From the lamb chops to hash…

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.

Whining again

Like many of us, my mood waxes and wanes (maybe with the moon), though I hope casual friends don’t sense it. Good friends do, and Betty kept giving me pep talks last night about not expecting to get back to the real me too quickly after the bout with the swollen foot (still swollen a bit) and the fall in the restaurant parking lot. She even brought my garbage cart up because she said I shouldn’t have to do it. One problem with me: I could succumb to that kind of pampering easily. But her reassurances that my funk wasn’t permanent were an enormous help, and I went to sleep last night determined to be happier and more confident today. It worked. I certainly walked better than I had all week.

I’m not sure what caused my funk beyond the lingering foot problems. Monday I was tied in knots when I went to a funeral at a church where I’m unfamiliar with both the building and the worship, but I had a good friend to sort of keep me on an even keel—she too knows me well enough to recognize when I’m tentative, and she cheerfully held out a hand when I stumbled in my self-confidence. Yesterday, when I was in the deepest funk, I stayed home, glued to my computer except for supper. And that may be a part of my problem—I like people around me. Today, however, was another event I dread—a dental cleaning. I need to back off and say I love the hygienist, she never hurts me, she’s cheerful and funny (and thinks I’m funny), and if I’m tentative she’ll walk me back and forth to my car. I came away with a clean bill of dental health—except for those blasted blueberry stains. She laughed aloud when I said blueberries were in season: “As if I couldn’t tell,” she said. I think a childhood fear of the dentist office lingers. Dental technology is so changed and improved, but it’s hard to erase those early memories.

Other people go to funerals and dentists without getting their panties all in a wad, or maybe they fight internal battles that I don’t see. But I wish anxiety would just go away, and then I think of all the people, even in my small world, whose problems are so much greater. I think I should just gut up and forget it.

I’m of two minds about anxiety—the more you think about overcoming it, the worse it gets; on the other hand, it takes a conscious effort to drag yourself to a more positive place. One thing I know: it waxes and wanes. I think it’s waning right now.

Tomorrow? A haircut,  always a cheering event.

Singing Jan home

 

I went to the funeral of Jan Jones today, a woman I’d worked with on three book projects and admired greatly. Jan taught high school English, speech and drama for many years. When she retired, she became historian and researcher extraordinaire. She published two books with TCU Press—Billy Rose Present Casa Mañana and Renegades, Showmen & Angels, a theatrical history of Fort Worth. She was part of a group of women who collaborated on Grace & Gumption: Stories of Fort Worth Women and Grace & Gumption: The Cookbook. For a few years there we were a tight-knit group. I miss those ladies and was glad to see some of them at the service today.

What I realized today is that I knew Jan professionally but not personally. In my mind she was in one slot—historian and writer. But today I learned there were so many other sides to her very full life. She had a close and fairly large family and was especially close to nieces and nephews, one of whom died suddenly and tragically and next to whom Jan will be buried. She was a passionate dog lover—who knew? If I’d known, we could have talked dogs endlessly. She was active in her church, and had a huge circle of friends—I knew that from the Facebook expressions of regret when she died. A learning lesson for me—get to know people outside the roles in which you originally meet them. Know the whole person, not just the writer or historian.

Jan never married, and the minister referred to her as a single woman a tad too often for my taste. He seemed to be saying that it was amazing that she accomplished all she did without the help of a man. Not amazing to me—maybe she did what she did because no man held her back. He initially said it was remarkable and difficult for a single woman to rise to prominence in the Church of Christ and that may be, but Jan did. And she rose to prominence in many other area. I have always disliked being defined by my single state, and I bet Jan did too.

I knew the Church of Christ did not use musical instruments in their worship, but I was unprepared for and pleasantly delighted by the robust and vigorous choir. The songs they sang were mostly unfamiliar to me, but they were upbeat, joyous and full. The one I knew was the recessional, “It Is Well.” A friend of mine, a church soloist, refers to singing people home when she is part of a memorial service, and I felt that was what we did today. We sang Jan home.