The Moon and the Stars

On November 14, according to the weather people, whom I don't always believe, and the astronomists around the world, whom I do, there will be a Supermoon. It is the closest the moon will have ventured to the planet earth since January 1948. It will not be seen like this again until 2034.

I like looking at the night sky. I'm not too adept at finding the constellations, but as long as there is something up there twinkling, I just like looking up. Once, when I was in the island of Maui, and the ambient light wa almost nonexistent, the sky looked like a piece of velvet with diamonds sprinkled across it. It was breath-taking.

And as I gaze upwards, I can't help thinking about the Creator. Who thought this stuff up? How could such wondrous and fantastic things like, planets, suns, nebulas and galaxies come into being? It makes me feel, not insignificant as I've heard others describe it, but yearning. Longing to meet such a God that has such powers of beauty and awe at his fingertips! What a fabulous thing to have created! And I get to see it! And so do you, if you care to, that is. So look up that night and think of the Supreme Being in all his mighty heavens, and marvel at those things. I'll be right there looking, too.

In a Little While

In a little while,
When I am well rested
And refreshed from a nap
And well fed.

In a little while
When the sunset is golden
And the leaves have all fallen
And before the snow.

In a little while
There will be pies to bake
And turkey to be stuffed
And days to count down.

In a little while
The house will be full
The hearth will be warm
And I will be content

In a little while.

Sons in the West

I've been thinking of my sister these past few days. That isn't so unusual, I think of her frequently during the course of any given week. But especially this week.  She and I haven't always seen eye to eye about things in the past. She is a "doer" whilst I am fine doing nothing. But this particular week, we have more in common than we ever have.

We both love our children fiercely. They, all of them, are unique individuals. And at one time or another they have plucked our heart strings to the point of near breaking. They haven't done it on purpose, mind you. None of our children are cruel. But in their winding, wandering way of getting to adulthood, they have turned down paths which we both wished they hadn't. And with twisting fingers and bleeding cuticles, we have allowed them their journeys believing that they must navigate themselves. We couldn't (and can't) do it for them. This is the hardest part of parenting if you ask me. Allowing them that space to make mistakes and learn from them.

Eight years or so ago, our son went West. He and a good friend drove cross country and landed in California. It was a dream of his and he worked hard for it. He is still working hard, employed and creating in ways he hoped to do. I'm proud and pleased for and of him. But he's out there. And I'm back here. He isn't here for most birthdays, anniversaries or even the Fourth of July. He's been here for Christmas every year so far--which pleases me no end. But he isn't here for those little side comments and small jokes of everyday life. He comes home and rushes to see all those people here who love and miss him, and he never has enough time to fit everyone in. He wa sick, like hospital sick, while out there. And I saw a picture of him sent by his lovely and caring girlfriend of him in the ER. If you think I wasn't working on getting a ticket out there within minutes, you don't know me. But I didn't go because he handled it and he didn't need me out there hovering.

And my sister's second son, the one who she has finally connected with; who has taken to coming over just for a quick swim, or to help with a sick pet, or to borrow yet another tool; that son is leaving for sunny CA. And his significant other is going as well. Well, she got a job out there, so it's really that he's along for the ride, but you get the idea. She has become a daughter to my sister. Sharing thoughts and recipes and laughter. The asides, the little jokes, the quick drop overs will not be--at least for three years. And Sis is having a hard time. And I totally get it. I wish so badly that I could either take away the feeling of loss, or go visit her. I unfortunately cannot take time off this week. But she's in my head and my heart. And I remember that sense of watching a piece of your self go off in the car, believing that this is the right thing to do, but hating it all the same.

So I'm writing this down for her and for me. As we sniff into our tissues in separate places watching our sons go West.

Far Away Places

There was a song a good long while ago, sung believe it or not by Englebert Humperdinck, who wasn't the original singer, just the one I happen to remember, called, "Faraway Places." It was a wistful tune with some kind of klinky percussion instrumentation in the background thinking to give it an Asian flavor, I guess. The lyrics speak of a longing to go to those "faraway places with the strange sounding names" which are calling the singer to go to. I don't really have much of a wanderlust. So even though I like the song, it's never been my wish to travel to them.

But we're traveling this week. Places like Las Palmes and Hollywood and the infamous, "K Town" will be on our lips this week. Places of sunshine, dry heat (for the most part), and glimpses of lifestyles we read about in magazines. Although my anxiety before the trip was sort of disorienting, now that we're here, it's okay. We took a walk around the neighborhood this morning. Housing is sardined together with post-it sized lawns sporting grass and native desert planting which shouldn't really go together but somehow does. The flowering trees which line the sidewalks bloom in magenta and purple with palm trees interspersed. Like I said it shouldn't work, but it kind of does.

We'll be here for a week. Visiting, viewing, hopefully relaxing. And working on pronouncing some of those names. Faraway places, indeed.

Travel Trepidition

I'm not used to traveling. At least not in a plane. I'm nervous the night before and don't talk to my husband about the "packing ritual", which begins a full week ahead of schedule. You wouldn't believe it if he told you anyway. But it would probably be mostly true. I'm filled with anticipation and a certain amount of anxiety. My eating habits are off. No, let me be honest here, I don't eat. It goes through me anyway. I twiddle my thumbs. I read excessively (and that says A LOT, since I do that even when I'm not going somewhere). I'm okay once in the air and we get where we're going. It's the getting ready that well, gets me.

People say if you pinpoint your fear, face it, then that takes away the anxiety. Well, that hasn't happened so far for me.

I hope to be posting while away. We'll see...now, what else is there to read?

The White Rabbit

We have wild bunnies in the backyard. We have had them for quite some time actually. Not hordes of them, just an occasional two or three. It's not a new development. I have taken to addressing them while coming to and from the house. "Good morning," I say conversationally to the one munching shamrocks in the yard next to the driveway. Sometimes, if they are IN the driveway when I have to go to work, I request they move to the grass. They almost always comply. I like rabbits. Always have. What's not to like? They are cute, fuzzy, don't attack (except in Monty Python movies) and are fun to watch as they gambol in the yard as the summer sneaks in.

But recently, within the last month or two, we have noticed a new bunny. Now, I don't recognize the others, hopping about, by any special markings. I haven't named them or anything. But this new one is well, different. He is white. Not white white like an albino. But his coat is white mixed with the browns and blacks of the his fellow yard inhabitants. And lest you think I've lost my mind--no, he is not wearing a vest with a pocket watch, exclaiming about lateness and running down a hole enticing me to follow--he acts just the same as the other bunnies. He just stands out in his unique coloring. If I was a believer in reincarnation, I would assign him to several of my loved ones that would come back in this form to visit. But I don't really believe in reincarnation, so it's a moot point, although fun to think about. He is there most mornings and early evenings. He makes me think of the book Watership Down and the ways of the rabbits in that adventure. We had a stray cat amble through the yard the other day and hubby and I were chagrined enough to go out and chase it away, lest it decide that rabbits were on the menu for the evening. Its such a quirk of nature to have it there. And even if you find yourself staring out into the yard, not really looking at anything in particular, it will arrest your eyes.

Nature is such a interesting and alluring thing. I remember watching bugs as a child for hours on end. Seeing how they interact with plants, other bugs and obstacles placed in their way. Watching nature, for me is a hobby like reading or knitting (although I am abysmal in the knitting efforts). I do it all the time. We have had the joy of seeing some rarely seen species of bird in the yard, but merely sitting quietly and observing for long periods of time. I am almost always amazed at the variety of birds and beasts, large and small in this ol' world. The white rabbit for me is a reminder that the world is a wondrous place and full of unexpected surprises.

The Swaying of the Moment

The excitement and enthusiasm of the weekend has ended. We, the family, had a wedding to attend and take part in. The youngest of the cousins tied the knot publicly and all those far flung sibling and might-as-well-be siblings came together for the dinners, parties and camaraderie of the last few days. The joyful, exuberant greeting of all at the rehearsal dinner, of course, tempered somewhat with the concerning news of our parent taking a tumble, was the start. The everyone-talking-at-once reunion and laughter and story relating was like a warmly stoked flame that had settled into embers since the last time we met. The day of the wedding began raining, but it stopped in time to finally let the sun shine down on the mountaintop as these two young people surrounded by their families and friends, told everyone of their commitment and devotion to themselves and their future together. When the pictures were finally taken and the event moved to the food and festivities, it was back to the story telling, talking over one another and laughing conversations started the evening before. As the afternoon wore on and everyone settled into schmoozing and sipping ambiance, we were informed of the dancing couples first foray on the dance floor as Mr. and Mrs. Then Bride and her dad.

Ah, but when Groom and his mom took the floor, well. We watched as the sister who had three sons swayed gently in her youngest arms, the way she used to sway with him as an infant. She sang snatches of the song they were dancing to, the same way she used to softly sing little lullabies to him. And he, bless him, held onto her as she so longs to be held by her sons, for just that little bit of time. And I, not knowing what song that was but not really hearing it, was transported to the myriads of memories of sharing this one's upbringing, of listening to her happiness and love as she told me of his accomplishments as if they were her own. Her husband, the dad of the Groom, stood by, head down, looking at his shoes, but I just know he was thinking of all those years, all those memories.  It was a moment out of time, that was. And even though there are pictures from every possible angle, it is the one in my mind I see. Of him holding his mom as she deserves to be held, while swaying to a tune, for just a little while.

It's Dark Out There

I'm typing this at 4:00 am. I started it at around 3:30 and I'm still fiddling around with it. Why, why, why am I up at this hour of the morning? Especially when I have to go to work tomorrow? I have no idea. I thought I heard something about 2 hours ago, which is pretty funny, since the hearing aids come out right before turning out the lights. How acute could my hearing be to "hear something" that hubby didn't hear? I looked out the windows all around the house and nothing looks like it fell down or moved. But I couldn't, just couldn't turn off the brain after that. Thinking about work, thinking about the kids, thinking about the world, thinking about paying the bills, thinking about sleeping. And that's kind of the problem. If I think about going to sleep, it probably isn't going to happen. Trying to "think yourself" into sleep seems counterproductive. Because the act of going to sleep is the way of lessening your awareness, of sliding down into the stream of unconsciousness that allows sleep to happen. And if you're thinking about it, you aren't sliding anywhere except the agitated awareness that keeps you from relaxing.

I think I've spent too much time thinking about this...and the solitaire isn't helping this time. Maybe some warm milk. Does almond milk have the same propensity to promoting sleep? Probably not. Even watching the fish swim around in the tank is not relaxing me. Shouldn't they be sleeping? It's nighttime after all? But of course, they don't have eyelids, so how would you know if they were sleeping. And why am I even concerned about the fish? Okay, I'm turning off the computer now and going upstairs to try and relax myself into sleep. Because it's late. And I have to work tomorrow, er, um today. And I paid the bill I was thinking of, electronically. And oh, no, the hubby is snoring. Maybe another round of solitaire...heavy sigh.

Wild, Winter, Winds

The wind is blowing
A storm up so they say
The wind is blowing
Treetops swish and sway

The cold is driving
Down from the North
The cold is driving
With a terrible force

The windows, they rattle
The heater rumbles below
The windows, they rattle
Oh, please no more snow

I'm going to bed now
And pulling the covers
I'm going to bed now
See you in summer

The Nuance of Not Hearing

This will be my official first whine of the New Year. At the end of a meeting this evening, when people were talking, sharing, laughing and kidding around-in other words, my favorite part, my right hearing aid went dead. This is not necessarily a big deal. Sometimes you have to open the little trap door where the battery is resting and close it again. A kind of reset. But that didn't work. It was still out. I had spare batteries in my coat pocket, but I don't like pulling out the pack and going through all the fol-de-rol of fishing out a new one, so I smiled benignly and left. The problem is, this was my back up pair.  Earlier in the day, the left one came out of its housing whilst cleaning (no, I was not vigorously scrubbing it). I had to go to the audiologist to get him to put it back together the right way. So I dug out the back ups to use until the glue set for the fixed one.

I don't complain about my hearing loss to anyone. It doesn't serve a purpose. I don't have cancer or dementia (although some doubt my mental prowess) or leprosy. I am not clinically depressed or suicidal. I have an excellent life all things considered. But today, I hate that I can hear the door click only when I'm next to it. That I can't hear my footsteps, the tv in the next room or even the voice on the voicemail on the phone. I hate it. It makes me mad and makes me feel incompetent and fragile. And I ask myself once again, why do I have this? Am I supposed to be learning something from this? Am I some shining example to be made to others? I don't want this. I didn't ask for it.

Tomorrow is another day and the newer hearing aids will be in fine fettle. But this evening my "fettle" is quite rattled and I'm sitting here in bed whining.

Epiphany--a good word

I don't know if you have noticed it or not, but the church always seems to have words that stick out. They aren't used anywhere else. Words like: narthex, sacristy, vestments. But the curious thing is that the "church" also has words that are used in other places: baptism (by fire usually), blessing (or a curse) and epiphany. The word epiphany means:  a sudden intuitive leap of understanding, especially through an ordinary but striking occurrence. This is the season of Epiphany, when we come to understand that Jesus came and surprised us all by saving us from sin. The most famous story of the season is the one where the Wise Men come from the East to offer the baby, gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. It is symbolic that three guys from out of the area came to see the "King of the Jews" and they themselves were not Jewish. That is kind of what Epiphany emphasizes. You don't have to be Jewish to see Jesus as Savior of the world. 

I was reminded of something today which I wanted to share. It has to do with a house blessing, writing the following in chalk over the door post. It's a way to celebrate this becoming aware of the gift of the Messiah. It goes like this:

20 + C+M+B+16

The letters have two meanings. They are the initials of the customary names of the three Magi:  Caspar, Melchior and Balthasar. They also abbreviate the Latin words, "Christus Mansionem Benedicat" which translates to "May Christ bless this house". The year is divided before and after these letters with the plus signs (small crosses) representing the protection of Christ on the dwelling.

Happy Epiphany! And I wish for you an intuitive and sudden understanding of the miracle of Jesus coming to us!

Thanksgiving to You

I am not going to be all sentimental and smarmy, I promise. However, in the newspaper (yes, they still make them;  yes, I still read them) this morning, there was a whole section of "What I'm Thankful For". It was filled with tales of "I'm grateful for the cancer treatment and the nurses and doctors" as well as "Uncle Joe is doing so much better now". Thanksgiving is a time, it has been touted, that we remember the past year and give thanks for the things that make us happy, the things that give us a "glow", the things that point us to something bigger than, well, the things. I am and have been rather ambivalent about Thanksgiving to be perfectly honest, for a very long time. Not because I'm not thankful and not because I don't appreciate all that I have in my life. It's because it seems wrong somehow to put aside one stinking day to do this. It almost smacks of hypocrisy. Let's say thanks during this one day then go back to being cranky about all that we don't have after its over. Many around me are blessed with abundance or really, over abundance. They aren't complaining about stuff they don't have, they are complaining about the stuff they have that doesn't work, or is inadequate or less than perfect. And I do this, too. I'm not pointing any fingers at anyone without the other four pointing at myself.

So here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to begin to say "thank you" each and every day for at least 5 things. This is a personal list, I don't intend to share or even post it. But I am going to do this every day and see what happens to my attitude by next Thanksgiving. The world is a scary, threatening and disjointed place, full of uncertainties. I keep running into things which would push me into the "fear zone" and intimidate me into "woe is me" scenarios. I'm going to try not doing that. And I am thankful honestly for those around me who put up with my weirdness and uncertainties. I am thankful for being able to post stuff and know that those who read it will get what I'm saying and not put me away or shame me for whining. It's a start.

The Sanctity of Life/Bug version

It occurs to me that I have an interesting attitude about six and eight legged creatures in the house. If they are of the beetle variety, I usually gather them up (unless they are a stink bug-then I tissue them up) and take them outside and set them free. The same is true for moths.  I even found a stick bug walking on my dinner plate (much to the dismay of our daughter) the other evening and escorted him outside. I don't really know if it was a him or not, but I just guessed. I'm not overly fond of bugs that jump if they are in the house. Crickets of any kind, black or camel creep me out and my almost always first reaction is smush and ask questions later. But I don't seem to mind grasshoppers. But then they are almost never in the house, so maybe that's the key.

But eight-legged creatures are never welcome in my house. I don't care how tiny or innocuous they appear. They are on the smush list immediately. Do not tell me how beneficial they are. Do not pontificate on their usefulness in keeping the other "bad" bugs at bay. I'm not listening and never will. I began this post sitting at the computer in my kitchen. Next to the thoroughly cluttered desk on which this PC sits is a ledge built in as a pass through. On the pass through is the fish tank, pictures of the grandcats with their owners, a digital clock and the lazy leo (NEVER call it a lazy susan, please) with the salt, pepper and napkins at the ready for any meal. The ledge extends about six inches from the wall and most of the time I don't pay any attention to the fact that it is there because, well, it's just there. But this evening, typing away, making typos and fixing them as I went along, something moved just out of eyesight under there. I peeked. There was a spider walking doggedly along the underside of the ledge, away from me. It wasn't the Shelob behemoth of mythic proportions, nor was it a black widow or brown recluse. And it was running away from me. But you see, I cannot let it go. Because in my mind, it is just a spiderling and its huge parent is just around the corner behind the fridge and if I smush it, the parent will know this is inhospitable territory and will run away. I can't explain this irrational feeling, it just is. So I reached up with a shoe and clobbered the sucker. I made sure not to miss. Which has been known to happen and ensures a dance around the kitchen floor until I find it again. But not this time. Nope, I hit it smack in the center of the sole of the shoe and it was mashed beyond recognition, even to its huge parent waiting with grasping pinchers somewhere nearby.

So now I am typing away again. Content in the spider free space for now. Until another one shows up. Which they will. Because they always do. Eight legs are not welcome.

Ma's Birthday

It is our mother's birthday tomorrow. Yep, her birthday. She was born November 1, 1931, which makes her...um...well, you do the math. She wouldn't like it if I put the number up there in black and white anyway. She used to tell me that her father said she was a leftover from Halloween. It sounds like him. But in the church she and I share her birthday comes on All Saints Day. Now I know that my mother is not pure as the driven snow. Because we are both Lutheran we believe that all people are both saint and sinner. But I've come to think of my mother as one of the more saintlier people. Now, I know most people put their mothers on a pedestal and if they don't there's usually a good reason, like she is an ax murderer or something heinous like that. And I also know that we sometimes can't see negative things about our mothers because, well, they are our mothers! But our mom is a pretty good example of what a good person is and does. She prays for people--her prayer list is alike a bajillion people long and she prays for all of them! I can't remember the basic five or six without a cheat sheet. She tries really hard not to speak badly about anyone. Even when you can tell she doesn't want to say something nice about someone, she wiggles around until she comes out with something positive. I just don't have the energy to do this most times. If you're a rat, then you're a rat and no amount of spraying perfume on you is going to make you smell nicer. But Mom does that, at least most of the time. She loves her family: even the extended family that she doesn't see that much, even the family of our dad whom I think she sees something like once or twice a year. And she remembers them and their kids names! It drives me crazy. Our sister can do this, too. I can't remember all these people! I have to concentrate on the ones I see most of the time...I just can't keep those others straight. But she expects me to, 'cause she'll say something about Daisy or "the girls" and I'm supposed to follow along as to who they are and how they are related. It's tiring.

A few years ago I started calling her Ma. The main reason for this is that when I call the house and she answers, even if she can't hear who it is, if I say, MA, she knows it's me. It sort of like a code word between us. I like that. I could use more people in my life who have code words for each other, couldn't you?

So happy birthday MA! Live long and prosper as Spock from Star Trek would say. Have some cake and lots of ice cream. And say an extra prayer that you will be with us for another 100 years. Because I can't imagine an All Saints Day without my favorite Saint. Saint Ma.

I Guess I Don't Understand

Things happen. I haven't lived to be 61 without being aware that things happen. Sometimes they are good things, sometimes they are bad. Sometimes you anticipate them and sometimes there is no way to anticipate things. Recently, in my sphere I have heard and seen some pretty awful things.  Yeah, I live in the bubble, but these things outside the bubble? Well, they pushed into the breathing space here and made some intense and sad conversations happen amongst us. Having said that, I am not personally involved with those awful things. They didn't happen to my immediate circle of family and friends (thank goodness) and so I'm at least one- maybe two steps outside of the impact circle. But of late, I have been surrounded with folks who are in no way entitled  to comment, commenting on what they would do, how they would handle such and such and how the "powers that be" are just going about it all wrong. Really? And these people would know this...how? There are circumstances beyond your ken, people. Things that happen outside of your knowledge base. You cannot proclaim you would do this or make this happen without being privy to those things. So quit pontificating okay? Quit saying, the authorities aren't doing enough or the government isn't doing enough (okay, maybe they aren't), the administration is to blame for not handling this well. Until you are walking in some people's moccasins, you have no right to rant, rail and rave. None. So get a life, you whiners and nay-sayers. Find something else to talk about and complain about. Fix your own lives why don't you. But leave those poor souls struggling with their griefs and despairs out of your "I know better" pontificating. Thanks, I needed to get that off my chest.

A Plethora of Thoughts

Sometimes writing is so easy, it's scary. It flows out of the eyes, the ears, the very pores. You can't seem to stop it up. And sometimes, I'm reminded of having to take certain medications to get the "natural occurrences" of the bodily functions--well--occurring naturally. I've been stopped up for some time now. Writing didn't seem to be something I wanted to do. I would see the icon for my blog and think, "yeah, I'll get to that." But I didn't really want to. It's hard to believe I would ever feel that way, writing feels like a part of my inner self. But there you have it.

The urge is here today, again, for whatever reason. The words are coming out and pouring across the page willy-nilly. I'm spelling things wrong, which usually indicates that I'm concentrating on getting the words down as opposed to correctly. This is also an indication that writing is flowing again. Because when you're in the "zone" you don't care so much that it's spelled right, just that it's there, on the page, well, on the computer, those little black marks filling up the white space.

I think what started the flow today was a series of unrelated events. I woke up at 5--an ungodly hour for me. I sleep as late as I can each day--I just dislike mornings so much, at first. And now, especially, when it's dark out and the crickets don't get how it's almost morning, and the guy delivering the newspaper stops outside at the curb with his radio blasting, I mean, I just wished mornings started later. So I popped out of bed at five, and was downstairs getting ready for work a whole hour earlier than usual. Then in work, although I like to believe I'm somewhat efficient, I was super-efficient. I was on top of phone calls, on top of emails, filing, writing notes, calling and following up. My office mate got caught up in a myriad of dramas that fortunately didn't have anything to do with me! A good day all around. I virtuously walked back to work after going home for lunch, then took the long way home instead of just taking the most direct route. Since stopping the gym, this was a very good thing for me to do. Later, after dinner, my Mom called. She shared some really depressing news, then tried to work around the fact that this was really the only reason she called, to share this bit of morose-ness. I didn't blame her for telling me. But I know how she thinks and I'm sure she felt guilty and tried to make believe she really just wanted to know how my day was. I knew better and so did she. We do this dance frequently, she pretending there are other reasons for calling besides sharing bad, scary or depressing news. It's fine actually that she does this. She keeps in touch with far more people than I do and I would never know half this stuff if she didn't call me. But at the end of the day, it was just a quirky thing, ya know?

So I will be going to bed soon; hopefully to sleep until at least six. I'll probably be more sluggish at work tomorrow and not quite on top of the world. There is a meeting I'm half not wanting to go to tomorrow night which will cap off whatever tomorrow brings. And such is life.

We are full of ups and downs. Highs and lows. We rest our weary heads on our pillows at night, hoping that tomorrow when we wake up (if we wake up--now there's a depressing thought), we will go through the new day meeting whatever challenges we face either by boldly facing them or running away and hiding in our cubicles. And on the days when I want to write, I do. And on the days I don't or can't or need some medicine to help me out, well, then, I write then, too, but not always.

Another Year Older, for both of us

Every year at about this time, I post something about the son. His birthday is coming up and I always remember and recall things from his childhood; his playing with the old yogurt cups in the kitchen as I made dinner. His drumming on the plastic tubs in the living room with his dad and sister as they played some discordant marching song.

He is so far away sometimes. Not just geographically, which of course, he is. But I don't get the day to day interactions, the little asides, the small smiles. I was suddenly cognizant of the fact that I hadn't shared his birthday with him since when he went away to college. The new semester always began before his birthday--had usually just started--so coming home wasn't an option. I haven't seen our son for his birthday for over ten years. It really got me today as I mailed his card and present. It is not a tragedy, I realize that. There are more earth shattering and mind bending things that are happening in the world today. But in my little corner, I came to the realization that he's ambled through almost half as many birthdays without the family as with them. I got all choked up (as I'm sure my family would say I am wont to do). Birthdays are special to my way of thinking. I have always loved celebrating them with others and for others. But he hasn't been home to celebrate with us for a very long time. I'm sure he has his own rituals now. He is doing something really cool for his birthday this year with his friends. But his family isn't sitting around the table with him having his "favorite" dinner nor eating that artery hardening cake we used to get for him.

I'm not going to dwell on this fact anymore, though. I'm made of sterner stuff. I will step out and go to work as usual on his birthday. One foot in front of the other. One hour passing by another until the day is done. Wishing for a candle to blow out in his honor. I miss him sometimes too much I guess. Happy Birthday, son. Love you lots.

Sometimes it Gets You, Right Here

Preservation Hall Jazz Band. Look it up, I'll wait...

This is what it says on its site:

     New Orleans’ Preservation Hall was established in 1961 to honor one of America’s truest art forms – Traditional New Orleans Jazz. Operating as a music venue, a touring band, and a non-profit organization, Preservation Hall continues its mission today as a cornerstone of New Orleans music and culture.

     Situated in the heart of the French Quarter on St. Peter Street, the Preservation Hall venue presents intimate, acoustic New Orleans Jazz concerts over 350 nights a year featuring ensembles from a current collective of 100+ local master practitioners. On any given night, audiences bear joyful witness to the evolution of this venerable and living tradition.

I've known about this place since like, forever. I've never visited New Orleans, but our dad was a huge fan. Knew the names of the famous people who played there, loved the music. It was a place he spoke of in that whispered excited voice of his, whenever he discussed music of his heart. I'm not sure, but it seems like he owned one recording of the band as he knew it. I don't recall listening to it, just knowing about it or seeing the cover, something in sepia tones and old, black guys on the cover. It was just another kind of music he listened to. I appreciated that jazz was a music he liked. But scat and some other forms just weren't my thing, so I guess I sort of dismissed it.

Fast forward to today. Our son, a music lover, composer, joyful participant in all things melodious and not so much had ventured to New Orleans as part of one of those "new-fangled" bachelor destination parties. He is a member of the bridal party and so he went. When he called to speak of various and sundry things, we asked how the "bachelor party" way down south went. He spoke of the food and the drink and the camaraderie of young men enjoying themselves together in a new place. But he then began to speak of the vibe of New Orleans. "There's music everywhere," he said. "I've never been in a place where music happened all over, it was part of the fabric of the place." And then he told us of visiting St. Peter Street. The temperature was hot and steamy. But it was like no other place he had ever been. It was called Preservation Hall. I hadn't heard those words together in a very, very long time. And my throat closed up and my eyes watered. And I knew my dad was thrilled beyond anything that his grandson had visited the land of clarinets, drums and trumpets slowly ambling across a melody while bodies swayed and feet thumped to the rhythms of the players. How could I explain the thrill of hearing him say he was there? Well, his birthday is coming up, but he just gave me the best present I ever got this year. He walked in the steps of Dixieland and heard the blues and jazz the way they were meant to be played by the band that knows how to play them. His granddad in heaven is smiling to beat the band...any band...anywhere.

Ramblings and Rumblings

It's not going well and yet it's not really bad either. The summer has morphed into a mish-mosh of empty days pinged occasionally by good ones. The day after day after day of working and coming home and going to the gym and attending yet another church meeting, going to sleep and starting it all over again is numbing. I haven't written anything for more than a month. And it didn't feel like I was missing anything until I looked at the last post and realized, "holy cow, it's been over a month!" The mundaness is numbing actually. The getting up, putting one foot in front of the other and carrying on is not what I wish for, but if you were to ask what I wish for, I couldn't answer that either. I never had a "grand plan". Never really thought I would do with myself when I grew up. Didn't even really think about growing up. It just happened. As has most of the things in my life. They just happened.  Do most people have "plans"? Do other people have stuff all figured out in advance? Am I the minority here? Summer is probably the worst time for me for a bunch of reasons. I'm annoyed at myself for frittering away some precious vacation days with time off and no specified destination or plans in mind. But, then we've just established, that plans don't figure in my view of things. Are there things I want to accomplish? Not that I'm aware of. Perhaps I need a life coach to show me the road to "self-fulfillment" or enlightenment or well, whatever. Perhaps I need a psychiatrist. I know a few people who love me who would say I've probably needed one of those for quite a while (I'm grinning as I write that). Perhaps I need to stop concentrating so hard on myself and get out of my own head. Which is probably what I need to do in the most immediate future. So I will sign off for now and do something worldly, unselfish and philanthropic. Or maybe I'll just go in the living room and read on the iPad. It's a long summer. And it's not over yet.

Song For a Small Town

My sister and I visited the town we grew up in a few days ago. It was a sentimental journey mostly. We parked in front of the old homestead and proceeded to walk around the town talking of things past and things present, things remembered and things hoped for. On the anniversary of our father's death, we usually sit and reminisce individually without the other siblings. This felt good. I wished the brothers had been there. But such is life.

Actually though, this isn't a post about the day, as lovely as it was. I was standing in the kitchen of my home this evening admiring the weather for a change. It wasn't too hot, nor too humid--a rarity in this state. And I was wondering about someone I know who lives in our old hometown now. He and his partner live near a friend's house that we frequented when growing up. And I wondered...did he know about the wonderful solitude of walking along the river on a night like this, skipping stones and contemplating life's mysteries? Would he sit on the wall or perhaps one of the newer benches and take in the river breeze bringing with it the strange "river" smell that accompanies this body of water? Will he stroll the small side streets, feeling the evening breeze lift the collar of his shirt (he shaves his head, so no hair to ruffle), and marvel at the quietness, the peaceful pace of the place I used to call home? I shall have to ask him sometime. I hope he does. I hope he comes to find a way of life somehow missed by the slipstream of the urban jungle. And I hope he skips a few stones and finds some peace there as well on a night just made for an evening stroll.