And Here We Are After All

Ramona 2018

Last week we hosted the Dalí Quartet, the featured guest artists for the Symphony's season debut concert, with two of them staying in our home and the other two next door. Our living room became their rehearsal space for the week. My study was serving as a bedroom during that time, so I spent my days (and some evenings) at the kitchen table, reading, writing, baking, and much of the time being serenaded by Chamber Music America's 2024 Ensemble of the Year. (Yes, they are phenomenal.) 

With the quartet rehearsing in our living room daily and my study unavailable, I had to plan what I needed to lay out (books, files, pads to write on) each morning before they started. We had moved the coffee table into the next room, usually our downstairs study but currently an instrument holding pit for Hyer Percussion, but sometimes I came up short on my planning. The musicians would not have minded my walking into the living room to grab something, but I did not want to do that. I could coast and shift gears when needed.

One of the things I found myself doing in odd moments was reading back over old, old blog posts. What did I write about ten years ago? How about 15 years ago, when I started blogging? (15 years ago? Dang.)

In rereading, I came across a post from September, 2018, written after a trip out to Portland and time with Ramona, who was then six. In it, I reference the (still) in-progress MS novel I was writing, which features a 12-year-old Ramona, and then describe to Warren how on that day with Ramona I "met" my granddaughter—the one who was 12 and the one I would never live to see.

That sentiment about never living to see that future Ramona was not me being overly dramatic. In looking at old blog posts, I am more than a bit taken aback at how ever-present the myeloma was, the toll it was taking on me, and the growing sense of time slipping through my fingers. So when I wrote "I will never know Ramona at 12," that was a realistic projection.

After rereading that post this weekend, I shared my thoughts with Warren and read him the lines towards the end about meeting my future Ramona. My voice broke again, just as it did in 2018. When I finished, we both sat quietly for a moment.

Ramona 2024

Ramona turned 12 on September 1. My granddaughter: 12. Like my speculations in 2018, she is amazing and wonderful. And I am here to see that.

What a gift. An absolutely unexpected, marvelous gift.

Dogwood Blooms

When I started writing this post early in the morning, it had a much longer, messier title and I meant to ramble through several topics. But looking at it several hours later, I think I will hold it to one thought: the dogwood tree. 

There is a dogwood tree close to the east side of the house and it is in full bloom. The dogwood tree is elderly; Warren's parents planted it decades ago. When you stand in our bedroom, the blossoms of the upper branches are right outside the windows. When I do dishes at the kitchen sink, the blossoms of the lower branches are right outside the window over the sink. I do not know how many more springs the tree has left in it, but my heart lifts up when I behold it in full bloom. Lilacs are my favorite spring bloom of all, but nothing matches the stunning impact of this dogwood.

As seen from the backyard

Last fall, when I was whiling away my hours in the hospital, Warren and his son David put some drupes (the seeds of the dogwood) into peat pots and stowed them in the back of the refrigerator. Drupes have to have a lengthy, cold period before they will sprout. I have not pulled them out to see if we have any sprouts, but I think it is time to take a look.

I wrote that last bit this morning and, hours later as I finish this up, I just went down and took a look. Nope. No sprouts. Probably not going to get any, looking at it. None of us (David included) ever checked on them; I think they needed watered. I may water them after I post this, and then check again in a few more weeks.

In a day or so, I will return to the other topics that I meant to dump into this post. But for now, back to what is happening outside: a chorus of spring joy. 

The Tale of Two Cakes

Yesterday was my 68th birthday. Warren and I tend to keep birthday celebrations low-key (although he is turning 70 next week and that might make for a bit more confetti than usual) and that was especially true this year because of professional commitments on his part. 

Low-key day that it was, there was cake. Several years ago, I figured out that the best way for me to have chocolate birthday cake (my personal favorite) was to make it myself. I love to bake, so that was never a hurdle.

Yesterday was no exception. The Non-Consumer Advocate, Katy Wolk-Stanley, recently posted about making a Depression-era cake. A chocolate cake. I recognized the recipe as one that also was called "Canadian War Cake" because it did not rely on scarce commodities such as butter. So in the spirit of the day and my mood, I had one ready for lunch!

After lunch

My life contains great friends, great neighbors, and great community. Our youngest neighbor, Margauxcat (her version of her name, which is Margaux), apparently wanted to make sure my birthday was well-noted. Mid-afternoon, I received a text from Maura (her mother) that "Margaux has a birthday surprise for you! It's rather precarious..." and we coordinated their dropping it off here. 

"Rather precarious." How great is that?

A few minutes later, Maura came across the front lawn bearing a small tray on which was indeed perched something "rather precarious." Margaux was dancing around close behind. They had made muffins and Margaux decided that I needed one with extra special attention. So she built a tower from two, cementing them with buttercream icing, which accounted for the "rather precarious."

The "rather precarious" treat from next door

But it didn't stop there. Margaux decorated the top tower with what I can only describe as a bejeweled pit filled with colorful sprinkles and golden coins:

The bejeweled pit! 

What a gift! What a birthday treat!

Warren and I shared the tower after dinner last night. I gave him the foundation and I took the top piece, scattering little gold and blue bits and pieces across my plate. It was an absolutely wonderful way to end the day, both in taste and in neighborly love. 

And I still have chocolate birthday cake left! 

A Thing of Beauty

Last weekend was the Percussive Arts Society International Convention (PASIC) in Indianapolis. It was my first time being there since 2019 as PASIC 2020 was canceled and I did not go with Warren in 2021. In past years, I have enthusiastically attended a number of the sessions and performances; this year, not so much. I still have Covid concerns, which I will always have with my compromised immune system and, not surprisingly, I was very uncomfortable being in a large-attendance setting. Even without the Covid concerns, I have not socialized for so long "in a crowd" that I seem to have lost some of that skill set. So I was off-kilter for most of PASIC. 

As a non-percussionist, I often drifted through the Exhibitors Hall in years past, looking at all the shiny cymbals and drums and such. I did some of that this year, especially at times when crowds inside the Hall were down because attendees were busy elsewhere. Still lots of shiny objects: fun to look at, of no use whatsoever to me. On the second day, Warren and I roamed through the Hall together, then he went on to a session. I read for a while in a remote lounge then wandered back into the Hall, looking at a few things, talking to some old friends.

And then I found the Turkish crescent that Cooperman Company was exhibiting in its booth. I had not noticed it on my first pass through the Hall, but I noticed it this time. I did not even know what it was called, but I was drawn to it immediately. It was about six feet tall, a tall, slim wooden rod with a crescent on top and then some saucers (my word) with bells hanging on the rim, and a trombone bell and another instrument bell (a trumpet, possible) below that, with more bells hanging off of them. It was brass, it was shiny, and I wanted nothing more than to take it home and put it in the garden (which would be heresy of the highest degree and destroy the instrument in the course of a season).

That's the Turkish Crescent leaning against a support, its top splitting the "d" and "e" of the sign behind it.

I struck up a conversation with one of the booth's attendants, an older man who saw me eyeing it. He explained what it was was, how it was used historically (with Turkish Janissary bands in battle) and in classical music (Mozart and Berlioz, among others). "We could make you one," he said, smiling. "We have one behind the curtain that someone is picking up at this convention. But we could sell you this one."

How much? $3500. But if I bought that one and took it, I wouldn't have shipping expenses (a not inconsequential factor when it comes to shipping percussion instruments because of their sizes, weights, and special needs). 

 I started laughing. "I live on a small retirement pension." 

The gentleman didn't miss a beat. "Eating is overrated." And then we both laughed as I walked away, looking back once over my shoulder at that thing of beauty and joy for ever. (Note: yes, Keats spelled it "for ever" (split) in Endymion. I checked.)

But the Turkish crescent stuck with me in a weird way. Not in my window shopping an exotic instrument. Not in my inquiring how much. No, my weird experience was I spent the next 30 minutes debating myself about buying that Turkish crescent, rationalizing that I could take the money from an account I have that was funded by a bequest from a former beloved client and friend. I went between "I know she would have wanted me to buy something that gave me so much pleasure" and (having known the client and her fiscal habits very well) "I know she would roll over in her grave at the thought of my spending that much money on something of no use to me whatsoever." 

I was still arguing with myself when I met up with Warren coming out of a session. When I told him of the instrument, he at once volunteered that he could make one. (My husband's side business is he is a custom percussion instrument builder, with highly prized skills.) No! I didn't want just any Turkish crescent. I wanted THAT Turkish crescent. 

I got a little teary. And then I let out a huge breath and said, truthfully, "There's no way I am buying it. I just can't spend that kind of money on something I would never use." (And Warren immediately pointed out that the Turkish crescent on display would rot in the garden.)

Warren suggested we walk over and look at it again. He is the one who took the above photo, which I refused to be in. (Although I had made my decision, it still brought out my worst inner toddler: "If I can't have it, I don't want to stand by it.")

But once he shot the photo, I let go of it. It was just another pretty, shiny, way cool object in Percussion Universe, and I was fine leaving it behind.

But I still think it would look way cool in the garden. Indeed a thing of beauty, albeit a joy for only a season.

April Money Review

Ouch.

Let me say that a little bit louder.

OUCH.

The month of April, which comes to an end in about five more hours, hit the bank account hard, hard, hard.

Let's start with the grocery purchases first. Grocery purchases (edible) for April? $206.52. Household items? $17.99. Grand total? $224.51.

We're aiming for $175.00 a month annually. We blithely sailed past that—right around April 16 by the looks of my notes.

Now, there is about $24.00 worth of hams in that figure. Aldi was running an amazing sale leading up to Easter. Their hams were all on sale, ranging from 55¢ a pound to about $1.29; we bought two of the 55¢/pound ones and a slightly ritzier ham at 85¢/pound. Those came to about $20.00 total; there will be a lot of meals, not to mention some pretty amazing soups with the ham bones later this year.  There was some extra spending, anticipating a guest's needs, which added a little extra (a pound of coffee, for example).  And there were two boxes of matzohs, because it was Passover the last full week of April, and those were a staggering $3.99 apiece. (I don't often observe Passover and as you will read in a later blog, I blew it this year as well, but clearly it had been awhile since I'd bought matzohs because I almost let out a shriek when I saw the price.)

Okay, so strip out the matzohs, the hams (yeah, I know, a little incongruity with the food item immediately preceding), and the coffee and we're down to about $188.00 for April, which is much, much better. And way closer to $175.00. But still OUCH.

The April amount shoots our annual monthly average year-to-date to $174.62, so we are just hanging at the $175.00 a month average. Just.

Despite how much our grocery spending veered upward, our eating out came in at $66.39, considerably better than last month, despite being out of town early in the month, despite our both having birthdays in the month (we ate out for Warren's; we ate leftovers very late on mine due to an unfortunate combination of meetings), and despite our having the perfect storm with the final concert of the season and my absolutely heaviest two weeks of school attendance mediations leading up to that concert. There were several nights when we toyed with the idea of grabbing something fast and easy, but with one exception (which had other ramifications, to be blogged about along with the matzohs), we did not do it.

Warren and I also hosted at our home a reception for our final concert. Those costs are tallied separately. The reception was great. It had laughter, it had warmth, it had great conversations, it had wonderful guests artists, and it had a lot of food. I had budgeted $75.00 for it, but went over because I anticipated a far larger turnout and wanted enough food. However, a number of guests who had said they would be there were exhausted or feeling under the weather that night (one couple left the concert at intermission, in fact) and went home instead. So I bought too much food, probably.

The reception came to $151.63, about double what I had planned. $25.65 went to the purchase of three bottles of prosecco (I had two bottles left over from the fall reception). Several guests showed up with wine, all of which got consumed, and that was great, but now I have five (5!) bottles of prosecco stored in the cupboard. (We don't drink alcohol. Warren by principle/beliefs and me by health issues. Just saying.)

Things I learned about future receptions, watching what got consumed and what didn't. Biggest hits? Sliced cheeses, crackers, wine (but not prosecco), olives, the shredded lime-garlic turkey (a variation of a Cuban dish; I used up all of our Thanksgiving turkey in the freezer) and the mini eclairs and cream puffs (bought frozen from Aldi). Medium interest? Cut vegetables, seltzer water and flavored sparkling waters, homemade gluten free chocolate cookies, and an avocado spread I also bought at Aldi. Least interest? Fresh cut strawberries (now in the freezer), clementines (in their peels), and hummus.

An observation: almost everything came from Aldi, so had I not done my shopping there, the cost of the reception would have been considerably higher.

Some of the leftover food went home with others. The rest of it went into our freezer or refrigerator or pantry. None of it went to waste.

And, truthfully, the evening was so sparkling, from the stunning final concert to the height of the party to the last guest out the door, that it was worth every penny. Warren and I were both beat to pieces by the end of the "day" (a 22 hour day that started early Saturday and ended in the wee hours of Sunday) that we put away the perishables and left everything else—everything—until Sunday late morning. And although we still had three days left to the month, that was the end of April for all food expense purposes!

Here's to May!

Gratitude

Years ago, when I was in the therapy that I attribute with saving my life, my therapist Doug said that one of his goals was to work with me on not marrying or having a relationship with the same sort of man I tended to gravitate to, none of whom were good for me in the long run.

Doug would so pleased with my marriage to Warren in so very many ways. Being with Warren broke the cycle of abuse on all fronts and gave me, for the first time in my life, a stable, sheltering, supportive, encouraging relationship.

I still marvel at us.

In the last two days there have been two moments that drove home the love and support we share. The first was yesterday at supper. Warren, with a suppressed grin in his voice, shared with me the results of the Symphony's Ohio Arts Council review (to which one can listen in by phone) for operations funding (as compared to special projects). As he shared the strong, stunning, positive comments from the reviewers—observations about thinking outside the box, community engagement, diversifying the programming, the groundbreaking therapeutic drumming program, his leadership role and planning for succession, the Getty and NEA grants he has procured for the group—I found myself in tears. These reviewers put into words the strength and passion Warren brings to the Symphony and underscored how significant his tenure as Executive Director has been in helping move the organization from being a small, somewhat average arts group to being a recognized regional force and has moved Warren from anonymity to being known at the state level.

Warren then capped the OAC notes off with notes from his discussion with Nick Pozek at the League of American Orchestras earlier that day. Nick reached out to Warren to start a major session with Futures Fund grantees (of which our Symphony is one) at the annual LAO convention this June by—wait for it—leading the group through a drumming exercise and discussing how the drumming program is used for social good (my emphasis).

My tears? That my hardworking husband who I have championed for years, long before we became a couple, is recognized by his peers and colleagues not only at a state but also a national level for his innovations, his passions, his dedication to not just our orchestra but to this community.

Tears of pride.

The second set of tears fell this morning. Passover starts tonight at sundown. I will not be participating in a seder, the ritual meal, for lots of reasons, many of which tie to my health limitations. We live in a decidedly non-Jewish town and going to and from Columbus for a full evening is beyond me. I told Warren over breakfast that had I planned better, I would have gotten in touch with the Chaplain's Office at the local college and offered a seder in our home to however many Jewish students wanted to attend (the college does not have very much programming for Jewish students and often arranges for them to head to Columbus for major holidays).

As we talked, I thought back to the hurdles thrown up in my long-term marriage to practicing Judaism, the opposition to sharing it with my sons, and I shook my head. My voice breaking, I said that I missed seder, that it wasn't a two-person activity (in my opinion), and, well, I just felt sad.

Warren looked at me and asked in the gentlest voice possible, "Is there anything I can do to help you feel better tonight?"

That is when the tears fell, and they are crowding my eyes as I type this. Warren is from a very different religious background, we are on the cusp of the major concert week of the season (the finale concert), and both of us are running on fumes much of the time right now, Warren more so than me. It would have been the easiest thing in the world for him to nod and ask me what the day held. Instead, he reached over, literally and figuratively, to see what if anything he could do for me for Passover.

Tears of gratitude.

I told Warren that next year, assuming I am still around (always a tricky assumption), I will contact the college early and we will host a seder.

One ends a seder, after retelling the story of Passover and sharing a meal, with the words "Next year in Jerusalem!"

Jerusalem, hell. Next year in Delaware, with my Warren beside me, with tears of gratitude in my eyes.

Look Who's Here!

Back in October, I announced that Ramona was getting a baby brother sometime in the early months of this year.

Orlando James Sanchez entered this world yesterday in the early afternoon. 6 pounds, 3 ounces. When Ben's text came through, I started crying with relief and joy and love.

Alise and Orlando are doing well. Ben and Ramona are doing well. All of us, out there and back here, are doing well.

Lots of pictures are flooding the social media venues, but this one is the one that absolutely melted me:

New Big Sister. New Baby Brother.

Today I Met My Granddaughter

This girl 

Regular readers are looking at this title and thinking, "But April, you already know Ramona. You just got back from two weeks out west spending time with her. What do you mean by 'today I met my granddaughter?' Is there another granddaughter that you have been keeping secret?"

No, there is no other granddaughter. I'm talking about Ramona.

My title is taken from a good friend's recent observations. Scott's father died when he was a teenager. He today has teenage children, one of whom recently went on her school's 8th grade trip to Washington, D.C. His daughter was one of four students chosen to lay a wreath at the Tomb of the Unknown Solider. Scott reflected on how his father would have been so proud. Then he said, "Today I think my father met his granddaughter."

Close friends know that several years ago I started a middle school age novel (MS fiction, as opposed to YA fiction) in which Ramona is 12 years old and the main character. I have referred to it in passing from time to time in this blog. This novel has languished for lots of reasons, most of them excuses.

It's. Not. Completed.

Yesterday afternoon I sat for three hours in the hall at the Renaissance Theater in Mansfield while Warren was in rehearsal. I passed the time reading Beautiful Dream by Jennifer Fulwiler, a book I just happened to pluck off the New Book shelf at the library the day before. Fulwiler writes in hilarious, poignant, and solid prose about balancing a large, young family, a strained budget, health problems, and her passion and desire to write.

The writing stuff jolted me. I carried my thoughts through the evening, through the concert, all the way home, and as I fell asleep. I woke with it in my head this morning.

As Warren and I talked in the early, quiet moments of our day, I started to verbalize my thoughts. I talked about being pushed to write again, especially to finish my MS novel. Warren knows the overall story I am writing, but has not read it. He asked me whether I would make changes to the structure given changes to the family (Ramona's cousin Lyrick being born two years ago, for example) that have happened since I first started it.

No, I said. I'm solid with how I have the family structured. Then I spoke about Ramona in my novel.

"It's our Ramona, six years from now. She's stubborn and brave and sometimes just falls apart but takes this incredible hard, huge journey and..."

Then I paused as tears flooded my eyes and my throat closed up.

"Oh my god," I said. "I've met the Ramona I'm never going to meet. And she's amazing and wonderful and..."

And I started crying.

Some of my tears were from sorrow that I will never know Ramona at 12.  But the overwhelming emotions were wonder and gratitude.

I met my granddaughter, Ramona of 2024, today, this morning.

What a joy. What a gift.

What Christmas Held

One of our special ornaments: a bird from the National Museum of the Native American

Warren and I tend not to give one another large or extravagant presents ever. Birthdays, anniversary, Christmas: they tend to be celebrated in mood rather than in presents. There are many reasons for that. Neither of us are much moved by tangible gifts and we tend to be frugal when it comes to one another. I do not lust after jewelry, clothing, shoes, expensive kitchenware, and the like. In fact, early on in our courtship Warren sent me a note in which, looking at our respective financial positions and lack of luxury, he wrote: "You probably aren't going to get Europe, diamonds, many expensive meals or lots of shoes."

And that was and is fine.

So leading up to Christmas, the one thing I pointed him to was the just out first volume (paperback) of Mary Oliver's collected poems. It was in a shop in Rochester when we were there two weeks ago, modestly priced, and I thought that would be perfect gift for me. So when I unwrapped it (knowing which present it was) Christmas morning, I felt very much like Beth March, on the second Christmas in Little Women, who said "I'm so full of happiness, that, if Father was only here, I couldn't hold one drop more."

Another special ornament: the Santa we bought early on 

It turns out there were drops yet to come. Warren had two large boxes under the tree with my name on them. Again, in and of themselves, they did not arouse suspicions. We each have been known to wrap very small modest presents in big boxes; Warren especially is notorious for that trick. I unwrapped the first: it contained solar-powered outdoor lights in the shape of fireflies. I laughed, delighted. Warren grinned and said he thought they would look good out on the deck. I said they would look good out on the deck when my nephew gets married in our backyard next June.

Then Warren said, "That's not the present I thought it was. Unwrap the other."

The other had more heft to it. I only had a little of the paper off before I realized what it was.

A brand new DLSR camera, with lenses. (To be accurate: a Canon EOS Rebel T6.)

To say I was stunned would not begin to capture what I was feeling. Shocked. Floored. Caught entirely off guard. And emotional to the point that tears came into my eyes.

Back in October, I wrote about my introduction to and love of photography. What I did not write about, although my friend Cindy and I talked about it, as did Warren and I, were the limitations of a simple point and shoot (a Nikon Coolpix S3600) and whether we should invest in something better. Eventually I concluded with Warren that it was probably not worth the cost, given our schedules and busy lives. Warren, though, tucked away that discussion. He heard my tone of voice when I talked about how much I loved and used to shoot photos, and he acted on it.

The biggest gift in my life? My husband's love for me.

I didn't shoot the camera for the first few days. Cindy pressed me: just do it. I told her I was intimidated by the new machine. I told her it felt like writer's block; I just couldn't couldn't bring myself to do it. "My finger is frozen just hovering over the shutter release: I emailed. Cindy then gave me the best photography advice I have ever received: "NO!!!! PUNCH IT!!!"

She was right.

I am still learning my new camera, getting used to its many bells and whistles. I pulled out my old Nikon (film camera) that served me so well for so long, and spent time comparing the views through the respective viewfinders. It was Warren that figured out the focus issues tripping me up; I am the one who figured out some of the manual settings.

Even with what little I have taken, two of the photos shown here, I am ecstatic. I foresee photography in my life in 2018 in ways it has not been in a long, long time. 

Many decades ago, I wanted to be a photographer for National Geographic. (Before National Geographic, it was Life magazine I wanted to work for, but it folded in 1972, while I was still in high school.) That dream is long, long over, but the girl who had that dream and who loved seeing the world through a viewfinder is still deep inside me.  

And she can't wait. 

Inch Thirty-Three: Art

Some years ago, someone asked me the following question: If I had extra money, what would I spend it on?

This individual's tastes ran towards the luxurious: many meals in expensive restaurants, travel to exotic parts of the world, pricey events (sports, theatre, music), and lots (and lots) of clothing purchases.

In short, not a lifestyle I could even begin to understand, let alone appreciate.

In retrospect, I realize now that the question was posed a bit cruelly. The inquisitor was trying to make me acknowledge the sparseness of my lifestyle. What was really at the heart of the question was this: Come on, April, admit you'd like to live a more comfortable lifestyle, but you just can't afford it, so you just pretend you aren't interested.

I didn't rise to the bait, even when the followup comment was along the lines of did I ever think about being more ambitious and earning more income? Expensive meals, box seats for the Broadway touring company, splashy high dollar events for this or that campaign or cause—none of it appealed to me.

My answer, more or less, was that if I had "extra" money, I'd give more to causes I cared about. And if I had an indulgence, it would be to buy some art. Not drop a bundle, but occasionally buy a piece that I really liked.

Many years later, my answer remains pretty much the same. Now that my income has stabilized (thanks in part to great health insurance), I do have a little more money. I do donate here and there to causes I care about. I do have a little more breathing room on the budget than I used to.

But what about that art?

Last week I was sitting with a friend in one of our downtown coffee shops. High on the wall I was facing, up above a cupboard full of teas, half hidden by the cupboard's crown, was a painting I could not stop staring at.

The artist is local and her work hangs on all of the shop's walls. She paints on a crumpled surface: water colors on thick paper? I don't know. I can't tell. Her pictures are simple: a boot, a rooster, a beach scene, a dandelion puff.

And a sunset of gold and white. Over the marshes, over an ocean, over a prairie lake. Somewhere.

My eyes kept going to the painting. Before I left the shop, I looked to make sure it did not have a "Sold" sticker on it. It did not.

I came home later that day and told Warren I was buying a painting the next time I went there for coffee. I tried to describe it and gave up. He raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything else. We have been together a long time and Warren is accustomed to offbeat comments about a bit of poetry, the Wizard of Oz, and other odds and ends. So now April's buying a picture she can't describe? Okay.

I was back today to meet another friend. After she left, I went up to the cash register.

"I want to buy one of the paintings," I said, my heart thumping in anticipation.

"Which one?"

"The one on that wall." Pointing.

The owner's face broke into a smile. "Oh, I love that one."

Me too.

Five minutes later, I was on my way out the door, the painting in my hands.

Right now all of our first floor walls are bare, stripped last spring in the rush of renovations before Ramona arrived. As I write this, the painting is propped up on the sofa and I am sitting directly across from it.

It was a splurge, a $70.00 splurge. That is a little more than one month's water bill, a little more than two months of Revlimid.

A little splurge. And a whole lot of joy.

Ramona

Ramona is three months old. Yesterday, in fact, marked the end of the first quarter of her first year in the world. We were at Margo and Gerald's the Saturday night that Ben called and said, "She's here." In a wonderful serendipitous turn of events, her anniversary was also a Saturday and we were again sharing the evening with our good friends Margo and Gerald. We all celebrated Ramona's three month anniversary with a shared amazement that she already that old.

I have yet to hold Ramona is my arms, although I have pored over the many photos of her and have seen her when skyping with Ben and Alise. In this short amount of time, she has gone from being a Baby Blob to being firmly entrenched in the land of Babyhood. I see new expressions in her face, I hear of new feats of dexterity. I long to see and meet her in person.

The incomparable E. B. White wrote a small poem after his son Joel was born, "The Conch:"

Hold a baby to your ear
   As you would hold a shell:
Sounds of centuries you hear
   New centuries foretell.

Who can break a baby's code?
   And which is the older—
The listener or his small load?
   The held or the holder?

I think of White's words when I study the most recent photos. I look at Ramona's little face, at the deep, solemn look in her eyes. I see traces of all her heritages in her: Chippewa, Cuban, WASP. I wonder what she is already thinking and what she already has known for centuries.

I cannot wait to hold her to my ear.

Laughter

Ben, chuckling, at about three months old

 Ben called last night and in the middle of recounting the story of a recent meal, he started laughing.

Genuine, spontaneous laughter.

Ben and I have been more in touch the last three weeks than the last several years. There are lots of reasons for the long silences, just as there are lots of reasons why we are suddenly talking and emailing so much. I am grateful, not analytical. Ben generated the call last night and was so talkative that I hung up with tears in my eyes, I was that happy.

His outburst of laughter triggered a memory of Ben's early days of laughing.

I chronicled a lot of my children's early lives. Ben more so than Sam, because when there is only one child, it is much easier to mark down the milestones and the "firsts." (Sorry, Sam.) And because I did chronicle so much, I know that Ben laughed first on February 10, 1986, when his father shook a pair of baby sweat pants over him. Per my notes, Ben "kept breaking into chortles."

That was not the memory of first laughter I had, but mine is similar in vein. I remember hauling up one baby and a basket of clean laundry to our second floor apartment. I put Ben on his back in the middle of our bed while I folded and stacked laundry all around him. I picked up one of a multitude of "burp rags," this one a long, gauzy kind, to fold. As I shook it out, it floated above Ben, who proceeded to let out a string of laughs.

I whisked the cloth back and forth above him, almost grazing his forehead. Ben's eyes widened and his laughter spilled out. We played the "whisking burp rag" game for several minutes until Ben giggled and chuckled himself to sleep, napping amidst the laundry.

J. M. Barrie wrote in Peter Pan, "When the first baby laughed for the first time, its laugh broke into a thousand pieces, and they all went skipping about, and that was the beginning of fairies."

Barrie was on the right track. A baby's first laugh is so full of wonder and delight that it breaks into a thousand blessings, and they all skip about about filling our hearts and lives with joy.

To hear Ben's laughter last night—unforced, natural, heartfelt—brought back that long ago little baby laughing and giggling a thousand blessings into my life.

Ben and Alise are just starting out with Ramona. She is still so new and unacquainted with the world that laughter probably isn't on her agenda yet. But Ben is laughing and, while he laughed, I could hear Alise in the background with rich laughter in her voice. Ramona will catch on soon enough.

And when she does, may a thousand blessings flow.

Sleeping Ramona, at about two weeks old 

Giving It Up & Getting It Back

The first thing I heard Sunday morning was the rain. Not heavy, but steady.

It was very early. It was very dark.

Warren was playing two morning church services in Columbus before dashing back to Delaware for the Symphony's two holiday concerts in the afternoon. We got up, showered, dressed, ate, and were out the door before the sun was up.

My heart was not into it. Nether was my mind or my body. I was going through the motions, but even those were clumsy and forced.

Warren knew I was struggling. "You don't have to go with me, you know," he gently offered. "I can do this on my own."

I knew he could. He did it for years on his own - he and his then spouse often going their separate ways to their separate activities, so much so that by the time the serious marital problems began, there were few common ways left to build upon. So I wasn't terribly enamored of Warren's offer to go alone. We do as many rehearsals and performances jointly as much for the opportunity to spend time together and stay connected as anything.

We left the house. I commented briefly that it would be dark again before we got back home.

The drive to Columbus was silent but for the windshield wipers shuusssshing out a rhythm. Warren was quiet. I was quiet.

It was early. It was dark.

After several miles, I reached over and touched Warren's hand on the car seat. We didn't clasp hands, but linked our fingers.

A little touch. A warm touch.

Connected.

As we drove, the dark lightened and the landscape started to take shape. Inside, my dark lightened and my internal landscape started to take shape. Slowly, I started to give up my negative feelings: that I was tired, that this weekend was all Symphony and nothing else, that I felt - oh, not sick, but achy and out of sorts, that Monday was almost upon us and nothing was done.

I let them go, gently tugging free the little claws they'd sunk into me. I loosened them, one by one, until they were gone. And then I sat there: empty of the negative but also empty of anything else.

It was early. The day was coming into view, but it was still gray. I watched the lights go by, watched the rain kiss the road.

I silently reflected on what was left when the negative was gone. The car is warm, my health is good, I have a wonderful husband whom I love dearly, I…

Warren broke the silence.  "I'm so grateful for you," he said, squeezing my fingers. "It's so wonderful to have you here with me."

A little touch. A warm touch.

Connected.

Postscript: I penned most of the above post sitting in the sanctuary of the church while the musicians tuned. Earlier, I'd listened to the choir warm up, lifting their voices to the soaring ceiling of the beautiful modern structure. My spirits and my heart rose with them.

As I predicted when we left the house early Sunday, it was dark long before we returned home. The rain turned to snow early on, adding a new dimension to the day. It was late when everyone finished breaking down the stage and hauling the equipment off, later still when we finally got the first hot meal of our day as we joined Dave and Kermit for a late night, snowy night supper downtown.

Having emptied out the negative feelings, I had ample room to let the good of the day - the music, our good friends, the snow, the community, sharing the fun (and the work) of concert day, Elizabeth with me at the concerts, coming back to the quiet of our home after it was all over - fill me anew.

They were little moments, warm moments.

Connected moments.

View from the Ground: October Oncology

Monday afternoon

Playwright Tennessee Williams, asked what he wanted for his birthday, supposedly said he wanted "what every writer wants: a day when the muse is with you and you're hot."

That quote came back to me as I walked home from the library today, because what came to me was not that the muse was with me but that very occasionally I write a great sentence, sometimes I write okay, ordinary sentences, and the rest of the time I just write pure drek. I hope the okay, ordinary sentences outweigh the drek, but given that I delete almost as many sentences as I type (except on those exceedingly rare days when the muse is with me), I'd say I'm probably about par for the course.

I am starting this post on Monday afternoon, knowing it won't go up until I finish my oncology appointment Tuesday afternoon. Although my visible markers (energy level, activity level, stamina, weight) are all excellent, myeloma lives not on the surface but inside my bones. The outward measures start changing only after the cancer has had a healthy head start deep in my marrow. My oncologist and I agreed last June that October would be a good time to repeat the major labs, including the kappa free light chain assay, to give us both the best look-see into my marrow and my true state of health.

So tomorrow is weighing on me. I love my oncologist, I feel good physically, I am expecting (hoping for) neutral results, and I am walking around with the appointment pressing down hard upon my shoulders.

No wonder my muse isn't here. She is out dancing through the blaze of leaves carpeting the sidewalks while I am sitting here kicking at the floor.

Tuesday morning

October is the most beautiful month in Ohio, but it is also the month where winter starts blowing kisses to us, promising more to come. This morning, there was a light ice on the windshield (our car had been parked on the street all night). Close behind the house, my garden was chilly but not icy. I'm glad: there are still some tomatoes ripening and I am not quite ready to give them up until next summer.

Today's oncology visit is weighing even more heavily on me than yesterday. Despite all the good signs I keep ticking off, I am edgy and anxious to see the numbers. I had trouble falling asleep last night, my mind running through various "what if" scenarios, and when I finally slept, I dreamt of my boys. They were not in harm's way, but I had a long, tangled, and complex dream about Sam switching schools and Ben restarting his undergraduate education, both at colleges and in programs I had never heard of before.

All this morning (it is midmorning) I have been restless. I start something, then set it aside. My only real accomplishment is finishing baking for tonight's legal clinic.

In this morning's paper was an obituary for a friend who had been struggling with lung and bone cancer for the last three years. Sheryl's obituary was deftly penned, I am sure, by her husband Jesse; his love for her was laced through the words. My first reaction, after the hurt of the news, was "I want Jesse to write my obituary." My second reaction was "I can write my own obituary." I shared that thought with Warren; I did not look at his face when I said it because I did not think I could bear to see his expression.

Warren knows today's appointment is hanging over me; he also knows that losing a friend to cancer is an uncomfortably close experience for me. Warren is lovingly patient on oncology days. Over the years, he has learned (at my insistence) to stand back just a little bit. This is a river I wade in alone each time while he watches from the shore. I need and want his hand when I come back up on the bank, but I have to struggle through the current alone.

Tuesday afternoon

My labs were the best they have been in months, even years. Yes, the myeloma is there, it will always be there. I will never be cured. But my kappa free light chain assay results were even better than they were back in December.

Tim grinned. Warren beamed. I about fell over as a million pounds rolled off my shoulders and sank right out of sight through the floor. I don't have to see Tim again until April.

April! Six months from now!

I was all but skipping as Warren and I left the oncology clinic. I squeezed his hand, bounced up and down in the elevator, gave him a huge kiss when he dropped me off. I am now typing these words quickly so I can get to Legal Clinic.

I'm out of the river, back on the shore, embracing the world.

A Different Post

Part I: Sunday Morning

I am sitting at Maple Grove, a Columbus area church about which I have written before. Twice, in fact. Warren is playing timpani in the service today. Today's job came up very suddenly; usually, the music director at Maple Grove contacts Warren several weeks out.

While Warren set up and tuned, I started writing about time - my time - and about the pace of life - my life.

It's the little picture: my little picture.

Warren just came over to retrieve his tie before rehearsal started. As he did so, he said "this is the minister's last service. Apparently he is leaving for medical reasons."

I stopped writing my other post and began this one.

Back at Easter, when Warren last played here, Bill Croy, the church's minister, was unexpectedly out for medical testing. I remember my thoughts at the time flicking to what it does whenever I hear the phrase "medical testing" - cancer.

After all, that is my little picture.

At this point, I don't know what it is. I find that I am bracing myself for the service and Bill's last sermon. I hear choir members asking one another if they brought enough tissues.

Warren said, when he told me, "maybe that explains why this service came up so quickly." Then he added, "maybe that's why one of the pieces is The Church's One Foundation."

There is an usually high amount of hugging going on as choir members stream in for practice. One walks by carrying a box of tissues. I only brought three with me, for the cold weather and the occasional bloody nose I get. I hope they are enough.

Church members are arriving early and getting seats up close.

My friend and colleague Doug, who earlier this year went through surgery and treatment for stomach cancer with the best possible results, is still building up his strength and energy. He recently posted on Facebook that he had just completed riding 50 miles on his bike, then added "God is great!"

Another friend, hearing of Doug's comment, said "I bet he wouldn't be saying that if he were dying of cancer."

I disagreed at the time. Doug's affirmation of his beliefs had nothing to do with whether he recovered from his cancer, and while I may be somewhat at sea on my own spiritual beliefs, I do not question those of others.

As I watch the preparation for this service, that conversation comes back to me and I disagree all over again. I anticipate that today's service, whatever Bill's diagnosis and prognosis, will likewise be an affirmation of faith and of the spiritual joy and unity that binds this congregation together. Indeed, I note in the church bulletin that there are two celebrations scheduled for this afternoon: a retirement celebration for Bill and his wife, followed by a ministry celebration of his career.

Note the word choice, which was used in the bulletin: "celebration."

I have noted before that my spiritual beliefs, whatever they may be, are changing. I have my own journey to make. But for this day, this milestone at Maple Grove, I am glad I am with this body, part of their small picture and part of the bigger picture of life and faith.

Part II: Sunday Afternoon

It isn't cancer, it's ALS. Bill Croy was diagnosed in August and, per the parishioner sitting next to me, stepped down today because of his waning strength.

ALS is terminal. But as Bill reminded us all today, so is life. In fact, he predicted, some of his parishioners would likely die before he did. Then he added, slyly, "I'm not saying any names."

Today's service was wonderful. Today's service was magnificent. At times there were tears streaming down many faces, including mine. At times we were all laughing. It was an emotional mix of joy, sorrow, love, and faith.

In his final sermon as minister of Maple Grove, in his final sermon as a Methodist minister of some 40 years experience, Bill shared his unfinished dreams for the congregation and his beliefs as to what is ahead. He made it clear that he was not looking forward to dying.

"I love life," he said, "I love living!"

In the half beat of silence that followed, we all heard a little girl, possibly his granddaughter in the front row, pipe up, "I do too!"

Bittersweet laughter swept across the pews.

I'm not going to attempt to sum up Bill's sermon; you can read it here yourself. But I will tell you what I saw today, which was an affirmation of faith and belief. I saw and heard someone who could say, and in fact did, that God is good, despite the realities of the disease he is now facing.

Today I had the privilege of watching a beloved minister and a beloved congregation say goodbye to one another as minister and congregation. They did it with love and with dignity, with laughter and with tears. There was sorrow. There was joy. And there was belief - in the goodness of God, in the goodness of life, and in the goodness of one another.

Carving Out the Moment

I've been pretty quiet on the blog this month. A friend who is a regular reader recently expressed concern that perhaps something was bothering me because otherwise I would be blogging more.

There's a lot on my mind these days, true, but that is not what has kept me from writing. Other demands on my time have kept me from writing. Family demands, work demands, community demands, medical demands. It is United Way time. The March concert is fast approaching, followed swiftly by the May concert (the major concert this season). Final arrangements are being made for a repeat benefit concert for our local food pantry.

There are seedlings to start soon.

In short, life is humming and things are moving pretty quickly around our homestead. Quick as I can be when necessary, my pace is nothing compared to Warren's at this time of year. (This time of year? Any time of year!) Hummingbirds have nothing on him for speed.

Warren and I start each weekday by exchanging emails. I send one over to his office first thing in the morning, often while he is still shaving. When I come in from walking or swimming, I usually have one from him waiting in my inbox.

They are just small notes touching on the day, our marriage, our life. Love notes, really. For me, they are just a little way to anchor the day and to let Warren know what he means to me. Starting my day writing a note to my husband helps me focus on us.

Starting my day writing a note to my husband allows me to carve out a moment of quiet thoughtfulness in the rumble of the daily schedule.

Sometimes, more so lately, the emails reflect our busyness. I might write a flamboyant Zooooooooom! in my note, as a commentary on our schedules. This morning, feeling the press of time, knowing what the next several weeks hold, I wrote:

Hold tight to my hand and never let go. Or, if you must (let go), wait for me in the clearing up ahead. I'll be along shortly.

I was thinking of the calendar, thinking of our respective "to do" lists, thinking of how much has to get done between now and the end of the day, as well as between tonight and the end of the weekend. Life is sometimes a blur and I just wanted to say "if you get too far ahead of me, wait a moment and I'll catch up."

I went swimming this morning after breakfast. When I got to the locker room and unpacked my bag, I found this tucked between my towels:

One of the many joys of this marriage is that we are often on the same wavelength even before we exchange a single word. This morning was one of those times. In the midst of the whirl, in the midst of the rush, we each carved out a moment just for us.

Celebration! (An Update)

Back in October, I wrote about a friend and colleague, Doug, who'd just been diagnosed with stomach cancer. Throughout the late fall, he underwent intensive chemo to try to beat the tumor into submission before surgery this month. I saw him in December and we talked about his chemo and the uncertainty of his status. Doug had lost weight and looked tired, but his smile and words were genuine when he said "I am so blessed."

Yesterday Doug went into surgery. A few weeks ago, his wife Susan blogged about what could happen:

Doug has officially finished his first nine weeks of chemotherapy. We were busy today meeting with the surgical and fusion oncologist reviewing the interim test reports, scheduling more tests and . Doug's tumor has decreased in size from 7.6 x 6.1 cm to 5.0 x 3.4 cm. Upper abdominal lymph nodes have also reduced in size. The lesions in the liver will remain suspect until surgery, however they remain unchanged. This is very good news!

He is scheduled for another endoscopy on the 21st of January and surgery on the 27th of January. During surgery on the 27th Doug will undergo a laproscopy to get a visual of his liver, if the suspected area does not present with cancer, Dr. Nichols will proceed with a smaller 4" incision in order to gain physical access to the afflicted area. If his liver still does not present with cancer, they will proceed with the surgery.

Now this is where things get dicey, so we need prayer warriors! If the liver presents at any time with cancer, the doctors will not proceed with surgery or further chemo treatments. This is a little known fact we have known from the beginning but have chosen not to share until now. The fact that the lesions have remained unchanged gives rise to celebration. Understandably, the doctors will not commit to anything until they have a "hands-on visual" of the liver. Hmmm, a familiar term in educational circles. Of course, Doug and I are proceeding with the attitude of total healing here on earth.

Then Tuesday night this email arrived from one of Doug's coworkers:

Doug's surgery is scheduled for tomorrow (Wednesday) morning at 7:30 a.m. I'll send out an update as soon as I know something. I saw him yesterday and spoke with him earlier this evening. He is in really good spirits and is in good physical shape. He has been working out and getting pumped up for this so his body can recover from this sooner.

Surgery started at 7:23. It makes for a long morning when someone you know and care about is undergoing surgery. I thought about Doug, I thought about Susan and Rachel, their daughter. I found myself thinking the same prayer, over and over: "Give them strength."

We all saw this note at noon:

I just received a call from Susan. Doug is out of surgery and cancer free!!! The doctor said that they took out what they needed to take out and the spots on the liver are not cancer. He will be in the hospital for probably 7-8 days but would like for visitors to hold off for a few days. Susan will call when they are ready for visits. Doug, Susan and Rachel extend their sincere thank you for all of your continued prayer and support. When he recovers from the surgery he will undergo another 9 week round of chemo to ensure that every other little cell that may even think of causing a problem is zapped for good.

Joy, relief, gratitude! There were a lot of smiles and cheers all around this county yesterday.

This morning the sun came up in a blaze of glory. I don't know if Doug could see it from his hospital bed, but I doubt he needed to today.

The joy and the glory were already there.

Percussion Universe

I just got back from a long weekend with Warren in Indianapolis. We were there for the Percussive Arts Society International Convention (PASIC). After all, I do live in the percussion section.

This was not my first time at PASIC. I attended the 2007 convention in Columbus, Ohio, so I was not a total neophyte at this. All the same, I was once again just blown away by what it means to immerse yourself in a world of percussion.

A world of percussion? Try something bigger, much bigger. A galaxy? A universe? Yeah, that's more like it. It is a Percussion Universe out there and I just spent two and a half days in the center of it.

There are some things you should know in case you ever are in Percussion Universe:

• Lots of performers in Percussion Universe wear black. Despite this, Percussion Universe is not a somber or grim place. All the same, if it were up to me, I'd throw some color into the mix. What about a little fuchsia or turquoise every now and then?
• Five gallon buckets (empty) dipped into water and then emptied out are percussion instruments.
• It is not unusual in Percussion Universe to see the denizens walk by carrying a drum cradled in their arms as gently as you would carry a child. On a return trip, they might be guiding a marimba in the same manner one would coax a balky horse.
• You may come upon a group of older men standing outside talking, carrying what look like from a distance to be purses of various colors and styles. Only when you are closer do you realize they are holding tambourine bags.

In Percussion Universe, the drumming never stops. You cannot go anywhere without tripping over someone drumming, hearing someone drumming, or seeing someone carrying something that could be drummed upon. At any time day or night, you find percussionists, regardless of age, gender, or nationality, tapping out rhythms with their fingers, their feet, their hands, the mallets or sticks in their back pocket, or any other object that can strike a surface, be it a wall, a tabletop, a floor, or a leg - theirs or that of a buddy.

I arrived in Percussion Universe tired and out of sorts. We'd been up way too late the night before and had left early Thursday morning to get there. I was disoriented in the large convention center.

But that mood didn't last long. The joy of Percussion Universe is infectious. There are too many notes, too many beats, too many rhythms, too many shiny things, and too many goofy things to see and do to stay grumpy for long.

To enter the Exhibit Hall at PASIC was to plunge into the heart of Percussion Universe. In the front of the hall were publishers and schools and makers of the quieter instruments like marimbas. The back area contained the drum sets, the timpani, the cymbals, and everything else that was loud. In between the two was a buffer zone, curtained off, that contained dead space.

You need a buffer zone in Percussion Universe because percussionists need buffered. Think of the buffer zone as a DMZ between loud and LOUD.

In Percussion Universe, all that glitters is not gold. The hottest colors and metals are brass, bronze, and copper. Everywhere I turned, there was another stack of shiny cymbals or triangles to run my fingers over. Everywhere were percussionists touching, drumming, tapping a bar, a marimba, a triangle, a cymbal, just for the sound of it.

It is glittery eye candy. It is stunning ear candy.

The big question in Percussion Universe is "what does it sound like?" And that question is answerable in infinite ways ranging from tone to rhythm. I know, because I walked more than once through the Exhibit Hall with Warren, who did a fair amount of tapping, rapping, and drumming himself. The PASIC staff kept making announcements to hold any playing to a mezzo forte level and no louder for no more than 20 seconds. For the most part, people did that. But with 100 or 200 percussionists all playing different instruments at the same time, the phrase "mezzo forte" didn't mean a thing.

I saw some amazing performances that I am still carrying in my head and ears. One was a gamelan ensemble from University of Illinois. A gamelan is an assemblage of Balinese percussion instruments that are treated as one instrument for playing purposes, being built and tuned to stay together as one unit. Some of the pieces are mounted metal bars (like a xylophone) which the players strike with metal hammers. The musical effect is wonderfully like a merry-go-round band organ. One of the players, a young Balinese woman who had danced the first piece with three others, wore her elaborate golden headdress while she played. She looked like the Queen of Percussion Universe as she concentrated on her striking.

There were so many groups that just floored me (and everyone else listening to them). Ju Percussion from Taipei performed pounding rhythms, classical Chinese opera complete with two singers in traditional operatic costume (elaborately brocaded) and makeup, and incredible keyboard work that brought us all to our feet for a lengthy standing ovation. There was the high school quartet, Badaboum, which won an audition to be a showcased ensemble and came all the way from France to play at PASIC. Saturday night, the amazing Tommy Igoe and his jazz band performed. They were joined by Rolando Morales-Matos, who has the fastest hands I have ever seen and who just happens to be a brother of our Symphony's conductor. Again, we - all of us in Percussion Universe - were on our feet at the end.

My favorite group was the Louisville Leopards Percussionists, a group of about 65 children ages 7 to 12, who learn the happiness of making music through learning to play jazz percussion. We heard two different ensembles: the beginners (who had started just three months ago) and the older students, who have been in the group for anywhere from a year to several years. Never mind how cute the group was (how can you not melt watching a little boy play bongos when his eyes barely clear the level of the drums?), these kids were musicians. As they played, they filled the room with joy and rhythm.

Soon after the performance, the youngest Leopards exited single file. Adults lined up on either side and applauded and cheered them down the hall. Later on, I saw many of them in the Exhibit Hall, all wearing their telltale orange shirts, weaving in and out of exhibits, playing different instruments. A couple of the Leopards had purchased drum sticks and were doing what any other percussionist would do - drum on the table, the backs of chairs, their legs, or a nearby buddy's back - just to see what it sounded like.

By the end of PASIC, Percussion Universe had infused entire city blocks in downtown Indianapolis. Everywhere you went were people walking around with sticks in hand, tapping, or their fingers drumming on a sign pole while waiting for the light to change. At Rhythm Discovery Center, the soon to open percussion museum of the Percussive Arts Society, I heard someone taking a masterful turn on a cajon drum, which is very much like a large box you sit on and thump with your hands. Turning the corner, I found one of the museum guards just getting up from it, grinning. And in what was surely the epitome of PASIC and a badge of being a true citizen of Percussion Universe, one of the college age attendees set up shop on a street corner with his steel pan drum, an open case in front of him, busking for fun and a few bucks.

We have been home for a couple of days now. Our living room still contains the detritus of our trip. There are brochures and cymbal mounts and programs on one chair. There is a large tuned cowbell on the couch. As I type these words, I hear again the sounds of tambourines and bongos, and see again the faces of the Louisville Leopards as they showed a whole room of adults what it was all about. It was all about the rhythms, all about the beat, and all about the sheer energy and joy of making music.

It was all about being in Percussion Universe.

Our Nights at the Movies

Warren's parents owned a movie camera and did a stunning job of documenting their home life from holidays to parades to visits from family to travels of their own. They left behind over 50 color reels before camcorders came along. The oldest date back to Art and Ellen's first apartment in Chicago when they were just newlyweds, before the move to Ohio, before the children.

Warren and I have started watching a few reels - not in any particular order - each night before heading to bed.

Warren has seen most of these before, although he has not watched them in decades. When he was younger, Ellen would routinely drag the children into the family room and make everyone watch home movies. As Warren and his siblings grew older and more insistent in their refusal, the home movie nights petered out.

Our homegrown Nights at the Movies have been a revelation for us both.

For Warren, it is a chance to see with adult eyes his childhood and youth. There is his grandfather Wilson, who died before Warren was two, walking alongside his daughter, Ellen, who is holding his infant grandson, Warren. There is grandmother Wilson, whose smile is even more infectious and inclusive on film than in photos. Here are Warren and his younger brother Brian, opening Christmas stockings and dancing with childish glee around their presents. There they are again, holding their new baby sister.

When Warren's grandmother Hyer appeared, holding a grandchild and smiling, Warren laughed and said "that is the only time you will ever see my grandmother smiling." A night later, when she appeared in other scene, still smiling, I looked at Warren and said "apparently your grandmother smiled a lot more than you remember."

For me, it is a chance to see Warren's past in both a fuller and more compressed way than looking at photos (which we have also done). Fuller because now I can see the smiles and the movement that give life to the still photos. More compressed because the scene hangs on the wall for a brief bit of time and then is gone, sometimes before it sinks in.

One of the reels we have watched included a few moments of Warren's high school graduation, which I remember in great detail because I was so enamored of him at the time. I gave a small gasp when Warren appeared immediately after graduation, talking to someone and smiling broadly.

I knew that boy. That boy, the one right there, is the one sitting beside me each night as we watch films.

Yes, I remembered that graduation well, but seeing even a glimpse of it again took me by surprise.

My favorite play is Our Town by Thornton Wilder. The entire last act has Emily, who has died in childbirth, reliving a day of her life. She has been warned by the other dead in the cemetery not to go back but chooses to relive her 12th birthday, exclaiming, "Oh, I want the whole day."

Emily struggles between her joy at experiencing life again and the pain of knowing how fast that life went and how much she took for granted. When Emily first sees her mother in the kitchen on this relived day, she can't help but say, "Oh! how young Mama looks! I didn't know Mama was ever that young." Moments before her father enters the kitchen, Emily breaks down and cries out, "I can't. I can't go on. It goes so fast. We don't have time to look at one another."

As I watch the home movies, I have some of that same bittersweet sense of time. Art and Ellen are so young, with their whole married life still before them. Warren is so young in his graduation gown. While the mind can accept that I am watching something from 30, 40, 50, 60 years ago, the heart lags behind. Like Emily, I want to say to these flickering shadows, "just look one minute as if you really saw one another."

Deep down, I think Wilder believed that most of us really did look, maybe not every minute, but enough that we knew the joy and beauty and gifts of our days. Our Town, to me, is a beautifully wrought reminder not to take those days for granted. As much as I want to have an Emily moment with the home movies, I suspect that the filmmakers, almost always Art and Ellen, had a sense of the swiftness of time. That may be why they filmed so much, to slow it down and hold onto it for a just a little bit longer.

There is a film sequence of Warren learning to walk. There are short clips of him standing holding onto furniture, of him walking with the sure aid of a parent's hands, of him walking holding his father's leg. Every few seconds of film, he is a little surer and a little closer to stepping off on his own. Then suddenly there is the little toddler taking stiff, jerky baby steps, but staying upright all the way across the yard.

Art is filming that last sequence; you can just see Ellen's outstretched hand beckoning her son towards her. When I saw it, I exclaimed, "Look! There you go!" Although I knew the scene was inevitable, I was excited all the same at seeing it. For that brief moment, watching that little boy walk was our relived day, was our moment in time captured so long ago by Ellen and Art.

Warren has repeatedly said Ellen would be delighted at our watching the movies that she loved so much.

I know she is.