And

If you ask me which musical instrument I prefer, I will always say, "the piano, of course."

The violin is fine, all strings are fine; horns, fine; woodwinds fine. I have no use for the flute, however, but that may be another story.

It's the piano. Perhaps because I grew up hearing it in my home. My mother played and taught piano for most of her life. I didn't love her lessons, but I loved it when she played, and I always liked hearing my older sister Janeen practice and play, too.

So, if you ask me which musical instrument I prefer, I will say, "the piano, of course."  

I know. I said that already. I'm saying it again, just so you will be sure I mean it, because for me, it's the piano, always the piano. Get it? I'm listening to the Brahms Piano Concerto No. 2 right now. It is glorious.

That said, as we say these days, I heard something on BYU campus a few years ago that surprised me. What surprised me was its pure beauty and how much I loved it.

The musical selection announced was O, Divine Redeemer, Gounod's magnificent, pleading prayer to the Savior to have mercy, to save.  The words are perfectly matched to the music.

See, I know the piece well, have sung it many times and heard it sung, seen my mother direct it, have directed it myself.

But this day, as the piece was announced, one man went to the organ and another man stood with his saxophone. I thought it an unlikely pairing, thought the saxophone an unlikely soloist for this piece. And where would be those words I wanted to hear? In short, I was doubtful.

You know what is coming. I'm about to tell you how wonderful that rendition was, how deeply moving, how that mellow, pleading sound went straight into my soul. How it brought tears to my eyes and brought the words to my mind. It's a long piece of music, but that day it was not long enough. I could have listened to it all again.

I loved it.

I could see that the saxophone player loved the music and I heard that love in his playing. I could hear the same love in the organist's playing. What a perfect duet. How unusual. How beautiful.

That love, the way musicians have of losing themselves in the music, of getting their hearts involved, was--and always is--crucial to the performance and to my hearing and deep feeling for the music that day.

So, for me it's the piano, but I am not closed-minded on this matter.

Andrew

My son Andrew was born two days and 44 years ago. I baked some bread for him the day before and took it to his house, where he had been all day because of his foot. But this is not about that, although I do think he should have the foot x-rayed. Not exactly about his foot.

This is about him, Andrew, my fourth child, third son. I should say our son, his dad's and mine.

Yes, my mother was visiting when Andrew was born, and, of course, she had to leave the next day to go home. She had already been with us for more than a week. Can I help it if a baby is born at an inconvenient time? Inconvenient for my mother? No. I think the fault is my oldest child's. He came a week before his due-date. But no one else did, even though we always thought it might happen again.

My mother was in the hospital with me, got to hold Andrew and look him over. She liked him. Of course. He was a healthy, big boy, weighing 9 lbs 10 oz. No cinch to deliver but worth the work. Andrew was good looking and good-natured. I have told elsewhere of my foolish mistakes regarding feeding him. It is too painful to recount, recount again, and so I won't. I will say that Andrew, when his mother finally gave him enough to eat, grew and kept his good nature, for which I am so very grateful. Not kidding about that. What a good boy.

Andrew walked at eight months. Something I thought was pretty remarkable. I have photos to prove it, so don't doubt me.

I'm not sure Andrew would approve of what I'm about to say. But here it is. He is a sweet boy. It's that word, sweet. But I'm his mother, and I can call him a sweet boy. He's a man, I know, but he has a sweet, kindly nature. He's gentle. And he's smart, a problem solver and a wise money manager. These qualities are important. All of them. Important to me.

Andrew went back to school some years ago and finished. That's important, too. While in school, he developed a love of literature, mostly the British novel. I suppose one day he'll read some American stuff, but I don't really care. I think he likes British literature because it appeals to his temperament. And he likes how smart the people were--characters and authors.

I am proud of my fourth child. He's a good dad and a good husband and other good things. Like a good athlete, although he can't prove it right now. His foot, you know. But he played many sports and did them well. I remember. I know he does, too. And I will always see him running down the street in Boise, reaching the finish line ahead of his dad those many years ago. I love that boy.

The Name Is Lola

Yesterday was my mother's birthday, March 2, 1899. That's 116 years ago. The number shocks me, but the way I remember her has no number attached. She is without age in my memory.

Isn't that the way we see ourselves? Inside we are simply who we are, and I say that person has no age.  Only when we're forced to examine our lives in some way do we have to acknowledge the reality of our age. Of our aging.

About my mother--we all called her Mama, and that is how she signed letters to us. My dad often called her "My Little Mama" and nobody minded that, although I have heard people who know a lot say a husband should never call his wife Mother or Mama or whatever.

Again, about my mother, I was taller than Mama for a long time, like from age 11 on.  We all were.  It wasn't difficult.  She was short and conscious of her height, I know, because she used to say, "Short girls are never beautiful, Carol. Only tall girls with long necks are beautiful." 

For a while, I thought she was talking about me, encouraging me to grow tall. I already had a long neck, but I don't remember seeing it as a mark of beauty.

Now I think she must have been talking about her own lack of height.  Actually, in the grand scheme of things, her size doesn’t matter, but it’s part of what I remember, a point of pride, really, because she was so much person in that little bundle.

Maybe she was trying to make me think she wasn't beautiful, one of those things mothers say when a glance in the mirror brings them up short. (No pun intended.) If she was no beauty I never knew it.

My oldest daughter was born on my mother's birthday, 69 years later. We lived in Caldwell, Idaho, much to my mother's disapproval. After all, her parents had moved away from Idaho for her sake, Utah offering education, and music education in particular, not available to her in rural eastern  or rural western Idaho. And my parents had moved us to California for similar reasons. Wonderful decision, I say.

Well, Caldwell notwithstanding, my mother was visiting, asking those important questions I would also hear at other times. "Can't you have this baby, Carol?" Mama had come early, probably my fault, and needed to go home. I did what I could. I walked, and at my doctor's appointment I mentioned my mother's need for an expeditious birth. Was there any way to bring that about? Of course, I knew there was not. Babies come when they come, or so I thought.

But he gave me some tiny pills I was to put, one at a time, between cheek and gum--no not tobacco--buccal pitocin.

As I recall, he didn't explain much--or anything--to me, and obviously I was too ignorant and too trusting to ask.

Any woman who has been induced knows that the labor, or what feels like labor, may begin, but the contractions are not quite contractions. The pains get you nowhere or next to nowhere. But finally, two days later, I think, just barely on my mother's birthday, my first baby girl came to this earth. Of course, I named her Lola, after my mother.

Like the original Lola, this Lola plays the piano very well. Very well indeed. And she is a natural teacher, very bright and capable. Unlike her grandmother, who was 4'9" and maybe another 3/4 inch, maybe, the Lola I raised is tall. I am proud of her 5'7" and very happy to say she has a long neck.

Something About It

If your cardiologist says, "Someone wants you to live," what does it mean? That he did not expect you to live? That you nearly died during that first procedure? The anesthesiologist (I guess that is what she was) said, "You went too far under. We had to bring you back." And what does that mean, exactly?

Dr Reddy and I first met after Chad, the head of the ICU, had seen on my heart monitor a 14-second episode of Ventricular Tachycardia and had come into my room to tell me to sit down and to tell me how life-threatening such episodes are, especially if they last for longer than 14 seconds, like for 30 seconds.

When Dr Reddy came in, he mentioned the episode and told me the same kind of thing, a warning. It was then, I think, that I told him, "I didn't come here to die. I want to live." He said something like, "When it's our time to die, we have very little power over that." Or maybe he said we have no power. And I, being a bit alarmed by such a statement from the heart doctor, said, "But don't you have things you can do to help me live?" He said, "Yes. We do."

So. I am alive. Two stents later and flight cancellations and Alyce and Saxby flying out to Bountiful to visit me and Lola driving down to drive me home and food from many good people here and several sleepless nights--like last night. I call my recovery a slow recovery, which is not yet complete, but I am here and finally writing something about these first two months of 2015. The months of my humbling by way of heart attack and by way of my Heavenly Father saving my life.

"Don' t thank me," said Dr Reddy. "Thank God." Which I do daily. I thank Him for my life, for Dr Reddy, for my sister and brother-in-law who--I don't know how to say what they did for me, but I know that they took me to the Emergency Room. Crucial. And they just took care of me.

I thank Him for all who cared for me there, in the two hospitals, and here. For all who have prayed for me and fed me and helped me in my house and called and visited. And I ask Him every day to continue blessing all those people and me. Blessing me and healing me and making it so I never forget.

Because, as I realized today, we spend our lives learning from the things we experience. Learning important lessons, and then we forget what we learned. I don't ever want to forget this, what my Heavenly Father has done for me, so I keep praying to remember.

I'm still here.

If I could, I'd write in the east Indian accent of my doctor, Dr Bhavananda Reddy. Some of his words I missed at first, but we spoke many times, and my ears adapted.

Here is one of his sayings that I will remember always. "You have got to stop hating doctors and medications!"

My reply: stunned silence.

I could say he was right. I have felt disdain for some, only some--okay, most--doctors much of my life, and for auto mechanics (they both get paid even when they guess wrong) and have, for a fact, hated medications.

But

I'm taking them faithfully now. And I love Dr Reddy.

One more. When I thanked Dr Reddy, he said, "Don't thank me. Thank God!"

My reply: "I am thanking Him."
You may notice my use of exclamation marks when I quote Dr Reddy. There's a reason for that.

Of course, there's more to tell. Like about who actually saved my life. I'm still here.

Carol Speaks

I have tried to write a blog post since I came home from Utah.

It's difficult.

I may have to just say something like, "I'm still here." There. I've said it.

But I don't know if I have more readers than one. That's Linda.

All right. Here is the direct word. I got home from Utah 1/31. I went for three days, stayed for 16 days because . . . wait for it . . . I had a heart attack. Two procedures; two stents. I'm trying to get well. Good to be home. My sister and brother-in-law were so kind to me. I turned their family room into a not family room.

When I get stronger, I'll tell the story.

In the meantime, I feel very grateful and very humble.

Open letter to Canada Post

What is wrong with you people?
Why does it take more than two weeks for you to deliver a card or letter or package? I'm sure what I send to Canada gets to the border in one or two DAYS.
Then what do you do with it?
Can you not read?
Do you have no little trucks to carry the mail?
Do you have only one employee?
Do you simply not give a fig?
Do you steal the stuff that looks good?
Do you even know what I'm talking about?

I am exasperated, frustrated, and fed up with you, Canada Post.

And I mean it.
Carol Schiess