Words and Music

Whenever possible, I make it a point to avoid funerals. I don't find much comfort in the tried and true rituals, the music makes me emotional, and I hate crowds, even when filled with familiar faces. Life everlasting sounds good coming from a priest - and this priest had actually known AJ and his family for years - but the non-believer in me still isn't convinced about paradise, no matter how glowing it's made to sound. God is one thing, the soul is another, but

the concepts of either eternal damnation in a fiery pit or never ending walks with harp playing angels on streets of gold.........it just seems too manmade to be real.

You can't live 80 years in a small town and not leave your mark and while the church wasn't standing room only, it was so close that several rows of extra chairs had been set up inside the sanctuary and several more outside in the vestibule. Father Lacaze delivered an eloquent if slightly downhome-ish eulogy, communion was held, the Ave Maria was sung and a multitude of prayers were offered. It was, so everyone seemed to agree, a lovely service about family and music and all roads leading to God. I had slipped in a few minutes late and when it was over, the priests and the family filed out slowly and solemnly, and I slipped out. Eternal life or not, it was enough sadness for one day.

Words, even about the certainty of heaven, even from a priest, are still just words. They echo in the sanctuary, they make promises, they're meant to comfort and ease the loss of those left behind. They're gospel truth for the faithful and much as I want to believe, the cynic in me is still a hold-out. Call it what you will, but I'd rather have the man and the music here on earth.

Last Set at Red RIver

One minute he was blowing the fire out of a harmonica and the next, seconds after I snapped the shutter on the last picture of him I would ever take, he was staggering. He would've fallen except for the other musicians on stage who immediately reached out and caught him. We all watched it happening, initially puzzled and unable to make sense of it. And then finally everyone recognized the plainly visible signs – the left side of his face sagging and distorted, his left arm useless, his speech impaired and his balance gone – instruments were put down, the music stopped and someone grabbed a stool and helped him sit down. Someone else called 911 and he was immediately surrounded by friends, family and fellow musicians. Shock and disbelief, had, for several seconds, made us slow to react but once reality set in, it set in with a vengeance.

The EMT's arrived within minutes and we watched in stunned, heartbroken silence as he was strapped to a gurney and wheeled to the ambulance, still clutching his harmonica and struggling to speak. I heard muted crying and then the entire houseful of musicians and fans stood and began clapping. I don't know if he heard but I hope so. The only other sound I remember was the lonely wail of the ambulance. I desperately wanted it to be a life saving noise but at the same time, I wanted more desperately to shut it out.

That was on Sunday, May 20, 2018 and he died this morning. The damage had been massive and I have to think it was a mercy.

Godspeed and rest in peace, my dear friend. You were a gift in my life and you used your time well.

Some Assembly Required

For the record, I'm not completely or hopelessly home do-it-yourself helpless.

For the majority of my life, I've just never needed to cultivate self-reliance. Oh, I can mount the hardware and hang curtains, put together a bookcase or a vacuum cleaner, even assemble and install a doorknob but I've rarely needed to. There was always a husband or a friend or a paid professional around for such chores. It's been an easy and convenient lifestyle and I confess I miss it, but a fixed income does tend to moderate all kinds of things, lifestyles included. So when I realized that having a plumber replace the toilet seat was likely to cost me a week's wages, I decided to try it on my own.

Following my friend Charli's advice, I found and watched several “How To” videos and was encouraged that it didn't look all that complicated. I measured as instructed and gathered the required tools (all except the screwdriver which I couldn't put my hands on for love or money) and drove to the hated Walmart to purchase a new seat. Wood seemed more long term practical but plastic was easier on the budget so the first decision was simple and what I saved on wood went into a screwdriver set anyway.

Just to be safe, I watched the videos a second time and then slowly and carefully read the step-by-step instructions thoughtfully printed on the packaging and illustrated with pictures. It still seemed fairly straightforward and I began to feel more a bit more confident as I unwrapped the new seat and arranged my tools on the bathroom floor. Screwdriver in one hand and pliers in the other, I approached the porcelain bowl cautiously, trying to convince myself that it wasn't watching me with just the slightest hint of defiance. The key, I decided, was to show no fear.

“I am woman,” I told it firmly, “You are toilet.”

In the end, it wasn't quite the cakewalk I'd imagined but it wasn't quantum physics either and while I'm not likely to make this kind of thing a habit, it's impossible to discount the feeling of accomplishment it gave me. Self-reliance and a screwdriver can take you a long ways.

Moment to Moment

The dining room table is beginning to resemble a discount store shelf. So far I've managed to accumulate two extension cords (one for the regular vacuum cleaner, one for the portable), a new set of curtain rods, a package of picture hanging tape, a seat for the toilet, a set of mini-blinds, a drain cleaning wizard and my latest find from the dreaded Walmart - a 4”, no moving parts bottle opener, what my grandmother was pleased to call a “church key” - a simple thing I've been searching for for weeks and was ridiculously pleased to finally find. After a certain age, so I've discovered, the small moments are enough to make you happy.

I'm in the midst of organizing these purchases, there's a thunderous knocking at the front door and the dogs erupt. I corral them as best as I can and answer the door to find a plumbing truck in my driveway and a young man wearing a turned around baseball cap and a huge grin on my doorstep. The old root-infested clay water pipes and the backup they'd caused over the weekend had completely slipped my mind, not to mention that it was after 7 and the appointment had been for 3. Trying to make himself heard over the tumult of the dogs, he apologized for being late, asked where he could find an electrical outlet, and set to work. It was another one of those small moments.

When he's done, he comes in to test everything - we flush the toilet several times, run hot water in the tub, and put the washing machine through a quick cycle - it all goes smoothly and while we sit on the back deck waiting, he makes friends with the dogs and we chat comfortably. I learn his name is Cameron, he's just 21 and his girlfriend recently had a miscarriage and lost twins. They've given it to God, he tells me with a sad smile, everything happens for a reason. Then he offers me a turtle.

“Found it out on Highway 1,” he says, “Put it in the back of the truck and forgot about it.”

Sure enough, in the back of the truck, perched on a coil of metal snaking, is a sleepy-eyed and pretty good sized turtle. He doesn't look particularly concerned about his circumstances and for a second, I think he could live in my back yard but I know very little about the habits of turtles so I suggest the local duck pond. Cameron nods and says he appreciates the suggestion. I wonder but don't ask why he didn't just help it cross the highway and drive on and as if reading my mind, he tells me he thought he'd give it to his little brother to care for only his mother nixed the idea, saying she didn't want another mouth to feed, even if it was only a turtle.

“Wonder what turtles eat,” I mused.

“No idea,” he says with a shrug, “I'm a dog person like you. But I'm pretty sure he'll like living at the duck pond.”

“Definitely,” I agree.

Turtles have their moments too.

Finny At Large

The Plan: Do a little serious spring cleaning each weekend in May and be finished by Memorial Day. My hope is to to circumvent my lack of motivation.

I'm on my way to buy cleaning supplies when I come across the little white dog. She's some mix of maybe chihuahua and Jack Russell and she's standing in my driveway, watching me intently.

I take one step toward her and she streaks off. This becomes the pattern for the next three hours as she races from one end of the block to the other and back again, darting in and out of traffic - slow moving as it is but still dangerous - and checking out the neighbors yards at random. I call, I coax, I offer treats but she won't let me get close. I knock on doors but nobody recognizes her and I'm at my wits end when she's finally hot and tired enough to let her guard down. On a hunch, I get into my car and open the driver's side door and she hesitates a second or two then jumps right in. I slip a leash around her neck just as I've seen done a hundred times in rescue videos - she turns into a whirling dervish at this indignity but I stand my ground and slowly but surely lead her inside to a kennel I keep ready for just such emergencies. By the time I run my errands and return, she's settled down considerably and is sitting calmly and quietly. I take her picture to post to social media and check lost and found, hoping her owner might have noticed her missing but there's nothing, so reluctantly, I re-leash her and drive her to the local shelter. By the time I get back, her picture is posted along with her owner's name and within an hour she's reclaimed and returned home. I learn her name is Finny, she lives one street over, and according to her owner, is an accomplished escape artist. I have my doubts as to the last when I read that “she never leaves except today she did”. Still, it's a happier than usual ending and maybe her owner will have learned a lesson.

As for me, it got me out of cleaning for another morning.

A House, A Dog and a Wedding

A conundrum: It pleases and undoes me to see the children of dear friends taking their places in the adult world. How has this much time passed, I wonder. Suddenly these little ones are marrying, buying houses, adopting dogs and having children of their own. It's unnerving and it makes me sad to know I won't see their lives play out but it also makes me hopeful for the future. These are strong, moral, involved, caring and responsible children turned adults and perhaps things are not as black as I usually imagine. Perhaps a world left in their hands will recover. I hope so.

Youth is a fearless and optimistic time, after all. Everything seems possible and within reach when you're 20. By 30, you're a little more weighted down and by 40 you're a lot weighted down but still in bloom, still not looking back. In your 50's, you begin to catch on to the idea that it may not last forever. And then, practically overnight, you're on the AARP mailing list, waiting on the social security checks, thinking it's time to make a will and wondering where you went wrong.

I fear I am jaded past the point of no return by the evil and insanity in the world so it's a comfort to know there are children who will be good caretakers of what we leave behind. I hope they'll forgive us.

Food Fight

With the unerring precision of a Swiss watch, the tiny one knows when it's 4 o'clock and as predictably as day follows night, suddenly erupts like a wind-up toy on steroids. He begins to jump, howl, paw at me and frantically dance around, all the while yapping as steadily as a car alarm and twice as loud. When I hush him, he looks aggrieved. If I scold him, he looks wounded. In the end, it's either feed him or risk going deaf and slightly mad.

At the first sign of my giving in, he races for the kitchen - breathlessly still yapping - and skids across the floor as he tries to herd the cats out of the way and get there ahead of the little dachshund. Cats scatter to the safety of the counters and begin their own song and dance.

Only the little dachshund, having retrieved his stuffed lamb and placed him next to his dish, sits quietly, watching and waiting patiently as I fill food bowls with Mighty Dog and measure out Pedigree Little Bites and Friskies.

“I'm not feeding Lambchop,” I remind him and ruffle his ears, “He can have some of yours.”

I chase the kitten away from the dogfood, let the dogs have what leftovers the other cats leave, and the feeding frenzy is finally over. Both dogs obediently trot outside while I clean up and at long last, the house settles down.

I've had dogs for as long as I can remember. They've been big, small, sweet, unpredictable, passive, aggressive, stubborn and even schizophrenic. Some were mild mannered and perfectly well behaved and some were holy terrors. They came in all colors and coats and temperaments but none prepared me for a demanding, loudmouth, bossy little ball of fluff Yorkie who can tell time.

Leaving the Dance

On the day I was married, my grandmother gave me a fierce hug and covertly pressed a brand new, tightly folded $100 bill into my palm.

“Always carry a little mad money, child,” she whispered into my ear, “You never know when you'll have to leave the dance alone.”

She patted my cheek, gave my long haired, hippie husband a quick embrace, and carefully made her way down the chapel steps, moving slowly but determinedly toward her latest dark blue and immaculately maintained Lincoln Continental. She was a creature of habit and had been driving Lincolns - and trading them in every couple of years - for decades.

“In an uncertain world,” she often told me, “You need a car you can rely on. Besides, people get out of your way pretty quick if you're my age and in a Continental.”

She was in her late sixties by then and had been in what she called “the flower of widowhood” for better than 10 years, living alone and liking it. My grandfather had been a hard drinking, cold-natured, womanizing bear of a man who ruled his family with an iron fist but Nana had stayed with him, neutralized him whenever possible and made the best of a bad situation.

“Mind you, it was my choice to stay,” she reminded me once, “But I don't recommend it.”

By the time my mother had married and produced the three of us, the world had become more than she could bear so it was with relief that she relinquished the better part of my raising to my grandmother. I lived with her off and on throughout my teens, grateful to miss the worst of the alcoholic sieges at home and appreciative of the peace and quiet she provided. Nana's house was stark but expensively furnished, museum-like with muted grays and autumn browns. Dust was not tolerated, bed linens were starched and changed every third day, the furniture was elegantly uncomfortable and anything that couldn't be made neat and organized was made gone.

Clutter was absolutely forbidden whether you could see it or not - my grandmother was a believer in symmetry and simplicity - the kitchen cabinets were routinely emptied, cleaned, and re-organized once a month and even the refrigerator was so clean it glowed. Dishes were washed, dried and put away in one sitting, waste baskets were emptied daily, and even ashtrays were not allowed to collect more than one or two cigarette butts. Search as I might, I never found a closet or cabinet or drawer or shelf that wasn't in precise order. After her death, when I was inventorying the contents of the old house, I realized it had been obsessive but at the time, it was a comfort. As a child, I longed for order and predictability and sameness – they were the same as safety – and Nana could be relied upon for all three.

She was a small woman, and as all the women on that side family did, tended to be stout although compact. She had short, stubby fingers, tiny feet, and snow white hair and never went anywhere un-corseted or without her makeup. She had her hair and nails done every week, always kept three shades of red lipstick on her dressing table, and never went to bed without a nightly beauty ritual. The idea of women in slacks appalled her and she never really got over my mother's summer bare-legged-ness and flip flops.

“It's laziness,” she scolded, “And it's just not ladylike.”

She didn't mind so much when I took up smoking, nicotine was another habit all the women on that side of the family shared, but she was a demon about the etiquette of it.

“Never without asking permission in someone's home,” she said sternly, “Never at a meal unless everyone has finished eating. And never, ever when walking down a street! People will think you're a …...................well, never mind that, it's just not something ladies do.”

“And if you must drink beer,” she added with a scowl, “Use a glass. Nice people simply do not swig from a can or a bottle.”

With her friends, and she had many, she was generous, good-natured, patient and unfailingly well thought of but she held her family to stricter standards and was inclined to be demanding and more than a little domineering. She and my mother fought like stray dogs over a bone when it came to most small things but when it really mattered, she laid down the law in no uncertain terms. She might allow my mother to rant and rave and try to make her case, but in the end, she shut the argument down simply enough.

“My house, my rules,” she would say calmly, “Take it or leave it.”

I learned to fight from my mother but I learned to win from my grandmother.

She loved Ed Sullivan and Red Skelton equally, was a die-hard Rex Sox fan, had a total crush on Liberace, read the Boston Globe for news and wrapped fish in The Herald. She had no use for any politician after Eisenhower, complained fiercely and often about “the coloreds”, made baskets for the orphan's home every Thanksgiving, and preferred Filene's to Jordan Marsh every day of the week and twice on Sundays. She played no instruments, rarely read anything that wasn't a Readers Digest Book of the Month selection, never walked when she could ride and had no hobbies except for crocheting and knitting. She was a cutthroat bridge player and a dedicated and distinguished member of the Eastern Star and the Daughters of Rebeka with a lifelong love of tradition and ceremony. One of the only really serious battles we ever had was over my refusal to stay in Rainbow Girls. It played out at her small kitchen table over warmed up coffee cake spread with softened butter, so sweet it made my teeth hurt, and fresh strawberries in cream.

“It's elitist!” I argued vehemently, “And out of touch! And silly! Secret signs and rituals and nonsense! I don't want any part of it!”

I'd never seen her look more absolutely stricken and to this day, if I could take back just one conversation with her, I think it might be that one. She was flawed and imperfect but she loved me, mostly without conditions, and I should have been kinder.

I was living out of state when she died but made it back for the funeral and spent a couple of nights in her house. I was struck by how little the perfect order of things had changed. I bought a coffee cake and a stick of butter and sat at her kitchen table, careful to wash up when I was finished and leave no crumbs on the red and white tablecloth. I imagined her sitting across from me, smoking a filter tip Kent 100, tapping out saccachrine tablets for her coffee and telling me all the reasons I should be a Rainbow Girl. I took a deep breath and agreed.

And then I left the dance.