The Messiah

Are there words to describe it? Here's a try.

Handel's Messiah. Glorious, inspiring, humbling. I know it well and love it just as well, having listened to at least three recordings of it every year since I was 12. Having sung parts of it a few times myself.

But last night was better than that. Last night I sat with thousands of others in a packed Morrison Center on Boise State's campus as we heard and were thrilled by it. The Boise Philharmonic and the Boise Philharmonic Master Chorale--in which Lola sings--and those four excellent soloists played and sang their hearts out.

And so our hearts were filled.

We came in a snowstorm and drove in snarled post-Humanitarian Bowl traffic to get there--the people who sat next to me had driven up from Bruneau--but from the first note to the end of the Amens we forgot all the outside world.

I know. It's just Boise. Just Idaho. But people could be surprised by the high quality of this performance. People were.

I hope Lola's dad could hear it. I am thankful she has this experience in her life. I am thankful I was there last night.

Nuts Added

I just slid the pan of yum-yums into the oven. I'm taking them to the party tonight.

But here's the thing. Because none of my children, and clearly not my husband, will be eating them, I put nuts in them. I like nuts in cookies and brownies and yum-yums. I also like my family, and they don't like nuts. For them nuts prove the ruin of many good things. So I leave out the nuts for their sakes.

But tonight . . . well, the nuts are in there. And I'm pretty sure no one will ask--and certainly not in that strange slurred way Wayne sometimes used for being funny--"Does it have nuts in it?"

More from my mother

My sister said something the other day that came from my mother. No question about it. And I've never heard anyone else say it--outside our family. In fact, Lucile and I may be the only ones who ever use it now. And probably she says it more than I do. (Does all this matter?)

"It's cold as billy heck." (Or is it Billy Heck?)

No idea where it comes from, who Billy Heck is, or what. But if I hear it, there's Mama, right there in my, you know, mind's eye.

Also, if my mother ever said, "Far be it from me to . . . " whatever. It didn't matter what came after, I just knew she was mad.

My Husband

Wednesday mornings I work in the temple. And we wear name tags there. Yesterday a woman approached me as she was about to leave the temple. Probably I helped her earlier. She asked if I was related to Wayne Schiess. I answered yes.

"How are you related to him?"

"I am his wife."

"Oh, I wondered if you might be his wife. He was my high school Spanish teacher at Middleton High School."

"That's a long time ago," I said.

Here's how long, it was 1966 when he taught at Middleton High School.

She said, "Yes, a long time ago, but I never forgot him. He was a great man."

"And a nice guy," I said, wishing I had said something more significant.

She said, "He still is a great man."

Then I said, "He is no longer here, you know."

"I know. He died too young. He was a great man."

So maybe you don't know how good it is when someone remembers him. And speaks to you about him. And like that.

Just Thinking

Certain things you can only see with your eyes closed. Why is that?

Is it because the things are not real? Because open eyes see too much of the peripheral, the non-essential? Perhaps open eyes are blind to the spiritual, the things of the heart's deepest desire. Or perhaps with our eyes open our mind's eye closes.

My friend Bruce has no minds' eye. He says he remembers me, for instance, but can never see me in his mind's eye. Wow is what I said. Or something intelligent like that. It made me feel sorry for him, at first. Now, considering how I look these days, not so much.

But it doesn't mean Bruce has no imagination, does it? No spatial sense. It can't mean that. He's been an astro-physical engineer at Pasadena's Jet Propulsion Lab for 35 years. World renowned, published hundreds of times on subjects that challenge my imagination and spatial sense. And I have a mind's eye.

I know little, maybe nothing, about Bruce's spirituality. Besides, this is not about Bruce.

It is about what we sometimes see when we're not looking, not with open eyes anyway. It is about those things, the ones we want so much to see with our eyes open but never do. It's about my husband, my mother, no surprise here, who are dead. I want to see them.

I thought about all this stuff again last night as I sat on my bed, closed my eyes, and tried to bring my husband back to that place where I saw him those few years ago. It was clear to me then that if I opened my eyes, he would be gone. It was also clear to me last night that I could not simply will him back. I tried. And I don't know what that means either, that I could not simply will him back. Perhaps it means this whole phenomenon is relegated to the workings of the imagination.

If it has anything to do with the mind's eye, I guess Bruce will never be able to bring a dead loved one--like his father--back and see him.

This is not about Bruce.

If it were I would tell about his young lawyer father, how the family, Americans, lived in Los Angeles, how they were "put" away in Manzanar, the internment camp on the Mojave desert, near Lone Pine, California. Bruce Tsuritani. He was two years old.

I've been to Manzanar, and I have seen a picture of the young Tsuritani family taken by Ansel Adams. I have the book. I can bring that picture to mind, see them in their very spare small room. I can see them in my mind's eye whether my actual eyes are opened or closed.

Funny.

But it's different. It involves memory and I know Bruce is not here. (Of course, it would be weird if he were.) When I saw Wayne it was not memory. Memory and my mind's eye can bring that incident back and I "see" it again. But that is not the way it was. It was like this: I half thought he might really be here. I had not willed him here, perhaps was not even thinking about him. Although those times--when I'm not thinking about him--are rare. It was like when I saw my mother, like she decided to come. That is the way it was when I saw Wayne, as if he decided to come for those few moments. In the end, I guess, I had little to do with his being there. I just know I was glad to see him, and I felt some comfort. That's a good word.

I read a poem today by Carolyn Forché, A Bridge. Her last four lines seem appropriate here, although they are not quite what I'm talking about. You'll see.

The carrick is a foothold in the distance, a stone in time,
When we reach it, not only may the salmon return
but you will be alive again.
Wake me when we reach the carrick.

It's not exactly what I'm talking about because I was not asleep when I saw my husband. Same theme, though. Many of us know the theme, know the wish, hope, heart's deep desire. Come back. Be alive again. That's the theme. That's what this is about.

This Day

My sister's daughter died seven months ago today.

It's hard for people whose very loved ones have died. They don't celebrate the day, but they can never forget it, and they might need to mention it or in some way mark it. I don't mean mark it on a calendar. I mean just to send out into the air, somehow, the awareness of what happened on this day. Maybe that will relieve some of the heart's aching.

I always mark the day of Wayne's death, not a celebration, but a remembering. Can't help it. And usually I mention it--here mostly. Sometimes that day can slide by without mourning. Sometimes.

So today I mark Samantha's passing. I think of her. I remember her goodness, her cleverness, her wit, her uncommon good sense, how easy she was to be with.

I think of her family--her mom and dad, her brothers and sister, her husband and children--who miss her but who are living this day, as we all must, as if it were any other day. And I can hope the day slides by for them.

Evelyn

Yesterday I had a long conversation, in person, with my friend Evelyn. We quite thoroughly dealt with many subjects. We settled issues, spoke of health, her very happy marriage (her third, his second) to Bennie, family doings, our age--she's older than me. Hallelujah.

Then we spoke of canning. Go figure. Well, it's because of how she and Bennie spent their morning. They went out and picked I don't remember how many bushels of grapes.

Oh, you'll be making grape juice, I said.

Yes, I'll juice them.

You're ambitious, I said, feeling like the slacker I no doubt am.

They used everything in their garden, she said. Everything.

Wow, and me with no garden either.

She makes green tomato pickles, for instance, and it's a way to use them, not waste them. And she told me how.

Slice the little green tomatoes, throw in a jalapeno, a clove of garlic, some dill, salt, water--just like making dill pickles. I used to make plenty of those, I add here.

And their kids love them. Oh, we hardly get to eat any of what I can, she said.

When they, the kids, come through town, they raid the place for Evelyn's home-canned goods. The fruit, the tomatoes, the salsa, you know.

I said I haven't canned much in years. Except, I do still make jam.

Which turned Evelyn to jam. She makes jalapeno jam (I know there should be a tilde over the n in jalapeno, but I have lost the power to type the tilde, and I'm sick about it). And because their squash overran their jalapeno pepper plants this year, they used all of their neighbor's jalapenos. At his invitation.

Evelyn makes jalapeno jam, and she told me how good it is. Then she said she'd like to give a high five to her mother, who taught her to do all these provident things like gardening and canning. Then we talked about her 94-year-old mother, who now lives in a "place" in Idaho Falls. Dementia, Alzheimer's. You know.

And not that I don't care about that story, it's just one we all know something about.

And I'd like to get back to the jam. It sounded like something I would love. Evelyn said she'd bring me some. Yay!

I said if she would do that, I'd bring her a poem I wrote about canning apricots. Obviously, I will be getting the best of the deal. If she remembers. I hope she remembers. It wouldn't be good to call and remind her. Would it?

So, about the poem, because this post is longer than anyone I know will read, I'll put the poem on Carol's Corner.

Just A Few Things

Today I saw someone I hadn't seen in more than 20 years, someone we knew in Caldwell. She did not know Wayne had died. Seemed shocked to hear it. I understand. I'm still shocked by it.

Today marks 7 years, 9 months.

I used my J C Penney charge card today, something I rarely do. Really. Rarely. It's still in Wayne's name. No reason to change it, I guess.

As I returned home this afternoon and walked through my house, feeling its comfort and security, I said, "This is a good house." And I thanked Wayne for it.

Tell me why

Recently I've had occasion, make that several occasions, where I've been asked my date of birth. I have responded by giving my date of birth this way: 9-2-40.

Not every time, but almost, the person--nurse, clerk, receptionist, whatever--has then asked: "Is that 1940?"

Why?

Not for Everyone

Every is an adjective. Day is a noun. When those two words are written separately--like this: every day--they function as adjective and noun. Every modifies (tells something about) day.

But when they are joined--like this: everyday--then the whole word functions as an adjective and needs a noun to modify, such as: bathing used to be an everyday event.

And so I wonder what Weight Watchers is really saying when these words appear above a recipe in one of their weekly booklets: MAKE IT EVERYDAY, with no noun to follow. Was there something I just didn't get? (Really, I doubt it.) Or is it that the person who wrote the booklet does not know what everyday means? That, I suspect, is the case.

I could send an email to WW explaining all this. But why bother? People get defensive when corrected. I know I do. (In those rare instances when I am corrected or in need of it... Joking. Sort of.) Would they really be more careful and precise if I did correct them? I think not.

Yesterday I told the manager of the cafe where I ate my lunch that my food was cold. It took me several minutes to decide to say something about it. I was not nasty, and I told him I ate the whole thing because it was good. But it was cold and would have been better if it had been hot. I thought he should know.

Guess what. He got a bit defensive. And he pretty much told me my food had not been cold. That's the conversation condensed. Then he gave me a card for a free lunch. Okay, I'll take it, but I hope the food is hot on that day when next I dine there. I don't want to have to tell him again, now, do I.

And, by the way, please don't ask me to explain everything and everybody.

I Remembered Two More . . .

sayings of of my mother:

• Might as well, can't dance. I believe I heard her say it a few times.

And my favorite of all:

• Piffle.
  

My Favorite Saying

Noises in the House

A house makes its own noises, and we can hear them at any hour but best in the quiet of night. I hear them. I suppose they reflect the expanding and shrinking of the boards and beams as the day heats up and cools down, but sometimes I think the house is breaking. So far it hasn't exactly broken, although the roof looks like it's hurting.

The other night certain noises sounded in my ear as I lay awake in bed, as if they came from the room right through the wall at my head. So, of course, I thought it might be Wayne moving about in that room.

I know, I know.

But, of course, it sent me on a thought journey, a roaming through memories, ending in the hospital. Too bad about that part. It was not the highlight.

I tried not to spend much time there, but always, if I find myself in that room again, I ask the same questions and feel the same deep frustration with the system of things. "They do their things." I said it first at the time of my mother's death.

And so I said it again the other night. "They do their things, whether or not the patient is helped by them."

See what I mean? But I don't want to spend time there.

Here's just one memory I entertained. It's a good one.

We have a baby boy, our first child. We are students, or Wayne is, I having dropped my classes as the pregnancy caused a couple of small problems. We are walking across campus, Wayne striding out and I keeping up as we pass in front of the Eyring Building. He's carrying his baby son in one arm almost straight out in front of him. His big hand supports the baby's head, and his arm cradles the body. I have a tiny bit of concern about that and perhaps want to say something cautionary, but I don't because I can see how much he enjoys this walk with his baby boy.

Thank goodness for my occasional wisdom in keeping quiet.

I had never seen my husband walk so, with such a proud posture and step, and I realized he was showing off. Showing off his baby to the campus, to the world.

Things I sometimes heard my mother say

I heard my mother say "damn" once for real. That's about it. But she did have other expressions she'd come out with as occasion warranted.

• That is asinine--when something was clearly stupid.
  
• I'll be jiggered--don't know the meaning of jiggered, but I knew what she meant when she said it.
• Better a poor girl's belly burst than a bit of good food go to waste--obvious, but she was joking, mostly.
• You impudent little piece; you little assk-your-mother; you little crosspatch--I heard those directed at me a time or two.
• There. I gave it a lick and a promise--meaning I could have done a better job, but I'm sure to have another chance at it. Then I'll do better. (Like when you give the floor a quick mopping.)
• For crying out loud--everybody knows that. The Schiesses, my husband's family, said, "For crying in a bucket" or "For crying in a sieve." Brimleys never said either of those.
• You jassonk--perhaps to a fellow driver who had irritated her.
• For the love of Mike--always Mike and never Pete.
• Good night nurse--another expression of exasperation. Occasionally she would add "Tell the doctor I'm no worse."

There are more, I'm guessing. Perhaps I'll remember them.

Today's Adventure

This was the fourth time I took Charlie and Johnny to Lucky Peak. The first two times revealed the river bottom pretty much dry and the reservoir alarmingly low. The third trip we saw water in the Boise but still a low reservoir.

You drive out past the big bridge, which I showed the boys on our first trip and which ever after they mention and always want to cross on our return home. And you cannot help noticing the river, whether wet or dry, and Barber Dam, which is either spilling water or not.

Our practice has been to drive into Discovery State Park, see if any water is shooting out the flumes, then go up, drive across the dam, park and observe the reservoir. The boys climb on big rocks and guard rails and throw smaller rocks at the water. We count boats, if we see any.

Today their mom went and brought Edmund. She drove.

Johnny mentioned the bridge; we all felt stunned--and rewarded--by the level of the river; Barber Dam was spilling, you bet; those two huge flumes were shooting out tons of water, the first time the boys had seen that. Exciting, amazing. Charlie told his mom that the other times they had just been empty holes.

We drove up past Sandy Point, noted the fountain and the swimmers, and prepared to cross the dam. But the road was closed. Too much water, I guess.

There's a small viewpoint up above, so we drove up there. The area is enclosed by a chain link fence, which Charlie said a thank goodness for.

He and John and I walked through the scrubby weeds right up to the fence, where the boys tried to throw rocks into water, and where we could all see a full up reservoir. Does a soul good.

I guess the whole purpose for this report is to tell what Charlie said as we walked to the fence. "There's nothing like a trip to Lucky Peak."

Right you are, Charlie.

I told his mom about it as she carried Edmund to our place overlooking the lake, and she suggested her dad would love to hear something like that. Yeah.

I'll just bet we go out there again.

And, yes, we drove over the bridge on the way home

Random

• I think words have greater impact when squeezed into the form of a poem. But, then, some people won't read a poem. So there you are.
  

• I understand my mother's lament: "Now that I have no children to raise I know how to raise them." I can't say the same for myself, but I'm close.

• I called my sons yesterday to wish them happy father's day. Here's the exchange I had with one of them:
  

Me: Hi, Andrew. I just called to wish you happy birthday. (Muttering: Don't know where that came from.)
Andrew: Mom?
Me: Yes. Can you hear me?
A: Yes, now.
Me: I called to wish you happy father's day.
A: Thanks.
Me: Did you hear what I said before?
A: No. All I heard was "can you hear me" and "happy father's day."
Me: Good. I said happy birthday, and I'm glad you didn't hear me.
A: Yes, that's good, and I'll never know you said it.
Me: Right. That's a relief.
A: Well, if you're calling anyone else today, good luck with it.

• Last night's brief storm, with its big winds (gusts of 35 mph) and its hail and rain, was a welcome excitement. Lifted my spirits. Weird, huh.

Not A Real Sestina for 609

But it was fun to write.

It was those errands to the basement

I hated, especially at night, when dark

makes daytime shapes into creatures. “Fetch a can

of tuna and a quart jar of pickles," Mama would

call, or “Go down and bring up some

pears.” Didn’t she know

what a scary chore it was? I did know.

Even in daylight, the basement

held the promise of something frightful, some-

thing to stay away from, the bad unknown that hangs around dark

places. Even in daylight I would

have to pull the light string or shine a flashlight on the cans,

and it was worse at night. Spider webs strung can

to shelf to box to ceiling, and there was no

telling how many dead bugs or mouse tracks would

litter the containers or whether a living basement

dweller, sinister and evil, might jump out of the dark-

ness to do my small girl self some

harm. Every nerve I owned was at its edge those nights. Some-

times even the sound of your own breathing can

scare you and you don’t dare let your voice be heard in the dark.

That could invite the boogie man. If I was quiet he might not know

I was down there in his basement

trying to pull the light off, get out quick, and lock the wood-

en door. Then, if only I could, I would

be back in the house without moving, find some

way to fly up the path, past the little room that holds the basement

generator, because at night the motor hum becomes a growl I can

only think is a monster waiting to grab me and do who knows

what awful dreadful deadly thing there in the dark.

My tiny flashlight does little to chase the dark,

but light from the kitchen spills onto the wood

slats of the porch, leads me, lets me know

the places, the shapes of the back yard. Some-

one’s voice from inside drifts out the window, and I can

turn the corner without fear, turn my back on the basement.

If I could build my own house I would keep canned

fruit and tuna, some other needed staples, no

doubt, in the basement but never go there after dark.

For Your Enlightenment

They don't have ice in Europe. At least not in London or Paris.

No kidding.

If you ask for water with your meal, you get it without ice.
If you ask for ice water with your meal, you might get the ice but usually not. And you might get a "We don't have ice."

A couple of times we got a separate glass of ice for us to share. That was good. But it didn't happen with any regularity. Sharing the ice wasn't really hard. Not really.

No ice does not mean it's a bad place.

It does mean not all cold drinks are cold.

But it's not a reason to stay away. You should still go.

Memorial Day

How does the mind work?

We just got back from the cemetery. Two things.

1. I don't like to go alone, so I'm glad some of my family went. Ann and her three sons, Paul and his daughter, Andrew and two of his sons, and Lola. That's what the place is for, I guess, family to come together, remember, visit a little. I also check out the care they give to the grave and the stone. Today I was pleased with it.
   
2. I sort of thought Wayne might be there, too. You know, to meet us. I mean really, in the flesh. That's the reason I ask how the mind works. I knew he wouldn't be. Of course I knew that. I'm not stupid; he is dead and buried there. But the thought, the hope, something about it, wandered in and stayed long enough for me to have to deal with it consciously.

Maybe it's the heart's wishes getting into the mind and messing with what we know. Whatever. I'm glad we went. But, just so you know, he did not meet us there. At least not in the flesh.

Sunshine, Lollipops . . .

If you're young, you may know this song from The Simpsons. If you're old, you know it from about 1965, when Lesley Gore made it a hit. You may think it's your song, whoever you are. But it's not.

It's Penelope's song.

When her dad plays it through his computer, Penelope hops on her bouncy ball and bounces all over the living room, to the beat. She also sings--every word, every note, every rhythmical stop and start. Including the second ending's repeats.

Pure fun. For her and anyone there who sees.

Sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows,
everything that's wonderful is what I feel when we're together.
Brighter than a lucky penny,
when you're near the rain cloud disappears, dear,
and I'm feeling fine
just to know that you are mine.

My life is sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows,
that's how this refrain goes
so come on, join in, everybody.

Sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows,
everything that's wonderful is sure to come your way
'cause you're in love to stay.

Now I wake up mornings singing it, seeing Penelope and her absolute joy. Things could be worse than that, you know.

Oh yeah, Penelope is two and a half. Look out, world.

P.S. The other kids in the picture are her little brother and a portion of her dad.

IH

Gary O'Keefe. No household name, that, even though he told me he would become a "famous" actor. We sat together in Doc Evans's drama class at Samohi. We played opposite each other in a brief scene from Maxwell Anderson's Elizabeth and Essex. I played Elizabeth. Duh.

In love with Essex, I wept because I had to send him to his death. And so it was with great feeling that I said, "I grow old. I could be young with you, but now I'm old." The one line I remember.

I didn't feel much like a Queen of England, and an older one, at that. I was 16, you know. But I guess I pulled it off okay, including the weeping part, and Doc Evans said I was great. Hmmm. I never thought so.

Gary--tough-looking, deep cleft in his chin, rough voice--was not quite good looking and never a great or even very good actor. I had a hard time being in love with him. No chemistry, you know. Oh well.

We both had parts in the Senior Play, Father of the Bride. He played the father. I played the wedding caterer. His part was bigger, but I was funnier.

He did make it, if you call small TV parts making it. I don't know how many parts he got or over how many years. I remember seeing him once in I Spy and once or twice otherwise many long years ago. I watched hard with critical eye, you may know. And I said a "good for you, Gary" and wondered if he was making his living thus.

Yes, there's a reason I bring him up now.

I sat down a few minutes ago, turned on the TV, and there he was in a small part again. He ran a gas station. The Incredible Hulk had to take charge when Gary shut Dr David Banner's fingers in a door after refusing to sell him gasoline even though the good dr had a woman in labor in his cab. (Yes, Banner's job for the week was to drive cab and save the black woman who owned the cab company from the mean, bad loan shark who wanted her company and would do anything to get it, including sending his goon out to force cabs off the road and to break legs. Clearly, the IH was needed.)

I never watched IH when it was on during the--what?--70s. Maybe my older kids did. We had a neighbor boy who couldn't say Rs or Ls and we liked to mimic his pronunciation of IH. Incwedibow Howk.

No. I don't watch IH reruns now. (But put Hunter on that retro channel, and I'm there.)

I did pause and stay with the program a while when I saw my old classmate doing a third-rate job of looking terrified. He just could not be convincing. Rather comic, actually, the grimaces and groans of fake fear.

Oh, yes. The woman delivered her baby alone, without help from the dr, wrapped the kid in a beautiful white blanket (no sign of blood, and I don't know who cut the cord or with what), and took a leisurely lie down in the back seat of the cab while the IH set other matters right at the gas station.

I couldn't hang in there for the whole show, but I'm going to guess he saved the cab company, too. Wouldn't you think?

Widows Do This Kind of Thing, I Guess

I spoke to my dead husband Monday of this week, asking him where he is, suggesting he is needed here and now. By me. By certain of his kids. I was not joking, and I'm not joking now.

Of course, he is not here.

But I thought that just the force of his presence, just his influence. That would be powerful, well, especially since he's dead. But you know what I mean.

A word or two, sure. That would be even better.

I didn't punctuate my speech to him the way I'm punctuating this post. No pauses. No afterthoughts. Mostly I just poured out my heart.

And here's the thing. I did not feel stupid in this pleading, did not feel it was useless or hopeless. Does that say something about me? Or something about the true nature of things? I wish I knew.

Going North . . . to Canada

I'm heading up to Axel's house today. It's in Saskatoon, SK, Canada, of all places. So, while I'll leave Boise at 2:12, I will not arrive at SK until late tonight.

Axel, who has been walking for a month or more, will be one in June. Someone told me early dentition means the kid is smart. I'd say early walking means something, too. I believe that if he could talk he'd say, "Sure, I know most kids wait until after they turn one, but I'm not most kids."

I guess he just couldn't wait any longer. Saw his big sister Penelope walking around and thought he could do it, too. Turns out he was right.

I'll be happy to see those two . . . and the other people who live in Axel's house.

Wayne's birthday

It's May 18. I haven't forgotten.

The Heart's Music

My grandson, Edmund, sang to me last night. He's three months old, but he sang. I know what you're thinking, but you're wrong. He sang.

Don't be doubting it. I know singing when I hear it.

He was lying on my bed, and I turned on the ceiling fan to entertain him. But--and who knows why?--he was more interested in me than in the fan. I began to sing, "When blossoms flowered amid the snows, upon a winter night, was born a child, the Christmas rose, the king of love and light."

I know it's May, but Charlie, that's Edmund's oldest brother, had just asked to hear Christmas music, so it just came out of me. It's a song I've always loved anyway. No question it was a hit with Edmund.

I'd watch that kid, if I were his mom or dad. They may have a musical genius there. Last night his pitch and his voice matched mine, high and clear, his a little clearer. No, I won't go so far as to say that he got the tune right, and he has no words yet, but what he sang was beautiful. Bring a smile to your face and a tear to your eye. Oh yes.

Okay, this poem

I could explain some things I have learned since writing it, but I choose not to.

Alzheimer’s

which makes Dale not

always Dale

because he has it

tangles develop deep in the brain

and my sister, his wife,

some strange person

he wants to push out of his house

someone he accuses of crimes

against him, but she did not steal

what he has lost.

She can take him to

last year’s photo,

the two of them together,

and he will know

who’s in the picture, and it looks

just like her

plaques form

but when he turns

and looks right in her face

she’s not the one in the photo

not his wife

and he might ask

as he does most nights

where are you

going to sleep?

He can’t help it--

everyone knows that--

neurons work less efficiently

and should not be blamed

but it’s hard to remember

when he’s in the middle of

being lost

and something or everything

is her fault somehow

and she does not belong

with him, where she has lived

more than fifty years.

Hard to remember, hard

to hope, hard to forgive.

Then, in a moment

or an hour

there is no treatment to cure

or more

she is someone he knows

his wife again delay or stop

and he says nice things

no more pushing, no

accusations, only smiles

the disease

he calls her by her name

and he is Dale again

and she thinks

maybe this time for good.

Carol Schiess

Yes, yes, yes

I have pictures. Not 800, like Alyce, but about half that many.

And yes, yes, yes, I'll post some. I know all my readers--unlike Ann I have no big number following, cannot claim stardom--but all my three or four readers will want to see some photos.

I'll post some but not until I get a new computer. It's got to happen. This one is--are you ready?-- nearly ten years old.

Don't Worry

Yes, I'm taking a camera. I'll take pictures.

Once Again

Next year, I suppose, I'll just throw the wreath away right after Christmas. I have set it out for the trash guy today, finally, and have given up for good on the finches. This is the third year they have not come. After 15 years of being my small notes of cheer, February through May.

No need to scold the crows again, their part already known if you've read this blog for a while.

It's a door closing, an end of something we liked--those birds building their nest each year and raising their family in the wreath just outside our front door, and after Wayne died, they were a reminder of him, of us, as if I needed one.

It's a beginning, too. Every ending brings a new beginning. Right?

More than just not leaving the wreath up. More than not looking and listening for the birds. Something more. Something positive. Just give me time. I'll think of it.

"Her absence is like the sky, spread over everything." C S Lewis

Now and then I have wished for time to stop, to hold still, if only for an hour. To let us think or rest or weep.

Some things warrant it, you know.

But nothing--no matter how large or small or how profound or heart-breaking--nothing makes it happen. Nothing and no one.

Because life goes on, as they say, and I have heard it said so easily, so cavalierly, perhaps even said it that way myself, which just now seems heartless.

But it is true. Time does not stop, and life goes on, and we who are living must go on with it.

Point of View

Lola is here visiting. I showed her a black and white photo of me on the hood of her dad's 1948 Oldsmobile. I'm wearing shorts and a shirt, no shoes, and I'm buffing the car, finishing the wash job we did. Wayne's sister Kate is on the very top of the car. She's towel-drying the windshield.

This is the car Wayne's friend Phil drove without oil in it on that over-the-speed-limit and inspite-of-Wayne's-cautioning wild drive down from Lone Pine after their Mt. Whitney climb. Why a guy wouldn't stop and add oil I don't know. That drive burned up the engine. Hmph.

Did Wayne persuade us to do this work for him? I don't remember, but I doubt it. I loved him, and Kate loved him, so we were willing workers, most likely. Proud of the car and happy for him to have it, even though it was nearly ten years old when he got it. Dark green, very dark green.

After the Oldsmobile was gone, he got a black 1951 Chrysler, bigger, heavier car, a four-door sedan.

So I explained much of this to Lola as we stood in front of the photo today. Her response, as she pointed to me in the picture, "Oh, so that's where we get our legs."

A Reminder, as if I needed a reminder . . .

Here's just one thing Wayne taught me.

When you're rinsing out a bottle, let's say, like a milk bottle or one of those two-litre pop bottles or a water bottle, and you want to get the liquid out fast and avoid the slow glug, glug, glug--is all this clear?--swirl the bottle around a time or two and the water will zip right out in a nice airless spiral.

So, of course, I think of him every time I do that.

Norton Pladsen

Nort had said to his wife, Carol, "I don't know when we'll get them all together again." So he figured out a way to do just that. He died. All of his family came together.

"It's what a death will do," I told her.

That gathering provided her some comfort yesterday. Carol, their three children, and their seven grandchildren.

I snapped their picture in front of the lake Nort loved so well. She'll have the picture as some comfort, too. Not enough, probably, but some.

Harold Is His Middle Name

When I told my dad his name, Andrew Harold, he said, "Don't you mean Harold Andrew?" I said, "No."

It's Andrew's birthday today. What I said about him last year still goes. You can go here if you want to read it.
http://widowschronicle.blogspot.com/2009/03/andrew-harold-schiess.html

But, of course, this year changes him. He's a year older, duh, and gives him someone else who carries his name. That would be three now: his own son Jacob Andrew, Lola's son Patrick Andrew, and the newest, Ann's son Edmund Andrew. Can't be too bad a name.

But that's not really about him, is it.

This year has changed him. I see some of those changes. One is his discipline to shed those pounds. Good for him and good for his health. One is his stepping up so Michelle could go to school. He is the evening Mr Mom, cook, listening ear, and still he functions as dad. One change I probably didn't expect but do see is his genuine affection for their dogs. There are others, no doubt, but I don't know them.

He's still a good family man, still wise with money, still a good story teller.

In early March 1971, as I remember it, my mother came to be there for the birth of this fourth child of mine, and Andrew's birth was the last one my mother came for. She just couldn't manage the trips, I guess.

As usual, she came too early and had to leave almost immediately after the birth. My fault, really, I always wanted her there early and thought I'd give birth early. Wishful thinking, obviously, and obviously wrong.

By the way, Andrew was a big guy. He weighed 9 lbs 10 oz and made his mother work hard to get him here. Well worth the work. He was such a good-looking, healthy baby.

Andrew was only a few hours old when my mother held him--they made an exception to their rules and brought him into my hospital room for no other reason than my asking them to, but don't get me started on that--and was told by nurse what-was-her-name that now infamous thing about boys and what they grow into besides their noses. We all blushed, except for the nurse. And who asked her?

Andrew, our third son, always handsome, always a good runner, a good athlete, strong of mind and body, usually adventurous, always tender of heart--and that's a good quality. A boy his dad and mom were proud of. A boy they always loved, even if he is the middle child.

Happy birthday to you, my son Andrew.

The Widow Chuckles

Speaking of composers, this is what I heard today about Richard Wagner. You know, ego-maniacal German composer best known for his long operas, like The Ring Cycle, Lohengrin, Tanhauser, etc.

One critic said, "Wagner's music has glorious moments and terrible quarter hours."

Mark Twain said, "I've heard that Wagner's music is much better than it sounds."

As I Recall

. . . our laundry room at 722 was visited occasionally by mice. True. But that's not what this is about.

My washer was olive green, sort of, and the dryer white. The 1970s and 80s featured fashionable colors for appliances. Yellow I couldn't abide, but I kind of liked the olive green, so I bought it, but I'm glad that era has gone its way.

That washer I bought new, and it lasted at least 15 years, by the way. Well used with seven children. I left it in the house when we sold it--tired of the color, wanting new for our new house. The one I have now has come through the 19 years so far in this house, and I am counting. I hope it keeps on a'going.

But here is what I wanted to write about.

Imagine the laundry with seven children. It began to overwhelm me, so I had a smart idea. On the lid of the green washer I taped a schedule. Each of my children--those old enough to do their own laundry--had a day assigned in which to do just that. I would help them, of course, if they needed help. I am the mom, after all.

That schedule was ordered, wise, well thought out, and pretty much ignored. Mostly they waited until Saturday, well, mostly till Sunday, and then there was usually quite a scramble to see who could get the load in first. The needed pants or white shirt or blouse for church. Poor Lola, as the only girl on the schedule, she may have been muscled out if she waited till Sunday.

And then the plea (read yelling, demanding) for whoever had clothes in the washer to get them out, now, and into the dryer.

That's how I remember it.

Some Good Help, That's What I Got

Three young people from the Towne Square Singles Branch came to my house today, actually, to my yards. They trimmed all my trees of those errant sticking up straight starts we used to call suckers--isn't that right?--and they raked up all the pine needles and leaves still clinging to fences and yard corners. Then they cleaned up and left.

It's a job I couldn't do by myself, so you can guess how glad I am to have it done. Very.

They were Trina, from Shelley, ID; Stephanie, from Reno, NV; and G Or Gee or Ji (I didn't ask him to spell it), from New Zealand. I said, "So you're a Maori." Wrong. He's Samoan, born and raised in New Zealand.

All college graduates, all employed, all happy to give up their Saturday morning to come and help me, a stranger to them.

It's nice.

Lola

Seems unlikely to me that a new mother would look at her beautiful little round-cheeked baby girl and think, “One day she’ll be my 42-year-old daughter.” I know I had no such thoughts that March night, 11:56 p.m. to be exact.

The immediate facts:

• She made it here on March 2, her grandmother Lola’s birthday, with four minutes to spare, which is good, because otherwise she might not have been named Lola.
• Weighing in at 8 lbs 14 oz kept her under nine pounds, which has no significance, I guess.
• She was a beauty from the beginning—just ask her dad, well, you know, if you could—a fact still clearly evident when you see her, and when you know her, you see beauty through and through. It’s of her essence.

Lola taught me about girls, their sweetness, their delicateness, their hopes, their promise. Girls are smart--they can do anything; girls need special care; girls are beautiful; girls are wonderful. My girls anyway.

As I sit here, I am watching the movie of Lola’s life run through my mind.

1. Her curly brown hair and dark eyes.
   
2. The early walking—eight months old. That was all her idea, you know. Her first steps took her across the living room at 401 W Hazel from her dad’s arms to mine. Such a smart little thing.
3. Lola in the backyard swing. Same house.
4. Playing with her two big brothers. That was a good trio, you know.
5. Lola growing tall, too.
6. Her love of music and song—we would sit in the rocking chair every night at bedtime, and I would sing those favorites of hers, a lullaby or three, old songs I knew from my mother and father, songs I made up just for Lola.
7. The favored status she held in the family (just ask her older brothers).
8. Her gift for playing the piano that showed early in her life. She must have brought it with her. Her grandma Lola would come to visit occasionally and would sit with our little Lola at the piano. Her first lessons. And Lola’s amazing willingness to practice. Whoever heard of such a thing? Her accomplishment as pianist and as accompanist par excellence.
9. Her love of play—she was pretty darn good at softball—and her discovery of running.
10. Her mothering of her baby sister.
    
11. Her brothers called her Loaf. I was never quite sure why.
12. Lola the drummer.
13. Lola the singer.
14. Lola the nanny, the NY subway expert.
15. Lola the teacher. Of women, of little kids, of boys and girls who needed someone just like her.
16. Lola the unassuming, the modest, the quiet.

Today it’s Lola the wife, mom, manager, person who can get by on very little, loyal helper and support for her husband and advocate for her boys, wise person, good person, capable person. Still Lola the musician, still the teacher and leader. It’s a longer list than this and than I know about.

Yes, I know. Countless others have written and spoken of the quick passage of time, how if we’re not careful we can miss something, how the years that stretched out long ahead of us seem like moments when we look back on them. So I add my witness and ask, “How is it possible?”

I don’t know how, of course, but it is possible. In fact, it’s fact, because here it is, the day I did not think about that night. My baby girl, my first daughter, my very own Lola, is 42 years old.

I am proud of you, Lola, and love you forever and ever.

Happy Birthday.

A Remembrance

Here's an email from my son. He received this note from a high school friend.

Wayne, I wanted to send you a note while I was thinking about it. We had a mini get-together last night, and I was talking with Fabian Pedraza's little brother, David, who I didn't remember from school. Your name came up and he said very thoughtfully that your dad had passed and that he was a great man and instrumental in David's life. David said that being a hispanic boy in this environment, he was really headed in the wrong direction, but through Scouts, your dad turned his life around. He said that your dad believed in him, encouraged him and that had a significant impact on his life and that he would be eternally grateful to him. I thought that was a wonderful tribute and wanted to share it with you.

I remember David, a handsome boy. He was a runner. I know that what he said of my husband is true. And it's wonderful to hear, to know Wayne is remembered.