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.

Is this a good thing?

Telephone rings.

Me: Hello
Charlynn: Hi, Carol, it's Charlynn.

Me: Yes, hi, how are you? (Charlynn is someone I have known for 20 years.)

C: Fine. I'm calling to remind you of our ward activity Saturday at the church at 5.

Me: Thank you. I am aware of it.

And I am ready to say good-bye. She's not. It's more than a reminder.

C: We need to know if you'll be coming.

Me: Don't know. (I mean, do I really want to go play "Minit to Winit? in the cultural hall? But I didn't say it out loud.)

C: Well, we need to know and especially if you're bringing lots of friends or neighbors, so we'll have enough pizza. And could you also bring a dessert?

I did not sign up to bring a dessert last Sunday because I didn't think I'd be going. And, therefore, I have not invited anyone to come along. But I didn't say that out loud either.

Me: I probably won't be coming, Charlynn. I might be too old for it. I'll let the kids in the ward have the night.

C: My sister is in her 80s and she goes to everything.

Me: Well, maybe when I'm in my 80s I'll feel like going.

C: We're having pizza.

Me: Yes, I know.

C: I really wish you would come. I don't want to be the only one there over 50.

Me: I understand. And I don't want to be the only one there over 70.

Silence.

C: (In a horrified voice she couldn't disguise): I can't believe you're 70!

Today's news, what there is of it

Rainy day Saturday and much of Sunday. The birds, who Friday were everywhere and not quiet about it, on those two days were nowhere to be seen or heard. That's because they seek shelter on rainy days, just as you or I might. Why don't they just go to their nests? you ask. I answer. They built nests when they are ready to mate and have young. They do not live in nests year-round.

On rainy days they hang out in trees, looking for a spot under a big leaf.  A little water is nice for a bath, but a lot of water makes flying impossible.

*     *     *

Sure, the birds have been on my mind, but really that was only a preamble. Some reason I didn't want to start out with this.

No rain today. Sunshine, blue sky, big white clouds. A lovely day. I did not want to go to the cemetery, thinking the traffic would be prohibitive. (That word sounds silly here. Oh well.) And knowing how hard it is for me to go and just stand there looking at the grave stone, thinking anything I might say Wayne already knows, and wishing, as always, he would just come back. Hard to go, you know?

But something kept pushing me to go. So I did.

Went to the store, bought a single red rose, and went out. And I'm glad I did, and glad at just that moment, because when I got there I saw three people I love. Andrew and two of his sons--Jacob and Aaron. And Lola had been there yesterday and left a bouquet of Spring flowers on Wayne's grave.


We talked, Andrew and Jacob and I. Aaron is a man of few words, but he did say he remembers his grandpa. Well, that's good. And that's nice.

Talking is what you do at a graveside, unless you're alone. I was happy for the company. Andrew says he still misses his dad, but the feeling grows less intense after nine and a half years, and that makes him feel bad. Like he's forgetting his dad. I understand it, but I know he won't forget his dad.

After a few minutes, Aaron went to the car and waited there, anxious to hit the road for home. But Jacob conversed, like an adult, and shed a few tears, like a tender-hearted guy, like his dad.

It's good we went. Doesn't bring him back, which is all we really want, but it's good we went.

They're back

I can hardly believe it. Two years in a row.

I am happy to see them. The western tanagers, beautiful little birds with their black and yellow bodies and red heads.

They swoop from tree to tree. A delight to watch.

Things the widow thinks about, well, some of the things she thinks about

I love the Bach piano concertos (concerti, if you feel snobbish). They cheer my heart. Absolutely. I listen to them a lot.

My new recordings of them (and my only) are by Murray Peharia. I like him. And BBC Music Magazine says he is "One of the very great Bach players of our time." I believe it.

However, I hear on the recordings the unmistakable sound of his fingernails on the keys. I am shocked, and, I must also say, disappointed.

If you play the piano, you know what I'm talking about.

*    *    *

My neighbors have gone on a short trip to Cascade to celebrate their 43rd wedding anniversary. I will collect their mail and any packages left on their porch by UPS.  

Today Jan said, "If you see a tall, very thin young man with, you know, those discs in his earlobes, he's a nephew, and we're pretty sure he's on drugs."

"Great," I thought.

"If he just comes to the front door and leaves, that's okay. But if he goes around to the back, 911." Meaning, I should call 911.

"Great again," I thought and wondered if I shouldn't just speak to him. Didn't need to ask. Jan said, "Do not approach him."

They'll be home Thursday evening. I can't wait.

*    *    *

When you're driving down Broadway, about to pass Jim's Alibi Bar, you put your foot on the brake pedal, especially when you see a car about to exit the parking lot there. Because you don't know how much the driver has been drinking. You don't know if he sees you or if that matters.

You cautiously pass the place and notice that the car waiting to exit is a wreck. Really. A wreck. And you know it would not make any difference to that car if he pulled out and hit you. But it would to yours.

So you are very glad to be passing without incident.

*    *    *

A young man just came to my door. Not Jan's nephew. He's the guy I saw walking around the neighborhood as I drove home about an hour ago.

Of course, he's not here to sell me anything. "Good," I said, "because I don't want to buy anything."

He's here to scare me. Haven't I heard about all the break-ins?

I make no reply.

He has been sent out to choose two or three houses in which the company he represents can install--free of charge to me--their security system.

I don't like to be rude, but I began shaking my head and saying, "No, thank you."

He acted like he did not understand the universal head shaking gesture which means NO. And, apparently, he did not hear me say no thank you.

He said, "You're shaking your head. What does that mean?"

"I am saying no thank you."

He did not look happy when he left.

Why wouldn't I just say yes and get a free security system?

You figure it out.