All Keyed Up

11:00 am - meet with apartment complex manager from former place to turn in key. Should have been simple. Everything was cleaned except the oven - I can't tolerate the cleaning stuff, and I leave that for someone else to do. I'll pay not to breathe the toxic fumes.

I had one meeting at work in the morning, but it should have ended in plenty of time. What was I thinking! Of course it went long. Of course I had a hard time getting away. Drew was at the old apartment when she arrived (job for 6 foot tall sprout who has shot up over the summer: remove pricey energy efficient light bulbs from fixtures and replace with older cheap ones that were there when we moved in), so they went ahead without me.

I ended up in the office twenty minutes later signing off on the walk through and turning in my keys. And I do mean keys. I had different ones for the front door, the back door, the apartment door, the mailbox, the laundry room - multiplied by three! It was literally a load off my keychain to remove them. I never did quite get the hang of what went to where.

The new place is simple about keys: one to the building and one to the apartment door. Oh, yes, the mailbox also, but I keep that on a separate ring. Two keys for four. Not a bad exchange.

Closing Up

I remember the feeling. One minute your life is sailing along fairly well, the next minute your whole world jolts to a stop without warning. Even worse when you didn't have any hint of trouble, couldn't see it coming. That's how it was for one of the librarians here. Last Friday he was knee deep in unbound journals, combining two collections into one, when the call came.

His teenage son was riding a bicycle and got hit by a car. They airlifted him to the Golisano Children's Hospital at Strong Memorial. I have never seen my colleague move so fast, face pale white, his eyes frightened, his fear barely held in check. We knew little for days. The ICU kept his son sedated until they felt they could run tests and see what might be at stake. The family camped out at McDonald House - though really I don't think they even left the hospital.

The whole community responded immediately, overwhelmingly. We all hold our breath, praying, hoping. One week has passed. We fear this one is for the long haul unless there is a miracle. It could happen. Surely it will happen. We all want to do something to help, something practical. Bring food? They have more than they need. Visit? They have asked people not to come they've had so many already. Certainly we all pray.

Me? I look around at the library to see what it is that he would be doing here and do it. And the whole time, I remember. Perhaps it is on my mind because I just visited my own son's grave. He has been gone 21 years now, but you don't forget. Whenever I am in Ballston Spa, I visit Powell Wiswall Cemetery, allow myself to touch a part of my heart that will always remain tender.

I have some inkling what my friend might be going through, agonizing over the injury of a child. I remember that horrible night when Michael fussed about walking to the car after Wednesday night church, said he didn't feel well. We had been down this road so many times during his illness. I felt his forehead, no fever. I got down on my knees, holding the baby in my arms and gently encouraged him to stop crying and just concentrate on getting to the car. I couldn't carry him and the baby, but I could walk beside him slowly.

He quieted down and took ahold of my pantleg. We worked our way carefully down the dimly lighted hallway and out the front door. He moved like a ninety year old man, bent and in pain. I soothed him into place in the car and got us all home as quickly as I could. After the other kids were settled in for the night, I carried Michael into the bathroom and slid him into a tub of warm water just deep enough to cover him as he lay there, massaging his tired muscles with a washcloth. It turned out to be a special time for both of us.

I think he knew our time together was limited. I didn't sense that. How often had I seen this child in dire physical shape - much worse than that night - and he pulled out of it. But that night it was for us as if time stopped and we were just together. We did not speak. He closed his eyes. The only sound was the lapping of the warm water as I moved the washcloth over his shoulders, down his tanned arms and out his stubby fingers, caressing each one separately. I massaged his flat wide feet, up his ankles to his knees, then over his bloated little tummy down one side and up over to the other side. I took special care with his face, folding the washcloth so it wouldn't drip or drag over his nose or bother his resting. His black hair, so thick and wild, floated above his head in long strands.

We probably spent forty minutes together before I lifted him out of the tub, wrapped him in his favorite blue beach towel and carried him to the couch, slipping his footie pj's on and tucking him in. I stayed with him a long time, watching his regular breathing, praying that he would be OK.

That same night my son died. I didn't see it coming. Even if I had known, I could not have changed it. I was fortunate. I had closing moments with my son. The one I describe here and later that night, other times I treasure. Times of closure. Times of comfort to look back on.

So here I am twenty odd years later, closing up the library in the place of a friend who is sitting at his son's bedside. And I remember. I remember as if it were yesterday the sundrenched smell of Michael's blue flannel shirts, his joyous laughter, his tender care for his favorite, worn out stuffed puppy dog, his pudgy little body tumbling about in the grass with his brothers, his yells of delight echoing off the apartment walls, his tight hugs about my neck, his fake kisses.

We had a good parting, Michael and I. We will have a wonderful reunion when the time is right. But tonight I miss him. I do not restrain the tears tumbling down my cheeks. And for every tear, I offer a prayer for the young man in ICU and for his parents. May God grant them strength in their hour of need.

Exhaustion

I knew it would hit sooner or later. I always get some sort of reaction from the PET scans. Usually about a week later. And tonight, it has arrived. I know I should be doing things - like unpacking and practicing and paying bills. But I cannot move. My body feels like it weighs tons. Every little gesture, every little wiggle takes herculean strength. I know better than to fight it.

Just ride it out, it passes. Sometimes sooner, sometimes later. But eventually it goes away. At least this time I am not swollen in a hundred glands in every conceivable place. I suspect I will be able to sleep well, unhindered by aches and pains that often accompany these times.

I look at the kitchen in desperate need of arrangement. I see boxes that should be taken to the dumpster, pictures that need hanging, curtains in need of washing. There are items to take to Sal's, bottles to return - I refuse to look any more. I will go crazy. It will all be taken care of later. Later when I am not tired, when I am not struggling to turn in apartment keys or take care of a dozen things at work. Later this weekend when I can work early in the morning while my strength is still fresh and my mind working well.

Tonight I will just sit still, not reading, not talking, not thinking. I will work with my body to help this episode pass. I will think on the Bible verses I can remember. "I will never leave you or forsake you." "In returning and rest you shall be saved. In quietness and in confidence shall be your strength." I will retire early and sleep deeply and wake in hopes that my breathing will not be labored nor my mind dull. This too shall pass.

Back to Work

My calendar is filled with strategic planning meetings, staff projects, faculty consultations, brainstorming sessions for fall activities, interviews for both students and a staff position, so many things to take care of. I am struggling to focus because my apartment is not yet settled from the move. In fact, I haven't finished cleaning out the old place.

I have until the end of the month, but I know I better not procrastinate. Even though I am tired at the end of the day, I have to take Drew to soccer and make myself go over there and clean. I walked in, dismayed to find so much clutter left over from the move. Bits and pieces of odds and ends everywhere. Sort of like my desk at the end of the semester last spring. Nothing neat and tidy.

I know the only way to get it done is to start, so I walk to the farthest room, enter the closet, and begin, addressing each small item as I work my way through the place. I scoot everything closer and closer to the door, cleaning and sorting and packing and pitching. I scratch gum from the linoleum, scrub dye spots from the walls, discover that no one thought to remove the stuff from under either sink. Good grief.

Two and a half hours later, I am in better shape, but not done. Tomorrow I will have to come back and do a bit more. Then maybe one more session before I am ready to turn in keys. Its sad, this empty place. I wonder who will suffer through its decrepitness next? Four of eight occupants are gone from this building. Will they have everyone leave and tear it down? That's what they should do. That would take care of the tilting floors, the falling down balconies, the ramshackle steps, the moldy, dank basement.

Well, enough for tonight. I head wearily towards the gym just as Drew texts me that he is ready. He is impatient. Before I can get there, he calls me. "Where are you?" "Coming." Maybe tomorrow he will go with me, if for no other reason than to remove the expensive energy efficient light bulbs that I can't reach.

Yaddo Revisited

Sunday morning. I quietly dressed and tiptoed out of Mom's, headed for Ballston Spa to pick up the boys for church. I left a tad early because I wanted to visit Yaddo, the Rose Garden in Saratoga. I suspected the roses were long past their prime, but I had gained quiet strength from visiting last summer, and I wanted to see if there was anything I could capture in pictures to put on the Jairus House website - hopeful that I might be able to share a bit of beauty with others who are not well enough or close enough to visit themselves.

I was surprised at the plethora of "Don't Park Here" signs posted at the entrance and all along the drive. I pulled into the small parking lot and climbed out of my car into the chilly morning air. Not a soul was in sight. I skirted the muddy section of the path, keeping to the grassy edges. The dew was heavy and cold on my sandalled feet, jolting any last bit of sleep from my senses.

I was right that the roses were past their prime now. But there were enough flowers to work with. I walked slowly, snapping pictures as I moved through the formal gardens, surprised at how many bumble bees buzzed about, dipping in and out of the fading blossoms. Even old roses have plenty to offer!

I wondered if anyone was stirring in the artist's colony castle on the hill above me, wondered if anyone happened to be looking down on the gardens from one of the dark windows, wondered if they were speculating about why some woman was fluttering about the dying flowers, taking a multitude of pictures. Probably not. True artists likely indulged in the hefty nightlife of Saratoga, a world that begins ramping up at midnight. Surely they wouldn't even open an eye until well after noon.

I didn't care. All the more privacy for me, all the more easily I could stand in funny poses and lean over plants without thought of who might object. No, this is for all the newly diagnosed cancer patients just beginning their journey, for others who are in mid-journey, and those who are nearing the end of a long and arduous path.

I hope I can show the quiet beauty so striking in their various colors, sizes, and shapes. I hope the website will be able to portray the softness of their petals, the grace of their arrangement on the grounds. What I really want to offer is the experience - the peace of the environment, the vitality of so much greenness, the reflectiveness of sitting on the bench by the coy pond, letting the gentle breeze and the lazy turns of the fish revive long lost internal strength. I probably can't do it. But at least I can try.

Adirondack Gully Washer

It was late. It had been a long day of new baby, new daughter-in-law, helping with cleaning up stuff, making supply runs, feeding, burping, talking. I was exhausted and definitely ready to hit the sack. I took my leave of the kids and headed by myself up to Lake George and my parents' house, longing for the quiet of their couch, aching to lay my tired body down and rest.

As I headed up Route 87, the sky was clear as crystal, the bright stars scattered like diamonds in the velvet blackness. Suddenly, it was as if someone ripped a hole overhead and rain flooded down so heavy I couldn't see two inches in front of me. Water pooled on the road, spraying in huge sheets high into the air with every passing vehicle, running down the shoulder in a steady stream. I turned my wipers on the fastest setting I had to no avail. I slowed to a crawling 30 mph, turned on my flashers and tried to stay in the white lines.

After ten agonizing minutes, I pulled into a rest area to wait it out, the rain pounding my car roof with a vengeance. I tipped my seat back and settled in, tucking my sweatshirt around me and turning the heater up a notch. Ah, the Adirondacks in summer! The wind whipped the trees about wildly, splattering huge drops of water across the windshield. Later I saw on the news where trees had fallen on houses and cars in nearby towns and villages and hail had destroyed crops and flowers.

But I just watched in awe as the powerful forces railed about me, tossing leaves and papers about. As suddenly as it had started, it stopped - just like that. No tapering off or lightening up. Just quit. I flipped the wipers a few times, then backed out of the parking space to continue up the Northway towards Exit 20 and home. I could see the glimmer of water in ditches and fields, smell the cleanness of the air, shivering in the chill of its freshness.

There's nothing quite like an Adirondack Gullywasher to revive your tired spirit.

Lock Down

Its been a long time since I had a baby. I haven't even been on a maternity ward since my youngest appeared 14 years ago. Things have changed! Mark told me that when we got to the second floor of St Mary's in Troy, we should pick up the phone and tell them who we wished to visit and that the password was NOSEDROPS. Password? OK.

When we finally pulled into the parking lot around 8:30 pm, we took the elevator to the second floor - the Birthing Center - and sure enough, there was a huge firedoor with a small wire covered window next to which was a wall phone. I picked up the receiver and told the nurse who we wanted to see and the password. She buzzed us in.

All the doors on the floor were shut. We knocked on 210, and in a minute, Mark peeked out at us. Soon we were meeting little Ramseyes Lucien - all 6 lbs 14 oz of him. Cute as a button with fine dark hair. And around his left leg a metal tag that would set all sorts of alarms off if he left the room without his little crib bed.

Good Lord! I had no idea baby trafficking was such a big business! The nurses watched us carefully, buzzing in and out of the room, glancing us over, deciding whether we were risks or not. When we took Mark out for a bite to eat, he had to tell them where he was going and when he would return. Whew!

We didn't stay too long - Mom was tired and son was sleeping. I assumed we could at least leave the floor without assistance, but as soon as we touched the crash bar, alarms went off. Nurses scurried from everywhere, and as soon as they knew what was happening, they called security who were already on their way. I felt like some criminal. I apologized profusely. The nurses grudgingly waved us out.

All I can say is, having a baby isn't what it used to be! But I am glad Mother and Baby are doing fine and will be home tomorrow.

Piano Movers Indeed

He moved the piano into my old apartment. I assumed (what was I thinking) he would remember something about that. It was a little frustrating trying to deal with his "receptionist" who turned out to be his Mother and not even remotely cognizant of polite protocol for booking customers.

Halfway through my first call, she interrupted me with "I got an appointment I have to go to. I don't have time to talk right now. Call back later." Hum. So I called back later. She was no more polite, but I did manage to get a time booked. An hour later she called and told me the time we scheduled wouldn't work for them and that she had moved me to the next day - without asking if that would work for me. When I told her that I had other obligations and couldn't do it that day, she responded with, "Well, I don't know what yer gonna do then. Find somebody else I guess."

Can you imagine staying in business with that kind of public response? We finally found a suitable day for both of us, but I wondered whether the move would go smoothly. They had seemed competent enough the last time. Maybe its just the office help.

Moving out of the old apartment went just fine - smooth as silk. Getting into the new building was something else. They grunted and groaned and kvetched over the same number of steps as the old place had. Only difference - these steps were inside. Twice the head guy yelled at me for be stupid enough to have a piano and live in an apartment. He actually said I had no business having a piano and GLARED at me.

What kind of mover IS this? That's why I hired him. He's supposed to be the professional. If he didn't want to do the job, he shouldn't have accepted the request. He actually suggested that my son help out. Wait a minute - he's a skinny little guy. And he's not a professional either.

I have to admit, they knew the right approach. They upended the piano and tipped it up the steps most of the way. They just had to lift for three steps. One guy hurt his shoulder, the other guy yelled at the third guy for not helping - it was something of a circus! The piano went up easy enough, and once they had the wheels under it, it rolled nice as pie into the apartment.

I half wondered if they played it up like it was a tough job to make me feel guilty and pay them a big tip because it was such a hard job. I'm not buying it though. After all, he is a piano mover. At least, that's what he claims to be!

Surprise Singer

Tomorrow the piano movers will come early. I just wanted to make sure everything was ready to go, so I popped over to the old apartment to check. My neighbor from kitty corner across the hall was sitting on the steps as he often does, smoking a cigarette and watching his little long-haired daschund wander about as far as the leash would allow. I was always slightly uneasy around him, not that he ever did anything but engage me in conversation. The neighbor lady across the hall gladly chatted with him, her loneliness dripping from every syllable, her interest obvious.

I, on the other hand, tried to be polite, but was definitely NOT interested. His world was not one I wished to explore. "You still here?" he asked, flicking the ashes from his cigarette. "Yes," I answered, explaining about the piano movers coming tomorrow.

"That's the part I will miss the most about you leaving," he answered. "What's that?" I asked. "Your music."

"Oh. I hope I wasn't too obnoxious. I know when I get playing I lose track of time."

"No, no," he assured me. "I graduated from Eastman with a degree in voice and I thoroughly enjoyed hearing some decent music." I nearly fainted. Never in my wildest imagination would I have thought the man had any interest in music much less a degree from Eastman! Turns out he quit singing decades ago when he got married because his now ex-wife insisted that he get a paying job (go figure). He had once been a member of the local German Men's Choir and had toured in Europe and done all sorts of other concert tours.

You could have knocked me over with a feather. I invited him to come and sing with my church choir if he wanted to get back into singing, but he declined since he had been raised Roman Catholic and wouldn't want to be disloyal even though he hadn't attended church for years (ex wife again). He did think perhaps he would audition for the German choir though.

I hope he does!

PET Scan

I managed to push this test off a whole extra month. My oncologist had agreed we could push the time frame from every other month to three months, but that fell in June while I was busy being crazy elsewhere. I convinced the receptionist to schedule it in early July. Then the insurance company got involved and asked for justification (about time!) of why I am having so many of these tests. Consequently I got a real reprieve.

Not that I don't want to catch any developments early, mind you. But I kind of like pretending that I am normal and healthy! Last time I did one of these, I was kvetching about things, and my friend gently reminded me that if I want company, all I have to do is ask. I really thought about it. Its a two hour procedure during the first hour of which I sit alone in a darkened room hooked up to an IV and be quiet while the radiation seeps into my system, and the other hour I spend in the giant donuts being clunked and dipped in and out of magnets. What a bore for someone to sit in a waiting room by themselves through all that.

Still, despite the fact that it doesn't really hurt a lot, and I can drive myself there and back without impediment, it would be nice to know there is someone hanging in there with me. I felt a bit silly asking for help when I could very well do it myself (and have been), but I asked. And my friend was more than willing to pick me up and see me through it.

I was surprised at how much of a difference it makes to have her there! We chatted about stuff during the drive and while we waited in the reception area (we got there a bit early). I wasn't even aware of how focused we were on life and future travels and summer events and catching up. How much more pleasant that is than staring at other people who sometimes look pretty sick and worn out, or speculating about the test hanging over my head!

Time seemed to go by much faster. The hour "nap" flew by, and the machine dunking marched smoothly along. Before I knew it, I was done! Same old instructions, but they didn't seem so daunting. Yes, I am radioactive for at least three hours. Don't hug any babies, puppies or old people, flush twice, wash three times - gosh, it sounds like a silly song!

My friend had spent the time shopping in a natural food store in that section of town that she doesn't get to very often - clever! AND most importantly, she brought me a piece of organic dark chocolate to help me break my fast. Way better than schlepping off by myself. She even gave me a hug despite the "glowing in the dark" thing. It was so much better having someone with me. I will definitely ask again.

Moving Day

How odd. I am not in the thick of things. And I don't really want to be. The boys are excited and I let them just have at it. At one point, I asked Kiel if he wanted my help, warning him that I would be likely to micro-manage the move. "What do you mean by that?" he asked. "I'm apt to tell you what to load on the truck first, how to arrange it, which things need to go where - as I see it." I responded. "NO THANK YOU!!!" he grinned.

So I went on my errands, leaving the move in their hands. I grimaced as I watched some of the goings on, but I kept my mouth closed. There is more than one way to do things, and my way is not the only way, just my way. While their take isn't even close to how I would do it, I am extremely grateful that they are willing to do it, so I will take whatever damage might occur and be happy to have them decide and learn.

Not that its such an easy thing, mind you. The whole place is in utter chaos. After I made my monthly deposit in the blood bank and took care of the other things, I stopped at the new place to see how things were going. They had the first load - most of the furniture and some boxed stuff - almost unloaded. I mentioned that I was headed to the old place to change for work, and Kiel visibly blanched.

"Its pretty messy at the moment," he informed me, wincing at the thought of my seeing it. Understatement of the century. I closed my eyes, changed, ate lunch, and headed for work. Don't say it. Don't think it. Just breath and let it go. They are doing a wonderful thing. You better totally appreciate all of it. And I am surprised to find that I do!

Two trips with the 14 foot truck, and we are done for the most part. I take Kiel back to the rental place, fully aware that the real work will begin now. The boys have met a neighbor, and been welcomed nicely. Seems they are a friendly, happy bunch. And the bus garage called, following through on our request for transportation. Yes, this is a good move. Good indeed.

All Keyed Up

It occurs to me that perhaps they will let us pick up the key today since we are renting the truck at 8am tomorrow and their office will not yet be open. Besides, as usual, I find my several worlds colliding at the most inopportune times. I have to have lab work done in the early morning (a fasting bloodwork) - and I can't put it off because it has to be done before the PET test which is Tuesday. And I have to pay a few bills that I have deferred until the last possible moment, beyond which one only goes with dire consequences.

So while Kiel and Drew pack the truck, I need to run errands. Who has time to pick up a key? I call the complex, the weekend person tells me I can come right away and get the key. We drive over - the boys obviously excited. Silly me, I honestly thought we would get the key, take a quick look at the orientation of the space (compared with the model), then go home and wait for tomorrow. Not so!

While we did wander through the rooms (fresh paint smell overwhelming) and open a few windows, we didn't stay long. Kiel and Drew were hot to start taking things over right away. Oy! I never have energy in the evening. What are they thinking??!! They don't care. They happily load boxes into my little Malibu and head over by themselves. I am delighted that they don't seem to notice that I stay in the old place, barely able to sit down after their whirlwind departure.

After two very full trips, their zeal has cooled, and they are content to let the rest wait for the truck tomorrow. Whew! Time for movie and ice cream. Tomorrow is another day. I remember being young and filled with get-up-and-go. Maybe tomorrow I will find some myself.

Packin'

I had procrastinated as long as I could. Even Kiel gently requested that I might want to consider packing up my stuff. After all, we are moving on Monday. I have known it all along, but these days I have to find a time when energy and motivation peak together with resources. Seems those times are few and far between.

There is no help for it. I just need to do it. I have been thinking about it. What weighs me down are the boxes of books and music. They seem to fill my space and insist on remaining unorganized. I can never find what I need when I need it. I decide to bring the boxes to my office at the library. I have bookshelf space still available there, and after all, much of this is seminary stuff. Kiel helps me haul it into the library.

I work all afternoon organizing those shelves. It takes time, but it is exactly what I need to spur me on to take care of packing my stuff when I get home. I knew once I removed that roadblock I would make good progress. In a mere 2.5 hours I had everything else done (Kiel had packed the kitchen for the most part).

It was as if a weight had lifted. I am surprised to see that my efforts to weed out stuff had been pretty successful. There is an inevitable additional weeding that will happen in the new place once we see what fits where and what else we can do without. If I keep this up, by the time I have to go to some assisted living place, I should be able to pack my suitcase and go!

TGIF

Friday. We love the end of the work week. As I was opening the library this morning and greeting the students stumbling in to work, each expressed how tired they are and how glad that its Friday. I am not alone in being exhausted!

Not so for others coming through our doors. They have assignments due, research to carry out. One student was a bit upset that we close so early on a Friday. How will she get everything done? I point her to the 24 hour area - a full bank of computers always available to RWC students. She sighs in relief. "You saved my life," she responds. "I am just desperate to finish this degree. It was supposed to be done in two years, but somehow I got behind and now I have one more year to go. Still, its just for a few more months. Then I'll be done and life can get back to normal."

Ah, yes. Normal. I am not sure there is a normal anymore. But for now, with Concordia ended for the year, I am only working one job! Unbelievable! I actually can go home on Friday and not work. I can play piano to my heart's content, or take a walk or go shopping or call a friend. Which is what I tried tonight - returning calls my friends have left me. I connected with the few that were also home relaxing. I'll catch up with the others later. TGIF.

Baby Shopping

So I've never met my new daughter-in-law, not even spoken with her on the phone. I will remedy that shortly, taking a trip to Ballston Spa when her baby is born. She is having a few bumps along the way, in and out of the hospital with eclampsia and gestational diabetes. A rough trip for one so young. I wanted to let her know that she is being thought about, that I sympathize with what she is going through. Somehow the flowers just didn't seem enough. I wanted to send her something for the baby too.

A baby shower in a box! As far as I know, she didn't have a baby shower. This would be perfect. problem is, how do you shop for someone you don't know? I asked Kiel (he met her) what her taste is like. Like trying to pull nails from a buried coffin. I kept picking up stuff and asking, "Do you think she would like this?"

About all that got me was that she is nothing like me and my taste is definitely not hers. Not helpful. I don't want to end up just sending gift cards. For one thing, its quite impersonal. For another, she is too sick to go shopping. Now what?

I must have looked at a bazillion things. After hours of dragging the boys from one store to another, I finally had enough stuff to fill the diaper bag I had at last settled on. I sure hoped she wouldn't hate it, but Kiel assured me she would like it. So I dropped in a little note of apology and wrapped it up.

At very least, perhaps it will bring a smile, even if its a giggle at her new mom-in-laws silly ideas.

Retreat

The word conjures images of battle weary soldiers in the thick of confrontation, hearing that blessed trumpet call to fall back and regroup. Come away from the heat, noise and confusion. Tend your wounds, refresh you tired body. Eat. Shower. Rest. I'm not sure my staff is as overwhelmed as all that, but this retreat comes at the end of our first year in the new building, the first year with a new organization, new tasks, new responsibilities. We already took a deep breath in January and assessed how things were going. Now we look ahead, plan for the fall semester, figure out what can slough away, what needs strengthening. Adjust our alignment.

There have been times when I longed to get away to some secluded and quiet place where I could clear the clutter from my head. When the demands of life have been the greatest, the daydream of finding some space where I can spend a week in total silence, wandering about carefully manicured grounds, my face kissed by the warm sun, my eyes bathed with the beauty of nature’s greenery, has intruded the most strongly on my subconscious.

Yet for this retreat, while we need to be away from the usual daily hubbub to think better, it is not quiet and seclusion we seek, but vision and clarity. Sometimes you get so accustomed to doing the sameold sameold that you forget why you are doing it. Or whether you still need to continue doing it - at least in the same way.

So we trekked to the Meridian Center on the far side of town, hunkered down around documents and ideas, looked at suggestions and jotted memos, invited the Provost to speak words of life to us, met with a Marketing professor to see what we should be aiming at, and drew up some plans while we munched on Tim Horton's pastries and Full Belly Deli sandwiches washed down with plenty of iced tea.

At the end of the day, we came away with some good ideas and a few steps to enact to set things in motion. We will take our ideas to the rest of the library departments and refine and adapt as necessary. But it felt good. We work together well. Its going to be a good year.

Frim Fram Sauce

How is it I never heard this song before? I have been doing all sorts of research to find music for PrayerSong to bring to cancer patients some little rays of sunshine for their dreary world, and I ran across this one quite by accident. Here are the ridiculous lyrics:

I don't want French fried potatoes,
Red ripe tomatoes,
I'm never satisfied.
I want the frim fram sauce with the ausen fay
With chafafa on the side.

I don't want pork chops and bacon,
That won't awaken
My appetite inside.
I want the frim fram sauce with the ausen fay
With chafafa on the side.

A fella really got to eat
And a fella should eat right.
Five will get you ten
I'm gonna feed myself right tonight.

I don't want fish cakes and rye bread,
You heard what I said.
Waiter, please serve mine fried
I want the frim fram sauce with the ausen fay
With chafafa on the side.
~interlude~
A fella really got to eat
And a fella should eat right.
Five will get you ten
I'm gonna feed myself right tonight.

I don't want fish cakes and rye bread,
You heard what I said.
Waiter, please serve mine fried
I want the frim fram sauce with the ausen fay
With chafafa on the side.

now if you don't have it, just bring me a check for the water!

That should bring a smile to a few faces, especially those who don't have much of an appetite!

Here's Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald's version - enjoy:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ESHcPPzSi28

Stress Test

I am not sure I can pass this test. What if they expect me to run! For hours! My mind makes up silly scenarios of sliding off the treadmill and whacking my head on the floor or gasping for air and passing out. Don't be silly. (translation - don't stress about the stress test [g]).

I have cancelled this test three times. I just don't want to go. Its more than the "what ifs." I have turned into a bona fide chicken. I become melodramatic. Let me die a thousand deaths before you insert any more sharp metal objects into my tender arm. (fade to aging actress, arm across forehead, swooning on dust riddled couch. . .)

For crying out loud in a handkerchief, as my professor says. Get a grip. Kiel makes fun of my unfounded fears. OK, not fears really. Balking reticence. Stubborn obstinance. Plain old orneriness. Nonetheless, I find myself grumping along in the car, navigating to the very place I do not wish to be.

I am no Pollyanna today, reveling in the goodness of my ability to walk unassisted, to breathe freely, no aches or pains bending me in two. No, I want to be cranky. Let me fuss. The boys are irritated with my "old woman" behavior.

I check in at the outpatient desk, then head down the hall to cardiology and check in again. Fill out more forms than an old woman should. Take a seat in the waiting area, determined to pout. But I can't pout. There is a huge aquarium in the middle of the room filled with large beautiful fish - angel fish, swordfish, guppies with brightly colored streaming tails, kissing gourmets, all floating gracefully about, totally unconcerned that they are completely enclosed in a tank, nibbling on the seaweed, playing tag, hiding in the treasure cove on the far side of the glass.

I cannot resist their charm. I relax. I breathe normally. I realize that even if the test reveals a need for medical treatment, I will simply do as I have always done - trust God to see me through. They call my name. Despite my calmness, my bloodpressure is high.

They tell me that I need to get my heart rate to a certain point, to endure for a certain length of time. They explain that every three minutes, the treadmill will elevate steeper and move faster. They are skeptical of my ability to get to the necessary point and spend time explaining that if they don't get a successful test, there are other ways to test my heart with ultrasounds etc.

They swab my skin, dab it with goop, and stick little white pads all over my chest and stomach. They wrap a large black belt around me frothing with wires which they hook to the white pads, and guide me to the treadmill, wires dragging behind like dogs tails. Ladies and gentlemen, start your engines!

Take long steps. You don't tire as easily. I pass the first upgrade OK, then the second. The third one is the killer. I am all but running. If its too much, I just have to say the word and they will stop the test. The nurse monitoring my blood pressure encourages me. You can do it. Just a few more minutes. You are doing marvelously well. They didn't think I could do it, but I am a tough old bird.

Gasping for air. I need to stop soon. I concentrate on long strides, but they sure come fast! I think I am bouncing on a trampoline. They are counting down for me. One more minute, keep going. You can do it! 30 seconds, come on. 10, 9, 8, 7 Ta-day! Move fast to the stretcher, you might be dizzy (I'm not). Drink this water. Blood pressure cuff tightens, loosens, tightens, loosens. My breathing slows down gradually.

Piece of cake. Except for the blood pressure part that is off the charts now. What do they expect? Make me run my hinney off and of COURSE my blood pressure will go up! I half listen as they patiently explain the process - cardiologist reads the results (and charges a fee) and sends a report to my primary doctor (who charges a fee) who will let me know what if anything needs to be done (more meds I am sure - for a fee).

Funny, the crankys have disappeared. I don't feel so old. I retain the bounce in my step as I collect the boys from the waiting room and head back to work. Stress indeed.

Wrinkled Blondie

I was headed for the bathroom - one of those 'not-a-moment-too-soon' times - when she stepped directly in front of me. Not wanting to be rude, but definitely not wanting to waste any time, I tried to step around her. Every time I cut to her left, she moved into my path. If I switched to the right, so did she. It was as if she had eyes in the back of her blond head.

From the back she appeared to be well dressed, her hair cut in a smart page boy, her hands well manicured. I don't want to cast aspersions, but she cut a very wide berth. To boot, she leaned heavily on a cane (which by comparison resembled a toothpick about to bend in half) and half pulled one foot behind her, shuffling across the floor, never lifting the sole of her shoe high enough to let an ant pass. I could hear her heavy breathing as she navigated the hall.

I kept thinking that she would turn off down one of the side aisles so I could pass, but she kept plowing straight ahead. I could see the sign for the restrooms not twenty paces ahead. Surely I would be free of her once I reached the door of the ladies room. No such luck. She stood in front of the door, not moving, just catching her breath. There was no getting around her.

She must have thought I was following her (I apparently was) because she gave me a dirty look, then s-l-o-w-l-y pushed the door open and backed into the small anteroom. I pushed my way in as well. At last I managed to free myself of the roadblock as she took a stall. As I passed by her, I could see that she was not as young as her blond updo would lead you to believe. Her face was lined with wrinkles, and rather an ashen color. She wore no make-up, making the tiredness etched into her eyes prominent.

After my crisis was averted, I realized that she was talking out loud to herself in muted but agonizing tones. "How am I gonna get down that far? Can't believe I didn't think of my medicine. Why don't they fix this? Who's gonna take care of all this mess?" the running dialogue was punctuated with groans and moans and ow's and breath being sucked in as if every motion was excruciating.

She was definitely not doing well. At first it was a bit funny, then as the dialogue continued, it was distressing. I wondered if she were in such terrible pain why she wasn't in the hospital. I washed my hands, then pulled paper towels from the dispenser. She was still mumbling to herself. I couldn't stand to hear so much suffering.

"Is everything OK?" I asked to a locked stall door. No answer. "Do you need help?" I asked again. She just kept talking the same sort of out-of-context stuff. Suddenly the door opened and she shuffled out, tapping her cane deliberately as she advanced towards the sinks. She glared at me, her demeanor screaming that I was intruding on her privacy, washed her hands, all the while mumbling, then leaned against the wall as if she were single-handedly holding the building up.

She took a deep breath. It occurred to me that if I were going to make a decent getaway, now was the time before she headed for the door. The thought flitted through my head that she would have a hard time holding the door open and getting through it. It jerked me up short. I opened the door, and stood there holding it open until she managed to haul herself into the hallway, stood for a long two minutes adjusting her scarf, then limped into the stream of traffic, slowing it to an almost standstill by her sheer magnitude.

I stood there a few minutes more watching her, stubborn, alone, independent, angry, old, tired, in pain, insisting on her right to be there, on her right to be respected. She was an easy read. But not an easy fix. Tonight, Blondie. Tonight you get added to my prayerlist, like it or not.

Calla Lilies

The first week I was at Concordia, Kiel purchased some beautiful white Calla Lilies at Wegmans. He has my heart for beauty, and continued the tradition I started after cancer of having beauty always close by. Part of that desire is making sure I have fresh flowers in the house whenever I can, whether picked at roadside, grown in a pot, or purchased from a store.

When I returned home from Concordia, they were still white, still sitting on the top of the entertainment center, still without any scent. Kiel and I both remarked on their long lasting freshness - an unheard of five weeks. They are his favorite flower.

I remember the first time I became aware of Calla lilies. It was scandalous. One of the Campus Life leaders had made the tragic mistake of falling in love with a divorced man. That was just not done in those days - neither divorce nor marrying a divorcee. Consequences were dire. In this case, she was not allowed to hold the wedding in her church, and would lose her job over it.

I was truly sad about the whole thing. She was taking it much better than I would have. I couldn't imagine what she would do - about her job or her church. And I had to decide whether to attend her wedding, running the risk of being called to account for sanctioning such a wicked union. In the end, our friendship won out over the threat of excommunication. I had know her for too long to abandon her in her hour of need.

She wore a simple, elegant white dress, and held in her hand one single white calla lily. She looked stunning, especially to an impressionable young college student. The sparkle in her eyes was surpassed only by the brilliance of the small diamond in her ring. I don't think she looked at anything else that day besides her husband.

I lost track of her a long time ago. I came to realize that she had indeed taken on a difficult role. Her husband had children by his first wife and she became a stepmother to daughters not that far removed from her own age. To boot, the husband was a good fifteen years her senior. She never did have a child of her own since he was already done with that part of his life.

Now, of course, I see the ironic symbolism in the flower she chose - one that is an alien plant to this country, one that, once introduced, can take over whole fields and spreads like wildfire. A plant that is highly poisonous to any who partake of it. One that is unique in appearance, and not even a true lily. Perhaps it was the longevity that held so much appeal for my friend. I hope her marriage has indeed lasted.

HopScotch

This past week, the apartment complex finally cut down the overgrown bushes surrounding our smothered balcony. We requested they take care of it last summer when we first moved in, but I guess it wasn't in the budget. Now that we can actually SEE out the sliding glass door, a brave new world has opened up to us.

Today I watched three little girls at play. The smallest was a honey-colored blonde dressed in pedal pusher jeans and a light blue Cinderella tee shirt. The tallest was a chunky brunette with sun burned cheeks, dressed in bright pink and wearing silver plastic slippers. The third little girl (they were all under the age of five) had a white top, a brown skort, and red flip flops.

They chased each other around yelling 'tag, yerit,' took turns riding a purple two wheeler with training wheels and white streamers dangling from the handlebars, and bounced in and out of the townhouse third door down from the end of the sidewalk. Finally, they squatted down on the concrete slabs lining the row of townhouses and began drawing with their chalk.

I watched with interest to see what art they were so intent on producing. Would it be castles and ponies? Cartoons and clowns? They were careful to avoid the pristine new squares, gleaming white under the hot sun and surrounding by little brown patches of dirt. They consulted each other, pointed, erased lines with their shoes, concentrating so hard they didn't even see the calico cat wandering past.

After some time, they all disappeared into their houses. I craned my neck to see what they had drawn, but I couldn't make it out. One by one the house doors slapped shut as they bounded back outside, each with a small stuffed animal in their hand. And then the game began. HopScotch!

Wow - I haven't played that in some time. How fondly I remember living in Fort Covington up by the Canadian border. Ours was a closeknit neighborhood, a ready made covey of friends to hang around with. There were the Stewart boys (Jimmy was closer to my age), Debbie and Susan Fish, the Hunter girls (Claire was in my grade), Tammy Smallman, Leslie and Curtis Whitman, and a couple others.

While there were always little jealousies and fights coming and going, we all managed to work things out. Manys the night we played SPUD and Hide-and-go-seek until dark, reluctantly tearing ourselves away when our parents called us inside. We rode bikes together, made up adventures to act out in the backyards, learned to jump rope fancy, and yes, played hopscotch together. Even the boys played, showing off their agility in jumping and their prowess at hitting the right space.

Tammy had a pair of worn BusterBrown shoes whose soles were perfect for hopscotching. I envied her those saddle shoes, wishing I had something better than my cheap sneakers. But what I lacked in equipment, I made up for in siblings. There were four of us then, and we were all part of the gang.

We each had a perfect stone to cast, one that wouldn't skitter across the sidewalk, but would hit the space we wanted and stay put until we bobbed our way there on one foot, weaving down and back, careful not to violate the chalk lines. Sometimes we got hopping so fast we lost our balance, collapsing in a heap on the ground, laughing until the tears ran down our cheeks, agreeing that we were definitely 'out' - and maybe that would be enough to catapult us on to the next game.

I haven't 'hopped' in years. Haven't even thought about it since I never had any girls, and the boys were more interested in Matchbox trucks and action figures. I wondered. Under cover of night, I slipped out the back door and nonchalantly wandered over to the sidewalk. There was the board, just as they had left it. I slid a small pebble from my pocket and tossed it to the first square with the crooked 'one' drawn on it in pink chalk, jumped over it to the second square, turned, picked up the stone, hopped into the first square and back to the starting line.

Piece of cake. The full moon winked at me from above, and I waited quiet and still while two men got out of a car and entered the first townhouse. No sense letting anyone else see my silliness. I worked the second and third squares in silence, glancing around to make sure I was unobserved. By the time I was halfway through the board, I discovered I was humming a little tune softly out loud.

I wondered if any of my sisters had indulged lately. With abandon, I completed the board, picked up my pebble and headed back inside, tossing the stone at the door. Not half bad if I do say so myself. Even without the BusterBrowns.

Stitches

We have been talking about the little bump on Drew's cheek for some time now. We had a doctor look at it when we lived in Connecticut, and he referred us to a dermatologist. Drew was hesitant, and there was no pressing need to address it, so we deferred.

When we first moved to Rochester, we talked about it again. He was concerned about meeting new people -perhaps they would be distracted by the little white bump. He tried several times to pop the darn thing off his cheek, but it was uncooperative.

At the end of this school year, now entering high school, we discussed it again and when we saw the doctor for his sports physical (soccer being of utmost importance naturally) I brought it up. She examined the persistent white bump and referred us to a dermatologist. It sounded so familiar.

Once again, I had to put it off since I was leaving for Concordia, but unbeknownst to Drew, I called and made an appointment for him to ensure that we followed up this time. I told him about it the day before just to make sure he would be available when it was time to go. In the car on the way there, we speculated about what the doctor would do - likely discuss possible treatments, then schedule an appointment for whatever the best course of action - a bit of freezing like you would treat a wart, maybe some topical application.

We arrived at the medical building, a converted school, entered, located the suite and opened the office door. One glance said we were probably in the wrong place. The walls were covered with unique quilts, paintings, ads for environmental causes. The waiting room looked more like an upscale living room filled with Victorian furnishings, avant garde lamps mixed with antique desks, gobs of containers filled with skin creams, makeup, organic ointments, special remedies, while the coffee tables were filled with nature magazines. Ambiance galore. I loved it.


In fact, the waiting room was filled with women! They were partaking of herbal teas, chatting quietly as if in a spa of some sort. I didn't mention to Drew that he seemed a bit out of place in this setting, but breathed a sigh of relief when another teenage boy came in. We were ushered into an examination room and queried by the nurse, Drew reticent to answer questions as if he could prevent unpleasantness by his silence.

The doctor breezed in, took a look at the bump, and proclaimed it a common thing in kids. "Plan A," she said, pulling out a tray of utensils. "We're just going to numb you up a bit and pop it out with a needle." The color in Drew's face drained a bit. "Now?" he squeaked in a cracked voice, obviously unprepared for this unexpected turn of events.

"Well, as long as you're here, we might as well take care of it, don't you think? That IS why you came." She grinned, calling the nurse in to assist. Plan A didn't go so well. Roots apparently ran a bit too deep. On to Plan B - take a razor and slice it out. This will require stitches. Drew could not protest. Having already endure the Novocaine, and lying helplessly on his back with his eyes shut, he was rather at a disadvantage. I smothered the impulse to laugh.

Two quick slices, and they had it out. He ended up with two small stitches and a large white gauze pad. Owing to not having eaten, and the shock of the unexpected, he was a bit light headed when he tried to stand. We made him sit back down while the nurse got him a hard candy and I raided the vending machine for a soda.

Such an ordeal demanded at the very least, dinner out and a baby cone at Lugia's complete with sprinkles. He made very sure we got the prescribed ointment right away so as to avoid any scarring. Ah, one more notch on the "things you have to endure in life" belt.

Ketchup/CatchUp

Kiel has been cooking dinner at night ever since I returned from Concordia, I am happy to report. The month away seems to have 'done me in' as the saying goes. Its not so much that I am exhausted, just dysfunctional. I know I should be doing stuff, I just can't seem to do it! Lame, I know.


And I am only working at the library at the moment - no church job, no seminary classes, no PrayerSong, nothing but the library and the house, and Kiel is running most of that. Perhaps I should have expected something such, but I am frustrated by it none the less. I want to get things done. I make lists. And I come home from work and sit in a chair and veg. Sometimes I play the piano. Mostly I watch a movie and go to bed early.


This won't do. It won't do at all. I am not old. Nothing has changed. Its as bad as the French Fries we had for dinner - no salt, no ketchup. Bleh! Hardly worth bothering to eat. Sometimes life hits these doldrums. It will pass. I did giggle though, as our favorite silly saying surfaced tonight. "If I weren't so tired, I'd - - - - - go to the bathroom!" Kiel and I look at each other and break up.


Really, I want to say, "If I weren't so tired, I'd finish the PrayerSong info brochure, contact churches about getting it into their bulletin, set up the first performances for Wilmot and Unity, finish the line-up of songs for fall, practice piano faithfully, pack a few more boxes for moving, jump in on the first NES assignment, return phone calls of all my friends who have left me voice mail messages. . . .Phew! No wonder I'm tired.


Maybe I'll just get up enough energy to wander out to the kitchen and find the bottle of ketchup. I'll take care of the rest of it tomorrow.

Root Canal

NOT the way you want to spend a gorgeous evening in July. But, ah me, it must be done. I sure don't want to end up in agony. I like my doctor from Poland. She is young and filled with confidence. Today I have an intern observing, a serious young man with a heavy accent though I can't for the life of me think where he might be from.



We begin. First, the shots of Novocaine. Here's a unique sensation - one on the roof of my mouth! Owie. She swears I will thank her later. The drilling and fussing and poking seem endless. Finally we go for the xray. I have one of those silly rubber dams blocking off my face. I am sure the other patients cowered in fear as I wander past their chairs, Frankenstein-like. We have to wait for a room to be vacated. I sit, drool slopping down my cheek, despite the paper towel the doctor thoughtfully provided.



They snap the dam off my lips, cram the film and holder into my tiny orifice, step around the corner and push the button. Done. Reattach dam, walk back to the chair. The dentist fusses with stuff, waiting for the xray. It comes with the intern, a hurried discussion - not whispered but not meant for my ears. I hear them anyways. Crap. A second root. 99.99% of the people in the world only have one root in this tooth. I get to be the lucky .01% with a second canal.



The intern desserts us, the dentist begins the whole process again, digging around for the illusive second root. I feel the Novocaine wearing off. No pain, just that I can feel her probing around, filing the root with some sort of saw thing, my jaw aching from being held open for so long. The hygienist has to leave us as well. We are alone, persevering. I hear them page my dentist. Her next appointment has arrived. No break for her! One more xray, OK. Go home now. Come again.



I know enough to take some ibuprofen right away. I am right about that. Well, thank God for dentists and anaesthesia and insurance. But let's not do this again real soon.

First Day Back

Shifting gears. No classes, no assignments, no practicing, no compatriots in agony. Just a calm normal work day, sitting in my office, catching up on projects, people, email, tasks. Sort of like coasting downhill after a strenuous uphill workout. I miss the music, appreciate the lack of pressure and deadlines.



I miss the faces of my classmates, appreciate seeing my staff and the other librarians. Miss the bluff and the great lake. Appreciate the gentle mountains of the east coast, the green trees, the cooling rains. I do not miss the mosquitoes, the spiders, the musty dorm smells. I love the flowers and neatly manicured lawns of North Chili (not like the food chill-ee but pronounced with 2 long "i's").



How odd to love two worlds and want to be part of both of them. One cannot of course. Which makes living in the moment and fully imbibing the best of where you are while you still can all the more important. So here's to upstate New York in all its splendor. I promise to get outside and do some serious walking.

Home Again, Home Again

Up at 7am, load the last bag and my pillow and blanket into the car, print out driving directions (I will not take any wrong turns today), quick stop at Panera's for a "headlight" and iced tea, a prayer for traveling mercy, then hit the road. Traffic is not heavy, I am not slowed to a crawling pace for construction too often.



The sky is gloriously blue, the day pleasantly stretches before me. I determine to let it unfold as it will, not rushing to get home, stopping when I decide to, unmindful of the ticking clock. I put CDs in the slot and sing my way home. My favorite song this week? Calvin College Women's Chorale, directed by Pearl Shangkun, sings Ain't No Grave Can Hold My Body Down by Paul Caldwell and Sean Ivory. What a tremendous message. I'm sorry I can't find a clip online for you to hear.



But I definitely want this one sung at my funeral, whenever that might be. Its dancing music. A celebration of what comes next. And I sang it l-o-u-d and happy - several times - before moving on to other stuff. I waited until I cleared Chicago before indulging in the headlight. What, you may ask, is a headlight? A pastry with light colored fruit filling (lemon usually) as opposed to a tail light (a pastry with red filling in it, usually cherry or raspberry). How did we come to start calling these fruit strudels such odd names?



I first remember the adults who had volunteered to be counselors at our youth group's summer camp sitting around the picnic table in the early morning after someone had made a bakery run. The colored jelly reminded them of car lights, and they laughed and joked about it as they prepared for the onslaught of day from the flaps of their tents.



That was the summer my best friend decided I was getting way too much attention that I didn't deserve (I was a tyrant in those days, a dictator par excellence) and she challenged me every way she could. When she made no progress in getting people to convert to her leadership, she bushwhacked me on the path to the bathhouse and slapped the bajeebies off my face, full hand print deeply embedded in my cheek.



I didn't get it then. I was just miserably hurt. Wounded that my best friend had turned traitor and now hated me for no reason I could understand. I slunk back to my tent and hid, licking my wound, fearful my Mom or Dad would see the red welts and question me. Kind of hard to say you fell off a horse with a clear handprint on your face.



I avoided my friend for the rest of the week. Kept to myself as much as I could. Did the opposite activity she picked. For a few short days, the bewildered rest of the crew wandered about in a daze, unsure of what was going on, not certain what they should do. At first, my friend had the gleam of victory in her eyes, crowing about how she had shown me the error of my ways. I let it alone, still trying to figure out what was bugging her.



I finally could stand it no longer. I waited until she was alone, and asked for an audience. The why question was laid on the table and she looked at me as if I were stupid. The litany began of all my sins and crimes. Things she had held in for years. How my actions made her feel inferior, how I was fickle, hanging around with a group of kids who didn't accept her, how I never let her have her say or her way. I was, to be succinct, quite cruel and thoughtless. And rendered speechless.



I munched my headlight, remembering with vivid reality the sting of her slap and her accusations. We made up, as best friends do, but it was never the same after that. Much of what she said was revelatory for me. It changed the way I saw things, affected my leadership style (if indeed I truly had one), profoundly touched my heart.



I didn't hate her. Not at all. What I realized was that I traveled in quite a different world than she did. She was not my only friend, but I was hers. And I had behaved badly towards her. In the years that followed that traumatic summer, we grew farther and farther apart, not by choice, but by choices. I was regents pre-college track. She was home-ec no college in sight. I was music, she was sports. I was a bookworm, she was boycrazy.



I never forgot the lesson she taught me. And I remember when I eat a fruit filled pastry, that I am not all I am cracked up to be, and that I ought to take an inventory to see who I have been persecuting lately in order to make amends.

Goodbye and Farewell

Friday evening. Class ended at 4:30. leaving us a half hour to put all the bells and chimes back in their respective cases, fold the cloths, break down the tables, and move everything back into the bell room for next week's conducting class.

People had been packing their cars and vans all day. Those who only took the morning class had long since departed. One of the students from bell class had to leave for a wedding he was playing for. The rest of us, all twenty, were antsy about getting on the road. Only three of us were planning on departing early Saturday morning, two guys and myself.

I helped people pack their cars, hugged them goodbye, wished them safe travels. As the dust settled, an eerie quiet descended over the campus. Bad enough the semester had ended, but on a holiday as well. There were maybe six cars in the parking lot and no one in sight. The organ was thunderingly quiet. Not a piano or voice could be heard. It was going to be a long and lonely night.

I don't often get homesick, but I was ready to be home. I did not look forward to an entire day of driving to get there either. I went to a movie - something I rarely do - just to fill the time. It turned out to be rather lame. I returned to my room and picked up "The Brothers Karamazov" - my choice of light reading for the summer when the coursework got to be too much. I was just far enough into it to be interested, a mere few hundred pages in an epic novel [started at the suggestion of my seminary professor - a bit deep, but it has its profound moments - besides, I somehow missed this in my earlier life when I was reading the classics].

I slept well, dreamed weird things (they could have happened, sort of) and woke early. I had packed most everything the night before, leaving only my pillow and quilt and a few necessities to carry to the car in the early morning quiet. As I moved silently through the empty hallways, I said my farewells.

Goodbye, dorm room.
Goodbye, bunk bed.
Goodbye, chapel.
Goodbye, organ.
Goodbye, bookstore.
Goodbye, bluff.
Goodbye, library [return book here].
Goodbye, computer lab.
Goodbye, spraying fountain.
Goodbye, spiders, mosquitoes, gnats.
Goodbye, construction.

Until next summer. Be well. Be upgraded. Survive the year in one piece. I will see you in 2009, Lord willing.

Fourth of July

I stood on the beach, surrounded by the footprints of a thousand long departed beings, and wondered who in the eons of history had stood there gazing at the unbroken horizon, their souls cleansed by the swooshing waves, the calling gulls, the chirruping crickets, the caressing breeze. Had Columbus? Had some Native American woman, gathering pebbles to warm in her fire? What pioneer had rinsed his skillet in the water, washed his work weary hands? Who's children had cavorted about on the beach, collecting shells and driftwood and feathers? What lonely young man had stood where I am standing, dreaming of home and family?



My deep reflection was disrupted by a loud droning noise. I glanced about to see where the lawn mower or tractor was, surprised that on a holiday when there are only two classes still being held and only 6 cars in the parking lot, someone should be working at such menial chores. I saw no one, but the drone got louder and louder. Suddenly from behind a far cliff, a bright red helicopter intruded on the placid scene. I watched it fly closer and closer until they were nearly overhead.



Instinctively, I waved. Likely the occupants did not see me. A few seconds later, the huge craft disappeared from view beyond the next cliff, the sound finally trailing off, interweaving with the rolling waves until it was lost from consciousness. I tore myself from the beach and headed for the loop path, reveling in the peace and quiet, quite unprepared for the booming profanity launched from the cliff high above me, cruelly raping the air and echoing with alacrity towards a dozen innocent watercrafts bobbing about on the horizon.



I snapped my head toward the sound to discover not the solemn statue of the disciples in the boat, but two men clad in shorts and bright red tee shirts, beer bellies hanging out, gesturing towards the various landmarks and chomping words like so many crunchy pretzels. Their mundane approach to such a sanctuary was as repulsive to me as the broken plastic coat hanger and the empty Gatorade bottle lying saucily on the sand smack dab in the middle of the wetlands sanctuary, the footprints of wicked defilers bearing silent testimony to their flagrant disregard for all that is respectful and caring of our world. No wonder the gulls are not in residence this morning. If my house had been broken into, I too would be afraid to be there.



It repulsed me, both these disruptions. How dare they? I glanced again towards the cliff top, but the intruders had disappeared. Good. Go away. Don't disturb this peace. I finally headed up the looping path, tearing myself away from the enticements of the swooshing waves and warm sun. As I neared the top of the bluff, I heard once again an irritating drone, growing annoyingly louder. I scanned the horizon for the helicopter, wondering if they were ferrying paying customers on holiday excursions of the lake. I could see no bright red machine. I glanced in every direction to no avail as the sound grew. Finally I saw a small powerboat making a beeline for shore, its motor grinding noisily through the churning water.



I wondered if the cannonball of profanity had hit their little craft and caused them to seek its source. Well, no matter. They finally turned aside, frightening a duck bobbing quietly near shore, misdirecting enemies from its little fledglings huddled in the drainage ditch nearby. May we celebrate our country in better ways elsewhere on this fourth of July.

Death by Chocolate

It is a little yearly habit I have developed since coming to Concordia. On the evening before the final day, I hie myself to the local market and indulge in a piece of Death by Chocolate. First time I honestly thought it was just a normal piece of chocolate cake with gooey frosting. Cut in squares. Big squares. They had a nice little strawberry piece, a lemon one, and a keylime one as well.

That first year, I was just hungry and wanted something a bit sweet. So I asked the guy behind the bakery counter for the Death by Chocolate square. Not that I was looking for death, mind you. But the name reminded me of an old Agatha Christie novel. I tucked the little bag under my arm, little realizing what a treasure I possessed, and headed back to the dorm. I sort of forgot about it as I was studying for my final.

It wasn't until just before I hit the sheets that I remembered the little white bag with its innocent contents. I unearthed it from a mound of study guides, popped open the plastic container, rummaged around for a fork, and took a bite. How do you describe the sensation of silk melting in your mouth, slipping warm and decadent around your cheeks and sliding smooth as oil down your throat? It was unbelievable. I stared at the piece of cake, trying to see if it was really moose or whipped cream or custard. There was just a hint of raspberry and mint in the perfect proportions.

I took another bite, closing my eyes to fully appreciate the unfolding of the delicate flavors, the creamy consistency of the confection. I held the gooey mass in my mouth for as long as I could, savoring every wisp of enjoyment it offered. Eagerly I took another bite and another, not chewing, just letting it melt on my tongue. Talk about ambrosia! Who would have believed you could find such a thing in the local supermarket? It seemed incredulous.

In later years, I tried the strawberry, the lemon, the lime. They were all excellent, but none so amazing as the chocolate. No wonder they call it Death by Chocolate while the others just had flavor names. And so it became a tradition. One I do not share with anyone else (who would approve of such fattening fare to begin with, much less permit such indulgence!). I admit it freely. I am a closet cake eater. Once a year. For as long as my program shall last. Sigh.

The Runner

I was meandering about taking more pictures of seagulls and waves on the beach and wild flowers. She was running - running - up and down the loop paths AND the steps. I went slowly, noticing every little thing. She went quickly - at least six or seven times to my one - focused on the point of arrival at the top or at the bottom. We kept passing each other, nodding and smiling. I wondered at her stamina. She never seemed out of breath or tiring, yet she appeared to be about my age, about my build and shape (a bit pudgy, a bit flabby). How was it she could maneuver that cliff so effortlessly while I huff and puff trudging to the top once?

At last I reached the top and sat on the marble bench, gazing out over the lake at the cloud patterns in the beautiful blue sky. Suddenly she bounded up the steps and plopped down on the other bench, wiped her face with a little towel she had left there, and took a swig of water. We struck up a conversation. Turns out she is training for a triathlon! She has always wanted to do it, and now that her children have all left home, she is going for it. She comes to the cliffs as often as she can, early in the morning, regardless of weather, to give her legs a good hill work out.

She laughed at my reaction when she told me that the first time she ran the bluff, it was easy and didn't present any challenge for her. Then she explained that she had already been training - first on level roadways around her home, then gradually steeper places. By the time she discovered this place, she had already conquered tougher spaces, but not such enjoyable scenery. She encouraged me to keep walking the path, that it would eventually get easier.

I showed her my pictures. She recognized right away the landscapes, the shots of the cliffs and lake. But she kept asking where all these flowers and birds were. In her running, focused on the top and bottom of the cliff, she had missed almost everything in between. When I showed her the petunia bed by the boat sculpture, she was amazed. In all the time she has come here, she had completely overlooked that whole area.

As we parted, she to her car and I to my dorm, I promised to keep walking the cliff while I am here and she promised to come back when she was not focused on training to simply enjoy the scenery and fill her eyes with the beauty surrounding us. I also privately determined not to be so focused on my goals in life, but to enjoy the walk and take notice of my encounters and the joy and beauty God puts in my pathway.

Seaside Symphony

The road by our dorm is a young boy's wonderland of dump trucks backing up beeping, scattering gravel and dumping rock, caterpillars dozing mounds and smoothing piles of dirt like icing on a cake, workmen in hard hats raking and steam rolling pathways, mountains of pebbles and chunks of blacktop piled everywhere - all in preparation for the St Louis Rams' summer training in several weeks. Such an environment doesn't really lend itself to quiet meditation.

There is also a plague of mosquitoes in the evenings, likely riled by all the earth moving, that discourages even the most hearty soul from walking around out of doors. Still, its difficult to pluck up enough courage to wend your way past the noise of deconstruction in the daytime, tiptoeing around stakes and strings and yellow flags, dodging the huge machines to try to get somewhere close to the bluffs.

It is that desperate need to stretch one's legs that finally wins out, so at 9am, I pushed past the staring construction workers (I am sure they thought I was crazy to be wandering about in sandals!), sludged my way over soggy, straw-strewn newly planted and heavily watered lawn to the pathway above the cliff.

The lake was a sparkling ocean of sunbeams dancing about in unrestrained joyous abandon - a vision of diamonds well worth the work to get there. As I started down the winding path, the noise of topside faded away. Suddenly I was aware that every bird you could imagine was balancing on some weed or bush, startled by my presence, flitting to a thistle just a bit farther ahead, hop scotching to a new perch as I navigated my way towards the bottom. As I gazed down the hill, it was like seeing a huge Chinese checker board with freely roving marbles.

About halfway down, I stood still, suddenly aware of the glorious song filling the air around me. There must have been a thousand crickets chirping steadily against the swooshing strings of the waves rolling against the sand, ebbing, flowing. The mourning dove's melody took the lead, punctuated by the percussive accents of gulls and crows, perfectly timed as if dictated by an unseen score.

Little yellow finches flitted about, twittering a descant while orange-winged blackbirds sang a throaty alto. I sat on the warm concrete and closed my eyes, listening as the sounds floated about me, now delicate and quiet, now rowdy and invasive, now mellow and cheery, calming to a whisper, raised to a ruckus. Neither tonal nor atonal, it fit perfectly together with tuneful repetitions in a thousand different combinations. I never tired of hearing it unfold about me like the warmth of a comfy shawl.

Ah, such glorious ambrosia, and free for the inhaling. Perhaps exercise of the soul is even better than exercise of the legs!