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.

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 Man’s Trash

Posted on September 5, 2022 by sjdaab

“After 40 it’s patch, patch, patch.”
Seen on a T-shirt

“After 60, it’s pitch, pitch, pitch.”
Sally Daab Armstrong

Downsizing! It seems that I’m at it again!

My recent return to Vermont found me in a condo one-third smaller than the one I left in Michigan. Sorting, tossing, and recycling have been a necessity. It’s impossible to retain everything I brought with me, but another round of jettisoning the treasures and minutiae of my life has not been easy.

I was raised on the 1950s black and white Westerns…movies, and television shows…Gun Smoke, Ponderosa, and every Sunday night…Wagon Train. I was both distressed and curiously intrigued when inevitably, it became necessary to lighten the load and leave something along the trail. I’m not sure why but I found the jarring clang of a piano tossed from the back of a Conestoga or the crash of a crate of heirloom china being unceremoniously flung over the side especially heartbreaking. How did those people decide what to toss and what to keep? It’s hard to let go of things that connect us to other times and places, but in the end, they are just things. The memories and connections remain; it’s just “the stuff” that we lose.

Then again, couldn’t they keep just one of Grandma’s teacups? Maybe tucked into a flour sack? I suppose that’s what makes this task so challenging for me. I can only do it in stages. I keep the “just one thing” for now, but in a few months…as the purge continues…I might decide that it is indeed just a cup, not the memory, and I can set it free.

The famous Japanese lifestyle coach Marie Kondo says we should eliminate excess clutter and put away all the things from the past that no longer contribute to our lives. Thank each item in the Goodwill box for the joy it brought us or the comfort it provided, and then…as they sing in the Disney movie…let it go. I still have much more than I need in this tiny condo, but I’m getting better at bidding adieu to things that, at one time or another, I thought I couldn’t live without.

“Have gratitude for the things you’re discarding. By giving gratitude, you’re giving closure to the relationship with that object, and by doing so, it becomes a lot easier to let go.”
Marie kondo

I’ve made many trips to Goodwill and The Restore and joined a local Buy-Nothing group. Everything offered in the group is free to whoever can use it. The next owner will continue to breathe life into my rejects, creating new histories instead of sending them to the landfill.

Knowing how difficult it is to reduce the inventory, I find it very curious…puzzling even…that I involuntarily slow down for anything along the road with a Free Sign. Who knows what sidewalk gold awaits me? Within split seconds, I’ve designed a new seat for the chair with the broken caning, and I’ve chosen a paint color that would add charm and delight, making it a lovely addition to my front porch. Then I remember…I don’t have a front porch, and I don’t need more stuff…especially broken, discarded stuff.

That doesn’t seem to stop me. I keep looking. I keep imaging.

“Without leaps of imagination or dreaming, we lose the excitement of possibilities. Dreaming, after all is a form of planning.”
Gloria Steinem

Maybe I could repair the sagging shelves of the bookcase, repurpose the metal plantstand, or mend the flannel shirt. I wasn’t looking for another book to add to those next to my bed waiting to be read, but the cover is so shiny, and the title is intriguing. Could I successfully incorporate these finds into my life? This entire reaction generally lasts but a few seconds at best. Thankfully, my better angels take over, and I don’t come home with something new which would be destined for my giveaway box.

Buying second-hand, frequenting flea markets, looking for bargains, and hunting for treasure is nothing new and not certainly not unique to me. Perhaps this practice is one of the remaining vestiges of our days as Hunter-Gatherers. We don’t search for bargains and treasures out of greed, although there is an element of saving money and making the most advantageous transaction. It is more a matter of imagining our world just a wee bit differently. What would it be like to possess something new and unexpected? Could our world be different? Improved?

Maybe that’s true of ideas and thoughts as well. We keep what works, what gives us clarity and meaning. We’re open to new thoughts and imagine incorporating them into our lives but then, often as not, we drive on…leaving them in the grass at the edge of the road…without employing them or making them our own.

“You do not need to know precisely what is happening, or exactly where it is all going. What you need is to recognize the possibilities and challenges offered by the present moment, and to embrace them with courage, faith and hope.”
Thomas merton

When I was a teenager, we often passed a rather ramshackle building on our way to the city. It always appeared ready to collapse. Held together with spit and a promise, it was filled to overflowing with all kinds of fascinating and enticing bits of wood and metal…Sleazeman’s Junk Emporium. It was a dilapidated, rundown collection of…well…junk, but the name was so clever and inviting. This memory reminds me to be careful what I bring into my house or into my thinking, for that matter. Sometimes what appears to be gratis is a costly problem with a jazzy name…the couch with fleas, the appliance with the wrong cord, or conclusions without basis in facts.

Sometimes one pays most for the things one gets for nothing.
Albert einstein

And so…I slow down, look, and imagine even as the purging, shuffling, and reducing continues.

WARNING: Be very careful accepting any parcel post from me in the next few weeks. You may be an unsuspecting participant in my downsizing adventure. I imagine how any number of my cast-offs…I mean treasures…could change your life.

Finding The Kelpies

Posted on August 24, 2022 by sjdaab

“It seemed like the world is moving too fast and I wanted it to stop or at least slow down, so that I could keep up. I wanted the time to wait for me. Then I realized, life goes on, and I have to live with it.”
Kcat Yarza

Our quest to see The Kelpies began in Edinburgh’s Waverley Station. The main hall is stunningly beautiful and rather imposing for three small-town women. Buying a ticket, finding the correct platform…among the twenty available…, and boarding on time was a challenge, but we did it…with a wee bit of help from a local. With the first phase of our mission accomplished, we settled back in our seats, pleased with ourselves and full of anticipation for what lay ahead.

The Waiting Hall at Waverly Station
Edinburgh 2022

The Kelpies, located about 30 miles northwest of Edinburgh, are the largest equine statutes in the world at nearly 100 ft high. These horse head sculptures depict mythical shape-shifting water spirits and were created to honor the horse-powered heritage of Scotland. The magical power of these enormous beasts seemed to pull us toward The Helix Park in Falkirk, where they were awaiting our arrival.

I had seen these impressive statues before from the M9 motorway with my late husband, Dave. He didn’t stop…of course not… but as we approached the position of best visibility, he’d lean back so I could take a photo. Of course, it goes without saying that shooting past Dave out the window of a moving vehicle was not optimal for getting the best picture.

On a sunny day in October, during my first return trip to Scotland after COVID travel restrictions, I saw them from within the park with my sister, Kelly…our intrepid driver…and her husband, Bill. What a treat. Now, in April, I was looking forward to sharing them up close and personal with my sister, Penny, and my granddaughter, Fiona.

The train stopped several times as we made our way out of the city and into the countryside, with additional brief connections in towns on the route. Beyond the city and villages, we sped by fields of brilliant green spring crops dotted with sheep and edged with the ever-present, vibrant yellow Gorse, but my memory has reduced this all to a modern art smear of yellow, green, and sky blue. We were moving too fast for clear memories to form.

“Life is ephemeral; each moment passes quickly a blur of color on a fast moving subway car. There and gone and all we have left is the imprint of what once was.”
jacqueline Simon Gunn

My life has been moving at breakneck speed for the past few months. At times, I watch it pass before me as though I’m watching from the window of a train. I hardly have time to savor one event before it has morphed into the next. Perhaps that’s why I am seldom without my phone and its built-in camera. Maybe the pace of our lives is why so many of us carry this memory grabber in our pockets, ready in an instant to freeze the moments of our lives into bite-sized glimpses to appreciate and enjoy later; tangible confirmation and future memory joggers of our adventures.

As we trundled on toward our destination…not giving too much thought to how we would get from the station to the park…another adventure in itself…we had time to relax and simply be. The world was rolling past our windows, and it would spin just fine without us for a while. I rather like the cadence of an event-filled vacation…life…but it is also sweet to simply sit back and enjoy the ride from time to time too.

Rest is not idle, is not wasteful. Sometimes rest is the most productive thing you can do for body and soul.
Erica Layne

A few days earlier, through the magic of modern technology, I’d sold my house in Michigan from our flat in Edinburgh, just off the Royal Mile. Still, as we continued our quest for The Kelpies, I had no way of knowing that within a month, I would have stored my worldly goods, spent quality time sharing hugs, laughter, and goodbyes with friends and family, and returned to Vermont. I hadn’t yet been invited to live with my children until I found a place. Nor did I have an inkling of how in Montpelier’s tight housing market, I’d miraculously find a small condo in the perfect location on the North Branch of the Winooski River by the beginning of July.

North Branch of the Winooski River
Summer 2022

Now, in late August, the slightest hint of autumn is in the air, reminding me that shortly the leaves will turn, and this long hot summer will only be a memory. Sweaters will replace t-shirts, wool socks will be added to my Birkenstocks, and it won’t be long until mittens and boots emerge from their summer lodging. The seasons provide a natural rhythm to our lives. There is imperative to gather the harvest and busily prepare for a time of quieting and slowing down.

There is ebb and flow. Leaving and coming. Flight and fall. Sing and silent. Reaching and reached.
Ally Condie

I find it such a delight to fill in the little squares of my planner with activities and plans. I often find myself creating the itinerary for my next adventure before I’ve finished the final glass of wine of the trip I’m on. The challenge isn’t to remove all the hustle and bustle of life. The real challenge is ensuring that our calendar is filled with activities that add joy and meaning to our lives and that we’re not merely on the hamster wheel going nowhere but actually enriching our lives. Leaving some empty squares in the planner and allowing time to rest, recover, and regroup is essential. Our short time on the train afforded us a brief respite before we would complete our pursuit for The Kelpies.

“No mortal ear could have heard the kelpie passing through the night, for the great black hooves of it were as soundless in their stride as feathers falling. –
Mollie Hunter

Standing before these massive sculptures, at last, with people I love, experiencing their expressions of wonder and awe, was a reminder that my life is full of blessings, simmering moments of amazement, and occasions that can only be described as grace. I don’t want to move so fast that I recognize them only as blurred images.

My Granddaughter and My Sister
An Adventure Together 2022

“Untether yourself from the engines of busyness…Instead, consider your life–who you love, and why, how blessed you are to be here, resting under a shower of birdsong, or what strange bright luck it is to be the owner, for a few years, of this beating heart, these wondering eyes, the ears into which the kingfisher spills her small chuckle as she dips across the water…”
Kathleen McTigue…An excerpt from “Summer Sabbath”

Two Lovers and a Glass of Wine

Posted on April 29, 2022 by sjdaab

“Wine enters through the mouth, Love, the eyes. I raise the glass to my mouth, I look at you, I sigh.”
― William Butler Yeats

As I arrived at my book club meeting, I was met by the evening’s hostess. “Welcome,” smiled Tina. “Would you like a glass of wine? I have Pino, Chardonnay, or a nice Cab.”

When it comes to wine, all the women in my group know much more about it than I do. I know I really enjoy Baco Noir, Malbec, and the occasional glass of chilled Riesling, but the rest are a mystery to me. They might be beautiful in the glass and pleasurable on the tongue, but I’ll admit…I really don’t know one from the other. Many years ago, on a trip to France, my husband, Dave, and I attended a delightfully instructional wine tasting in a local wine cellar. It was fun, but even that didn’t improve my understanding of wine. I remember that the aroma, color, and the way it swirls in the glass are all supposed to add to the enjoyment, but in all honesty, I’m not sure why or how. On the other hand, when the discussion led to the philosophy of terroir, I understood and could easily relate.

Terroir is a French word that translates as land. As I understand it, the soil and environment affect the grape’s development, taste, and quality which are ultimately reflected in the wine. The same grape grown on one hillside may taste entirely different from one produced on an adjacent field.

Grapes Grown for Williamsburg Winery
Virginia 2011

I realize that terroir in this context refers to grapes and perhaps other crops as well, but I think it also may apply to people. Where we are born, raised, and eventually settle affects what we believe and how we behave. It shapes who we are and who we come to be.

Last Fall, I heard an original poem read by a woman who lives part of the year in New England and the other in Florida. Through her writing, she acknowledged that her friends in either place really only know a part of who she really is. Without an understanding of the ethos of New England, those in Florida would only ever know one side of her. Conversely, those in New England could never comprehend the Florida part. Dave and I were born in the midwest…Michigan, to be precise…but we spent most of our married life together in Vermont, so unless our friends had similar backgrounds, they never truly knew us.

A man can be in two different places and he will be two different men. Maybe if you think of more places he will be more men, but two is enough for now. –
Elmore Leonard

As Dave’s mobility decreased, we discussed downsizing from our 1810, four-bedroom house to something more manageable. Once when I asked him what he would do if I died and he was alone…as we age, we think of such things… he responded, “I’d move back to Michigan.” So, when he died, and I was alone and unable to find a suitable place to relocate in Vermont, I sold our big house and moved to a small condo in Michigan near my sisters and within an hour’s drive of women with whom I’ve had decades-long friendships.

Within months of my move, we entered the time of Covid. In the blink of an eye, the world changed for everyone. The life I had anticipated was impossible. Most of my connections with family and friends were virtual. I was living…as were most people…through my computer screen. Church services, family gatherings, chats with my grandchildren, and monthly book club meetings were conducted on Zoom or Facetime. My groceries were delivered outside my door, and I relied on UPS and the US postal system more than I’d like to admit. I enjoyed my little condo with its cozy fireplace, and I spent a good deal of time alone on my deck with the birds and squirrels for company. I walked the city parks and binge-watched several British and Canadian television series. Weekly small group meetings with other solo women and our minister also kept me going. It was a comfortable…yet very lonely…way to weather the storm. When we could meet outside…at a distance of six feet or inside with masks and excellent ventilation…I was able to see my sisters and friends, but we were never close enough to hug…or even touch. It was a strange time but not unique to me. The entire world had been locked down.

My Little Deck and Container Garden
Summer 2021

Each of us has our own pandemic story. Being isolated and alone kept me safe from the virus, but my life was often framed by loneliness. However, my friend, Suzanne, says that adults are responsible for their own good time, and even amid the restrictions of the Covid time, I was able to make memories, share laughter, and enjoy the blessing of time with those I love. However, I slowly realized that I was becoming collateral damage to the pandemic. I have never been able to put down roots or make genuine relationships within the new community in which I found myself.

The plains of central Michigan have their own kind of beauty: the red barns, green fields, and expansive sky; nevertheless, I longed for Vermont’s mountains, streams, and cedar scented air. Although there are many people I love…deeply love…in Michigan, my heart and soul…not to mention my children and grandchildren…are in Vermont. I had to return.

I listed my beloved condo with a realtor in mid-April, and surprisingly…to me anyway… it sold within a week. So I am putting the accumulation of my life in storage and packing my clothes, sundries, computer, and the book I haven’t finished in Andy…my Mini Cooper…and trekking back to all I love in the Green Mountains of Vermont. I’m moving forward in the faith that I’ll be able to find a place to eventually unpack, settle, and successfully revive and nurture the roots that have lain dormant during my time away.

As I wrap my breakables carefully in newsprint, I often have two songs from decades ago playing alternately on a loop in my head. The chorus of the Mary Wells Motown hit…Two Lovers...is regularly on repeat. “Well, I’ve got two lovers, and I ain’t ashamed. I’ve got two lovers, and I love them both the same.” But, perhaps the 70s Pop/Soft Rock recording by Mary MacGregor, Torn Between Two Lovers, with its sensitive lyrics and haunting melody, is closer to expressing the ache of having two intense and conflicting loves. When I exchange the idea of place for the other person in the song, it comes close to articulating my feelings.

Torn between two lovers, feeling like a fool
Loving you both is breaking all the rules
You mustn't think you failed me just because there's someone else
You were the first real love I ever had
And all the things I ever said
I swear they still are true
For no one else can have the part of me I gave to you

I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever be completely happy, for I will always be drawn to one place while at the same time missing the other. The people of Vermont and Michigan each possess their own unique terroir, and I have drunk deeply from the rich, sweet wine of both. But, I suppose, in the end, all I can really do is linger over the exquisite glass before me…enjoying the aroma, the color, and the way it swirls in the glass…knowing that I’m not limited to one bottle and can always return and fill my goblet once again from the other.

“You will never be completely at home again, because part of your heart will always be elsewhere. That is the price you pay for the richness of loving and knowing people in more than one place.’
Mirium Adeney

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

Category Archives: Musings

Make it Count and Do it Well

Stringing Beads

Gotta Please Yourself

Imagination and Illusion…Escape from Gringotts

The Nijmegen Bridge

The Stratford Gang

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

One Man’s Trash

Finding The Kelpies

Two Lovers and a Glass of Wine

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this: