used to complain about was true of David: he had outlived most of his friends. Our neighborhood group was there though, and several people I knew. The homily was perfect, saying when people heard David died they said, “Why, I just saw him.” Making the point that he will always be with us, the minister said, “David sightings will continue.” The family had chosen two of my favorite hymns: “How Great Thou Art” and “Here I am, Lord.” I realized something that’s been creeping up on me—I can no longer sing the old hymns as robustly as I once did. I attribute this to my hearing aids which distort sound—my voice in my head sounds neither like I think it should nor like the hymn. Easter Sunday I’m going to take the aids out for the hymns and see what happens.
A nice touch: the family did not have the funeral home roll the casket out. The pallbearers—three sons-in-law and three grandsons—carried it. David’s three daughters, arms around each other, walked behind it. Hardly a dry eye in the congregation, certainly not mine.
The rest of the day was quiet—Jamie was busy with distance office work, and I was at my computer. He owns his own toy manufacturers’ representatives company and works from dawn to dark and beyond. It was evening before he worked on my computer and nine o’clock before he headed east to Frisco. He always apologizes for spending a day with me with his nose buried in his computer—or else on the phone—but like any mother, I am simply glad to have him here and grateful for the occasional bits of conversation and the visit over that ritual breakfast.
Tonight, for the first time since I committed to a thousand words a day, I didn’t get it done. I figure the new computer and Jamie’s company are worth it. Tomorrow I’ll get back to what seems to be my routine—my words written by noon, a nap and then odds and ends, and, after supper, reading—oh blessed luxury.