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
Evergreen trees are strapped to car roofs, colored lights are twinkling everywhere, Amy Grant has been singing carols since the week before Halloween, and the latest mood-making dusting of snow has my thoughts returning to the Christmas story again.
Bethlehem was crowded with people returning to their hometown to complete the paperwork demanded by the occupying Romans. The inns were overbooked; relatives had long ago filled guest rooms and even the couch in the den was taken. With limited options, Mary and Joseph were lucky to find shelter in a space usually reserved for livestock, and so it was there that Jesus was born among the cattle and placed in a manger bed.
The Holy Family I Made in High School Used in the Christmas Morning Worship Service 2022
Most of the Nativity scenes I’ve seen over the years have been limited to Mary, Joseph, the Baby Jesus, and perhaps some shepherds, sheep, and the magi thrown in. On the other hand, the Nativity scene I saw at the Cathedral in Sorrento, Italy, this Spring is more like the vision playing in my head.
Nativity Scene in the Duomo di Sorrento Taken Through the Glass April 2024
A Detail Provides a Closer Look April 2024
This version presents a busy community, with life happening all around. Families and friends talking, laughing, eating, and working together, and right in the midst of it all was the Holy Family. In this portrayal, the shepherds and magi have arrived. Angels are still lingering overhead, but certainly not a multitude of the heavenly hosts. Most of the choir had already returned to heaven, but what a joyous, loving, and life-affirming portrait of people going about their daily lives together surrounded by the sacred. Perhaps that’s what it means to be standing on holy ground…ordinary people living their lives in friendship, love, cooperation, and peace.
Angels sang, shepherds marveled, and after their long journey, foreign visitors rejoiced. However, wise men from the East had an inkling that trouble was brewing in the seat of government. Herod was distressed…and all of Jerusalem with him…’King of the Jews’? Indeed! He began plotting and planning, but before taking action, he awaited a report from these wise seekers. Warned in a dream…not the most efficient form of communication in my estimation, but seemingly popular in this story nonetheless…not to go back to Herod, they returned to their own country via an alternate route.
Life Size Nativity in the Town Square Mainz, Germany 2017`
I have heard this story countless times, yet I continue to find new messages in the relatively brief reports. This year, I am especially moved by the concept of finding joy despite adversity, oppression, and foreboding. Giving birth in a stable might create a lovely pastoral picture, but laboring on a bed of straw, with the stench of manure in the air and the lack of clean running water, is not that appealing. Mary and Joseph were in Bethlehem in the first place to facilitate the collection of taxes…not taxes that would build better roads, improve schools, or make life better for everyone; it was simply to line the pockets of the Romans. And then, of course, Herod lurked in the background…whether the main characters knew it or not…the danger was real. And yet, despite all this, the overarching theme of the Christmas story is joy…exceeding great joy!
Light In the Darkness Kaiserburg, France 2017
For many of us, especially during holidays, grief and loss test our ability to feel joy. Ongoing wars, homelessness, hunger, climate change, and the apprehension of what may lie ahead in the coming year leave many of us with sadness and despair. It almost seems wrong to feel joy, happiness, or pleasure. How can we think of celebrating? On the other hand, how can we not?
A Small Section of the Nativity in the Cathedral Strasbourg, France 2022
After relating a litany of simple pleasures in his poem, Sometimes, David Budbill continues,
“I am so happy I am afraid I might explode or disappear or somehow be taken away from all this, at those times when I feel so happy, so good, so alive, so in love with the world, with my own sensuous, beautiful life, suddenly I think about all the suffering and pain in the world, the agony and dying. I think about all those people being tortured, right now, in my name. But I still feel happy and good, alive and in love with the world and with my lucky, guilty, sensuous, beautiful life because, I know in the next minute or tomorrow all this may be taken from me, and therefore I’ve got to say, right now, what I feel and know and see, I’ve got to say, right now, how beautiful and sweet this world can be.”
None of us is promised a tomorrow. This is the day, the moment, that we have been given. It is up to us to appreciate our blessings, savor the richness of life, not give in prematurely to despair, and live it well.
Ancient Fragment in The Cathedral Amalfi, Italy 2024
Seeking beauty and joy doesn’t mean surrendering to the world’s evils. We are still called to work for justice, live with kindness and generosity, and march, stand up, and speak out when necessary. The words of the poet Lynn Ungar give me comfort, courage, and, most significantly, direction.
“I hope that you remember that joy is an act of resistance. Pleasure and laughter and imagination are acts of resistance. Telling the truth, even in a whisper, is an act of resistance. We didn’t want to be the resistance…But here we are…There is not always a way forward that looks like what we want—justice and fairness and creation of the common good—and that’s a painful thing to wrap your mind around. But there is always a way forward that includes love.”
A Sunday School Project Still Hangs on My Tree Made with love by daughter Jennifer in the 1970s
And so, in this season of peace, hope, and love, I will acknowledge the darkness as I seek the light and continue to quest for joy, beauty, and laughter. I will look with amazement, love, and tenderness at the faces of my children and grandchildren, just like the young mother who gave birth in a stable two thousand years ago. Like the shepherds, I will be open to mystery, surprise, and discovery if I’m brave enough to grasp them. I will be challenged by the example of the wise ones to move forward with determination and purpose toward justice and fairness, not allowing worry and dread for tomorrow to rob me of my delight in the pleasures of today.
“Joy does not simply happen to us. We have to choose joy and keep choosing it every day.” Henri Nouwen
Finding joy in dark times isn’t easy, but let’s pledge to make it our goal and defiant means of resistance. We can face an unknowable future if we lock arms and step onto the holy ground of our lives together in a spirit of love and compassion.
“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.
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.
“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.
Best Shot Out the Window on The M9
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…”
“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 was 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…was 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 otherperson 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.’
I can see clearly now the rain is gone. I can see all obstacles in my way. Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind. It’s gonna be a bright (bright) Bright (bright) sunshiny day.
Jimmy Cliff, I Can See Clearly Now
As I was getting ready to take a bath, the door suddenly opened, and without knocking, in walked my little sister…not an uncommon occurrence in my family. There’s not a lot of privacy with two younger sisters. I had already taken off my top and snaked off my slacks as well. While water filled the tub, I stood waiting in my panties and brand-new training bra.
Interesting concept that…an instructional undergarment. I never truly understood the function of a training bra. Training for what? But I digress and that of course is a discussion for another day.
Penny hesitated momentarily at the door with her mouth agape, shocked by the sight of her older sister sporting a brassiere. She quickly exited down the hall in the direction of our mother, pausing only long enough to shout back at me, “I’m telling Mom you’re wearing a breer!” Slipping into the bathwater I smiled. Yes, I was proudly wearing a “breer” and taking another step toward coming of age.
Don’t we all share similar milestones along our life’s journey? Losing a tooth, learning to drive, graduating from high school, the first job, marriage, children, grandchildren, all leading sooner than we imagined to retirement and Social Security. Cataract surgery, too, I now recognize as a senior citizen rite of passage.
During the past month I checked that off my list. Whoo! Hoo!
The local experts specializing in cataracts have refined the experience to a smoothly functioning assembly line…timed, efficient, and every detail carefully thought out, planned, and practiced. Throughout the entire process…start to finish…I probably saw my surgeon for less than an hour…including the procedure itself…as he moved from patient to patient, eye to eye. He was friendly, proficient, highly skilled…and he looked like he was about 20 years old. On the other hand, as I sat with my fellow patients waiting for our pupils to dilate, it was very evident that we all grew up with Howdy Doody, watched the Beatles on Ed Sullivan, learned to drive on a standard transmission, and remembered when kids played outside until the streetlights came on. None of us could remember getting old so quickly. By the way, if for any reason, you should ever need to find a collection of senior citizens, the waiting room of a cataract surgeon hits the jackpot!
Rachel Carson National Wildlife Refuge, Maine
Over the years, I’ve asked many people what they recall about getting their first pair of glasses. Most told me that they were amazed to realize that there were leaves on the trees…not just a mass of greenery, but individual leaves! Of course, they knew theoretically that there were leaves, but until they got glasses, the leaves remained an amorphous green cloud floating above a solid grey trunk. The removal of my cataracts provided a similar experience. Within a couple of hours of the surgery for my first eye, I was amazed at the clarity, brightness, and color of the world around me. I felt like I was going from an old model television to high definition. When I tried to explain this phenomenon to my granddaughter, who has only known HDTV, she said, “Oh, You mean, like when you get a new iPhone”? Yes, that’s it! That’s it exactly.
I had to wait four weeks before I could get my second eye repaired. Even with one very good eye, I was still finding it difficult to read. My frustration with reading prompted me to proceed with the surgical option in the first place. I struggled to read the required texts for my class, and if I couldn’t get my book club pick in large print, it was a nightmare. As the scheduled date for my second eye approached, I began to wonder. What if it isn’t my eyes that are making reading difficult? What if I’m losing my ability to concentrate? What if I’m just not a reader anymore? What if? What if?”
Surgery for the second eye was scheduled for Wednesday morning at 8:25. A few days later, I found myself lost in the pages of a book. By Tuesday afternoon the following week…a mere six days later… I had finished a book of 566 pages! Granted, this was a book I was highly motivated to read, but it proved that I could still enjoy reading!
I was back!
I was overjoyed at my ability to find pleasure in reading again, but what really surprised me was how quickly I forgot how challenging my sight had been before the surgery. I am already accepting clear vision as a matter of course. Unless I get a smudge on the lenses of my glasses, I forget how difficult it had been to see.
“For now we see through a glass, darkly;
I Corinthians 13:12 KJV
Our brains are so amazing that unless we really focus on an experience and try to hold on to the memory the present pushes it to the back of our minds. The beauty of a summer day, the smile of a grandchild, or the taste of a ripe strawberry will easily supersede the pain of negative experience, and while not truly forgotten it is nevertheless dulled and diminished…at least for a time…allowing us to enjoy the blessings of life that remain. Once the bad haircutgrows out it is forgotten.
It has been a little more than a year since I wrote a blog post about what I thought it might be like coming out of the pandemic. I imagined that we were all standing on the threshold, moving from before to after. Of course, at the time, none of us could have envisioned just how vast that threshold was. We knew there would be a time after the pandemic, but it was as nebulous as the leaves on the trees pre-glasses.
As more of us are vaccinated and can once again gather in person, I find that it is becoming difficult to remember how painfully lonely I was for months on end as we avoided one another and kept each other safe by social distancing and self-isolating.
The weekly Zoom calls that provided at least a modicum of human interaction during the dark winter months are slowly being discontinued in favor of tentative in-person connections. Mask mandates are being relaxed and I’m finding that lipstick is once again part of my beauty routine. Our lives are quickly falling into a pattern that is comfortable and familiar. We can’t say we’re back, but we’re definitely on the way.
I don’t ask for the sights in front of me to change, only the depth of my seeing.
Mary Oliver
I am no longer worried that I may die from this dreadful infection, but I am worried that we…I…may forget the lessons learned about the value of human connection, human touch, and what’s really important. Rather than seeing the pandemic as the tree with undefined leaves, I might gather those truths that rest among the first leaves of Spring like the blossoms and press them to my heart instead of between sheets of waxed paper. This time of COVID has been painful, frightening, frustrating, and dangerous, but it also revealed a great deal of beauty in the way people supported one another with love, understanding, and kindness. Perhaps, as we emerge, we could remind each other of the blessings and gifts of grace this unique time has given us. Together we might be the people we hoped we’d be…the people we were meant to be.
“A marriage, willy-nilly, requires you to trust that your spouse will tell your story truthfully and lovingly when you are no longer around to tell it yourself.”
Kate Braestrup, Here, If You Need Me
Spring Break on Cape Cod Photo credit: Fiona Rollins
In what now seems like another lifetime ago, my sisters and I met in Chicago for an evening of amazing theatre. For two hours and fifty-five minutes, we were mesmerized by the story, the music, and the fast-paced lyrics of Hamilton. The musical is jampacked with memorable moments; however, it was the final song…the final scene..that reached in and grabbed my heart. Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story. At the time, having been a widow myself for a scant six months, I immediately connected with Eliza, who accepts the responsibility of telling Alexander’s story and honoring his legacy.
Every life is a mosaic of tiny bits and pieces. When it comes time for our story to be told, we can only hope that the storytellers scoop up the shiny, brightly colored bits. Then too, it would probably be nice to have some of the dull and broken tesserae thrown in as well…just to add some contrast and perspective. In the end, the chroniclers can only use the tiles they have collected and the way the light shines on the bits they hold to tell our stories.
Covid-19 Spring Barbara Abraham
It makes me a little sad to think that there are many people in my life who never met my husband, Dave. I’m sorry, too, that I can only tell his story with the pieces I have. Granted, after forty-three years of sharing a life together, I’ve got an awful lot of pieces, but after decades of living side-by-side, our individual bits have all been dumped into the same box. I’m afraid that trying to separate the jumble of my life from his would be a rather dusty, time-consuming, and ultimately futile endeavor.
So, with a mound of those tiles cupped in my hand, I’ll give you a tiny glimpse into one part of the man I knew. There’s still an abundance of pieces remaining in the box for another day.
Dave and I both come from families where a sense of humor is held in the highest regard. Storytelling, practical jokes, playful innuendoes, quick retorts, and snappy comebacks were what we were both raised on. We have a professional comedian in our family, for heaven’s sake, and several other family members who can probably hold their own with him. In fact, my mother’s final words were the punchline of a joke she liked to tell. Humor and laughter are in our DNA.
Over the years, the two of us sometimes worked as a comedy duo. We often played off each other with the hope of making our friends laugh. Our repertoire ran the gamut from Archie and Edith to Lucy and Desi, often switching roles between the comic and the straight man. The biggest challenge and the most fun was getting the other to laugh or catching them in a joke. I have to say, especially since Dave isn’t here to object, but I know he’d agree that in this game, I was most often the victor. I think Dave was just too naive and trusting. I’d get him to fall for the easiest stuff…hook, line, and sinker.
“I have always felt that laughter in the face of reality is probably the finest sound there is and will last until the day when the game is called on account of darkness. In this world, a good time to laugh is any time you can”.
Linda Ellerbee
Do You See a Resemblance? Entrance to the Kröller-Müller Museum
In a recent documentary, I watched a group of archaeologists trying to reconstruct the floor of a Roman villa. Most of the clay tiles were missing, but some sections were bright, beautiful, and close to being complete. There are stories about Dave that are much like that restored section of that ancient mosaic floor. They have been told so many times that they have been worn smooth, but they are so funny and familiar that they are continually repeated.
Ready for Duty, Captain Jamestown, VA 2011
On Valentine’s Day, 2007, a massive snowstorm hit Vermont, dropping between two and three feet of snow in a twenty-four-hour period. For several days, people were clearing snow from sidewalks, driveways, and rooftops. On the third day, after hours spent on the roof, Dave came in to give a report. He had worked his way to the front of the house and was vigorously moving shovelful after shovelful from the roof to the drifts below. As he worked, instead of warming up from the exertion as he expected, he was getting colder and colder. What he had failed to notice was that with each shovelful he tossed from the roof, a fair percentage had blown back and collected in the pockets of the pants he was wearing. When the pockets reached maximum capacity…weight, gravity, and maybe just because the snow wanted to return to the roof…Dave’s pants slowly slid down his legs and gathered around his ankles. Our house was on a fairly busy street. One wonders how many people he mooned before he realized that his arse was on display for the entire world to see.
Dave was not a small man, and he frequently used his size to great comic advantage. When our church instituted an annual Christmas Pageant, he was one of the Wise Men. After several years in the role, he decided to mix it up and play the part of an angel. I assume that angels come in all shapes and sizes, but I’m pretty sure that until the moment he appeared on the chancel, no one in Montpelier had ever seen anything quite like his rendition. To complete his angel ensemble, he and his cohort, Bob, also dressed as an angel, carried small bells that they’d ring occasionally and then look to see if either of them had gotten their wings. “Teacher says, every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings.”
He’s The Angel In The Christmas Play
I suppose his greatest achievement in visual humor was The Great Shower Caper. One summer, while I was spending a week at Star Island, off the coast of New Hampshire, he got together with my friends Bettie and Nancy. The three of them were aided by my daughter-in-law, who photographed the entire escapade. Nancy, Dave, and Bettie posed in such a way as to create the illusion that the three of them were enjoying a playfully nude romp together in our outdoor shower. I can’t imagine that this was Dave’s idea, but the fact that he was willing to go along with it was classic. The rest of the plot involved having prints made for each of the participants to hang surreptitiously in their house to see how long it took their spouse to discover it. I can only imagine how much fun they had creating this bit of visual hilarity. I keep a framed print in my bathroom. I look at it every day and always smile.
Ain’t We Got Fun Nancy, Dave, and Bettie
When you are a joker, you have to be ready to take a ribbing as well as dish it out. Dave was always a good sport when it came to being the butt of the joke, so to speak. One of his favorite stories involved his friend and surgeon, Larry. We were living in a small Michigan town where everyone knew everyone else. Dave had gone to the doctor for a cyst that had formed at the base of his spine. The doctor, Jack, told Dave that the best course of action was to have it lanced. “Just go over to the hospital. Larry is still working, and he’ll take care of you.” Dave arrived next door at the hospital, and sure enough, Larry was ready to take care of the problem.
The set-up for this story also involved Larry telling Dave that although some of the numbing agent had gotten into his eyes, he was sure he could see well enough to complete the procedure at hand. As a now nervous Dave was bent over the gurney with his drawers once again around his ankles…I’m beginning to see a pattern here…Robin…remember, it’s a small town…came into the room and began to prep Dave for the procedure by shaving his behind. Embarrassed, Dave asked, “Does Robin have to do that?
“No,” replied Larry, “But she asked if she could, and I didn’t see any harm in it.”
Dave would roar with laughter, telling that story. He loved it.
Of course, Dave was much more than jokes and funny stories. I still have lots of tiles left in the box, but it was the part of himself that he liked best. In many ways, it was the essence of his being. Who he was.
We never talked much about what happens when we die. I really don’t know if he believed in an afterlife or not, but when I read this quote from Kate Braestrup, I always hear it in Dave’s voice. “Ah! To be able to make someone I love laugh years after I’m gone, that is all the immortality I could ever ask for.
“I am not what I ought to be, I am not what I want to be, I am not what I hope to be in another world, but still I am not what I once used to be, and by the grace of God I am what I am.” John Newton
Have you ever played the game…”I Am”? In the game, you are challenged to find all the ways you can answer the question, “Who are you?” Here are a few of my responses: I am a woman entering her seventh decade with a little trepidation and fear, but primarily filled with a sense of adventure and a willingness to embrace life. I am a retired teacher who still enjoys being with children more than adults. I am a daughter, a sister, a mother, and a grandmother…not necessarily in that order. I am a child of the Midwest who put down roots in Vermont and North Carolina. I am a Unitarian Universalist, Christian, Pagan, Seeker. I am blessed by lifelong friendships and the wonder of friendships that are just beginning. Now, too, I am a widow.
The Queen’s View, Scotland
When I wrote those words a few months ago, I was just beginning to come to terms with the fact that widowhood was now the most prominent color in the rainbow of who I am. The death of my husband affects every aspect of my life, from the huge decisions I am now making alone to the smallest details of everyday life. I keep buying more fruit than I can possibly eat, and what do I do with a brand new container of shaving cream that I’m never going to use?
I’ve also come to recognize how widows communicate wordlessly across a room, acknowledging that you both understand the other in a way that was previously impossible. You’re both card-carrying, dues-paying members in a club that neither of you wanted to join, and yet you consider ditching the traditional Widow’s Weeds for the official t-shirt…”Now what”?
Yes, the label is inescapable. I am many things, and widow is among them, but it doesn’t always have to be the final word in the paragraph or the only definition of who I am.
Kennebunkport, ME
Navigating these new waters isn’t easy, but I come from strong stock. My ancestors journeyed across the Atlantic in small ships, for heaven’s sake. I can do this. Besides, the ship I’m on has already left the harbor. My ticket has been punched. I have no choice but to sail on. What I can choose, however, is whether I’ll make the journey above deck, scanning the horizon for my next port, or if I’ll wallow in my cot below. In truth, I’m pretty sure that as much as I wish it were otherwise, there will be many days when I find myself curled up in that cot, but I’m hopeful that most of the time you’ll find me standing in the sun, salt spray in my face, and with the wind in my hair.
Waiting for Hamilton to begin and ready to Rise Up!
One Wild and Precious Life 