Make it Count and Do it Well

Posted on April 5, 2023 by sjdaab

Her Last Adventure…Part One

I do not enjoy suspense. I like books and movies where you know right from the start that the hero makes it to the other side safely, happily, and in one piece. And, in all honesty, I also like to know up front if the main character will die before the final scene. So, in case you’re that kind of person too, I’m giving you a heads-up…the main character, the heroine of this tale, my mother, dies in the end. It is not a story of sadness and sorrow, although they unavoidably play a part. No, the tone of this story was set by the leading lady. My mother approached her death with acceptance, courage, curiosity, and humor.

“I think this will be a great adventure,” she said. Then she added, “I’ve never died before. I don’t know what it will be like.” The way she chose to face this final chapter was her last and perhaps most important lesson and one of her greatest gifts.

I had slipped into her room while she was sleeping, so Mom didn’t know I was sitting quietly in the corner when her doctor entered and wiggled her toe to wake her.

“I want to check out,” she said.

“Oh, I can see to that. I’ll get the paperwork ready. Then, if you wish, you can go home as soon as that’s finished.”

“No,” she explained. Then, with her palm parallel to the floor in a sort of horizontal karate chop, she gestured from her body toward him, emphasizing the words, “No, I want to…check…out. I don’t want any more treatments. I just want to go home.”

Immediately, an enormous unbidden lump rose in my throat. I couldn’t imagine life without my mother, but I understood her decision. She had been dealing with one medical complication and setback after another for years. She was stoic and cheerful for the most part, although she was often in pain. Her zest for living and her ability to make new friends wherever she went hid her daily discomfort. Even on that snowy January morning, her spirit wasn’t broken, and her love of life remained ever present, but the last challenge she had endured just two days earlier and the diagnosis of congestive heart failure that followed changed things. Sometime during the night, she decided that she simply wished to live out her remaining days in the comfort of her home without any additional medical interventions besides those required to keep her comfortable and free from pain. She had played the hand dealt to her skillfully, but now she was ready to leave her cards on the table and head for the door.

“You know,” she concluded, “I think 90-plus years is enough.”

While arrangements were made for her to be transported back to her assisted living apartment, I called my sister, who would meet us there. Then we let our other siblings and our spouses know of this development. Just like that…filled with emotion and the sudden perception of being untethered and carried along willy-nilly by the fickle and unpredictable direction of the wind…together with Mom, we began the last great adventure of her life.

Of course, Mom would be the only one boarding the train in the end, but we’d do whatever we could to help her prepare for the journey. We would pack her bags, make sure she had her ticket, and when the train pulled into the station, we’d help her up the steps as she climbed aboard. Then we would lean against each other as we stood on the platform, watching it pull away, leaving us behind as she ventured on without us.

As a teenager in the mid-late 1960s, I attended Lake Louise United Methodist camp near Boyne Falls, Michigan. One evening during a vesper service with the lake before us, the sun setting in the distance and flames of the campfire dancing into the approaching night, one of the adult leaders shared a message that has stayed with me through the decades. I’m unsure what prompted his reflection, but part of this homily left a lasting impression.

“It’s true,” he declared, “that you only have one life to live. So live it well. It’s also just as true that you only have one death to die, so don’t waste it, make it count, and do it well.”

Nothing else from that evening remains. There were probably verses of Kum Ba Yah and a prayer or two thrown in, but those words about dying well took up lodging in my brain… don’t waste it; make it count, and do it well. Of course, we aren’t all given the opportunity to put these admonitions into practice; perhaps few of us are. The time and manner of our departure are usually a matter of fate coming without warning rather than at a time and place of our own choosing, but it is truly a gift of grace when we can face our imminent departure, determined to do it well.

Mom thought that by simply deciding to die, it would be just a matter of days until…in her words…she flat-lined; however, that wasn’t how things worked out. No, dying wouldn’t be quite that easy. Instead, like once brilliant sidewalk chalk drawings on a rainy afternoon, she would slowly slip away. Observing this process wasn’t easy, but I am forever grateful for that brief gift of time.

Two years earlier, when Mom moved from her condo to her apartment in the assisted living facility, the task of emptying and selling her house fell to her children. It was difficult for her to know that the possessions, treasures, and minutia of her life were being sorted, divided, and disposed of without her supervision. One day during this process, she asked, “Do you know what happened to that little wooden box I kept on the marble-topped stand? Do you know the one I mean?”

“The box that was carved and had inlaid ivory on the top? I queried.”Lined with blue velvet? Is that the one you mean? I gave you that box for Christmas when I was in High School. I bought it at the Grand Rapids Museum. I don’t know where it is now, though.”

“Well, it’s probably right there on the stand.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that my brother, who had been promised this piece of furniture, had already taken it to his house.

“What made you think about that box, Mom?” I asked.”

“Well,” she said with just a slight hesitation, “It has my thumb in it.

Decades previously, while working on one of her many projects, Mom had cut off her thumb at the joint with a table saw. She was home alone at the time, and although she searched for her thumb, the force of the blade had flung it out of sight. Finally, giving up her search and bleeding profusely, she wrapped a towel around her hand and drove herself to the hospital. Thinking that perhaps the neighbor’s cat had found the wayward digit Dad was surprised when months later, he discovered the desiccated thumb in the woodpile. Evidently, unbeknownst to me, Mom had kept her thumb in the ornate wooden box.

“I’ll keep an eye out for that box, but I bet you brought it here, and you’ve just forgotten where you put it.”

Now, with the end of her journey in sight, her attitude to the sorting and redistribution of her things suddenly changed. She was no longer interested in who had what or what became of which. Shortly after returning to her apartment from the hospital, she directed us to do whatever was needed to dispose of her remaining possessions. Since she was now confined to her bed, we tried to make the process less difficult for her by working outside her line of sight. I reminded her of how painful it had been disposing of her things earlier.

“Well, I don’t feel like that now. No, I want you to work on emptying this place. Then, if I die before the end of the month, you can be out of here without paying another month’s rent.” Everyone thinks their mother is unique, but mine was an original…truly one of a kind.

During those precious days, my siblings and I were each granted time alone… one-on-one time…private time…personal time…with Mom. Since I wasn’t working, I was able to spend quantity time as well as quality time with her. We reminisced and laughed as she shared memories and oft-told tales…teaching my aunt…famous for her infectious laugh…how to drive, and the night she delivered her grandson when he arrived before I could make it to the hospital. I listened, too, while she recalled deep hurts from years long past that still haunted her and the disappointment that she felt knowing that there were still things on her to-do list that wouldn’t get checked off. We also discussed the memorial service she expected me to lead. “It would be nice if there were a few tears,” she admitted, “but I really hope the memorial will be a joyful celebration of the wonderful life I’ve had.” We were all blessed by the gift of time, but eventually, as we knew she would, she began to slip away.

Her Last Adventure…Part Two

In time, Mom began to sleep more, speaking infrequently, with many hours between verbal interactions.

When I was young, my paternal grandparents lived across the street from an old cemetery. Without television or much else to amuse us, my brother, my cousins, and I would entertain ourselves by wandering the garden of stones, reading epitaphs and last words chiseled into the sandstone and slate, so when Mom did speak, I was careful to mark her words, just in case they were her last.

“One afternoon, one of the caregivers from her assisted living facility came in a sat at her bedside. Mom was one of the favorites, so it wasn’t uncommon for them to join us. In gentle tones, she spoke quietly to Mom, who hadn’t been responsive for a long time. As she rose to leave, Mom said softly, “I love you” How wonderful, I thought, if her final words were, I love you. Mom would end most conversations with the words, “Know I love you,” which would also appear at the end of written conversations as KILY. How appropriate that she would leave us with words of love.

“If we’d been in a Hallmark movie, those would have been her final words, but..real life isn’t scripted. One morning a few days later, I assisted a hospice volunteer as she gave Mom a sponge bath. The attendant was kind and caring, but Mom had cried out several times in pain. It was upsetting and traumatic for all three of us. On her subsequent visit, the volunteer spoke soothingly, explaining what she would do.

“Jean, I will help you bathe and do my best to keep you pain-free. If you disagree, you can just tell me to shut up.”

Suddenly, after an extended period of silence, in a solid clear voice, Mom said, ” Shut up!” Oh! No! Her last words would be shut up!

There was no sponge bath that day.

Luckily, however, those weren’t destined to be her final comments. One evening, a hospice worker we hadn’t met before arrived to check in on Mom and to see how we were holding up.

“Hello, Jean. My name is Alex.”

Before he could continue, our mother, who hadn’t spoken or indicated that she was aware of our presence in what seemed like days, interrupted. “Oh, Alex. Alex.”

“Mom, this is a different, Alex, not the one you know,” my sister interjected. Then turning to Alex, she continued, “Alex, my mother would want you to know that this is not how she planned her demise. Her plan was to die in her own home, in her own bed…,” and before Kelly could finish, Mom interrupted again with the words that would indeed prove to be her last.

“…making love to a much younger man.”

Oh, Perfect! Mom, true to form, chose to leave us with a reminder of her humor and her joie de vivre. The moment was complete and even more poignant when Alex leaned over and kissed her tenderly on the cheek. Truly perfect.

The hospice nurse advised us that we were probably entering the final hours.

Penny, Kelly, and I summoned our brother; our spouses had returned home to wait; the caregivers no longer joined us in singing at her bedside as we had often done; the hospice volunteers sat unobtrusively down the hall, and with her four children gathered around, Mom’s journey…her final adventure was nearing the end.

Throughout the day, as she slept, we continued to clean cupboards and prepare the apartment in anticipation of her departure.

“Hey, Kerry, would you like this box of arrowheads?” I asked, offering my brother the collection we had discovered in a closet.

“Sure,” he replied. Then, as his smiling sisters extended the lovely wooden box with an inlaid ivory lid to him, he recoiled suddenly. “Wait a minute! Is Mom’s thumb in here?”

Impishly we replied in near unison, “Yep, and now it’s yours.” Gee, I hope Mom heard that!

As the day became evening became night, we found ourselves all sitting around the bed. We were on holy ground, sharing a sacred, intimate, profoundly spiritual moment. In this prayerful attitude, we passed the last carton of her favorite Breyers Strawberry Ice Cream between us. “We’re finishing the last of the ice cream for you, Mom,” my sister said as we shared this impromptu ritual of an ice cream communion.

One of the most disturbing, soul-crushing cinematic scenes in all of moviedom is the death of Bambi’s mother. “Your mother can’t be with you anymore. Man has taken her away. Now you must learn to be brave and learn to walk alone.” For most Baby Boomers, it was the first time we realized that our parents could and eventually would leave us. Unlike Bambi, however, I was not alone in the forest as I had feared all my life. When she took her final breaths, we were holding her hand or touching her arm, creating a chain that linked us to her, each other, and the untold number of people she had affected throughout her long life.

Early in the morning of January 25th, 2018, my mother, Jean Ethel Trueman Daab, with all her earthly tasks completed…a life well lived and a death full of grace, gratitude, and wonder… boarded the train and took her leave.

I miss my mother every day, and I often think back on this profound experience. I am so grateful for her example and her constant reminder to “celebrate being alive. Thanks, Mom! Know I love you…Always.

Stringing Beads

Posted on February 21, 2023 by sjdaab

“And sometimes a cigar is not just a cigar. Just sayin'”
Sally Armstrong

I recently came across this piece…a totally true story… I had written over a decade ago. It made me chuckle when I unearthed it from the hidden depths of my trusty laptop. I hope it makes you smile, too.

Beads! Beads! And More Beads!
Photo credit: Pixabay

“Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”
Mae West

A couple weeks ago, I picked up a book about aging gracefully…how to have your best brain after fifty…which, at 62, I’m trying to speed-read before it’s too late. One of the suggestions for keeping your brain fit and healthy is to take up a new hobby, so when my friend Anne gave me everything I needed to begin making beaded necklaces, I was ecstatic. Not only would I be able to create my own works of art, but I would now have a new activity to explore while giving my declining brain a good workout.

What fun! Anne had provided the necessary jewelry findings, beads, and wire. She had even offered to give me a lesson on how to proceed, but I couldn’t wait. So I googled the internet for a youtube explanation of how to attach a clasp. Soon, I was off and running! Whoo! Hoo!

In no time, I needed more colors in my palette, more textures in my supply, and more shapes in my coffer. So I was soon off to the local bead store.

Beads and Tools at the Ready
Photo credit: Pixabay

I have often wondered how a store on Main Street that sells beads almost exclusively could remain in business. Are there really enough people in the area who are interested in beads? The shop is filled with beads of all colors, sizes, shapes, and places of origin. Some of the beads are relatively easy, with large holes that allow easy threading, and appear suitable for beginners. These bigger beads often seem as though they have already been used quite a bit with nicks, scrapes, and a somewhat worn patina. It is simple to take these beads off and on and off and on until you find a pleasing pattern or are ready to move on to more challenging spheres. Some of the beads have tiny holes that can only be threaded with the utmost patience and a gentle touch. While there is a wide variety of beads from which to choose, the wires appear to be pretty much all the same…allowing you to select the length and width that pleases and satisfies you most.

After selecting a strand of pink quartz, I approached the counter and asked the proprietor if she could help me. I was looking for a unique finding I had seen on a recent trip to Sedona.

You know…that round thing”, I said, using the index finger and the thumb of my left hand to form a circle. “You know…that round thing and then the stick thing that goes into it?” I asked, demonstrating with the index finger of my right hand going in and out. “You know? I don’t know what it’s called”.

She gave me an odd little smirky smile and replied, “ Um…A toggle?” she asked with a stifled chuckle.

“Yes, that’s what I guess I mean.”

The whole exchange was a little odd. I mean, why the snicker? Why the chuckle? What was so funny? How was I supposed to know the proper names for all the bits and pieces? Did she think I should make up my own nomenclature? Well…I let it go, paid for my treasures, and turned toward home with ideas buzzing in my head.

The following day I gathered all the required implements and the selected beads and began my artistic venture. As I bent over the bead tray with the stiff piece of wire in my hand, I was impressed that, yes, this was a fantastic new hobby, one that would strengthen my brain, creating new pathways for thought, stretching those synapses and neurons, and really polishing up my cerebral cortex.

As I selected the tiny black bead that would go on first, I was amazed at how little they were…how difficult it was to see the opening. In fact, I couldn’t see the opening at all. I poked around with the wire a bit, and then…success. It slipped easily onto the wire. I tried a few more. What lesson was I being taught? What message was the universe trying to teach me? Was it patience? Was it that if I kept trying, I’d eventually get the wire in the hole? Perhaps the lesson was that even if I couldn’t see and was operating by touch and feel if I kept trying, I’d finally succeed? It was as I took the next bead in my fingers and realized that I was sticking something stiff into a relatively small opening…poking around and hoping for success that the electrical circuits that were created back in my twenties were suddenly shooting sparks all over the cerebrum…it suddenly…or finally… dawned on me what I had been innocently demonstrating to the bead lady.

“There’s grinding the corn. Hitting a home run. Knocking boots. Peeling the banana. Making whoopee. And my personal favorite, the matrimonial polka.”
Sue Mercury, Alien Warrior’s Second Chance

So, I guess…bead stringing… isn’t exactly a…new hobby…for me. But, while I look for the next new challenge to give the grey stuff a workout, I think it is good for the old brain to remember the time when bead stringing was new and exciting, and it was a success just to get the bead on the string.

Epilogue…2023

I wanted to add an epilogue to this piece, but I had difficulty getting beyond all the innuendos that were trying to make it past the little censor in my brain. But perhaps, the following will suffice.

As I age, I understand my mother more and more. She never became a demure old woman dressed in lavender and lace. Instead, she became, among other wonderful things, the teller of rather bawdy jokes. Seeing the bemused looks of shock, surprise, and joy that her racy punchlines elicited gave her immense pleasure. No one expects a little old lady to know anything at all about bead stringing. However, If my ninety-year-old mother was any indication, stringing beads can be a pleasurable way to spend an afternoon or evening at any age.

Gotta Please Yourself

Posted on February 14, 2023 by sjdaab

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I cheated on a college exam in 1971. I didn’t trust my response, and my best friend’s paper was right there. I mean, it was right there…so I took a peek. When I saw her solution, assuming that she was more intelligent than I was and knew more than I did, I changed my answer. Consequently, we both had the wrong answer and my original conclusion had been correct all along. I am sorry for this and all of my sins”

“Well, replied my imaginary vicar in his most understanding and priestly voice, “If it still haunts you after all this time, I doubt you repeated the offense. Hopefully, by now you’ve learned to trust yourself and have faith in what you know. Now, say, three Hail Marys, one Our Father, and throw in a couple Glory Be’s just to be on the safe side. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen. By the way, aren’t you a Unitarian?”

“Well…Thank you for the blessing. Thanks for listening…and well…yes, I am a proud UU, but wait…what about the anonymity of the confessional? How do you know who I am?”

“Think about it, my dear, I’m your personal imaginary priest, existing only in your mind, so, of course, I know who you are. By the way…you could have been a little more progressive and made me a woman, a UU minister, or Lay Pastoral caregiver, or better yet…a wise grandmotherly type. You know…a sage or a crone… but then…I imagine you wanted to keep that bit about the confessional.”

“Yes…Father, even as a UU, I appreciate the comfort of the confessional. You know what they say…confession is good for the soul. But if it’s all the same to you, I’ll skip the Hail Marys and throw in a few Mary Olivers instead. I’ll see what I can do about the rest. Those Glory Be’s might be a stretch for a Unitarian.”

‘Maybe the desire to make something beautiful is the piece of God that is inside each of us.’
Mary Oliver

“Wait, before you go and send me off into the ether of your imagination, let me remind you that even if you don’t realize or recognize it, you really are a unique and wonderful being. There’s no need to make yourself in the image of anyone else. Learn from others, but don’t try to be them. After all, you can’t make cantaloupe taste like strawberries, and why would you want to, they’re both so great as they are. On the other hand, you can make grapes taste like cotton candy, so maybe that’s not a great analogy. My point is, even with all your perceived faults and failings…you are here at this time and in this space, and the world needs you to be you.

Now, go and sin no more…but…if you must…which let’s face it is pretty inevitable…think of something more imaginative and fun than this not having faith in yourself thing. Keep life interesting. I’m sure you’ll think of something…you always do.”

But it's all right now
I learned my lesson well
You see, you can't please everyone
So you got to please yourself

...Rick Nelson, Garden Party

My lifelong insecurity and lack of self-confidence have shaped how I live, how I think, and the choices I’ve made. Maybe now, as a senior citizen, it’s time that I reframe and change some of my thinking. The only time it’s too late to change course is when you’re going over the falls…and… then…it actually is too late. On the other hand…aren’t there deathbed confessions and foxhole conversions? And in the movies, at least, you can pop up like a cork in the water at the bottom of the falls and journey on…wet and choking on water…but… still moving nevertheless.

In the past few months, I have joined two different groups…a writing workshop sponsored by our local Senior Center and a group of photographer friends that I know from my summers on Star Island off the coast of New Hampshire. It is my membership in these two cohorts that have prompted my recent self-reflection. Both groups deal with different but related art forms, yet our gatherings are surprisingly similar. Each group provides room for each member to share what we’ve written or what we’ve captured with our lenses since the previous meeting, then we receive gentle, supportive feedback from our peers and instructor. It’s a process that is both terrifying and exhilarating. By sharing what we’ve created…what we’ve thought or seen… we are taking a risk. When we pull back the curtain, we are revealing a part of ourselves…often a very personal, tender part of our deepest, truest selves, we are trusting that the gifts we offer will be received by friendly hands who will hold, protect, and cradle them…carefully, lovingly and protectively. The kindness and support that we offer one another are at times almost palpable. We empathize with each presenter because we have stood in their shoes.

Yes, terrifying and exhilarating indeed. For me, however, that’s the easy part.

“Geesh,”…my imaginary priest, has emerged again…”If that’s the case why do you do it?”

“Sometimes, I ask myself that very question.”

Being in the company of such talented writers and photographers helps me to grow and learn. I used to be jealous of the great shot that others captured but I missed, or a paragraph full of figurative language and evocative vocabulary that I wish I had conceived. Fortunately, I have since evolved to find joy and delight in seeing the world through other eyes. I can truly appreciate what they see or what they write without envy or covetousness.

The difficulty for me comes when I compare how I write or what I see, frame, click, and edit to what others imagine and create. In my mind, I never seem to measure up, so I often find myself emulating and experimenting with their style or process.

“The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.”
– Sylvia Plath

This morning, I reserved tickets at the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam. During his lifetime, this well-known Dutch painter completed at least 900 canvases. Someone did the math and concluded that during the time he was actively working, he would have produced a new painting every 36 hours. Yet, during his lifetime, his style of painting was not appreciated. He sold just a single painting. Today his works range in price from millions to tens of millions to hundreds of millions of dollars. Vincent’s untimely death is still debated. Whether it was suicide or accidental remains a mystery. He undoubtedly had a troubled life…but continued to paint nevertheless…899 unsold canvases. He observed his contemporaries and experimented with their approaches and techniques, but his beautiful, unique style could not be denied. His vision remains.

Three Hundred meters west of the Van Gogh museum, the imposing Rijksmuseum is hosting the largest exhibit ever assembled of the works of another Dutch painter, Johannes Vermeer. Vermeer enjoyed modest success, primarily within the confines of the small city of Delft while he lived in the 1600s. Although never completely forgotten, he was overshadowed by the bigger rock stars of the day. It wasn’t until the mid-1800s…centuries later… that his genius was really recognized and appreciated. Today only thirty-six known oil paintings remain, and yet, for an opportunity to see them, tickets must be purchased months in advance and are already selling out.

Perhaps as I stand before the canvases created by these two different Dutchmen from two different times and with two very distinctive styles and visions, I’ll remember the example they provide me across the centuries. Just be who you are. Find joy in what you do and simply please yourself.

“Creativity is inventing, experimenting, growing, taking risks, breaking rules, making mistakes, and having fun.”
Mary Lou Cook

“Oh! Thank God!,” exclaims my nearly forgotten cleric. “You’re finally getting it, and I can shed this scratchy robe and ditch this incredibly small booth you imagined me into. You couldn’t have conjured a comfortably clad monk on a sunny mountaintop? Oh, right…your fear of heights. Sorry. Well…It’s going to take you a while to completely adapt to this new attitude and you’ll need practice, but you’re on the right track. Does it really matter if people are inspired by what you write or look with awe at your images? Without a doubt, that would be nice, but…come on, just be you. That’s more than enough. Just being who you are is the only thing the universe actually demands.

“As for me,” he concludes. “I say…Amen, Blessed Be, Peace out, and Rock on!”

Steeples, Chimneys, and the State House Golden Dome
Montpelier, Vermont 2022

Imagination and Illusion…Escape from Gringotts

Posted on January 23, 2023 by sjdaab

We live in a fantasy world, a world of illusion. The great task in life is to find reality.
Iris Murdoch

“Grandma, if you get scared, just close your eyes and hang on.” That is good advice in general; in fact, that pretty much sums up how I often live my life. Still, in this instance, she was referring to Escape from Gringotts, an indoor roller coaster at Universal Studios theme park in Orlando, Florida. My aversion to thrill rides is well known in my family, but there I was, joining the queue and moving toward an unknown destiny.

My daughter and granddaughter…huge fans of theme parks…especially Universal, were surprised when I expressed an interest in the Harry Potter section of the park and my desire to go there if they’d agree to be my guides. They, of course, jumped at the chance.

“Are you sure you want to do that? Do you really want to go to a theme park?” Jen asked in disbelief.

“Yes,” I assured her. “I don’t think I’d like to do it repeatedly, but I would like to do it once.”

When I was about six years old, Disneyland opened in California. But, of course, for a girl from a middle-class family in rural Michigan, the possibility of ever seeing Cinderella’s castle or meeting Mickey Mouse was remote at best and, realistically, nonexistent.

Throughout my growing-up years, programming from Walt Disney played prominently on our large, wooden cabinet-housed black and white television…The Mickey Mouse Club was on every day after school with Mouseketeers, cartoons, songs, dancing, and serial stories like Spin and Marty, The Hardy Boys, and Corky and White Shadow. And The Wonderful World of Disney was part of the Sunday evening line-up. Mouse Club and Wonderful World both contained advertising and clips from Disneyland and all the fun that could be had there. It looked amazing. I dreamed of going, even when I knew that dream was out of reach. When Disney World opened in Orlando, Florida, in 1971, I had two small children, a marriage that was ending, a college degree to complete, and very little money…and yet…the possibility was getting closer. Driving to Florida was doable…even if still improbable.

“Laughter is timeless, imagination has no age, and dreams are forever.”
Walt Disney

Fast forward a dozen years. Happily married, with a college degree in hand, gainfully employed, and…with family in Florida, a day in the Magic Kingdom was finally going to happen. Driving one of the model-T cars had lost its appeal, but I was finally going to ride in one of those spinning teacups! Motion sickness be damned. I was getting on that ride! Not the wisest decision on my part, as you might guess. Some things are better left to the imagination, but I did it!

“We think you can handle the Gringotts ride, and if we get to the park when it opens, we won’t have to wait long in line,” my guides predicted. “There are lots of things to see along the way, too,” they continued, “and you can always decide to skip the ride before getting on if you decide you really don’t want to do it.”

Entering Diagon Alley was like stepping into another world. Even the light was different…shadowed and cooler than in the streets outside. Storefronts with familiar names from the Harry Potter books lined the street leading to Gringotts, the wizard bank. Gringotts was difficult to miss, with the enormous dragon leering down menacingly from atop it.

Diagon Alley…Above the Heads of the Crowd
January 2023

With backpacks quickly stowed, we entered the building effortlessly. But, of course, things can be deceiving. There was no line of fellow adventurers waiting to be admitted outside the door, but once inside, the queue serpentined inside, outside, and upside down. Well, not actually upside down at all, but definitely up the several sets of stairs.

Our fellow line-dwellers were courteous, friendly, and filled with excitement. I rather enjoyed the equalizing and leveling effect of the queue. Without knowing the barriers that might have come between us…religion, politics, age, or even taste in music…we were all simply a group of Muggles anticipating the adventure and the illusion that awaited us. Eventually, the queue entered the lobby of Gringotts bank. It felt as if we were stepping into a movie scene as we passed silent Goblins shuffling papers, balancing accounts, and tending to the Knuts, Sickles, and golden Galleons…currency of the wizarding world.

Beyond the lobby, we were ushered into the bank’s internal workings, passing office doors and portraits of past leaders. At the end of a long hallway, we entered an enormous elevator built to transport a large number of visitors. It would carry us deep inside the bank and closer to the well-protected vaults. We emerged to discover we’d need to climb more stairs. I found that slightly odd since the elevator had just seemingly taken us down. Oh, well, I just kept following along like a lemming heading for the cliff.

Probably Overkill…But Scary for the Roller Coaster Impaired
January 2023

“Don’t forget your safety glasses,” a disembodied voice commanded. Safety glasses? We’d need safety glasses? Oh, that’s a comfort.

“Row one,” the attendant instructed. Great. Nothing to obstruct our view. I wasn’t sure what we would see exactly, but there wouldn’t be any heads in our way. The car was comprised of three rows, each holding four passengers. Jen and Fi, my confidence boosters, made sure they sat on either side of me with instructions on securing myself in the seat.

WTF…What the…fudge…was I doing? I guess I should have asked myself that question earlier because…come what may…I was doing it. Within seconds, the car was moving, and there was no turning back. Ironically…at that point, there was definitely no escape from The Escape from Gringotts. Immediately, the car lurched to the right, then swung to the left with an unexpected drop of nearly thirty feet. As instructed earlier, my eyes closed involuntarily, and my hands clutched the bar in front of me. I wondered later if this would classify as a ‘jump scare,’ a technique in horror films or movies of suspense…not a fan of either…that involves a sudden or unexpected event intended to startle the audience. The four-minute-plus ride barreled on with terrifying holographic images that seemed to come directly at us and lean into the vehicle. Oh, the front seat…what a great idea!

Everything in this world of Harry Potter was illusion and imagination. A hologram might startle me, but I certainly wasn’t frightened by a projection of an enormous snake coming toward me or the heat from the breath of the holographic dragon. Yes, at times, these apparitions would surprise me, but it was the seemingly random pitch and roll, dip and dive that kept me off balance and, without warning, pulled the glasses entirely off my face. A few seconds of genuine panic until I realized that Fi had caught them and they were only the 3-D safety glasses and not my for-real glasses.

The longer I remained in this land of pretend and make-believe, the more questions arose. They say that your life flashes before your eyes just before you die. I doubt that’s how it will be for me. Nope, I’ll be asking questions until the last, I’m afraid. The answers don’t always appear, but the questions certainly do.

A host of artists, architects, and designers had translated words on a page and scenes from a movie into a concrete experience using skill, expertise, and attention to detail. With a healthy dose of suspended disbelief, it wasn’t too difficult to believe…even if merely momentarily…that you were actually walking the hidden streets of London…in Diagon Alley. There was much to be discovered, but…the entire experience was based on the imagination of others. Was this experience like making a copy of a copy of a copy, with each successive reproduction losing clarity and definition, only to be left with blurriness and a shadow of the original? Or, perhaps, it is more like following a recipe for Chocolate Chip Cookies…you knew there’d be cookies…where each baker builds on the original recipe but is free to decide whether to add nuts, coconut, candy bits, or raisins? Each simply takes the original and expands on it.

Then too, I wonder, does this detailed interpretation in concrete form enhance imagination and encourage further exploration and creativity, or does it stifle and limit it? I was allowed to imagine Diagon Alley…which reminded me of ‘The Shambles’ in York…before seeing it on the screen or exploring Victoria Street in Edinburgh…near where JK wrote the first books and thought to be her inspiration…before walking into it at Universal. Will children visiting this Diagon Alley be able to imagine their own version, or will this illusion be forever locked inside their heads as the real thing?

“I doubt that the imagination can be suppressed. If you truly eradicated it in a child, he would grow up to be an eggplant.“
Ursula K. Le Guin

Just as suddenly as it began, the ride ended, returning us safely to the sights and sounds of this fantastic, imaginary world.

“Well, what did you think?. Did you like it? Would you go again?”

“Yes,” I responded with a smile.”I do believe I would,” I continued, still smiling.”On the other hand, once is probably enough.”

The Harry Potter Train Glenfinnan, Scotland
October 2021

The relationship between imagination, illusion, and magic is more complicated than I thought. That afternoon as we waited to ride on the Hogwarts Express, I chuckled to myself…rather smugly, I might add. Several years ago, we had ridden the actual Harry Potter train in Scotland. In fact, I left some of my husband’s ashes at the base of one of the viaduct’s arches.

Wait a minute! That wasn’t the actual train that took Ron, Hermione, and Harry to Hogwarts! Oh, it was the train used in the movies, all right, but the real train…the real Hogwarts for that matter… only exists in the pages of a book and the reader’s imagination…or does it?

“The greatest thing Harry Potter has given the world, is the freedom to use our imagination”
Oprah Winfrey

The Nijmegen Bridge

Posted on January 10, 2023 by sjdaab

“After leaving Amsterdam, we spent the first full day in Nijmegen,” I replied when asked about my recent trip down the Rhine.

My friend responded with a shrug of her shoulders and a quizzical expression.

Not unexpectedly, she, like most Americans, was unfamiliar with this mid-sized city in The Netherlands. It was also unlikely that she knew what happened there during World War II…over eighty years ago. In all honesty, there were significant gaps in my understanding as well. So I decided it was time to do a little more investigating…to put the pieces I had into a usable context.

Nijmegen Rooftops in The City Center
December 2022

I have visited Nijmegen, the oldest Roman city in the country, several times in the past sixteen years, always approaching it from the Waal River, a branch of the Rhine. From the river, it is a short walk uphill to the market square. A few of the oldest buildings in the city center, destroyed by war, have been reconstructed alongside modern buildings and streets lined with popular businesses and shops.

The tall steeple of St. Stephens Church was heavily damaged during the war, but one Mother’s Day, I sat in the back and listened to the sparsely attended Sunday service. Of course, the little Dutch I know didn’t help me understand much of what was transpiring, but it was a delight simply to be a member of the congregation.

Nijmegen…St. Stephen’s Church Steeple
May 2019

On another occasion, my rudimentary Dutch language skills enabled me to have a friendly exchange with a young man selling Dutch street foods. We both smiled and were quite proud of ourselves as I successfully ordered a delicious oilebollen, warm and covered in powdered sugar. He, in turn, used his minimal English to complete the transaction. And twice I have found myself near the Roman ruins that sit atop the hill overlooking the river. From this vantage point, there is a magnificent view of the Waal and the bridges that cross it.

Today, there are several bridges from Nijmegen across the Waal, but in September1944, there were just two…a rail bridge and a vital road bridge; both were objectives in the ill-fated military operation known as Market Garden, the subject of the star-studded 1977 movie, A Bridge Too Far, based on the novel by Cornelius Ryan.

I don’t often watch war movies. Following the logistics is usually a challenge, and I find it upsetting to watch death, destruction, sadness, and pain as entertainment. I remember catching bits of this movie, though, some years later when my husband watched it on television. The focus of the film was reaching the final bridge in Arnhem. I remembered the tragic conclusion…but Nijmegen, I’m sorry to say…a challenge on the way to the goal…failed to register. Maybe, it just wasn’t one of the bits I saw. Then again…during the Battle of Nijmegen, there were only two reporters with the 82nd Airborne Division, and they were both busy covering the actions about 10 kilometers away on the Groesbeek Heights. Therefore, the contemporary British and American press did not pay much attention to what was happening in Nijmegen either.

I’ve since learned that Operation Market Garden was one of the most significant Allied operations of the Second World War. The goal was to secure the key bridges over three wide rivers in the Netherlands… the Maas, Waal, and Rhine… to outflank the heavy German defenses and to open a route into the heart of Germany. It was hoped that by controlling the bridges, the Allies could mount a swift advance toward Berlin and end the war before Christmas.

The Nijmegen Railway Bridge, the first bridge crossing the Waal, was built in 1879. An additional road bridge, the Waalbrug…Waal Bridge…was completed in 1939. At the time, it was the longest tied-arch bridge in Europe and was considered a remarkable feat of engineering. Unfortunately, when the Germans invaded The Netherlands in May of 1940, the bridge was demolished by the Dutch themselves to prevent the rapid advance of the Germans. It must have been heartbreaking to destroy this treasure. During the occupation, the Dutch were forced to rebuild the bridge, which reopened in 1943.

The occupation was hard enough, but on February 20th, 1944, due to terrible miscalculations, the Allies dropped bombs intended for the Germans on the city center of Nijmegen, killing almost 800 citizens. After years of suffering, nearly seven months to the day after the bombing disaster, the inhabitants of Nijmegen found themselves at the center of one of the war’s deadliest battles.

Nijmegen September 1944
Historic Photo Public Domain

It took nearly four days and hundreds of lives…both military and civilian, for the Allies to secure the bridge, putting the daring but tenuous plan critically behind schedule. Finally, on September 20th, twenty-six ill-equipt, collapsible canvas boats were launched in a final attempt to secure the bridge’s northern side. Due to previous delays and the imperative to take the bridge, the crossing was made in broad daylight. The smoke laid down as cover was blown away by the wind, and the men, some using only their rifle butts as oars, were sitting ducks. Of the twenty-six boats launched, sixteen made it across the river, laying phone lines and establishing communications.

Operation Market Garden is considered a colossal failure. The audacious proposal was not well thought-out, and preparations were hurried and lacking. The entire undertaking was doomed to failure from the very beginning. To make matters worse, everything that could possibly go wrong…did. The final objective…reaching and holding the bridge in Arnhem, would prove beyond reach. Given the timing, the weather, and the resources, it was simply a bridge too far. The massive loss of life and equipment made this operation one of the most costly in the war.

However, for the people in Nijmegen, Eindhoven, and the other small villages the allies passed through on the way to Arnhem; this battle was about liberation and freedom. The Dutch celebrated these four days as joyful deliverance and continued to mark September 17th…the day of the Allies’ arrival…for many years.

How does one measure success in war? What is an acceptable cost? How many lost lives are bearable? Who can claim victory when everyone loses? Will the next generation remember the sacrifice? Will it even matter when decades hence they’re drinking beer together after a soccer match?

Brig. General James Gavin : So that's it. We're pulling them out. It was Nijmegen.
Lt. Colonel J.O.E. Vandeleur : It was the single road getting to Nijmegen.
Lt. General Horrocks : No, it was after Nijmegen.
Lt. General Frederick "Boy" Browning : And the fog, in England.
Maj. General Stanislaw Sosabowski : Doesn't matter what it was. When one man says to another, "I know what let's do today, let's play the war game."... everybody dies.

A Bridge Too Far, 1977, Conclusion of film

Last month as I walked the Waalstraat along the river, I saw nothing to indicate the lives lost during those four days in ’44. Instead, there is life… restaurants, apartments, and even a casino and pancake house line the shore…and the Waal bridge less than 500 yards away…still standing and intact, a silent witness, bravely arching across the water.

De Oversteek at Sunset
Photo credit: Pixabay

In 2013, a new bridge was opened across the Waal…‘De Oversteek Bridge…The Crossing’. The bridge is near the launch site of those canvas boats and is dedicated to the 48 American paratroopers killed in the attempt. The bridge is lined with 48 pairs of streetlights illuminated each evening at sunset, one by one at the pace of a slow march. Each night a veteran makes a silent march across the bridge in step with the lights. Others often join them following one simple rule. The march is done in silence and respect for these 48 among the thousands who gave their lives during this campaign.

If my path once again finds me in Nijmegen, I’m pretty sure I will find a way to join this silent procession.

My pacifistic beliefs are often challenged, and I admit to being very conflicted at times. I hate war…the despair, the loss, and the utter futility…but paradoxically, I also believe we need to support those fighting in Ukraine. I am rather pessimistic that we’ll ever find another way and that war and hate will be a thing of the past, but I find hope in the small everyday acts of kindness, love, compassion, and the quest for understanding as we keep trying to realize a way to peace.

Shepherds, Gen Z, and Instructions

Posted on December 1, 2022 by sjdaab

“And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.”
Luke 2:8

With the first of this year’s snow covering the ground, evergreen wreaths appearing on doors, and holiday movies trending on Netflix, my mind begins to contemplate the coming of Christmas. I’m rather astonished that, at my age, I still have questions about the ancient nativity story? I have heard and retold the Christmas narrative innumerable times, yet, even now, questions continue to arise. Lately, I’ve been pondering the role of the shepherds.

When choosing parts in our annual No-Rehearsal Christmas Pageant, my friends always dress as shepherds. “The shepherds get all the best songs, they say.” For millennia people have speculated about this small group of unnamed souls who were just going about their business when, quite unexpectedly, they found themselves thrust into the center of the nativity story and the main focus of some pretty great songs.

Luke’s biblical telling is brief, to the point, and succinct but certainly lacking in details. For example, did the angels appear to others that night or only these particular shepherds? Were there others who were too afraid, too busy, too tired, or just too disinterested to go in search of this mysterious child? Perhaps other seekers simply got lost and never found the stable. Luke says the shepherds discussed what to do about the angel’s message, but I wonder…did everyone agree or have to be convinced? Did they list the pros and cons? How did they decide? Luke also tells us that later the shepherds told others about what they had seen, but what exactly had they seen in that stable? Were they alone with the Holy Family, or were there others present that Luke simply failed to mention? These omissions prompt me to question, imagine, and wonder.

Sheep Grazing on a Hillside in England Near Hadrian’s Wall
October 2021

During Biblical times shepherding wasn’t the domain of outcasts and the lowly, as some have suggested… Although I would suppose that spending so much of their time outdoors and in the company of rather smelly animals didn’t garner them many party invitations…On the other hand, because sheep were so crucial to the community’s life, it naturally follows that caring for and protecting them was a necessary and valued job. Abraham, Moses, and King David were among many biblical patriarchs who spent time as shepherds. Most often, the youngest child…male or female… in the family had this duty. I think of it as a ‘starter job,’ much like Saturday night babysitting was when I was a teenager. Babysitters were entrusted with caring for a family’s most precious treasures, but once the wee ones were asleep, it was snacks and TV. So, instead of the thick-bearded, often wizened old men portrayed in many paintings, it is more likely that the shepherds on that hillside outside Bethlehem that night were teenagers or young adults. Knowing the penchant teens have for darkness and nighttime…maybe… just maybe, the angel appeared to them because they were the only people still awake. Additionally, youthful peer pressure and collective courage might have guaranteed they would leave their fields, go into the village, and seek the child.

“And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.”
Luke 2:9 KJV

It was a busy night in Bethlehem for the shepherds, but what happened next? What was the conversation when the young shepherd returned home later that morning and told what they had seen?

Another Guardian of the Sheep
On the Road to Kenmore, Scotland, 2014

Grandfather. You won’t believe what happened last night.”

“Was there a problem with the sheep? Bears? Lions? You and the lads didn’t get up to any mischief, did you?”

“Oh, no. It was nothing like that, and you’re not going to believe it.”

“OK… I’m ready. Go on with your story.”

“Well…you know, it’s kinda lonely watching sheep by yourself, so we decided to combine our flocks. When the sheep were bedded down, we were just sitting around the fire, telling stories and jokes, when the sky was suddenly filled with a blinding light. It was amazing, and get this…there were singing angels.”

“Angels? Really? Come on, are you making this up? Did you guys get into that new wine?”

“No, I swear it’s true.”

“Well, continue.”

“And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.”
Luke 2: 9-10 KJV

“It was amazing. One of the coolest things ever. Well…once we got over being scared half to death, that is. I mean, it was unreal. OK…So, the head angel said something amazing had happened in town, and we should go there immediately. Something about a special baby being born. A savior or some such thing. The angel was a little sketchy on the details of how to find this baby, though. No, directions. Just find some stable in Bethlehem. Do you have any idea how many stables there are in Bethlehem? Well, once the angels left, we talked about whether or not we should go find this baby.”

“Don’t tell me you left the sheep.”

“Of course not. We left the youngest ones behind, and the rest of us took off. Running through the night was much more exciting than watching a bunch of sleeping sheep.”

“So, did you ever find the stable and the baby?”

“It took us a while and was a little dicey at times. We didn’t want to be found peeking into a stranger’s barns, and who would have believed us if we’d said an angel sent us? But yes! Yes, we finally found the stable, the tiny baby, and his tired parents. It was really something to finally find this baby, just like the angels had told us we would. We were a little hesitant at first, but when the parents beckoned us to come closer to get a better look, how could we refuse? As we drew near, the mother pulled his blanket back so we could see the sleeping child. The funny thing was that all we saw was a normal baby…very pink and wrinkly. An actual angel had told us that this was a miraculous baby, but he looked rather ordinary to us. Maybe we just have to let him grow up a bit. Wow! What a night.”

Well…it could’ve happened that way.

“And when they had seen it, they made known abroad the saying which was told them concerning this child. And all they that heard it wondered at those things which were told them by the shepherds.“
luke 2:17-18 KJV

A Modern Day Shepherd
Photo credit: Adapted from Pixabay

I love the idea that the first ones on the scene…the shepherds…may have been teenagers or had teens among them. They heard the news, and together they ran boldly toward it.

Could it be that our youth…like the shepherds…are the hope of Christmas made manifest? No angels foretold their coming; they arrived in the world as ordinary infants…red and wrinkly, and like the shepherds, many are busy working starter jobs. Still, this latest generation…Gen Z… is also taking action on climate change, working for racial and reproductive justice, supporting LGBTQ and gender equality issues, and lobbying to establish sensible gun laws. They hear the message and are running toward it. Should we wait for them to report back on what they see, or can we join them in searching for the baby in the barn?

The days of my youth are long gone, now only visible in the rearview, but I can choose to live the rest of my life in the manner of the shepherds. Perhaps, that is the lesson that all my questions are teaching me.

“Instructions for living a life. Pay attention, Be astonished, Tell About it.”
Mary oliver

A Shepherd in the Christmas Pageant…2017
Yes, that is a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Maybe It’s Not a Clock

Posted on November 3, 2022 by sjdaab

One of my dearest friends is about a decade older than I am. Although we laugh a lot and are often rather silly for two women of a certain age, we also have deep conversations, and she always gives me sage advice.

“You know, aging doesn’t necessarily mean that you are going to need new knees and hips, but eventually, you are going to slow down.” she counseled me on several occasions. “I’m happy with my life as it is and no longer feel the urge to travel. I’m pretty content to simply sit in my favorite chair and read. You’ll arrive at the same place sooner or later, but right now, you have a window of time. Use it well. Do the things you really want to do. Go to the places you really want to go. See the things you really want to see. And while you’re at it…eat the things you really want to eat.”

You Have A Window of Time…Use It Well
Prince Edward Island 2018

When I was about six years old, the Disney movie Peter Pan finally reached a theatre near me. In the 1950s, movies weren’t released everywhere, all at once. Small towns had to wait until the big cities had had enough of a film before it was shipped out to the hinterlands. Peter Pan wasn’t a particularly scary movie, but there were a few terrifying moments for a little kid. When Tinkerbell was captured by the dreaded Captain Hook, we all were on the edge of our seats with concern and worry for the tiny fairy. Would Peter reach her in time? But for me, the absolute horror was the crocodile. After he had feasted on the captain’s hand, he wanted more, so he slowly followed the ship waiting for the chance to chomp away on the remaining hand. As a matter of self-defense, Hook had fed the crocodile a clock that continued to tick away, acting as a primitive alarm system. The incessant tick tock, tick tock created heart-pounding moments of foreboding, apprehension, and fear in the young audience members. We knew that danger was near, and even though Hook was the villain, we didn’t want to imagine him with his hand in that huge mouth full of teeth.

In the summer of 1975, another colossal mouth full of teeth and a similar musical phrase struck terror in the hearts of moviegoers and kept people on the beach and out of the water. The auditory warning from the movie Jaws, with its steady, relentless rhythm…the dual note…dun dun dun dun dun dun dun dun… put another audience on guard and on the edge of their seats. Even today, the repetition of those two notes can elicit a feeling of dread and impending doom. The composer, John Williams, described the theme as: “grinding away at you, just as a shark would do, instinctual relentless, unstoppable.” In his blog post, Alex Burns says, “The way the theme is used is interesting because it conditions the audience to associate the theme with the shark. This causes quite a stir at the film’s climax, where the shark appears suddenly with no musical introduction.”

Is That a Clock I Hear Ticking?
photo credit: Pixabay

Like the captains, I’m beginning to hear the steady, incessant beating of my life clock, tick, tick, ticking away the minutes, hours, days, and years. I suppose that, like the theme of Jaws, the cadence will increase in volume and intensity until the falling action, when perhaps without warning…one day, it stops. Rather than think of this unyielding reverberation with a sense of doom and possible regret, I attempt to use the constant ticking as a reminder that the clock eventually does wind down. I have limited time to check things off my list…do the things I want to do, see the things I want to see, and visit the places I want to go.

Time management is an oxymoron. Time is beyond our control, and the clock keeps ticking regardless of how we lead our lives. Priority management is the answer to maximizing the time we have.”
John C Maxwell

When our friends were buying lakeside cottages, big boats, and fancy cars, Dave and I decided to use our money and time to travel. We had some marvelous adventures together. We walked in Red Square, floated down the Thames as Big Ben chimed ten, dug peat in a bog in Ireland, slept several nights in a ghost town in Utah, descended into the depths of a salt mine in Poland, and strolled through tulip fields in Holland. We had a wonderful time traveling together. Now, even without my traveling buddy, the world beckons me. There are still places I’d like to go; however, at the moment, the list of places I’d like to return to is longer than the places I yearn to visit for the first time, although the thrill of discovery and trying something completely different and exciting are solid motivators for adventuring into unknown territory.

There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered.
Nelson Mandela

There is a special kind of comfort in returning to the familiarity of a place I’ve loved. Even if I’ve been to the exact location several times, each visit provides new adventures and insights. The ancient castle may not have changed between visits, but I have.

Edinburgh Castle from the Vennel
October 2021

Several months ago, knowing how much I loved to travel, my daughter suggested I make a list of the places I’d still like to visit and things I’d still like to do. So, when I recently told her of the plans I’ve set in motion for the coming year…a weekend with Harry Potter at Universal Studios in Orlando, tickets for Hamilton in Boston, time alone in the desert outside of Tucson, a week with my granddaughter in Amsterdam, a rental cottage on Lake Champlain, another season in Stratford and on Star Island…I had to laugh at her response.

“Why are you planning so much? Do you really want to take that many airplane trips in one year?”

“I hear the clock ticking,” I replied. ” I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to travel.”

“You’re going to wear yourself out. You don’t have to do it all at once.”

She doesn’t yet realize that along with the ticking clock, there is the matter of my vintage parts that are beginning to deteriorate. The engine has a strange knocking, the belts and gaskets are brittle, the accelerator is not what it used to be, and the exhaust system is unreliable, so while I still can, I choose to wear out rather than rust out. Cracks can form along the fan belt’s surface, and small chunks of rubber can peel or chip off even if the car is parked in the garage. Might as well keep it on the road as long as possible.

Yes, I hear that constant ticking, but perhaps instead of a clock counting down minutes and years, I simply hear the steady beat of a metronome marking the tempo of songs I have yet to sing.

Effie…My Friend in Isolation

Posted on October 22, 2022 by sjdaab

For more than two and a half years, I successfully avoided being infected with COVID-19. I got the vaccines, and I was one of the first in line every time there was a booster. Over time, I began to think of the at-home tests as similar to a pregnancy test. I had taken every precaution, but I knew I had had sex…so to speak. Condoms break, masks slip, and there were also those occasions where I would take a chance…just this once. So…eventually, my luck ran out, and like millions of others, the blue line couldn’t be denied…I had Covid, and once again, I was in isolation. Because I was vaxxed and boosted, my infection, although not pleasant and lasting much too long, was relatively mild and similar to a bad cold. Not wanting to take a chance on infecting anyone else; however, I once again spent time secluded, sequestered, and alone. While I kept hydrated, rested, and blew my nose, blew my nose, and blew my nose, it was impossible not to recall the first scary time when everyone and everything was put on hold.

During the covid lockdown of 2020, I was incredibly lonely.

I yearned for connection with a warm-blooded mammal besides the squirrels who would come to raid my bird feeder or gather the seeds I spread next to my chair on the deck. Oh, sure. They’d let me feed them and come tantalizingly close to my dangling fingers, but they’d never let me touch them. Probably just as well. Who knows who else might have been cohabiting inside their furry little coats.

Having a Snack and Watching from a Nearby Tree
March 2020

I didn’t even have a plant. Someone who needed me but wouldn’t judge me for moments of benign neglect and would listen attentively to all my worries, concerns, or even tall tales without judgment far into the additional loneliness of night.

Against this backdrop, Effie arrived on my doorstep.

“You’re going to love her”” my across-the-yard neighbor had told me

“Well, we’ll see,” I replied skeptically, but then…Oh, why not? If she doesn’t work out, she doesn’t have to stay.”

“When the world is so complicated, the simple gift of friendship is within all of our hands.”
Maria shriver

You might imagine the excitement and the wee bit of trepidation I had when she arrived at my door with instructions for the care and attention she’d need. Of course, I’d have to make sure she was clean and rested between play times, but I didn’t have to worry about struggling with her at nap time as she had her own sleeping pad, and, I was assured, she would put herself to sleep when she was tired.

On the following morning, she was so quiet that I hadn’t noticed her going from room to room exploring. She nosed into the corners, gathered dust bunnies from under the beds, and, much to my embarrassment, emerged from the closet draped with a carelessly discarded pair of kickers. Lamps teetered as she tugged curiously on their cords, and she randomly repositioned anything left in her path. I reminded myself that she was just young and inquisitive.

Eventually, she became accustomed to being in my space, and I began to welcome her company…feeling relaxed when she went off to play. I learned that if I placed the chairs carefully around my table, she couldn’t get stuck and require assistance to extricate herself and redirect her activity. I learned from experience to move the lamp cords and double-check where I placed my crocheting and extra yarn. Before long, I also began to look for her when she was too quiet. I knew she was probably up to or into something. In an amazingly short time, began to look forward to hearing her moving about or watching as she slid under chairs or climbed up and over the threshold of my fireplace, and I’d smile as she’d make tighter and tighter concentric circles before winding down and putting herself to sleep.

With Effie around, I no longer felt quite so alone.

“Friendship is the hardest thing in the world to explain. It’s not something you learn in school. But if you haven’t learned the meaning of friendship, you really haven’t learned anything.” — Muhammad Ali
Muhammad Ali

“You’re traveling through another dimension — a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind. A journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination. That’s a signpost up ahead: your next stop: the Twilight Zone!“

Our relationship did, however, feel like I’d slipped into The Lonely, an episode of the Twilight Zone. A convicted criminal, James Corry has been placed in solitary confinement alone on an asteroid 9 million miles from Earth. When a supply ship arrives with a female robot companion, Corry’s life changes for the better. Soon, he sees her not as a machine but as a friend. Effie and I have a similar backstory. Effie…A Roomba knockoff…EUFY Boost IQ RoboVac… had become my friend. Unlike the TwiIight Zone episode, I didn’t leave her behind after isolation, however. She is with me in my new condo and continues to amuse me as she finds further mischief for herself.

Who can explain friendship? To paraphrase a famous quote: Friends come into our lives for a reason, a season, or for as long as their battery holds a charge.

The Stratford Gang

Posted on October 13, 2022 by sjdaab

I have wanted to write about this part of my life for a very long time.  
Here is a condensed version of the story.  I hope you enjoy it.

“It takes a long time to grow an old friend.”
John Leonard

“Someday, I’d like to go to the Shakespeare Festival,” I said.

“Well, set a date,” she replied.

Those words changed my life when they were spoken nearly forty-five years ago, and they continue to guide my choices and agenda. “If you really want to do it, just set a date,” she continued. “Once it’s on the calendar, you’ll move in that direction and make it happen. Set a date.”

So we set a date. The birth of The Stratford Gang began just as simple as that. What started as a one-time weekend adventure became our decades-long autumnal commitment to The Stratford Festival in Stratford, Ontario. Every ensuing year, on a weekend in September or early October, we would cram our suitcases into a van, and as soon as school was out on Friday afternoon, we’d head for the Canadian border.

After a Play…Near the Festival Theatre
A Long Time Ago… The Early 1980s

Our earlier trips across the Blue Water Bridge and through customs and immigration included questions regarding tobacco and alcohol. One year, when the officer asked if we were bringing any alcohol into the country, I responded, “I don’t think so.”

“What do you mean you don’t think so? Aren’t you the driver? Don’t you know what’s in your vehicle?”

“Well,” I continued. “Not anymore. They finished it on the bridge.” Green Frosties…limeade and vodka…drunk through a red licorice straw, was just the beginning of the fun that year. Together, we laughed often, long and loud. The same jokes and stories of past years were recounted over and over. The punch line or a quick “remember when” would have us laughing until our sides hurt.

Fun Dressing Up at the Costume Warehouse

As wrinkles appeared and our hair became laced with threads of silver, the questions at the border morphed into whether we had mace or pepper spray and whether we were coming to Canada to get our flu shots and drugs cheaper.

The group configuration was in flux in the earliest years, but within a few seasons, we had solidified into a steadfast band of six…sometimes seven…women…teachers, nurses, and one retiree: Lois, our designated drinker, and chocolate advisor. Lois introduced us to Dark Chocolate-Covered Ginger, the eating of which became a required yearly sacrament. We were all in complete agreement that a visit to Rheo Thompson’s candy store was a requirement. We might miss a play, we said, but we’d never miss the chocolate shop. We said we’d miss a play, but we never did.

Leaving the Original Rheo Thompson Candy Shop…1986
We thought it was so hilarious that The Candy Store was right next to a dentist’s office.

Oh, the plays! Sitting together in the dark, we saw hours and hours of fantastic theatre. Dramas, comedies, a few of the Shakespearean histories, and later we added every musical we could…Gilbert and Sullivan, Broadway revivals, and some productions that went on to Broadway.

In 1980, we saw Maggie Smith in Much Ado About Nothing. She had joined the festival to earn her chops as a stage actress. My friend and I met her by happenstance outside the theater after the performance. What a thrill. I have her autograph…and amazingly…I know where it is.

We witnessed the Canadian actress Seana McKenna in one of her first roles in a production of “All’s Well That Ends Well” set in the 1920s, where she sang most memorably…With a Hey Nonny, Nonny and a Ha Cha Cha.”

Over the years, we watched the career of the amazing Colm Feore, who my granddaughter now knows from The Umbrella Academy, a television show based on the comic book series of the same name. I was sitting in the front row of the Festival Theatre in 1988 as they filmed the production of Taming of the Shrew, in which Colm played Petruchio, and I almost became part of the show. During the dressmaker scene, a yardstick was slammed down on the table. It splintered and flew into the audience, impaling itself into my foot. They used footage…pun intended…from the second night of filming. Other than backstage tours, that’s as close as any of us came to being on stage.

Stratford has four theatres, but our favorite, The Festival Theatre, built to resemble the original tent used in 1953, became the holy shrine towards which we made our annual pilgrimage. Our call to worship was the fanfare played on heraldry trumpets and drums. The sound of the canon was the prelude reminding us to get settled, for the magic was about to begin.

Listening to the Fanfare
Summer 2019
Photo Credit: Kelly Daab Green

Theatre is such a uniquely symbiotic experience. The cast and crew have the power to bring a room of 1,800 strangers to tears or cause them to laugh out loud in unison. The audience then offers the gift of their response in the form of applause. Sharing this exchange with friends heightens the experience making it almost spiritual in nature. Our original bond was the plays, but gradually, almost imperceptibly, our relationship and our connection became stronger and deeper and went far beyond the activity on the stage.

Over decades, we watched each other age, mature, and mellow. We listened and prayed with those who went through illness and divorce. We cried with our friends who suffered the death of a spouse. We bragged about the accomplishments of our children, shared the delight of grandchildren, and rejoiced at the discovery of new love and second marriages. We didn’t always agree on matters of religion and were never able to sway each other from one political party to another, but that did not stop us from having rousing discussions. We always knew that we could safely discuss our beliefs and feelings openly without risk or judgment. Well…maybe a little judgment…but we also allowed, encouraged, and recognized growth and change.

“Everyone has a friend during each stage of life. But only lucky ones have the same friend in all stages of life.”
unknown

Lois was with us the fall she was eighty-nine, but that Christmas Eve, she entered the hospital. She died on Epiphany…the 12th Day of Christmas…January 6th, 2002. We were heartbroken. Although she was much older than the rest of us, she was never a mother figure. She was our contemporary, and we adored her. She was who we all wanted to be when we grew up. We gathered after her funeral to discuss what we would do going forward. We each thought she had been the glue that held us together. What would happen to The Gang without her? What we discovered in that short meeting was that though we loved Lois immensely, we loved each other just as much. None of us wanted to let go of this wonderful thing that we had created. None of us wanted to spend an autumn without our time in Canada.

We All Adored Lois
This Was Her Final Season with Us
Fall 2001

That was twenty years ago.

We continued to make the yearly trip…until we couldn’t. Cancer, Parkinsons, bad knees and hips, and life changes eventually meant that we were no longer able to continue as The Stratford Gang. Our love for each other and the place that brought us together remained, but after more than thirty-five seasons, our trips together eventually came to an end. A couple of us continued to make solo trips. My husband joined me once, and my friend Bettie joined me on another occasion too. Then one fall…I went alone. It’s funny, I expected to feel a great sense of loneliness, loss, and grief, but it was quite the opposite. My friends were everywhere. I could see them hurrying through the park, shuffling leaves with their feet, hoping to arrive in time for the trumpets; I could hear them laughing in the washroom during the short intermission, and I felt them beside me as I got comfortable in my seat. Life goes on, and so does love.

“A strong friendship doesn’t need daily conversation or being together. As long as the relationship lives in the heart, true friends never part.”
Unknown

In the summer of 2019, a new Stratford group was created when my two dear sisters and my darling granddaughter agreed to join me for a weekend of theatre. Just as the leaves change every autumn, my Stratford group changed as well. I will always miss that time with The Gang and those young green lives that once were, but the beautiful autumn foliage reminds me that change can be wonderfully glorious.

Summer at the Festival is Also Wonderful with People You Love

I’ll buy our ticket for next year in November, just as soon as we set a date.

Finding 92 Year-Old Men on the Thirty-Ninth Floor

Posted on October 6, 2022 by sjdaab

“We require from buildings two kinds of goodness: first, the doing their practical duty well: then that they be graceful and pleasing in doing it.”
John Rusking

“Go around the block again. The entrance has to be here somewhere,” she said. “This is definitely the address.”

“I just wish there weren’t so many one-way streets,” I added.

Last August, my granddaughter Fiona and I made a rather quick trip to Toronto. Harry Potter and the Cursed Child had been condensed from two plays… a six-hour-two-ticket commitment to a big more manageable single, 3-hour production. The new version could only be seen in New York, San Francisco, Melbourne, Tokyo, Hamburg, and Toronto. Broadway might have been closer, but we are more comfortable and familiar with Toronto, so our plan was hatched. As soon as tickets went on sale, we’d be ready to pounce. The box office opened, and I was ready with my credit card. I chose our theatre seats carefully, but in my haste to secure lodging, I inadvertently booked us into the wrong hotel.

“There must be a front door somewhere. Let’s go around again.”

Night was falling, and we were deep in the heart of the city. Fiona, the patient navigator, and I, the frustrated and very tired driver, were anxious to get out of the car and settled into our room. We were in an area with which I had limited prior experience and was not at all acquainted with our hotel on the corner of Yonge and King.

“This looks like an alley. Do you think it’s the entrance?” we wondered aloud as I pulled onto the narrow side street.

Finding our hotel amid the forest of concrete and glass, eventually, parking and checking in was the welcome culmination of a very long day of driving. Fiona and I both enjoy the benefits that cities provide, but we’re basically small-town girls, even though we live in the capital city of Vermont. We are more accustomed to structures left from the Victorian era than the tall, imposing structures of the 20th century. We dragged our small suitcases into the empty elevator, pushed the button, and rode in silence to the thirty-ninth floor. The doors opened onto a bank of elevators next to an enormous window that looked out onto the adjacent buildings. Our view was filled with a quartet of huge Art Deco faces smiling directly at us! What an unexpected surprise. They were magnificent!

View From the Elevator Bank on the Thirty-ninth Floor.
August 2022

I was mesmerized. As luck would have it, our room was also opposite these smiling gentlemen. My first instinct was to grab my camera. These new friends were willing subjects. Smiling patiently as I took shot after shot. Upon closer inspection, I realized that in addition to the quartet I had originally seen, there was an entire men’s chorus of twelve visible concrete heads and an additional four on the far side of the building for a total of sixteen.

I had so many questions. What was the significance of these enormous faces, and even more puzzling to me…why were they constructed so far above any passersby on the ground?

The Canadian Bank of Commerce Building about 1930
“Hey! Let’s add sixteen massive heads that will be almost impossible to see.”

The Canadian Bank of Commerce Building was built between 1929-1931. At the time, it was the tallest building in the entire British Commonwealth. It retained that distinction until the early 1960s. Although towering and impressive, it is now somewhat dwarfed by the slender concrete, steel, and glass structures that surround it. As Toronto’s first skyscraper, it must have been an imposing presence. Until it was replaced by the CN Tower, it was from here that curious Torontonians would arrive to see the city spread before them like a patchwork quilt. The arched openings at the 32-floor observation deck…no longer open…also gave tourists an up close and personal look at the massive bearded heads, albeit from an unusual angle.

From the top of their heads to the bottom of their flowing beards,
each of the gigantic sculptures measures 24 feet high.
August 2022

I was drawn to these steadfast gentlemen and their perpetual smiles. From my vantage point at nearly eye level, I could see that the 16 men shared two distinct and alternating faces with subtle differences indistinguishable at street level. With a little Google sleuthing, I discovered that they shared four names as well: Courage, Observation, Foresight, and Enterprise, and were said to symbolize the forever watchfulness of the bank.

Great buildings that move the spirit have always been rare. In every case they are unique, poetic, products of the heart
Arthur Erickson

I appreciate and enjoy the beauty of the natural world, but I am also drawn to the stories told and the mysteries not yet unfolded of great works that humans have built and sustain. I imagine the council fires where ancient visionaries first pitched the idea of building Mesa Verde, Stonehenge, or Donottar Castle. Knowing my cautious nature, I’d probably have been among the skeptics. “You want to build what? Where? With what?” And yet our forebears built cathedrals, castles, bridges, and towers that many thought impossible.

I watched as the light of the early morning golden hour transitioned to the velvety richness of the night sky and the glow of countless city illuminations played across each face.
August 2022

So, why did they place these heads so high above the city traffic below? Google couldn’t help me with that, but perhaps it’s like lacy underwear. Few, if any, other people see it, but you know it’s there. After all, does beauty need a reason? Maybe beauty is the reason.

It was the magic of Harry Potter that drew us to Toronto on this trip, but if we are observant, pay attention, and are open, we can find magic and beauty all around us without the use of a magic wand or whispered incantation. How much I am missing, I wonder, by keeping a steady forward gaze? I must remind myself to anticipate, be aware, and expect to find gifts of wonder, beauty, and delight that others have created for me to discover and appreciate.

Sometimes, booking the wrong hotel can be the right thing to do.

One Wild and Precious Life

Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life? —Mary Oliver

Make it Count and Do it Well

Stringing Beads

Gotta Please Yourself

Imagination and Illusion…Escape from Gringotts

The Nijmegen Bridge

Shepherds, Gen Z, and Instructions

Maybe It’s Not a Clock

Effie…My Friend in Isolation

The Stratford Gang

Finding 92 Year-Old Men on the Thirty-Ninth Floor

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