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
“Some people come into our lives and quickly go. Some people move our souls to dance. They awaken us to a new understanding with the passing whisper of their wisdom. Some people make the sky more beautiful to gaze upon. They stay in our lives for awhile, leave footprints on our hearts, and we are never, ever the same.”
Flavia Weedn
From the Back Deck Montpelier, VT October 2022
I recently came across an old DVD…Mom and Dad’s 50th Wedding Anniversary, 1996. Later, watching it alone in my room, I found myself on the rollercoaster between laughter and tears. The video was funny, heartbreaking, silly, uplifting, loud, poignant, and full of love. The longer I watched, the more I became aware of how many of the main characters had left the stage. Eight people died, two left via divorce, and five little children grew up! Not many of the original cast members remain.
I have reached the phase of life where more and more people leave every year…family, friends, and people I used to see in the neighborhood, at church, or in the movies. This time of losing eventually reaches everyone and is on the invoice for a long life. However, if we’re lucky and willing to take a chance, we can continue to add new players to the cast and create space for unexpected plot twists and extraordinary storylines that will surprise, delight, and inspire us.
Embarking on unexplored paths with new companions requires us to be vulnerable, trusting, and open to the mystery of unfolding adventures. Oh, sure, on our journey, we could find ourselves stuck axle-deep in mud with three flat tires and a GPS that says we’ve reached our destination, but we could also find ourselves on a mountaintop of amazement. You never know what lies around the bend. And so, what the heck…there’s not that much on TV anyway…might as well take the leap!
Autumn Leaves on the Forest Floor October 2020
I've heard it said That people come into our lives For a reason Bringing something we must learn And we are led to those Who help us most to grow if we let them And we help them in return.
"For Good" from Wicked
I didn’t hear his car drive up, but I watched from my kitchen window as he walked across the driveway toward my tiny condo, with an air of casual confidence.
He was of medium build, clad in blue jeans and a t-shirt. His hair was pulled back neatly and secured at the nape of his neck in a short ponytail, accentuating his beautifully lush, carefully trimmed, salt and pepper beard. As I opened the door, he greeted me with sparkling eyes, a warm, pleasant smile, and a confident, friendly manner that instantly put me at ease.
He was a good-looking man…charming, funny, and interesting. It was easy to be attracted to him, but…for God’s sake, he was my electrician and I was his client. At the recommendation of our local electrical supply store, “Call him first. He’s a really nice guy,” he had literally come to light up my life by adding two new overhead lights. At the time, I had no idea that he would bring more light than just that in the ceiling.
Fallen Leaves in the Sunshine AI Generated
Over the next year, there were several infrequent text exchanges. He’d invite me for coffee or lunch, and I’d find an excuse to decline or postpone. I had been a widow for six years and was finally discovering how to make a life without a partner. Learning to dance with a wooden leg. I was not excited about the lines and wrinkles that were spiderwebbing across my face or the fact that my breasts had been losing territory in the constant battle with gravity. In fifty years, I had only been kissed romantically by two men…my husband and my high school crush at our tenth class reunion. I have never felt completely comfortable around men, especially attractive men,and the last men I was with…other than my husband, with whom I had grown old…were just babies in their twenties. No, I definitely wasn’t looking…as Carly Simon sings…but…somehow he found me.
Yellow Leaves on the Path Sylvan Solace 2020
After a long drought of messages, he reached out once again. “Would you like to go for coffee? We could talk about Scotland.” It was scary to say yes, but this time, I was ready for the adventure of meeting a man for something other than going over my taxes or my investments. I’d just go for coffee…chai latte, actually. It would be just a practice date, so that in the unlikely event another man asked me to go for coffee, I’d know what to do. Well…it didn’t turn out exactly as I planned. “Oh, I’m in trouble,” I told my sister, later that day. “I really like this guy.”
Our rather unconventional friendship has been such a gift. He has reminded me of things I’d forgotten and inspired me to make changes and discoveries on my own. He is funny, kind, and genuine. He opened doors that I thought had been nailed shut or were so hidden by vines and brush that I didn’t know they still existed. Who knew I’d enjoy the most passionate kisses of my life when I was a senior citizen! My world is larger, brighter, less scary, and more inviting because we traveled the same path together for a while.
None of us knows when or how our stories will end, nor do we know which characters will be with us on the final pages, but I’m enjoying writing this chapter, and I’m looking forward to seeing what’s on the next page. I smile at strangers and speak to people I don’t know, recognizing that just as in an English murder mystery, it quite possibly could be the least likely person who holds the keys to the next grand adventure.
And now, whatever way our stories end I know you have rewritten mine By being my friend Like a ship blown from its mooring By a wind off the sea Like a seed dropped by a skybird In a distant wood Who can say if I've been changed for the better? But Because I knew you Because I knew you I have been changed for good.
"For Good," from Wicked
Maple Leaves Sylvan Solace 2020
I have been changed by each of the people who have come and gone in my life. I’ve known people who made my life miserable, whose main purpose in life seemed to be that of a bad example. Then, too, I have long-time friends I don’t deserve, and young friends who bring excitement, joy, and new perspectives. Our human interactions aren’t always easy or straightforward, but they are completely worth the challenge. Old friends are stability and comfort, just as new friends personify potentiality and possibility. Embrace them both…the new and the old. Welcome the footprints on your heart and be sure to leave a few of your own.
Reminder: You're not done meeting everyone who's going to matter to you. Some of the best moments of your life haven't happened yet.
Sara Kuburic
Isn’t that just the best thing you’ve heard all day?!
“Twenty years from now, you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So, throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” ― Mark Twain
Looking Down on the City of Sorrento April 2024
We’ve all seen the movies. A woman, euphemistically of a certain age, decides to make a change, have an adventure, or finally check a challenge off her long-held to-do list. Although she’s no longer in full bloom, enough petals remain to make her interesting. She carefully packs her bags, gives her cat to the neighbors, and heads out the door to make it happen. She arrives at her destination full of wonder and excitement mixed with some trepidation. The camera pans out as we watch her appreciating the local sights and sounds. The sidewalks glisten from the remnants of a soft rain as she walks along the river… there’s always a river…undeterred. With a crumpled map tucked into her purse, she ventures down curious alleys and picturesque side streets, smiling at the sheer joy of her freedom and discoveries. Inevitably, before we’ve even eaten half of our popcorn, she finds herself enjoying a cup of tea in a small sidewalk cafe, on a bench overlooking the ocean, or selecting a book from a quaint corner shop when quite unexpectantly…except to those who know the genre…she encounters a handsome gentleman. Suddenly, the plot twists, and the story continues in a new direction with an additional player. There’s modulation in the soundtrack and…ya da, ya da, ya da…the part that all romantics have been waiting for. Well…you know how it goes.
On my grand adventure last spring, I wasn’t expecting it, but just like in the movies, I met a handsome Italian man. I was checking into my hotel in Sorrento when he approached me at the counter. His face was framed by a tidy, neatly trimmed, dark brown beard, and his eyes were like deep pools inviting you to dive in and swim about. His broad smile was infectious and not easily ignored. I was immediately taken by his warmth, humor, and pleasant laugh, but it was his kindness and giving nature that really won me over. Ya da, ya da, ya da…but I’m getting ahead of myself.
The Lemons of Sorrento April 2024
My husband, Dave, and I often led parallel lives, but we both loved to travel and were great traveling companions. We did that part of our lives together very well. I’d make the plans, and he’d drive on the high, scary roads. It was a comfortable partnership, and we had many grand adventures. When he died, I wondered how I would ever be able to travel again without him. I had some glorious times with my family and friends, but I couldn’t depend on them to make things happen. They had their own lives and their own spouses; I’d have to figure out how to do it on my own. So, I began scouring travel websites and investigating solo travel via river cruises or land tours.
During the annual meeting with my financial advisor, I lamented the high cost of the single supplement, that is, the additional cost incurred by those traveling alone.”You won’t believe the amount that is added above and beyond the base price! It’s bad enough that I’m going without a partner or friend; should I have to pay more, too?” I complained.
“You have the money,” he replied. “Just pay it and go. Just go!”
Not long after that exchange, one of my friends presented a program in the women’s group at church about her recent trip to Tasmania, Australia, and New Zealand. I have never been a fan of organized trips involving travel by bus, especially those where you have to put your bags outside the door every morning by 6:00 a.m.
“Oh, if you travel with this company,” she said, “you’ll always have two or three days in one location, and we didn’t always travel by bus. We also went by train and boat, and once,” she added with a smile, “we even went by elephant.”
“Yes,” I nodded with interest, “but I hate to pay that single supplement.”
“There is no single supplement,” she declared.
With my major obstacles flung aside, the road to adventure lay directly before me. It was time to investigate with intention. Remarkably, the company my friend suggested was the same one I had used with great success for river cruises. I’d never looked at the land options, but I really liked the company…so…the search began in earnest. Before long, I had narrowed my options down to two: The Amalfi Coast & Tuscany or Romantic Villages of Alpine Europe. I’d never had a strong desire to go to Italy, but that two-week itinerary only required one move; seven days in Sorrento and seven days in Montecatini. That was really appealing, but The Alps! How could I resist Switzerland, Liechtenstein, Austria, the Mountains, and Heidi?
As I was agonizing over which to choose, I noticed a suggestion in the small print. Instead of choosing between the two, why not book both of them back-to-back? I’d save money by omitting the cost of an overseas flight, I’d save the wear and tear on my body by excluding that flight, and it would be better for the planet. Sounded like a win-win. OK. I’d do it. I plunked my money down…and then…waited several months for my departure date.
Anticipation and anxiety both filled my thoughts as I awaited my flight. Planning two consecutive trips required a connection. The idea that I’d have to make the connection on my own never even occurred to me. To say I was concerned was an understatement. I was terrified. Cars and airports I can handle with ease; train stations are another story. My tiny city has one platform and one train. The train goes south in the morning and north in the evening. Making this transition meant I was going to have to change trains while shlepping my bags in one of the largest, busiest train stations in the world. I worried about it a lot, but I would have time to figure it out…I hoped! Travel always involves challenges, adventures, risks, and, almost by definition, stepping out of your comfort zone, but that’s why we do it. Apprehensive or not, with one foot in front of the other, I wasn’t going to miss my chance…I was doing it!
At The Dartmouth Coach…Why yes! I do look just like a sophisticated World Traveler, don’t ‘cha think? April 2024
And so, after a connection in Frankfort—the worst airport experience ever, including Moscow—a rather alarming aborted landing in Naples that took us over Mt. Vesuvius—and as the solo passenger in a car driven by a young man who spoke no English but insisted on playing Rap music the entire way—I never quite understood that—I arrived at my lodging for the next week in Sorrento and that aforementioned check-in desk.
Another key change and a slight change in tempo… ya da, ya da, ya da…the intriguing new man introduces her to all the sights of the city. Sienna, Florence, Amalfi. He suggests tucked-away restaurants where she discovers the best wine, cheese, and pasta. He shows her amazing vistas and stunning views and explains the history and significance of things she may have missed. He listens intently to her questions, stories, and concerns. In his presence, she feels at home, comfortable, and confident.
Immediately upon meeting Frankie, I was smitten, but I was not alone. All of my traveling companions… soon-to-be friends…were equally taken with him. You see, Frankie was our program director…our tour guide. The funny thing about tour guides is that they are paid to be nice, answer questions, show you the ropes, and keep things moving. Sincerity, kindness, patience, and caring, however, can’t be bought at any price. These just came naturally to Frankie. He set the tone for us and our time in Italy. Brought together by fate, we rapidly became a friendly, cohesive group. The universe conspired to create the perfect cohort, bringing together just the right people at just the right time. It was magical.
“Kindness is not what you do, but who you are.”― Cory Booker
Visiting a School Where Frankie Once Taught…You Can’t Fake Anything with Children April 2024
If I were writing a travel blog, I’d include details of where we went and what we did, but the takeaway from this story is how I was changed by this adventure and the wonderful man who shepherded me through it. With his encouragement, I took steps with the group…and…more importantly, on my own…that were outside my comfort zone. I found kind people everywhere and learned that, at times, I was one of them, too. I became more confident with my own decisions about what I wanted to do, what I could do, and what I knew I didn’t want to do. I didn’t always do what was expected. Instead, Frankie gave me the tools and encouragement to choose to do what worked best for me. Using his cell phone, Frankie even accompanied me step-by-step as I navigated the train stations in Florence and Milan. “You can do it. Don’t worry. I’ll help.” And…indeed…I did do it.
Our entire group could not sing his praises loud enough. We all had a wonderful experience. However, I wasn’t discovering the country as much as I was discovering myself and all the possibilities that remain if I’m willing to grab them.
“Travel far enough, you meet yourself.” ― David Mitchell
With our popcorn gone, the movie reaches a bittersweet conclusion. Our heroine is grateful that their paths have crossed for this brief encounter, but she’s well aware that she must return to the life she left behind—don’t forget the cat’s still at the neighbors—and yet, a world of possibilities has been opened to her. She has been forever changed. Smiling, she turns and waves goodbye. The door closes, and he is gone.
With deep gratitude and much affection, my sweet Italian friend.
You made a difference. You are adored!
I highly recommend…Grand Circle Travel https://www.gct.com Maybe you’ll meet Frankie too.
“You can’t argue with a river – it is going to flow. You can dam it up, put it to useful purposes, you can deflect it, but you can’t argue with it.“
– Dean Acheson
“I couldn’t stand living where you do,” he said.”You are so close to the river. You know, you can never turn off the sound of the water plunging over the falls. It never stops.”
I purchased my condo a year ago, and contrary to my friend’s opinion, I rather like the sound of the water as it rushes on. He was right, though; like a close friend, it’s always there, whispering, giggling, and sharing secrets in the background of every activity in my tiny home. I usually find its constant presence comforting, but on those rare occasions when the white noise seems overwhelming and perhaps a tad annoying, I simply close the window or turn up the radio. Like any bosom buddy, the river never seems to mind.
It may be silly… at my age, I’m entitled to a wee bit of frivolity…but sometimes, as I watch the river from my living room, I imagine that I’m on a cruise ship that is taking me on a grand adventure, and the river never disappoints. I watch the changing seasons from my deck and delight as families of geese and ducks swim past, occasionally stopping to fish and forage among the cattails that line the nearby banks. Herons, turtles, and kingfishers also make an appearance now and then; even tubers and kayakers find their way down the river.
Oh River...My River
A dessert as sweet, silky and smooth as butterscotch pudding.
A necklace studded with the feathered jewels of geese, goslings, and mallards linked with clasps of giant turtles.
Bring me your unbridled delight and self-assured contentment.
I will pour them into cut-glass goblets and serve with fresh fruit and honey.
A pair of Canada Geese keeping an eye on the teens.
July 2023 arrived accompanied by rain. I watched the raindrops—first one and then another—create patterns of ever-widening circles disturbing the smooth surface. Soon, the solitary droplets were joined by a chorus of staccato drumbeats, leaving pockmarks in their wake. There is something soothing about a gentle rain on a summer day.
Oh, River…My River
A stippled dance floor patterned by hoofers who tap in circular heel-toe-rhythm.
A gauzy summer dress of pastel Dotted Swiss.
Bring me your unquestioning acceptance and continual adaptability to unexpected alterations, unscheduled revisions and unplanned transitions.
I will place them gently in a Tiffany box displayed with other treasures.
Raindrops tap-dancing on the river.
The rain, however, continued off and on for days. Random periods of blue skies and sunshine belied the approaching danger.
“Be careful coming home,” my daughter warned as my granddaughter and I returned from a weekend trip to Canada. “There are flash flood warnings for this area. Stick to the main roads and don’t take chances.”
We drove cautiously through Upstate New York past swollen rivers, but as we drew near Montpelier, we realized this wasn’t going to be an a-few-roads-washed-out event. Entering town from Exit 8 on the Interstate, we were instantly aware that roads were already impassible. Stores were closed, or closing, and Main Street was being locked down. It was too late to build an ark. The flood was upon us.
Oh, River…My River
A locomotive churning, rushing, and unstoppable carrying flotsam, jetsam, hopes and dreams.
A water moccasin moving indiscriminately through the valley leaving poison and destruction in its wake.
Bring me your indefatigable persistence, your resolute power and singleminded confidence.
I will store them in a jar of Delft blue and proffer them sparingly with a wee silver spoon.
Like everyone else downriver from the dam, I watched and waited. Wrightsville Dam, just a few miles north, was within a foot of reaching capacity. Would it contain the water or overtop the barrier created after the Flood of 1927? This was an unprecedented event, and no one knew exactly what would happen in Montpelier if water was released. We watched and waited until the rain slowly subsided and the water level began to drop. Hopefully, this phase was ending.
Oh, River...My River
An aging rock star at the end of the final set, exhausted and played out.
A barn cat dropping dead mice on my doorstep…a gift, a demand for attention, or just too tired to carry it farther.
Bring me your astonishing resilience and incredible adaptability
I will keep them in a shaker next to the salt and pepper
sprinkling liberally.
At the next bridge down, “See what I brought you,” the river seemed to say.
When the immediate danger had passed, neighbors, friends, and strangers ventured out to assess the situation and to see firsthand what the river had left in her wake. We stood together on the pedestrian bridge, looking on in astonishment and awe at the power of small drops of water that had decided to work together.
Oh River…My River
A contrite and apologetic school boy emerging from detention, yearning to make amends and return to class.
A Sunday morning realization that the detritus of Saturday night necessitates hours of clearing away, mopping up, hauling out. Picks up a broom and begins.
Bring me your inexhaustible energy, silent resolve, and desire for restitution and restoration.
I will burn them as a scented candle of perfume and light.
“I would love to live like a river flows, carried by the surprise of its own unfolding.”
John O’Donohue
The Winooski River was born nearly ten thousand years ago. It has literally been here for millennia, yet new waters flow within its banks every day. As the Greek philosopher Heraclitus observed in 500 BCE, “No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river, and he’s not the same man.” The river is a paradox, constant and dependable, yet always evolving and reinventing itself…never quite certain of its identity. The same waters that wreak havoc and destruction also bring life and joy.
Oh, River…My River
A complicated, prepubescent friend in search of themselves.
A super hero assuming the shape of the vessel or breaking free from the banks and confines of her existence and creating her own path.
Bring me your enthusiasm and openness to change…to try-on another’s cloak and experience life from new and unexpected perspectives,
I will wear them on a gold chain around my neck.
Much to my delight this afternoon, a lone Merganser was dipping and diving in the river just beyond my deck.
In this piece, I chose to write about the Winooski River but omitted any discussion of the destruction caused by the flood. My poor little state has been devastated. Montpelier is my home, and it is what I know best, but many, many towns were punished by this Flood of ’23.
I’ve been asked if I was affected by the flood. I’m beside the river but high enough above it to have avoided the flood waters. I don’t have a basement, so I’ve nothing to pump out, but here’s how I was affected: Post Office…closed. My bank…closed. My church and nearly all the other churches in town…closed. The bookstore…closed. Hardware store…closed. Both movie theaters and live theater…all closed. Restaurants…closed. Jewelry store…closed. My gas station…closed. Bars, liquor store, and cannabis shop all closed. Candy store…closed. Every store selling clothing…closed. The library…closed. Roads closed, and even City Hall and the police department had to relocate.
Whether or not there was water in your house, if you live in Montpelier, this flood affected and continues to affect you. Walking past growing mountains of debris, the remnants of the homes and lives of friends, neighbors, and strangers, is gut-wrenchingly painful. Conversely, the outpouring of love, kindness, and goodwill is palpable. Strangers working side-by-side to do whatever they can to alleviate the pain and suffering of others is heartwarming, humbling, and encouraging. We are Vermont strong.
This is Love made Visible Photo: Ryan Holmes via Orbit of Love
You probably can’t muck out a basement, haul out soggy books, or wipe down walls, but you can help if you wish.One place to donate is throughMontpelier Alive.
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.
Mom
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.
Wolf Neck, Maine
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 and 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 “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, Mom said, in a solid, clear voice, ” 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! True to form, Mom left 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.
Shenandoah National Park
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, 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.
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.
Goblin Bankers at Work January 2023
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?
Shops in Diagon Alley January 2023
“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”
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.
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
The Festival Theatre Fall 2019
“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 cannon 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.
“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.
“The three most exciting sounds in the world…anchor chains, plane motors, and train whistles.”
George Bailey…It’s a Wonderful Life
The Jacobite Train…aka The Harry Potter Train Glenfinnan, Scotland October 2021
I don’t know if I could reduce all the beautiful sounds of the world down to just three, but I would certainly agree with George Bailey that the sounds of travel are some of the very finest. I simply love to go adventuring! Although still cautious, after two years of Covid restrictions, I am encouraged and delighted by the fact that the world is slowly beginning to open up once again. Ironically, as fate would have it, just as it’s getting safer to throw a suitcase in the back seat and hit the road, gas prices are at an all-time high. Nevertheless, I continue to scour travel guides and maps, planning the perfect route for future trips, tours, and adventures. Studies confirm that planning, booking, and anticipating a trip are beneficial to our health and wellbeing.
“It is good to have an end to journey toward; but it is the journey that matters, in the end.”
Ursula K. Leguin
Philosophers, poets, and writers stress the importance of the journey, not the destination. Experienced travelers know the value of being open to unexpected challenges, changes, detours, as well as unplanned joys, discoveries, and glimpses of rainbows. It’s not only about where we arrive but how we get there.
The Road to Killin. Along Loch Tay, Scotland, October 2021
Of course, it’s important to enjoy the flight. We take pleasure in the wee bag of pretzels, the cola in a plastic cup, and we choose the window seat so we can dream above the clouds, but we also need the gratification of eventually getting off the plane. I can’t think of anything worse than constantly traveling and never arriving. I love the journey, but occasionally, like a little kid, I want to ask…Are we there yet?
For some, the idea of destination may imply…an end…the finale….the place we hope to arrive…eventually…death, perhaps….but not without first going through the hassle of Detroit Metro, Logan or Schipol. Instead, I prefer to think of destination as the promise on my ticket of places I’ll stop along my journey. Sometimes I’ll get out of the car and tramp through the woods, paddle my kayak, or ride the Hop-On, Hop-Off bus. Other days will find me stuck with a long layover, a flat tire by the side of the road, or waiting for lost luggage.
Reunited with Old Blue October 2021
Last October, I was separated from my suitcase for the first eight days of a vacation. Ultimately, my wayward luggage was delivered to our condo hours after we had checked out. This frustrating experience required a complete reworking of our planned route so we could return to collect it. While definitely NOT what we had anticipated or desired, the new course brought us near two great sites we would have missed had we followed our original path.
Kilchurn Castle Loch Awe, Scotland, October 2021
Packhorse Bridge…1717 Carrbridge, Scotland, October 2021
Sometimes the destination we reach is better than the one we were seeking. But, of course, that works with opposite results too. I remember very well the afternoon my GPS took me to a deserted gravel pit instead of the bridal shower I had intended. In the end, I was a tad late, but after turning my car around and adjusting my route, I arrived in plenty of time for cake. We can always turn the car around, plot a different course, buy a new ticket, or rearrange the furniture where we land.
Throughout life, we have many destinations…places we go for adventure, locations we seek for refuge and answers, regions that are dark, depressing, scary, and seem to take our very souls, and ports of great joy and happiness. However, we don’t stay in any of these places for long, for we must always journey on.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a Seeker. As I’ve traveled through life, my destinations have included the search for answers, the quest for truth, and the hope of finding a light to guide my path. I have journeyed through the land of love and friendship, the valley of loss, regret, sickness, pain, sorrow, and the sunny meadows of bliss, wonder, and amazement on my trek. I’ve carried no passport on this pilgrimage, but each stop along the way has placed its own stamp of entry on my soul.
Once the hotel is booked, the tickets purchased, and the itinerary confirmed, anticipation and anxiety come together in what the Swedes call resfeber (RACE-fay-ber). Resfeber is described as the restless race of a traveler’s heart in anticipation of a trip or that tangled feeling of fear and excitement before a journey begins. Most travelers know that feeling well as we double-check our lists, secure our passports and wallets, and check once more that the stove was indeed turned off. So, I mark the days until my next adventure. I have a confirmed reservation, my suitcase lies open waiting to be filled, Covid tests are ready, and resfeber is beginning to set in.
“You’re off to great places! Today is your day! Your mountain is waiting so get on your way!”
Dr. Seuss
The Golden Highway Isle of Harris, Scotland, October 2021
My adventures no longer find me on the crest of the hill. Now I am wending my way slowly down the steep western bank. This pace allows me to enjoy the wind on my face and the flowers at my feet. It gives me time and space to recall, relive, and relish those backroads and safe harbors of my past journeys. However, as the path becomes more challenging, I simply have to plan more stops along the way, discover new destinations, and buy as many tickets as possible.
Eventually, I will reach the coastal plain, and the final destination will appear before me…but…until then, I am savoring each moment of the journey and delighting in all the destinations that lie ahead. Whoo! Hoo!
Scott’s View Hawick, Scotland, Near the English Border, October 2021
“If everyone else jumped off a bridge, would you?”
Moms Everywhere
“You and I are friends. You cry, I cry. You smile, I smile. You hurt, I hurt. You jump off a bridge, I’m gonna miss your emails.”
Unknown
Upper Falls, Old Man’s Cave Hocking Hills State Park, 2021
“You know,” said my friend Sarah, “This decision would be a lot easier for you if you didn’t suffer from FOMO.”
“FOMO? What’s that? I asked, puzzled by this new term.
“The fear of missing out,” she replied
Lately, I find the idea of FOMO a stronger motivational force than at any other time in my life. As Senior Citizens, we are encouraged to prioritize our to-do list…a reminder to get busy checking things off while we’re still able.
As my senses and abilities slowly diminish, I recognize that I can no longer run my fastest or jump my highest. I know that there are choices I can no longer make, but I also know that I still want to experience the wonder, savor the sweetness, and enjoy the adventure of life. Perhaps, then, it was FOMO that prompted me…someone terrified of heights… to accept an invitation to join my sister, Penny, and granddaughter, Fiona, on a zipline tour in Hocking Hills of southern Ohio.
We bought our tickets months ago when snow still covered the ground. I figured it wouldn’t break my bank if I decided to chicken out at the last minute, but if I didn’t have a ticket to begin with, I wouldn’t have that option on zip-day. If I chose not to clip in and go, it would still be good, but if I were feeling brave, I’d be ready. In truth, even though I found the entire prospect frightening, I anticipated that eventually, I’d have a great time. So, I bought my ticket and tried to put the whole idea of actually stepping off the platform in the back of my mind.
“You’re not going to chicken out and even if you do…it’s all right.”
Sally Van Cise
Years ago, Kelly, my other daredevil sister, and I joined a group of women to go white water rafting down the Gauley River in West Virginia. One of the women in our raft was afraid of water, didn’t know how to swim, was terrified the entire time, and wouldn’t help paddle or assist with the raft. She had decided to join the expedition as a test of her faith which was fine, but she put everyone in the boat at risk and, at the first possible moment, was removed from the river by the rafting company.
I did not want to be that person…and yet…I knew there were similarities.
I began to gather more information about zipping and, more importantly, zipping for people afraid of heights. As the zipping date approached, I sought confidence in lessons from the past. I told myself to be present, take it one step at a time, and paraphrasing Rev. Bill…don’t leave the platform until you leave the platform…anticipating the fear would only multiply it. Breathe in. Breathe out.
My husband’s death left me suddenly without my partner, the other half of my act. Neither of us was especially brave or daring alone, but together we made a great team. He drove on the scary Rocky Mountain roads, and I led the way as a Russian man beckoned us into his home. I had no trouble understanding the Scottish brogue, and he could keep complicated directions in his head. I booked the flights, and he carried the heavy bags. We were a strong combination and had such fun together. Without my teammate, would I be like a Sea Star that can grow another appendage when one is missing and navigate the ocean flawlessly, or would I be like a two-legged three-legged stool that is fit for little else than kindling? Would I be relegated to adventures that didn’t include steep mountain roads or long, high bridges? Would I only be able to return to easily navigated routes or tours specially designed for Senior Citizens? So many questions begging for answers.
If you want to learn to swim, you have to get in the water. If I wanted new adventures, I’d have to be open to them, I’d have to say yes when the opportunity arose, and I’d have to be ready to face my fear if necessary.
We arrived a Hocking Hills Canopy Tours shortly after noon on a simply glorious day. Our guides, Todd and Kelsey, introduced themselves and our fellow Zippers. We were a group of nine; I was the oldest, least fit, and the most terrified.
My strategy was to take one step at a time, be present, and not focus on what was to come. How do you eat a whale? One bite at a time.
The harness. The helmet. The gloves. The instruction. The demonstration. The practice.
First Step…The Gear Photo: Hocking Hills Canopy Tours
Stepping up and clipping onto the trial zip was absolutely horrifying. We were only feet off the ground, but it was at that moment that zipping through the trees became more than a theoretical exercise. It was actually going to happen. I thought I might cry or pass out, but I put my left hand on the carriage, my dominant hand…the braking hand…on top, stepped off the platform, and did it. Not well…but I did it.
Thoughts of that rafting trip returned as we were being transported to the first zip. “This is Jump Rock,” said Captain Mike. “It’s not Go Up There and Decide Rock. Once you get out of the raft, there’s only one way back in. You’ve got to jump off the rock.” Once we were clipped onto the zipline, the only option was to zip.
“You’re going to love it. Just don’t be first and be careful not to twist around and come in backwards.”
Shalini Suryanarayana
As I was contemplating this adventure, Fiona, assured me that, “The only difficult step is the first one. After that, you’ll be having fun and won’t even think about it.” That was true for just about everyone in our little squad, but it never really happened that way for me. The first two zips were conditioning me to the idea of being up so high, but I quickly learned that height wasn’t my only concern. Somewhere in the middle of the third zip…Screaming Eagle…couldn’t one of them have been called Floating Feather on the Wind…I began to twist. We had been warned not to come in backward…don’t let yourself twist. As I was trying to adjust my trajectory, I was racing toward the next platform. Where’s the braking signal? I can’t see the signal. Then…slide my right hand onto the line. Push down. Don’t let my feet crash into the tree. Adrenaline rush for sure. Ya, know…I discovered Adrenaline isn’t all that great!
Rope Bridges…Glad I Did It…Don’t Want to Do it Again! Photo: Hocking Hills Canopy Tours
Between several platforms, we also encountered swinging rope bridges. You’ve seen the movies. As soon as the protagonist steps foot on one of those bridges…it is doomed to break. Gingerly, I propelled myself slowly across the wooden planks with the aid of the ropes and cables. I felt embarrassed about my glacial speed, but once again, it was one step at a time…and…by the way…don’t look down.
Don’t Let the Smile Fool You June 2021
My son is an amazing athlete who pushes himself to do all kinds of difficult hiking, biking, and climbing challenges. He perfectly describes my experience zipping as Type Two Fun. Type Two Fun occurs when what you’re doing is so hard that it is not enjoyable, pleasurable, or bringing you joy. TTF kicks in afterward when you look back, smile, and say…” Hey, I did that.”
Yes! That’s Actually Me June 2021
I’m not a big fan of flying, but it’s really just the take-off and landing that I don’t like. Stepping off the platform and trying to avoid crashing into the tree at the next platform was never fun for me. Take-offs and landings. I never got over being utterly terrified, but soaring through the trees was, maybe not first-order fun, but pleasurable, pretty cool…and…I did it!
Isn’t life itself an incredible ride? I’m glad I had a ticket. Take-offs and landings round our lives…birth and death…connected by a long ride through the trees if we’re lucky. Along the way, we have coaches and guides like Todd, who made sure that I was safely secured, given words of encouragement, and then sent on my way, and Kelsey, who would catch me on the next platform, usher me away from danger, help me gain my footing, and give me space to steady my nerves before the next zip. Along with coaches and guides, we are accompanied on the journey by others who have fears and challenges of their own, who wish the best for us, who wait patiently while we summon our courage, and who are there to cheer us on when we meet the test. In the end, no matter our style or comfort level, we all walk the same path back to the jeep, strip off our gear, get a certificate, and have the very same bragging rights. We did it!
I did it!
And Now the Slide Back to Earth June 2021
*The vast majority of people who decide to zip through the trees like the birds or move squirrel-like from tree to tree can manage their fears and actually have great fun. My sister and my granddaughter, for example, did two more zip tours after this one. If you are considering such an adventure, I highly recommend Hocking Hills Canopy Tours near Hocking Hills State Park outside Logan, Ohio. They are truly a class act! Ask for Todd and Kelsey. Tell them a big chicken with a certificate and bragging rights sent you.
One Wild and Precious Life 