What I Did On My Summer Non-Vacation

Woke up with a headache Friday morning. (Watch for a trend here.) Left the house at 8:15, arrived in Hendersonville, NC, around 6:15. Stopped just inside WV to visit the Coldwater Creek Clearance Center (great deals here - bought nothing), and twice for gas and nourishment (including the Panera in Johnson City - a regular stop on this route). Went straight to Spring Arbor West and spent an hour or so with Mother, including a couple of games of Rummikub. Back to her old apartment at Fletcher Park Inn. Looked around, assessed the situation, then plopped in a chair in front of the TV to knit and relax (or wind and unwind!).

Saturday morning: Woke up with a headache. No food in the apartment, so went out for breakfast, then to Ingles to grab shampoo and food for the rest of the weekend. Back to the apartment and packed until 2:00. Went out, picked up Mother, and took her to visit my cousin, BJ, and her husband, Melvin. Chatted a little, looked at their garden, then took Mother back home and headed back toward the apartment. Head still hurting and sick to my stomach, so decided I needed a treat. Stopped at Chili's and had an appetizer and a glass of Chardonnay. A young lady walked into the restaurant and sat down a few seats away from me at the bar. Her eyes were red and she had obviously been crying. She ordered a very large beer and sat there fighting back her tears. After about 15 minutes, two young women on the other side of her started talking to her and got her to scoot over next to them and open up about her problems. I sat there and pondered the wonder of my life, then asked the bartender to give me both my check and the young lady's. I paid and walked out, anonymously, having done my good deed for the day. After a trip to Wal-Mart for more boxes, tape and paper, I went back to the apartment and packed until 10:00.

Sunday morning: Woke up with a headache. (See? I told you there was a trend!) Had planned to take Mother up to the mountains but called and told her I just could not take the hour-and-a-half drive up and another hour-and-a-half back down. At 10:30 I went out and got her, then took her to Panera for lunch. Then a drive up on Blue Ridge Parkway, then back home and said goodbye. She couldn't get her hearing aid to work, so it was a verrrry quiet drive. No talking. No hearing.

After another trip to Wal-Mart for more boxes, I returned to the apartment and continued packing and cleaning. Used the Emmy Awards broadcast as motivation to stay on my feet and keep packing until I quit around 10:00. Three more boxes left.

Monday morning: Work up at 6:30. With a headache. Threw the last of the items into boxes and finished loading the car. The movers arrived at 9:15. After filling out the paperwork, I took my knitting to the quiet little porch outside the building and sat, knitting and listening to "The Girl Who Played With Fire" for two hours.

(Found a fabulous knitting blog in German with a picture of the scarf I'm working on—only in a different colorway.) (And another picture from a different blog.)

The movers finished around 2:00. I locked the door and returned Mother's keys to the Fletcher Park Inn front desk, settled in the driver's seat, and arrived home at 11:05 p.m.

Can you say, "Exhaustion"?

P.S. Woke this morning with a headache. Waiting to hear from the family's favorite massage therapist to see when she can fit me in.

When is a Family Like a Bowl of Spaghetti?

I remember tasks from my early years as a programmer when I would be assigned to read through a very complex batch of code, trying to find an error. In those days, code had lots of GOTOs and IF-THEN-ELSEs and other twists and turns. Such code was frequently referred to as "spaghetti code."

I mentioned the other day the death of a local woman who is related by blood or marriage to lots and lots of people in the area. Visiting hours are tonight, the funeral and burial are tomorrow, and Youngstown is crawling with out-of-towners who have flown in to pay tribute to this passionate and compassionate woman.

Last night many of them gathered at the home of her first husband. (Her second husband predeceased her.) As I tried to untangle the names and relationships of everyone who will be at the funeral home tonight or the church tomorrow, I felt like I was back in my "spaghetti code" days.

"Wait, she's whose aunt? And whose grandmother? And …?" I've tried to imagine drawing the family tree of this woman, her immediate ancestors and her descendants, and I can't imagine the piece of paper that would be required to display all those lives.

Yes, I have had four marriages and numerous short-term and a couple long-term relationships. But would I be included in the people who are notified when any of these men pass on? I would only hear about FOMC's death because we share two lovely young men who are our sons, and because he's the grandfather of my beloved grandchildren. Would I be expected to show up for the services? I sincerely don't believe there's a chance in hell that I would be included. The balance of the Menu of Men Past? I won't even be notified that they are no longer on this earth.

So to try to sort out the relationships between all these uncles and cousins and friends who are here this week? It boggles my mind!

The only conclusion I can draw is that this woman, whom I met only once, must have been a pretty spectacular woman to generate this kind of will-to-honor, this drop-everything-and-get-home migration.

May her family derive comfort from the love of all who knew her.

The Beauty Is

 With a tip of my Brown Thumb Society cap to my neighbors, Jean and Marilyn, I show you the beauty that is blooming this week in their garden.

I don't know what that big gorgeous maroon thing is, but I do know that the colors would have been even more vivid if I had used my real camera rather than just my iPhone.

Aren't I lucky to have such prolific gardeners living next door?

(And if you don't know the title reference, it's a fabulously beautiful song from "The Light in the Piazza". Can you tell it's getting to be that time again? In seven weeks, PianoLady and I will meet at the Marriott Marquis for our annual Broadway weekend. Yea!)

This Old House

I've mentioned that a beautiful new office is in the cards for me. Handyman/carpenter Tom finished installing the counter/desk, and building a new bookcase for the corner. The Jazzman has finished painting the walls and will get to the trim in the next day or so. I want to paint the floor (ratty old linoleum) as I saw in an episode of Trading Spaces. I'll try to get to the primer before I leave for NC on Friday.

The other tasks we found for Tom included the west window in the library. The brick wall had risen up or the window had sagged down, to the point that the window sill was angled in rather than out (\ instead of /). Over the years, water has been draining into the house—rather than out to the yard—during heavy rainstorms. As a result, the plaster and molding under the window was destroyed. Tom figured out how to cut the window sill so it was angled out and the Jazzman spent time planing and rasping and sanding to smooth it out, then priming it. It's gorgeous, or will be gorgeous when Jazz paints it.

And there was one more item that bothered me. At some point between 1927 and 2009, the owners decided to replace a couple of the old radiators with baseboard heating units. In doing so, the holes were not repaired where the water pipes came up from the basement into the radiators. When I pulled up the wall-to-wall carpeting on the first floor before moving in, I discovered the lids of tin cans nailed into the floor in four strategic places. It took me months to realize that's what the owner had done to cover up the holes under the carpeting. Without carpeting and tin can lids, I could imagine some visitor in elegant high heels falling into the 1½" square hole, breaking an ankle, and suing my pants off. (Yes, yes. That's what law school teaches us.)

Tom—brilliant Tom—found some wood left over from the other projects and cut it to fit the four holes, fitting it snugly into the holes. The result is that I no longer have holes in the floor. Yea! As soon as the Jazzman varnishes the patches to match the hardwood floor, you'll never know what happened.

Did I mention that I love having brilliant men around me?!

Work That Brain!

I love picture puzzles. I love jigsaw puzzles. Whatever you want to call them, I love sitting, touching, fingering, and finding a home for each solitary piece.

My fondest memories of my childhood and youth are of coming home after school, putting a recording of a Broadway musical or Gilbert & Sullivan operetta on the turntable, and singing along at the top of my lungs while putting together a picture puzzle. I loved those times and relive them every time I hear one of those pieces of music again.

Saturday night, after attending Dreams and Other Pools of Light in which my daughter-in-law danced and my son was musical director, I took the g'babes home with me so Ty and Jaci could attend the cast party. I pulled out my favorite picture puzzle—an old Springbok puzzle showing all the little people and cars and trucks that run around inside a computer to make the information come out—and we listened to tunes off our iPods while we assembled the puzzle. When their daddy came to pick them up at 10:30, they asked if he wanted to help us. He said, "Why, yes. I've done that picture puzzle many times." It was a very sweet moment for me.

Yesterday afternoon I opened my weekly e-mail from The New Yorker and learned they are now puzzleifying the New Yorker covers!!! Such sweet joy! I've been doing puzzles at JigZone for years. But what a treat this new service from The New Yorker is. I can assemble the cover image, then click to read feature articles from the magazine!

As my brain ages and finding words becomes slower and more laborious, this activity can only help, right?

Notes on Notes

This afternoon I'm preparing the first movement of the Brahms Ein deutsches Requiem for the COChorus reaudition this evening. Technically it's being called a "sectional rehearsal" and altos are to "rehearse" from 8:30 to 10:00, but several of my friends have noted on Facebook that this is really our reaudition for the upcoming season.

You know how you can listen to a piece of music over and over in a short period of time (as I do when preparing for a concert), and then not listen to it for months? During those months, you totally forget about it. Then you play it again and remember, vividly, how much you love that music. The Brahms Requiem brings tears to my eyes each time I sing it, as it is again doing this afternoon.

I've written about this work a number of times. I think I've probably performed it five times since the mid-80s. Each time it has the same affect on me.

As I was organizing my thoughts for this post, the Jazzman came in to tell me a family friend had passed away last night. I felt sad for her children and grandchildren to lose her, and yet relieved for her that she's finished with hospitals and nursing homes and pain.

A new online friend and I have been discussing death and the Seventh-day Adventist perspective on death, which is that the dead are sleeping until the second coming of Christ. I dropped that belief when I was about 19 years old and two of my dearest friends were killed in a car wreck in their first year of college. My experiences with John's death lead me to believe that there is a spirit world where we go. I find no fear in that belief. I don't know if I believe I'll come back—be reincarnated—after a period of time in the spirit world. I tend to hope not; this life hasn't been a piece of cake and I sure don't want to have to live through these hardships again! But fear? No, I don't fear death.

The final movement of the Brahms, in a loose translation from the German, reads:

Into Paradise may the Angel lead them;

at thy coming may the Martyrs receive thee, and bring thee into the holy city Jerusalem.

May the Choir of Angels receive thee, and with Lazarus, once poor, may thou have eternal rest.

I desire to live my life every day so that I have no fear of what comes next.

Paper Everywhere

My beautiful new office is nearing completion, and I spent most of Saturday sorting through and consolidating files and throwing away papers that didn't need to be kept or referenced.

It's astonishing how I can accumulate so much stuff! I shredded several files full of old bank papers, and took two black trash bags to the curb. I'm not yet pleased with how much stuff I have to move back into the office when it's finished, but it's a far cry better than it was.

I've started the thought process of a similar purging in the sewing room. I don't even want to think of the yards and yards of fabric I've collected over the past 15 years. Nor do I want to think of the pain of ridding my shelves of all that cotton, silk and linen.

But it's gotta be done! The process of sorting through Mother's things two weeks ago, and the impending packing that will take place this coming weekend convinces me that it must be done.

I think the kindest thing I can do for my children is keep an orderly house with minimal unneeded stuff.

When's the last time you cleaned out a closet?