By the Way

Today is not the only day I think of my husband. I write of him today because I think it is quite acceptable to do so.

But I think of him every day. Every day.

Last week, maybe Thursday, I had a hard time. Calling to him, crying sort of, doing that quiet but audible sigh thing. It's like a moan.

For now, I do not know what else to do with how sad I get sometimes, except to write about it and sometimes not to write about it.

Ann's friend and my former student, Cathy, has suffered the sudden death of her father a few months ago and is now suffering what comes after that. She and Ann have summed it up very well. And I quote. It sucks.

Just so you know.

colaptes auratus

Not that I'm into Latin names.

This is the Latin designation for the Northern flicker. It's a bird. The species I know is the red-shafted type. It's a large bird, much larger than finches and sparrows, about the size of a small crow, if there is such a thing as a small crow. I like its looks, the flicker, but do not like its habits when they threaten my house.

That may sound over-dramatic, but I don't think so. These flickers, bug eaters, have pecked their holes into several areas of my house, and when they were here and happy to be, they drilled on the chimney cap multiple times every day. LOUD. Annoying.

I remember my neighbor, Jim, telling me, "They'll peck their way right into your attic, and then you'll never get rid of them." That went beyond nuisance. Downright scary. Made me think of an Alfred Hitchcock movie. You know, The Birds.

Measures we took to protect ourselves were not drastic--neither of us could kill one of them if we had the chance--but they seemed to work. Nail a board over one of their favorite pecking places; throw rocks, shout; spray the hose in their direction; rattle the fireplace damper. They worked, and silly me, I thought they worked forever. After all, I have not heard the bird around my house for a few years.

But he's back. Or they are. I hear them out there marking their territory, and it sounds like they're going all around my house to call out a "stay away" message to other birds. One would think that the building of a house would mark this territory as ours, now mine. But it doesn't work that way.

I don't like it. They make me nervous. And my fake owl is not fooling anyone.

My January Lesson

My friend Stephanie says snow is to play in. So she does. She takes her five-year-old daughter Maude outside and they play in it, making snow angels and snow men and otherwise having fun and frolic. I like her attitude. It's youthful and practical. She expressed it amidst complaints from others about snow and the difficulties it brings.

Thirty years difference in our ages, Stephanie's and mine. Those years and our circumstances could account for our differing views about winter. And I quickly defend myself: I'm not the only one who said things like, "Beautiful to see, hard to get around in." (One could wish to say something more original, more profound.)

But I take a lesson or two from Stephanie. Not that she set about to teach me.

1. Make the best of what each day presents to you.
2. Play more.
3. Wear warmer clothes in winter. She didn't say anything about this, but I just need to do it.
   

Well . . .

Best get this off my mind now before the new year comes.

Imaging
Carol Schiess

Hands tied to the rails of a gurney,
her fingernails dig at the air,
head turns side to side in a ritual
of movement. An attendant pushes her along,
his steps quick, knowing the way
to the X-ray lab without looking

She seems not to look, not to see
the paintings on these basement walls,
bright watercolors--reds, greens, yellows
cascade across the paper; children, bunnies
collide in unhindered play; happy nature
holding back some threat, some hidden terror.

She moans, calls out for help, cries
for love or proper care or someone.
"There, there," her escort answers.
He does not know her name. "There, there,
we're almost there," his litany
sterile as the place. "There, there," again,
as if the X-ray lab would be her haven.

Three Brief Stories

I
We have the post-Christmas cold. I say we because Ann has it, and John, and Charlie. This morning I went to church for a while and learned that folks there have it, too. But I have come home early to rest and maybe even sleep away this cold virus. That is my hope.

Just now I am listening to Cesar Franck, his violin sonata, a simple piece of music in that it is only the violin and piano, and very soothing to me.

II
Speaking of music. when we were all here together Christmas morning, I said to Aaron, "This note I'm about to sing, I believe it's a D." I sang it. He said, "Hmmm. No. You're flat. It's a D-flat," went to the piano and played a D-flat.

So, big deal. I was close.

III
And speaking of the violin.

Christmas night Charlie asked if he could play the violin, the one that has been in my basement for more than a decade. He loves to play it. I said no last Sunday because there were too many kids here, and the instrument could suffer, I thought.

Monday I finally did what I've thought to do for many months: took it in for repairs--four new strings and a new bow--which will cost much more than I paid for the violin initially. But I want it to be in good repair so that Charlie gets a true idea of the violin. Yes, I know, this one, although it is about 1/2 size, is too big for him, but he'll get a sense of it. It should be finished some time in early January.

So, on Christmas night I explained to Charlie that the violin was not here. "Why?" he asked, verging on tears.

"I took it to the violin shop to get fixed."

"Why?"

"The bow doesn't have much hair on it and it doesn't tighten, and strings are missing from the violin. When I get it back it will be all fixed. For you."

Silence. Thoughtful silence. Unconvinced silence.

"So it isn't here right now, Charlie."

"Well," face crumbling into crying, "could I play with your tape measure then?"

"Yes. You could." And glad I was that it was still here.

Merry Christmas, and I mean it

Yesterday morning I spoke to myself, out loud, as I got out of bed. "Hooray!" I said, "it's Christmas Eve day and I don't have to go anywhere."

I got dressed, got my trash out to the street, went in and turned on the light over my kitchen table. Pop! Blue flash.

Which meant I had to go out. Thank goodness Home Depot is close. Drove up there.

"Well," said Chris, "we have it, but not in clear."

It has to be clear because of the light fixture it goes in. I was tempted to get the opaque bulb and be done with it, but I just couldn't. Chris looked up Pay 'N Pack's number. I called them from Home Depot (aren't we so glad for cell phones?).

"Ask them if they have a G40 bulb," said Chris.

I did. "Do you have a G40 in 100 watt, clear?" They had it. I thanked Chris for his help and told him I'd be going over there to Grover's. He said he was glad of that and to tell them Home Depot sent me.

"I'd never send you to Lowe's," he said. "I don't like that place, even before I started working here." I wasn't about to go to Lowe's. I never think of it. Besides, it's farther away than Pay 'N Pack. Off I went.

All of this was dandy. Which is code for it wasn't dandy.

I had to go all the way over to Franklin and Curtis to get my light bulb. Franklin and Curtis is quite near the mall, which is where I ended up--I should have known it--before stopping at Winco on the way home. I had to get pretzel sticks and sour cream.

So much for . . . you know.

I needed to get home, though, so I could make these no-bake treats, the recipe for which I cut from the Kashi puffed cereal box and which, after I made them, I then named Wotear. That's an acronym for Waste Of Time Energy And Resources. All mine.

Kashi/pretzel haystacks is what they call them. Coconut, chopped almonds, pretzel sticks broken into 3/4 inch pieces, lots of Kashi puffed cereal (big mistake), peanuts. Twelve ounces chocolate chips melted with all the peanut butter I had left--1/2 cup--stirred into the dry stuff. Then you drop them (no easy task) onto waxed paper and set them in the fridge to chill. Wotears. They didn't taste very good before chilling. Maybe they would after. But I decided not to hold my breath.

I took some over to Darringtons. Charlie said the pretzel part was good but the rest of it--that would be the Kashi part pretty much--was weird. No kidding.

John wanted some. I put about three tiny grains of coated cereal in his mouth. About five seconds later he said, "I don't want it" and began spitting it out into my hand which I was lucky enough to get there in time to catch most of what he was spitting.

Wotears. I left the tin of them with the Darringtons. Ann hinted she might throw them out. I assured her I have plenty more at home, like 50. I wonder if any of those Schiess boys might eat them. Nah.

Ta dah da da dah da da dah dum

I heard Liszt's Les Preludes today. Always I think of my mother when I hear it.

She directed a women's singing group for many years, and one of their grandest, most ambitious projects for learning and performing was a choral (women's) arrangement of that lengthy piece, with words quite appropriate to the very dramatic music. Lengthy it was but certainly shortened from the symphonic version, the original music.

I'd like to hear that again. See her working so hard to get her singers to work hard. She knew how to do it.

Is there a place? Will there be a time when we can hear and see all those things and people we loved so much? I count on there being that time and place, or perhaps that place without the limits of time.

One thing I'd like to have time to do here and now is visit with my sisters and brothers about such things.