Stuff and other stuff

I bought a Dyson vacuum cleaner. It wasn't cheap. But I had new carpet on the stairs and didn't want to use the heavy Kirby. So I bought this Dyson.

It's portable, cute, has the famous ball. Only one problem.

It doesn't vacuum anything up from my new carpet. I'd say it sucks. But it doesn't.

*     *     *

I drove by the bus stop near my home. Three young people sat waiting for the bus. A girl about 17, a boy about 14, another boy about 10. I don't know if they were related. They were not sitting close to one another, but that doesn't mean anything.

It's what they were doing that interested me.

The girl was thumbing on her electronic device--cell phone, I think. The older boy was reading from a Nook or Kindle or maybe an Ipad. The young boy actually had a book on his lap, a book with a hard cover, and he was reading it. Deep concentration showed on his face. And he was turning pages. Did my heart good. No particular reason.

*     *     *

I just made two batches of yum-yums. The ones I made in my old 9x9 pan are great. It's the best pan for yum-yums. The second batch I made in a new pan, 7x11. But it's not the size; it's the stuff the pan is made of. It's just not as good, and the yum-yums aren't as good either. The edges burned, too. Makes me mad.

I knew it ahead of time. There's only one true yum-yum pan.

I am a Grandma, of course

And Clayton was here yesterday. That's Clayton Oliver Scaggs, my grandson. He's nine.

Clayton is a fine boy, great kid. Yesterday simply underscores what I knew, but it was quite a heavy underscore.

He is polite and thoughtful and helpful. Cleared his own dishes, kept his things neat and in order with no word from me. Offered to help me, offered to go get a drink for me. Did what I asked. And he was patient. Yes, I said patient.That's really good for a nine-year-old. He's just really good. I told him he was perfect.

I'm guessing the best thing we did was to go out to Lucky Peak in the afternoon. We drove over the dam and around to a place where we could walk down some metal stairs to a picnic area, and from there he could walk into the water. Yes, it was a designated swimming area.

I told him it would be cold water. He acknowledged later that it had been cold, but at the time never said a word about it. He just played.

At first he was only ankle deep, then rolled up his shorts, then took off his shirt. When he was in up to his neck, I told him that was too far, and he came back in. After all, he had told me earlier in the day that he doesn't know how to swim.

He played for more than half an hour, throwing rocks and pieces of wood, digging in the mud. Playing. Fun to see him having fun.

When I took him home, he hugged me. That's without being asked to, he hugged me. Remarkable. Then he said, "Today was awesome." I have to agree.

For what it's worth

June 14 is Flag Day. It's also the birthday of my friend's son. One of her sons. So last Thursday, Flag Day, I thought of her and of her son.

Friday I was in Nampa, thought I'd go to Caldwell and visit her, so I called. No answer. I left a message saying I had been thinking of her and would call another time.

I went home. She called back. I thought that was a good thing; she could call back. She might be doing better, getting better. I mean making a call is complicated, especially if you've lost your memory of things and how to do things. And she made the call. I think.

I told her I had been thinking of her and of her son because it was his birthday the day before. Right? She didn't know. She'd have to ask her husband.

Oh.  Not so good.

This was the beginning of a mixed up conversation. She had wits about her to give me advice--unsolicited, but good advice. Very sensible. But other things were confused.

For instance, she asked if she has my phone number. (She has, and I have given to her at least six times. But no matter.) I said, I'll give it to you. She got paper, muttered about finding a pencil, found one, and said she was writing. Now, that is a good thing. She can write.

But she said she does no shopping, no cooking, no housework.

I asked if she still plays the piano, because the last time I was out there, she played for me. A complicated answer, involving "When we moved . . . ".

I said, "You moved?"

"No, when we moved out here I didn't know . . . ."  And so on.  I couldn't decipher it.

They moved out there in 1974 or 5. So for a while she was way back. And not remembering clearly, because she gave piano lessons for years after they moved out there.

The short answer is no, she is not playing the piano.  That is very sad. But the whole thing is very sad.

I told her she doesn't have to answer to me; I was just interested.

She said she wanted to answer to me. But clearly she couldn't really answer at all.

They still want to go on a mission. At least she does. After all, as she said, she could do it because "You have a companion."

I'm not sure why I'm writing about this. Keeping track of it, I guess. It is hard to call, hard to visit, hard to watch her unmentaling. Anyone reading this already knows that, at least in theory.

I always think of my friend Phyllis, who knows it in reality. In fact, I visited her today. She told me she went out Sunday to celebrate her husband's birthday with him. Of course, he didn't know it was his birthday, has no idea how old he is. Hard for Phyllis to watch his disintegration.

I think of my brother-in-law, who doesn't know his own children. I only see his downward slide once in a while. My sister is daily, hourly witness.

So, it's hard for me to call my friend, hard to go see her. But I want to do it. I'm going to do it. Partly because she appreciates it so much. I suspect the day will come when she does not know me. That will be a test. For me.

She said, "Sometimes I'm scared."

I'm scared for her. 

Weird

Friday, late afternoon, I heard the ice cream man drive by. Music from his truck was O Come All Ye Faithful.

I'm not kidding.

The Widow Says a Few Words

Two weeks after Wayne died, a woman I knew but not well saw me in Costco. I think I was eating a hot dog. She leaned over me, put her arm around my shoulder, and said, "He's better off." That is all she said. "He's better off."

I was stunned. Stunned to silence. What could I possibly say? Not what I was thinking, of course. Like, how would you know that? And what does that mean? He's better off away from me? Is that it?

All the way home I told myself she meant well. That was neither the first nor last time I had to tell myself. People who say such things always mean well.

The day we buried Wayne, my own sister--older--sat at my kitchen table and asked me if I thought I'd marry again.

Out of the blue. Unexpected. Shocking.

Of course, I had NOT thought about it and couldn't think about it. I believe I made some guttural noise. Just the two of us there. I must have said something. Something like, NO.

Did she mean well? I'm not sure. Maybe she was curious and nothing more. Maybe she was thinking about herself. But that would be another story.

But here's the deal. When someone you love dies, like your husband, you don't want someone talking about your future. You can't look ahead just then.

You don't want advice. You don't want someone telling you that time will heal your grief or that things will get better or that there's a reason this thing happened. A reason it happened to you. You especially do not need counsel from anyone who has not had that experience because, after all, what could she possibly know?

What gives people the idea that they have a right to say such things? I know. I know. And I've already said it and thought about it again and again for nine+ years. They mean well. They really do not know what to say. I can even be sympathetic with them about that. They want to say the right thing, something to help. But those things they say simply underscore the fact of their inexperience in these matters.

And you simply can't say to them, "You don't know what you're talking about." You can't, can you.

The only thing that is the right thing is for them to be sorry, and even better, to remember your loved person and speak of him to you. That's really good. And it helps. And it helps a lot nine years later.

I began this post thinking of the woman on my recent trip to Israel, Deanne. She was also a widow, of about two years. Close to my age, maybe older, maybe younger. Hard to tell.

Someone must have told her I was a widow. I can't think who. But Deanne didn't give me advice or speeches of comfort. She just took it into her head that I needed caring for, and she was going to do it. I'm sure she meant well.

For instance. We were at Temple Mount, about to climb some steps up to a large plaza to see the Dome of the Rock. There were eighty or so of us, by the way. To our left was a small vehicle, like a miniature street cleaner, and the cleaning of the concrete where we stood was imminent. The vehicle was about five feet away from me and nearly in front of the steps. I saw it, of course, and was waiting for it to pass. Several of us were waiting there.

Deanne came up beside me, reached her arm across the front of my body--the way we used to do when our kids were riding in the front seat of the car and we had to stop quickly. (Before car seats, you know.) She held me back with her arm and pointed to the cleaner vehicle.  Thus saving my life, I guess.

Getting the picture?

This is only one incident of several. Others sometimes involved explaining things to me.

Do you know me? Then you know how I feel about people explaining things to me that I have known, like all my life. Know what I mean?

I do not want to be unkind. I was not unkind to her. I don't think. But I did try to discourage her, with eventual success.

Yes, she meant well. I know it and I knew it. But why? I ask you. Why me? I suppose she is the one who needed something. I didn't give it to her.

I will post a picture here of her, but only of her back. Is that fair?

That's Deanne, on the end.

Yes, I'm thinking of the Savior. He's probably displeased with me for complaining about people who only mean well. And this cannot be pleasing, what I'm about to say: I wish they would mean well with someone else.

I cannot answer the question implicit here. At least I think it's implicit. Is he pleased with them? Can you tell me?

I think we all ought to listen more than we speak and guard our tongues when we do speak. Or before we speak. I'm trying to. Really I am. This post notwithstanding.

What a weak disclaimer that was. I do believe what I have said there, but I must face the truth. This post is a gripe. There you have it.

If you . . . Part 2

ask me which is the greatest of all musical instruments, I will always say, "The human voice, of course."

Because it is capable of so many sounds, so many variations of tone and color and pitch and volume.

Because to sing requires work, muscle control, energy, endurance, and guts.

Because singing has the person behind it. It is the person. No tool in front to protect you, no cello to sit behind or French horn to hold. No split reed or broken string to blame for mistakes or unbeautiful sounds. When you sing, it is you and your voice. That's it. You get the blame. Or you get the credit and the praise and the wonderful feeling of satisfaction that comes from singing well.

The human voice has the blessed capacity to engage the heart and soul--first of the singer, then of the listener--more than any other instrument.

I love those courageous singers who stand alone and sing. I have been thrilled by their songs. Thrilled and enthralled. Those are the best words for what I have felt.

I love those glorious choirs whose blended voices are so rich, whose depth of sound and harmony thrill my soul. High flying language, I know. I can't help it. It's true.

If you can see in the face of the singers that their hearts and souls are into the music, that is wonderful. But the human voice has the power to move listeners, even if the singer is hidden from view.

And a good phone call besides

My grandson Edmund sang Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star to me today over the phone from Pennsylvania. Edmund is two, but don't let that fool you.

Look, I'm his grandmother, so you probably won't take my word for it, but I know something about singing, and I say that boy can sing.

Apparently this is what has been going on in my back yard

And what about the raccoon that loped across my backyard yesterday afternoon? It scared the squirrel, the starlings, and me. The squirrel ran, the birds flew. Happily, I was in my house. Also happily the raccoon climbed the fence and then ran across the Shuells' yard.

I have questions:

1. Where did it come from? Is it nesting under my deck or the Bakers' porch? Raccoons have nested under their porch in years past. They have also left unpleasant evidence of their presence in my yard, which I cleaned up and then treated the ground thereunder with bleach. Too much information, I know. But I had to do the job. It shouldn't be so hard to read about it.
2. Raccoons are nocturnal animals, why was this one out in daylight?
3. Have I seen the last of him/her? I hope so but doubt it.
4. Is this animal what happened to my sparrows?

I figured I had a chance to answer #2. All the sources I consulted--online, of course--said pretty much the same thing.


When you see a raccoon out during the day you can know the animal is rabid. Swell. Or perhaps it could be a mother looking for more food for her young, and she may or may not have rabies. But probably she does.

I cannot answer the other questions and wonder what good it does me to know the answer to #2. Of course I'm going to stay away from a rabid animal anyway. And of course I'm going to stay away from any raccoon day or night.

Squirrels I don't like, but I tolerate them, mostly. But raccoons I really don't like. They scare me.

I don't usually see what's happening in my back yard, but I'm shut in for a few days. A person wants to get out a bit.

Could I? Should I put out some poison food? Or get a gun.

It's about birds again

Just now I was standing at the kitchen sink, cleaning celery. The water was running. Suddenly a little goldfinch flew to the window and perched on the sill. I told him it was very good to see him and if he would go around to the front of the house, he'd find thistles in a feeder.

He ignored that.

I told him as much as I would like to let him in, I couldn't. He seemed not to believe me. This was where he wanted to be, apparently, and he wasn't about to leave. That was fine with me.

Birds are always looking around--it's for their safety--I think they're never still unless they're asleep. And he, my little goldfinch, did this looking, checking. But he stayed on my window sill. Was it the sound of the water? Did he like my orange sweater?

I wondered how long this visit could last, knowing it wouldn't be long. Still he stayed.

He was looking right at me when he pecked at the window. Knocking to come him. He stretched out his neck and gave a good long look into my kitchen. Then he flew off.

I am not obsessed with birds. But this kind of thing does not happen often, and it put a little cheer in my heart.

I could write about the starlings in my back yard, but I won't. After all, they eat bugs.

Two briefs

A guy spoke to me in Winco as I stood in front of the floor to ceiling, wall to wall ice cream freezer. I must have looked perplexed because he recommended his favorite popsicle. "It has real strawberries in it," he said, and I ought to buy it. (I did.)

"I'm looking for my mother and her sister," he said. "They're here with me, and I just love it. They're both in their eighties, so I don't want them to get lost."

He looked to be in his fifties or early sixties, clearly had some life experience, and likely some of it hard.

"I'm 55," he said, "and I finally know what's important. It's family."

"Yep," I said. "It takes some of us a long time to figure that out."

*     *     *

Paul built a bird house for me more than ten years ago. It's on my bedroom deck. Every year sparrows make their nests in it and raise their young. I know, I know. You probably hate sparrows because they are so prolific or because they're English, not American birds. So, I can't help all that.

This is the part I know.

Early each morning the baby sparrows wake me as they're being fed by mother and then father sparrow. The parents make many trips out to find food, back to bring it to the babies. Many trips across my back yard.

They're loud, those babies. Loudest when the parents come with food, like they need to tell them how hungry they have been, that they were afraid no one was coming to feed them. They really whine.

But not this morning.

This morning I heard a loud noise on the deck. I opened the blinds, expecting to see a raccoon. They've been up on that deck before. One even lunged at me with teeth bared. Really. Glad I had the glass door between us.

I saw no raccoon. I saw no cat. I saw a sparrow on the far deck railing. He was fluffed up against the cold--yes, it's June, but it was 39 degrees this morning. On the deck railing in front of the bird house lay what looked like all the insides of the sparrows' nest. And I heard no babies.

Through the day I've been checking on things. No, I haven't gone out there, didn't want to frighten the birds, you know, more than they have already been frightened. At least that's what I think has happened. Some animal has reached in and pulled out the babies. And now the parents . . . well, I don't really know if birds grieve.

I'm not sure, though, what really happened. I'll let you know if and when I know.

If you . . . Part 1

ask me which musical instrument I prefer, I will always say, "the piano, of course."

The violin is fine, all strings are fine; horns, fine; woodwinds, fine. I have no use for the flute, however, but that's another story.

It's the piano. Perhaps because I grew up hearing it in my home. My mother played well and taught piano for most of her life. I didn't love her lessons, but I loved it when she played, and I always liked hearing Janeen practice and play, too.

So, for me, it's the piano. I'm listening to the Brahms Piano Concerto No. 2 right now. It is glorious.

That said, as we say these days, I heard something on BYU campus a couple of years ago that surprised me. What surprised me was its pure beauty and how much I loved it.

The musical selection announced was O, Divine Redeemer, Gounod's magnificent, pleading prayer to the Savior to have mercy, to save.  The words are perfectly matched to the music.

See, I know the piece well, have sung it many times and heard it sung, seen my mother direct it, have directed it myself.

But this day, as the piece was announced, one man went to the organ and another man stood with his saxophone. I thought it an unlikely pairing, thought the saxophone an unlikely, maybe highly unlikely, solo instrument for this piece of music. And where would be those words I wanted to hear? In short, I was doubtful.

You know what is coming. I'm about to tell you how wonderful that rendition was, how deeply moving, how that mellow, pleading sound went straight into my soul. How it brought tears to my eyes and brought the words to my mind. Truly, I was carried away, away from myself and into the loveliness of that music. It's a long piece of music, but that day it was not long enough. I could have listened to it all again.

I loved it.

And I could see that the saxophone player loved it, too. He loved the music. I saw that in his face and heard it in his playing. I could hear the same love in the organist's playing. What a perfect duet. How unusual. How beautiful.

That love, the way musicians have of getting their hearts so thoroughly involved in what they're doing that they lose themselves in the music, was--and always is--crucial to the performance and to my hearing and deep feeling for the music that day. I would love to hear it again

So, while for me it's the piano, I am not closed-minded on this matter. Obviously, I love a good saxophone solo.

Just another Friday, well maybe not

My, my, my. Our 50th anniversary today. Some of our kids called to remember it with me.

Otherwise, I got my hair done and then had lunch with Barbara Whitt. She and Rich grew up with us--a little ahead of us--in Santa Monica. Now they live in Nampa. Wow.

Over lunch we talked about money: they've lost most of theirs because of the shenanigans of a dishonest man they trusted with their investments. I am sorry. Told her I can no longer say they are my wealthy friends. No, she said.

Truly, I am sorrier than this sounds.

We talked about her health. She has Hashimoto's--is it syndrome or disease? She can't eat gluten. She also can't eat dairy and some nuts.

Older people usually talk about health. Who has it, who doesn't.

 My health is good. We didn't have to talk about it.

This I liked:
Barbara: Ta da, ta da, ta da, and I don't even know how old you are.

Conversations generally get around to age when you're our age.

Me: I'm 71.

Barbara: (With a shriek) Oh! I'm older than you!

Me: (With a fist pump) Good.

It always feels good to be the youngest of the group, even a group of two.

Of course, I already knew it, but she had forgotten it, along with many other things, like what time and where we were supposed to meet today. But it's okay. We found each other.

This Barbara didn't like:
Her daughter called the other day to chat with her mom. She asked what Barbara had been doing.
Barbara: Oh, I've been quite busy.

Joanie: (Incredulously) Doing what?!

You see, most people think life has ended for us white-haired women.

It hasn't.