Feeling pensive

Image by Freepik.com

It rained in Texas today! Not the downpours that residents feel in the Northwest or the storms that sometimes deluge the eastern coast, but it was wet, and in Texas we are grateful. But it was also dark and dreary, the kind of day that can encourage deep thoughts.

My church recently was rocked by the tragic deaths of a prominent member, active in church affairs and the city of Fort Worth, known and admired by many, and his two children. They were killed in a horrendous accident on Thanksgiving Eve. The mother, badly injured, survived. The funeral was today, and the church expected an overflow crowd. I zoomed from home. I did not know this family—I know the older generation by sight and reputation, had never heard of the branch of the family involved in the accident. But I went because I know they are good people—it makes you think of the now-old book, When Bad Things Happen to Good People, by Harold Kushner. I went because even without knowing them I felt surrounded by grief, by the impact of this tragedy on our community. As a now-retired minister once said to me when I asked about a tsunami, “Shit happens.” Faith helps us sort out that shit, and that’s part of why I went today—call it curiosity. And finally, I went because at my age I need reassurance about life and death. Like many people, I am still trying to sort out my belief, even as I feel the time for doing that is shortening. Was it John Donne who wrote, “But at my back I always hear/Time’s winged chariot hurrying near”? At the polar opposite of that thought is the fact that two children died in this accident, and our minister acknowledged that there is something particularly heartbreaking when we lose children with so much of their life ahead of them.

The service brought tears, no doubt about it. I grieved for the brother who gave the eulogy and had an obviously difficult time getting through it, though he managed occasional bits of humor. And I grieved for the visiting minister, the father’s college roommate, who continually wiped his eyes as our minister spoke words of comfort. I grieved for our minister, who had been close friends with this family and had loving stories to tell about all three. I grieved for the surviving widow/mother, who sat in the front row, flanked by the two grandmothers and holding hands with them.

The message of hope that our minister delivered was that God is always with us, in good times and in tragedy—perhaps you must be of my Protestant faith to accept that. But what I came away with today is that we must live with vitality, with a positive attitude. Grief doesn’t go away. It is always there, waiting to overwhelm, to trip us up. I think the same is true of doubt. But it is up to us to live past it and through it. Both the brother who gave the eulogy and the minister talked about grief being with us every day, if we let it in. It’s up to us to shut that gate.

What I’m trying to talk about in these meandering thoughts is the importance of a positive attitude. And that’s what was reinforced for me today in the memorial service. I know it will be a long time before that extended family can move through and beyond grief, but it is up to us to surround them with love and encourage them as they move forward. And it is up to us to live beyond and through our doubts and temporary problems. I am a big believer in the power of positive thinking. Who wrote that book? Norman Vincent Peale, of course.

I had other deep thoughts today, probably about rain or maybe about list-making, but somehow now, after a glass of wine and an offbeat but good dinner—smoked salmon, cream cheese, and some frozen spanakopita—they don’t seem so dark to me. I have been making lists for a couple of weeks—I am not one to let Christmas sneak up on me, and this year I will have my whole family around me. So you can tell lists are needed—food, gifts, things to do. Perhaps attending today’s service, which had sort of loomed over me much of the week, reaffirmed my faith and freed me to move on to holiday planning. I hope it will help me too to remember the true nature of the holiday I celebrate as a Christian and not get lost in the lists and the gifts and the food.

How does the holiday season affect you? Have you made lists? Have you looked at your darkest thoughts? It’s a tough time of the year, despite it being the season of hope and joy.

Another week begins--and some reassurance

 

Some Mondays I greet the new week with joy and enthusiasm for all its possibilities; other times, I think, “Ho, hum, another week.” I’m afraid this is one of the latter kind of Mondays. Not sure why but I have this niggling feeling that something is wrong.

There is illness in my family and friends, and that could well be it. From Covid to surgery to hospice, it seems too many around me have health problems. Granted, most are my age or close to it, but I don’t think it’s all age. I’m fond of saying there’s a spot on the moon, but I am not really superstitious enough to believe that. It’s just that 2023, for which I had such high hopes, seems to have gotten off to a bad start.

We did have a green Christmas. There’s an old saying that a green Christmas means a full churchyard. My dad, a physician and hospital administrator, always changed it to a full hospital. He was obsessed with the hospital census to the point he once, sitting in the yard, asked me to go in and call the hospital to inquire about the census. I refused, realizing full well what a laugh the switchboard would get if I, then maybe twelve, asked that question. But these days I think about Dad and his full hospital often.

Strangely enough, a memorial service was the highlight of my day. I attended using the church’s Live Stream, but I felt very much the presence in the sanctuary. I suppose I’m not the only one who’s church experience varies—much of the time I am intellectually engaged by the sermon. But frequently nostalgia overcomes me as I hear the words of prayer and the hymns of my childhood. Today, my experience went beyond that.

We were celebrating the life of a woman I feel privileged to have called friend, though in recent years we were down to occasional emails as health issues limited both of us. Still, I look back with happy memories on our connections—we met not in church but a the home of two men, a couple, who lived down the street from me. Ray was a cook extraordinaire and gave dinner parties; Susan taught high school English with Jim. And so I met her and her husband over dinner. Then in later years, we served together on the board of the Friends of the TCU Library. And, of course, we crossed paths on Sundays at church and talked often about how we must do lunch. We didn’t actually get that done a lot but I do remember one time when I was to pick her up for lunch and got the wrong house. She said she stood in front of her house, looked down the block, and thought, “Hmmm. Judy’s going to take my neighbor to lunch.”

There were other sporadic visits—she and John came to my front porch for supper once or twice, and once when they couldn’t make my annual big Christmas party, they sent her mother who was one of my absolute favorite women, a church connection again, and her sister. I wished today I had asked one of the presiding ministers to give Ellen, the sister, a hug from me.

But I digress. What I really want to say is that today’s service went beyond nostalgia and intellect to become an emotional experience for me. Hearing the words of consolation, of assurance about God’s presence, of gratitude (the Scripture was from the Psalms), I felt my faith strengthened. I had a sense, in this season of illness, that all will be well. Yes, I was sad—as I watched the sanctuary empty, I found myself saying, “Goodbye, Susan” with a finality that brought tears. But the overall sense I had was one of comfort.

Of course, then I turned on the news tonight, which is never encouraging, and an email got me smack dab again in a professional brouhaha in which, yes, I do have a dog in the fight. So the world is as it will be, but I feel a bit better able to deal with it.

So Tuesday is a new day. And I intend to treat it as the start of a new week. I have editor’s comments on my manuscript to deal with which is always fun for me, and I will spend much of the morning making German salads for Mary’s birthday dinner. She feels her German heritage strongly, more strongly than I do, but we both love the food. It will be a good day. May yours be good too—and your week.

   

A sociable day—and a mind-boggling one

 

A gorgeous salmon filet ready for the oven.

My resolve to focus on the Helen Corbitt project went all to hell today. The day began with a brief trip to a medical laboratory for instructions on a test. Then home to make tuna salad for a lunch guest. I had jammed in some work before the 9:15 appointment, including checking corrections on the last pass of Finding Irene proofs. Home again, with an hour between the tuna salad and arrival of good friend Melinda for lunch, I wrote exactly one paragraph and then did odds and ends.

Melinda was as anxious as I was to watch the January 6 committee special hearing, so while we munched on tuna, we stared at the TV screen. So much for catching up with a friend I haven’t seen for six months. But we were both mesmerized, and she more reactive than I. When something extraordinary would come out, Melinda pumped her fist in the air and yelled, “Yes.” At one point, when it was revealed that trump wanted the magnetometers removed even though they were detecting scary arms among the protestors, Melinda said, “He’s toast.” I hope she’s right.

I did find the proceedings riveting and Cassy Hutchinson one of the most admirable young persons I’ve seen in many a year. I applaud her bravery, even in the face of death threats. And I am, like many Americans, appalled at the things that came out—like the former guy throwing a plate of food against the wall or attempting to strangle a security aide who wouldn’t follow his wishes. There’s been some fallout, but I am anxiously awaiting various news analyses to, I hope, confirm my reaction to today’s explosive revelations.

While watching the hearing, I was also trying to watch the memorial service for Bob Lyon, father of my friend Sue Springfield. Bob was a Canadian law enforcement officer, serving with the Provincial Police for over thirty-four years. He was also a genial man who enjoyed a glass of wine and loved to tell a good story. I thoroughly enjoyed his annual visits stateside, and I will miss knowing he is not among us.

Somehow, I snuck in a nap in mid-afternoon and then was up and ready when our regular Tuesday night happy hour neighbors arrived at five o’clock. Talk ranged from what children were doing to real estate and preparations for moving out of an older home, long loved. Then about six, my niece Jennifer arrived.

I haven’t seen Jenn, I don’t think, in over a year. She is a busy single mother of two daughters, fifteen and twelve—not quite driving and requiring a lot of chauffeuring for their various activities. We had a lovely visit—caught up on her, the girls, her dad (my brother), her stepmom—just sharing old times. I’m hopeful that this is the beginning of a renewed relationship. I have told her all along that I wanted her girls to know me, but her busy schedule didn’t allow for much leeway.

We had salmon for dinner—not unusual in this house. But the way I cooked it was different. Slow roasted, which I never thought of. I rubbed a 1.5 lb. filet with olive oil on the surface, skin side down, and then seasoned it with salt and pepper, minced parsley, and assorted herbs from my garden. Cooked it at 250 for twenty-five minutes. Perfectly cooked. No need for lemon or anything else. It was delicious. Christian made asparagus with Parmesan and smashed wee potatoes—and I do mean wee--to go with it. A good dinner. I hope Jenn didn’t get the idea that we eat that way every night.

Now it’s nine o’clock—not late, but later than I want to do any extensive writing or research, so I will probably read and prepare for what I hope will be a heavy workday tomorrow. Even without rain these cooler days have been a blessing. May they continue, although the weatherman tells us they will not.

Christian tells me everything in the garden is in survival mode because of the heat and the drought. I believe it because I too am in survival mode. Because of weather, the January 6 committee revelations, the ongoing outrageous decisions spewing out of SCOTUS. Some days, it’s hard to keep the faith, but I am trying. You try too, please.

 

 

Warm memories and chilly evenings

 

This morning I went to a Zoom memorial service for two people who were at one time a huge part of my life. I met Nancy and Ray in Fort Worth, though Ray attended the osteopathic college in Chicago where I worked. We could have run into each other but didn’t. They were close friends from the mid-sixties until whenever they retired to Santa Fe, and after that I visited them often, sometimes staying in their home. Once I went to a week-long writing workshop there, lived in their guest room, and rented a sporty convertible. Boy, did I think I was big stuff.

Nancy and Ray were married for sixty-three years, and while I loved them both, Nancy and I particularly shared a lot—life’s ups and downs with doctors/husbands, children, careers, my divorce, some family trauma with them. Today it was so satisfying to see their three children, now in at least their late fifties and beyond, well settled in life. They did an outstanding job of remembering their parents and sharing those warm memories with us. I’m almost beginning to think Zoom is a great way to do a funeral, though I guess I still prefer, when possible, the traditional service in the church. Certainly in quarantine times Zoom allows us to find the closure that we all need after a loss.

One of the memories shared today was of a place called the Public House, a restaurant/meeting area that Nancy started in Fort Worth with a friend. Nancy did all the cooking, and it was hearty, good food. But it was so much more. Groups met there, people came to drink coffee and see who was there to visit with. A bookstore started in one corner of the huge space. It was innovative and forward-thinking, and I was glad to be reminded today of how special it was.

Tonight as a bonus from the memorial, I had a long talk with an old friend in New York City. She too was at the memorial service—we had shared these mutual friends. We caught up with each other’s families and goings on. She loves living in the city, while to me Fort Worth is already too big, and I can’t imagine living in New York City. We also talked about mutual friends from our TCU days. It’s interesting to me that my connections to friends are so multi-layered. I’ve noticed over the years that when I introduce friends to each other they then become good friends. A nice compliment, I think.

Today was one of those balmy days that can fool you in North Texas—temperature probably in the sixties and sunny most of the day. But when the sun goes down, the air chills quickly. Subie and Phil came for happy hour, and Christian built a fire in the fire pit while Jordan turned on the outdoor heater. I wore a cozy jacket and had an afghan over my knees—pretty comfortable, though I wouldn’t have wanted to stay much longer than we did. Cold weather puts a real crimp in our quarantine socializing plans, though even on the patio we only socialize with those we know have also been quarantining. As Subie said tonight, we are in a pod.

my Christmas front door

Now, it’s late, and we’re waiting on the cook who got a late start on supper. Marinated chicken breasts and salad—sounds yummy.

Warmer weather coming this week—until Christmas Eve when a cold front will hit. Enjoy the sunny days while you can.

 

 

Laughter at a memorial service and great plans gone awry

At our cozy happy hour tonight

Oh, there were tears, but laughter also rang out at Trinity Episcopal Church this afternoon at the memorial service for Father Mart Gayland Pool, one of the kindest, most natural men I’ve ever met, a true gentleman. His good friend, Father Bruce Coggin, preached about Gayland’s generosity, curiosity, his sense of humor and his idiosyncrasies, and about the nature of life and death. A moving service, a fitting tribute, and a joyous send-off for a friend and much-respect member of the community.

Amye, the dog whisperer

with a mesmerized cricket

Tonight, I had great plans, a scene in mind that I intended to write. But two of Jordan’s close friends came for happy hour and I was easily distracted. We talked dogs and holiday traditions and memorial services—on my mind since I’ve been to two in the last six days. All this in front of the fire and Christmas tree. Lovely setting, good friends, pleasant evening.

And a pleasant day, including lunch with Carol and Lon. Memorial services are not exactly day-brighteners, but this was a true celebration of a life well lived. And once again tonight I am reminded how lucky I am that the “young” people—omigosh, they’re in their forties! —are so affectionate and open with me. Life is good, and for one day I don’t want to think about tax bills and sexual predators and fake news and what is happening to America.

Back to normal tomorrow, and I’ll write that scene. It will probably keep me awake all night. Sometimes when I have a scene in mind, I write it a hundred times in my head at night, as though I’m trying to remember it. But then when I go to actually write it, I often can’t remember the wonderful details of my nighttime version. Go figure.

Sweet dreams, everyone.

A downer night

No blog tonight, or at least I intend none. Who knows? My brain may run away with my typing fingers. But my thoughts tonight are gray, and I figure this is the season of joy, so it’s not appropriate to spread gray thoughts.

Then again, maybe I’ll tell you that the novel I’ve just begun writing is about racial prejudice or bigotry, and it occurred to me that a few months ago our country was consumed with the racially charged issue of tearing down statues of Confederate heroes. No thoughtful consideration. They all had to come down right now! Instant action.

Now our country is consumed with sexual predators. We rush to judgement, forgetting that the American way is innocent until proven guilty. I suspect even honest and upright men are quaking in their shoes. In fact, I’ve read such about Congress these days. In our haste, we’re about to destroy the legislative branch of our government. And maybe the reputations of a few good men.

It’s well known I’m no fan of 45, so it will be no surprise that I lay all this turmoil at the feet of our faux president. He has promoted bigotry from day one, with immigration policies, support for Nazi protestors, a cold shoulder to Puerto Rico, a wall between us and Mexico. He has also leapt to the defense of Republican sexual predators—note that it’s a party-line thing. He quickly condemned Al Franken but supports Roy Moore, because we “need” that Republican seat in the Senate. Like hell we do! But of course 45 supports someone like Roy Moore, because there are now 16 accusations against him for sexual violations. And no one—not one single voice in the House or Senate—has called for an ethics investigation.

I’ve read and hesitate to believe that the destruction of America is his goal, and he will accomplish it much as Hitler tried to destroy Germany—divide and conquer. 45 is doing a good job of dividing, but I’m not sure he’s clever enough to have it as a long-range goal. I think his divisiveness comes from his personal prejudices and impulsiveness.

Nonetheless, I am sad about America tonight. And I’m sad because I went to the memorial service for a friend of at least forty years. It was in a funeral home instead of in the church she’d attended almost all of her adult life. The service was poorly attended and highly impersonal, until her oldest son got up and made remarks about his mom. Even then I’m not sure he’d paid enough attention to her professional accomplishments, which were stellar. She was the founding chair of the department of anatomy at an osteopathic school that now, almost fifty years later, has flourished and become a major health science center. It has flourished because of her early efforts and those of her colleagues, many now gone. My friend was there for 36 years, serving as dean of students among other capacities. Her students adored her, and I feel sure if they’d known some would have been at the service. All in all, it made me sad.

And America makes me sad.

Tune in tomorrow. I promise to be more cheerful, more in keeping with the season. It is, for all religions, a time of hope and joy and new beginnings. Let us rejoice and look to the future.

Losing friends--a part of aging

I went to a memorial service today for an old friend who died in February back east--his family arranged a service here in Fort Worth because he had lived here so many years, raised his children here, and made lots of friends. He left in 1986, and I probably haven't seen him since, although his ex-wife and I have remained close friends. And today I got a nice hug from his oldest son.
George was one of the happiest, most open people I've ever known. I was pleased to celebrate his life today because I have such good memories. I remember one night looking out my kitchen window when the kids, all teenagers by then, were shooting baskets and there was George out in the middle of them. Yet I also remember him walking around the block endlessly when his youngest son was a fussy infant--about the same time my youngest son was an infant but fortunately less fussy.
George was a great storyteller, and my dad used to love his company. Once George told Dad about the little boy who was five and had never said a word until one morning he said, "My toast is burned." His family all rejoiced, hovered over him, and asked why he hadn't talked. "Everything's been okay up to now." That was a George kind of story.
George was also politically active, a great liberal, and I remember going to ACLU parties at their house. I still have some friends from those parties.
The service today was in a beautiful but small Episcopalian church, and the difference in our denominations came home. For one thing they had the wrong words to some hymns--Jean made me realize they had the original words and we Disciples had changed them to make them more inclusive. But what bothered me most--and has in other Episcopalian services--was the impersonality. George's name was mentioned once--I watched. The homily was about God's grace, the gift of life everlasting bestowed upon as at baptism. I believe that, and I liked to recite the Apostle's Creed, which we seldom do in my church. But I wanted George stories. I wanted something that captured his wonderful, warm personality. I wanted to say "God be with you, George."
The service also reminded me that I am now at an age when we lose friends. I've lost two other good friends in the past year, and I remember my mom moaning that all her friends had died--she was quite a bit older than I am at the time, but I see it on the horizon. And it's depressing. Actually I'm pretty lucky--most of my friends are, like me, in good health. Knock on wood.
And, George, smile down at us from above.

What hat am I wearing today?

Some days I feel like I wear a number of different hats. Today was one such day. It began with a dental appt. at 9:50--only the hygienist called at eight and wanted to know if I could be there by nine. I actually made it, throwing on yesterday's clothes, and was there ten minutes early. What I expected to be a long appointment wasn't, even with x-rays and a visit from the dentist. I was home shortly after ten, cleaned up odds and ends, had an early lunch and took a really early nap--noon--so I could be ready to go to a 2:00 funeral at the church.
Toni Newton was the assistant (read executive secretary, though I'm not sure she ever attained that title) for Chancellors Moudy and Tucker at TCU. I met her when my office was in the administration building but then I got to know her through church, the Church and the Arts Committee (which she claimed had more fun than any other committee--and she was right). Toni was one of the most upbeat people I've ever met--always cheerful, always welcoming, always concerned about you. Many of us said today, "Toni was always so good to me," but I always added, "and she was so good to my children." Once in high school my oldest daughter wanted to join the church, but she had never been baptized (long story) and didn't like the idea of immersion. Toni told her, "Oh, honey, just fudge. God won't care." She lived a full life, dying Nov. 22 at 97--someone said "Leave it to Toni to die on a day of national significance." For me, it was hard to see that wonderful, vibrant life summed up in a brief memorial service--but I was glad I went.
Home for a few minutes, intending to get Jacob and a friend by 4:15 but Jay came by with wine in his hand, and it was five before I got the boys and started them on homework--first we had to go back to Hayes' house because Jacob left his binder with all his homework. They actually worked diligently (well, pretty much) and I wonder if there might not be something to this shared homework. Then we went to meet the neighbors at the Grill--a big crowd. To my great joy both boys were well behaved, ate well, and didn't cause any fusses.
Hayes' parents came for him about 8:45--they'd been to a party--and it's all quiet now. Jacob is getting a last few minutes on his iPad.
Is it okay if I go to sleep as early as he does? I'm tired, but it's kind of nice to wear different hats--except maybe for the dentist. Nice as those people are, I always dread it, a hangover from my childhood. Otherwise, though I felt hurried, it was a good day.