The eloquence of companionable silence

 

The other night my visiting daughter, Megan, and I were in the cottage, each absorbed in whatever we were reading. We had about chatted ourselves out, catching up on what’s going on in the family, what’s happening with my Austin grands (the younger of the two got a job hosting in one of my favorite cafes—I can’t wait to go there again!), talking about recipes which we can do endlessly. But we had settled into silence. About nine-thirty, she came for a hug and said, “I think I’ll go inside and get ready for bed. It’s not as though we are talking to each other.” I protested, “But I was enjoying your company, even If we weren’t talking.”

It made me think of a favorite poem, “Speech after long silence,” by W. B. Yeats, so I looked it up and printed it out. Only when I reread it did I realize it didn’t really apply to a mother and daughter—it’s obviously two older lovers—but I have always thought it spoke to the eloquence of a shared silence. I printed it out for Meg, but she is not much given to poetry, I don’t think, and was busy with other things. So I’ll share it with you. Yeats having died in 1939 and the poem being all over the internet, I’m pretty sure it’s in the public domain:

Speech after long silence; it is right,

All other lovers being estranged or dead,

Unfriendly lamplight hid under its shade,

The curtains drawn upon unfriendly night,

 That we descant and yet again descant

 Upon the supreme theme of Art and Song:

 Bodily decrepitude is wisdom; young

We loved each other and were ignorant.

That resonates with me on so many levels, so I hope it may with you too and bring you some comfort on this almost-rainy night, whether you have companionship for your silence or, like me, memories.

Yes, rain—almost but not quite. Last night we had an impressive serenade of thunder. Sophie took it seriously enough that she was right by my side. But we probably didn’t get more than two minutes of scattered drops. Tonight the sky to the northeast is dark and blue, which is strange because our weather usually comes from the west/northwest. I understand downtown they got a brief shower and much farther east, they got some good rain. Not us.

Jordan has pulled the dead herbs from my wooden garden and the petunias from the pots by the door. You wouldn’t think that is cheery, but I am relieved not to look at dead, brown plants. The pentas are still struggling, and nothing has bloomed—not the pentas which were so tall and colorful last year nor the magnificent oakleaf hydrangeas. It’s a brown, sad world. But the bright note is that at seven-thirty, my computer tells me the temperature is only 85.

Trivia for the day: I really appreciate the man who took the time to write me about my You-Tube page, what is wrong with it, what he would do to make it vibrant and attract customers. Trouble is, I don’t have a You-Tube page. I think he may be worse than all those men who write to tell me how beautiful my smile is and how impressed they are with my posts and how they’d love to be friends but they’ve tried a couple of times and the requests didn’t go through. Would I please respond so that we could correspond. My first thought as I hit “Delete” is, do they know how old I am? Second is, how dumb do they think I am?

And I found out the name for cottage: it’s an “Accessory Dwelling Unit,” ADU for short. I shouldn’t joke because I read that in a moving article about a challenged adult whose family built an ADU so he could be close and still get personal care. For me, I like “cottage” a lot better. Granny-pod is maybe okay, though those are often simply a bedroom in a separate building. For heaven’s sake, I want to do more than sleep out here in the back forty. Just fixed myself a dinner of salmon patties, leftover cooked carrots (which I adore and no one else eats), and leftover oven potatoes with gravy—too full to eat the potatoes, so they went back in the fridge.

A good, productive day—I wrote maybe 800 words on Helen Corbitt and a thousand on Irene’s latest adventure. I think I’m entitled to spend the rest of the evenin with a book—in companionable silence with myself.

Stay cool and pray you get wet. If it rains, walk right out into it and raise your arms in glory!

The inflexible routines of aging

Excuse me if I digress for a moment to say how blessed I am. For part of this morning and the early afternoon, Jamie was here, nose buried in his computer. But he was here, in the same room where I was working. Tonight ten-year-old Jacob is on my couch, buried in his iPhone while I work at my computer. But he’s here. (He’s so wrapped up in whatever’s on his phone that he didn’t even blink when I took the photo above.) It brings me great joy to have them here. I don’t care that they don’t carry on conversations or pay attention to me. It’s enough that they are here with me.

Jamie’s visit caused me to reflect on how we get set into routines, particularly as we age. I think we find comfort in doing the same thing at the same time every day. I eat breakfast, such as it is, between eight and nine every morning; lunch is between eleven-thirty and twelve-thirty, and diner is sixish. Living not exactly with the Burtons but not far from them, one of the adjustments I’ve had to make is that they don’t eat dinner at six. Sometimes they don’t eat dinner until eight or later. Hard for an old lady to change.

On those treasured days when Jamie comes over from the Dallas area, we go to breakfast. The goal is always nine o’clock. This morning it was at least ten before we were settled in the restaurant, and I was so ravenous I ate a double order of corned beef hash (with a lot of ketchup). We hadn’t been home long when I looked at the clock and realized it was nearly noon. Then, suddenly, it was almost two, and Jamie had to rush back to Frisco to take one of my granddaughters to an art lesson. He literally ate leftover chicken-fried steak out of his hand as he ran out the door, and I ate a light lunch of leftover tuna salad and a bit of smoked salmon with cream cheese.

I napped, as I always do, but later than usual. See? There’s my routine again. I nap about two, read in bed for five to fifteen minutes. Today, it was almost three before I crawled in bed. I slept so hard I thought I was in bed for the night and woke with a start at four-thirty to scramble to make an appetizer for neighbor Margaret who was coming for happy hour. By five, we were on the patio, sipping wine and eating hummus that I’d topped with chopped onion, cucumber, and tomato (oops, forgot the feta).

And so I didn’t eat dinner—leftover lamb, cold, with cherry tomatoes and gherkins--until almost eight. I’m clearly off my routine—and it’s a great thing. But tonight, as usual, ten is my bedtime.

I’m not sure if routines are a good thing. I think my mind tells me flexibility is good, but my body votes for routine—with such strong votes as hunger and sleepiness. I hate to admit it’s age, but I think maybe that’s at least part of it.

A world without dogs would be empty

How much of a dog person are you? How much do you worry about their sensitivity and feelings? Jordan arrived about six tonight bringing her two Cavalier King Charles Spaniels hoping to begin to acclimate them to what will be their new home. Sophie had just begun to chew on her dental chew (she gets one every night). This was the thickest big one she had ever had, and chewing on it was a long and hard job. She chew, and watch Cricket and June Bug warily, as though they’d come over and steal her chew. They wouldn’t. They don’t particularly like chews, and their temperament is far from confrontational. But Sophie was ready just in case.

At one point, David (one of my "other sons") put the chew on the buffet, at my request. Sophie came looking for it, sniffed it out, climbed on a footstool, and grabbed it off the buffet. David watched and said, “I’m impressed.” I told him poodles and border collies are two of the smartest breeds, and she is a dynamite combination.

Sophie is such an important part of my days since I’m home all the time. She gives me th companionship I crave. She sleeps on her chair in my office—that old, ratty, filthy chair is going to the cottage with me, because where else would she sleep? Maybe we can wash the slipcover. When I nap or at night, Sophie visits me in my bed. Sometimes she stays a while, and sometimes not.

In the late afternoon when folks gather for happy hour, she thinks it’s time to eat and demands her chew treat and her dinner. But she won’t eat her dinner alone in the office—she’s a sociable creature and wants folks around when she eats. Tonight, Cricket and June Bug made no attempt on her food, though Soph would eat and look around warily. It may take more for Sophie to acclimate than the two spaniels.

Tonight was a light summer supper. Jordan makes superb tuna, with the tuna I order specially from Oregon. I told David I’d be interested if he could tell the difference—he’s a confirmed tuna lover but eats Chicken of the Sea albacore. He took one bit of our tuna and said, “Oh my gosh, yes!” It really is soooo good. Now I have lunches for the next few days.

Tonight the spaniels will sleep in their shared crate in the sunroom, and Sophie will have free rein in the rest of the house. Jordan objected to that and said the first time she barks, she’s locked up in the office. My argument is that if she barks, she’s protecting us against something and we need to pay attention. Authorities say a dog that barks is one of the best protections against burglaries. We’ll see what Sophie does tonight—and what Jordan does.

I love dogs—did you guess?

Poor Pitiful Pearl

That was me when I woke up yesterday morning—deep into a pity party. My local family was going out of town (hey, for a big four days!), more than half the people I rely on for companionship were everywhere from New Mexico to Spain, and I envisioned a long lonely week at my desk. I may love working at my computer, but I also thrive on people.

I know that old dictum: the only person who can make you happy is you. So I dug in: called my colleague Melinda to see if she could do lunch today; went to dinner at the Grill not sure who I’d have for company and had three lovely neighbors—Garrett and Bonnie Tucker and Sally Dalton. Today I had lunch with Melinda, which is always a happy occasion—we take little travel bottles of wine to our favorite tiny Italian restaurant where I always eat Braseola (beef version of prosciutto). Tonight I went with Mary V. and had a Caesar salad with scallops at Pacific Table.

My week is filling up—grocery and lunch plans tomorrow, plus that good supper I’ve been meaning to cook for myself for over a week; Friday, grocery and tentative lunch plans; Saturday the kids will be back and we’re talking about barbecue for supper; Sunday I’ll fix a welcome-home dish for Subie and Phil, something I’ve been wanting to try. Shh! Don’t tell.

Meantime I have work on my desk—got 2^nd edits on the Peacock Mansion and am over halfway through reading a manuscript for TCU Press.

This morning all the subcontractors for the bathroom redo were here to gather info for their estimates, so this really is becoming a reality. I groan a bit about the construction process, the cleaning I’ll have to do, etc. But I’m really excited.

Moral of my story: life is good. But only if you yourself determine to make it so. Pollyanna is now signing off and going to read that manuscript.