Resisting

Regular readers of my blog know that I often use the phrase "the presence of absence."  This was in a poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay.  It is such an apt way of expressing the reality of life in the land of grief ( this phrase from a friend).  Grievers often talk about the little, unexpected occurrences which trigger episodes of sadness, i.e., the presence of absence.  There are times when I expect the absence to be profound that turn out to be non-emotional and then those, of which, there are many that catch me unprepared.   While I've moved far toward acceptance there is also that within me that rebels against the reality of absence. This spirit of rebellion is captured in this poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay.

"Dirge without Music

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.
Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains, — but the best is lost.
The answers quick & keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,
They are gone. They have gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned."

Takk for alt

Al

 PS A quote from Garrison Keillor; The Writer's Almanac 

"The absolute dumbest thing I’ve seen on Facebook is “Find out who you are and be that person and live that truth and everything else will come,” which I saw last week. Anyone who actually believes it should not be allowed to handle sharp objects. We are contradictions is who we are and we need to get them under control and learn to be of use to the world around us.

“Find out who you are and be that person.” That is exactly what our commander-in-chief has done and that’s why half of America is whooping and hollering — they love that he makes the other half of America grind their molars."

Memories

Green, I was as green as a field of rice. USMC boot camp was a revelation but I successfully completed it in the allotted twelve weeks graduating on Dec. 15, 1959.  It was two weeks before Christmas so the Corps in its wisdom mandated that I take two weeks of my annual four weeks of leave and report for duty at Camp Pendleton, CA., after the first of the year.  Going home on my time off was the only option I considered but the question was how?  The Corps had flown me from Omaha to San Diego for boot camp on a DC-6, my first flight.  Flying home? Too expensive, and I didn't have a car so Greyhound Bus seemed my only option.  So bus it was; north to L.A., east on Highway 30, to Omaha and the north to Arlington, S.D., and home...30 hours of blue highways.  (Here a little excursus: Ed was also on the bus, we were in the same platoon in boot camp but really got acquainted on the bus. We shared office and barracks for my entire enlistment.  We always stayed in touch after our discharges but when we moved to Davenport, IA., we were near his farm which is by Calamus. This became the opportunity for our wives to also become great friends.)
     But, why didn't I think of taking a train?  At this distant remove I have no recollection of even considering buying a train ticket.  The train option is on my mind because I just finished Once Upon A Town: The Miracle of the North Platte Canteen, Bob Greene. From Dec. 25, 1941 until April 1, 1946 volunteers met every troop train stopping in North Platte from 5:00 a.m., until after midnight...as many as 8000 servicemen a day on up to 23 trains.  The trains stopped for 10 minutes to take on water for the locomotive.  The men were given sandwiches, coffee, milk, snacks, cakes and cigarettes...free!  12,000 people lived in North Platte with help from surrounding communities they served 6 million military personnel!  Passenger service continued until 1971 and two years later the depot, which had housed the canteen, was demolished.  I do remember that the bus home from boot camp passed through North Platte but there was no canteen offering refreshments.
    On June 4, 1962 I was discharged from the USMC...YES, honorably 😀, and two years later on June 6, 1964 Joanne and I were married.

Takk for alt,

Al

Probably good Joanne didn't knw me when....

Why didn't I know?

Joanne led us out of our house in Golden Valley, perhaps you were in it, just as she had led us into it.  The split foyer entrance meant climbing steps every time we returned home and she was tired of that. Those steps may be the reason I assumed laundry duties many years ago with the washer and dryer on the lower level.  Once we settled into our 15th floor condo in downtown Minneapolis we both became fans of the Minnesota Lynx (women's basketball) of the WNBA.   Their home floor is Target Center only a few blocks from where we live.  Restricted by her mobility issues in later years Joanne did not attend many games but always watched them on TV.  When I would attend without her I'd be home, via Nice Ride Bike, ten minutes after the game finished.  It was interesting to campare what the announcers said on TV with what I saw in person. The LYNX have won four national championships and Maya Moore has been one of the stars until she decided to take off this year.  The local press reported that she wanted to rest and spend more time with her church.  Why did they not report the rest of the story?

   "NEW CALLING: Professional basketball player Maya Moore took a year of from the sport to help Jonathan Irons, an inmate she's convinced is innocent pf the crime for which he is serving 50 years. She considers her mission to free Irons a call from God. Irons, an African American, was 16 when he was tried as an adult for armed robbery and convicted by an all-white jury with no evidence linking him to the crime. Moore thinks his conviction is the consequence of a racist criminal justice system."   (New York Times, June 30, quoted in the July 31, 2109 Christian Century p. 8) 

    If any readers of this blog have any local media connections this story should be reported in Minnesota.

    So, I still follow the LYNX, while missing sharing the experience with Joanne.

Takk for alt,

Al
   

The Hardest Part

There was so much on the trip, which I finished yesterday, that Joanne would have found meaningful; the service for Allan, Bonnie's church in Evanston, long visits with Gerry, a few hours with Nelson and Shirley, her sister's 50th wedding anniversary party, barbecue at her niece', the beautiful sunset as we approached home.  It was a very significant trip that I'm glad to have done. With it all, the hardest for me, was not being able to talk to her about it.  That is the reality of life in the land of grief.

Takk for alt,

Al
Let Evening Come
by Jane Kenyon

Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.

Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.

Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.

Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.

To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.

Let it come, as it will, and don't
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.

Jane Kenyon, “Let Evening Come” from Collected Poems

7/27/2019 Caring Bridge

In The Presence of Absence

Journal entry by Al Negstad — a minute ago

“When someone you love dies, and you're not expecting it, you don't lose her all at once; you lose her in pieces over a long time—the way the mail stops coming, and her scent fades from the pillows and even from the clothes in her closet and drawers. Gradually, you accumulate the parts of her that are gone. Just when the day comes—when there's a particular missing part that overwhelms you with the feeling that she's gone, forever—there comes another day, and another specifically missing part.” 
― John Irving, A Prayer for Owen Meany   
      This is also true when you are expecting death.  "...there comes another day, and another specifically missing part" and now, it is time with the family she loved and who loved her.  Why can't she be here to celebrate 50 years of marriage with her sister and husband?  It just seems so wrong to do this without her, she who so loved celebrations like this.  I may be learning to dance again but it is certainly with a limp.

Takk for alt,

Al

PS  While we were living in Davenport, IA, we liked to go to the Polka Fest at Durant.  We witnessed an elderly man slowly making his way leaning on a cane.  A young woman invited him to dance.  He hung his cane on his back pocket, whisked her around the dance floor to a fast polka until the music stopped.  The dancing couple parted and he hobbled off leaning on his cane again.  One more dance with Joanne; is that too much to ask?

Joanne's People

Journal entry by Al Negstad — 19 minutes ago

Re-locating from Dayton, Ohio to Illinois, we're with Joanne's family.  We drove west on I-70, through Indianapolis to I-74.  West of Danville, IL., we took IL 49, straight north to our hotel in Elgin.  Thus, we avoided I-65, and all of Chicago. Tomorrow Joanne's sister, Mary, and her husband, Chris, will celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary.  Tonight we were guests of their daughter for a barbecue which included many family and friends.  Naturally the presence of absence is profound mingling with her family making me think of this by Maya Angelou.


   It has been a week of strong emotions; my nephew's funeral, connecting with friends in Ohio and now with Joanne's family in IL.  Joanne would have eagerly been present for it all and now it's over a year since she died!  Uffda!  Well, that is life in the land of grief.

Takk for alt,

Al

Geezer Advantage

Journal entry by Al Negstad — a minute ago

There are many advantages to long life, at least if one's health is good.  Among those advantages is the opportunity for long, enduring relationships.  Being with Gerry this week and reminiscing about memories stretching over 50+ years is a huge, great gift.  Gerry is blessed with a great memory both short and long term making relating with her a delight. It's been a great week in Dayton.
    Then there is golf.   Frode was retired for awhile and Dick was newly retired in 1990(?) when we began playing golf together.  There were several who were regular 4ths for us over the years filling out our foursome.  Two years ago we ended our weekly 18 holes which had often been supplemented by  another 9 holes each week. While I don't miss playing golf I really miss the time we had together.  Frode was a bomber pilot during WW II and he would regale us with stories of his service in Asia...not to mention his keeping us smiling with his sense of humor.  He frequently mentioned that "his" planes were in the Air Force Museum in Dayton.  Knowing that,  I reserved a morning for the Museum...you really need a month...and a visit to see "Frode's planes" and today was the day.  Sitting gazing at the A-20, I imagined Frode as a young man piloting a plane like it in Asia.  For me, it was  a dream realized.  Perhaps if I lived here I'd visit regularly because in two hours my brain is full and I can't absorb much more.
     The World War II exhibit also includes the actual plane that carried the atomic bomb to Hiroshima.  Of the 2.5 hours I was at the museum I spent 2 hours in the WW II, building and felt I only scratched the surface. 

My niece put me on the website from which I copied the  article below.  It speaks for itself. 
  

Over Many Months

 JUNE 4, 2019 BY MARK NEPO

 

  
"After ten years of swimming, I stopped when Eleanor died. She was one of several dear ones who had left the Earth. There was too much to tend, and part of my heart had stopped, unsure how to continue. Everyone called it grief, but below the name, I felt that the fire in my center was beginning to smoke. I kept my appointments and did the endless tasks, but some part of me felt hollow.

Slowly, over many months, I began to feel the presence of those I lost in simple things: in the sudden sweep of tall grasses, as if Eleanor were whispering something I couldn’t quite hear; in the light on a pigeon in Washington Square Park while someone played a saxophone, as if my father were smiling on a bench just out of view; and in the closed eyes of our new dog Zuzu while asleep, as if our dead, beloved dog Mira were slipping inside her to tell us she was near.Then, one day in summer—after I had told their stories to everyone, after I had called to them so many times that my thread of grief joined the braid of silence that hoists the sun up every day—on one sunny day, I sadly gathered my swim gear and went to the pool. And as I slipped into the water, as I began to glide through that familiar depth, I started to cry, water meeting water. I felt myself enter my body again and realized I hadn’t wanted to swim because returning to my life, doing what I always did, would mean that these precious beings that I so love would truly be gone. Gone, as if never here. With each lap, I began to accept both their presence and disappearance, and stroke after stroke, the smoke in my heart began to clear. I kept moving through the water, which kindly parted for me, only to join behind me, as if I had never been here. And I could see that life parts for us all in this way. But now it seemed gentle and full of a quiet beauty.As I left the health club, the wind was lifting the tall grasses in the field beyond the parking lot, and I could feel it circle the earth, bowing and lifting the many trees and leaves along the way, sweeping pollen and spores from field to flower. I smiled in my sadness to feel the voices of time bow and lift me on the edge of the parking lot. And for a long moment, I could feel the presence of those who’ve come before sweep through me, lifting me into something so much more than me, only to settle me more deeply into life."

Takk for alt

Al

Pictures: Frode's Douglas A-20 and Martin B-26. The plane that dropped the atomic bomb.  Lisa, Gerry and Al

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7/24/2019 Caring Bridge

Untitled

Journal entry by Al Negstad — a minute ago

He was on the search committee and chair of the board of ALSMO (Association of Lutheran  Social Ministry Organizations) when Joanne was interviewed and chosen as CEO.  He said the decision was easy. Joanne came prepared with her own questions for the search committee and the choice was unanimous.  Two years later ALSMO became Lutheran Services America, a consortium of the social service agencies and long term care facilities affiliated with the Lutheran Church Missouri Synod and The Evangelical Lutheran Church.  Another search was done and Joanne was chosen as President/CEO of LSA.  He was elected to the LSA Board and served as chair throughout Joanne's tenure. He and Joanne had a marvelous working relationship and deep mutual respect.
    It was my privilege to visit Nelson (first name) and his wife, Shirley, today in their home in Columbus.  Naturally we told Joanne stories.  Nelson told about a particularly busy week, perhaps the week of the national conference.  On Friday they were talking on the phone and Nelson said he was happy to go home and rest.  When he asked Joanne if she was going to rest she said "O no, I have 12 people coming for pheasant dinner tomorrow night."  Nelson "You do?"  Joanne, "O yes that energizes me." That was my Joanne!
    Nelson and Shirley also live in the land of grief and Shirley shared this quote with me "Those who think there is a time limit when grieving, have never lost a piece of their heart."  Isn't that the truth! How blessed I am to find soul mates with whom to share the presence of absence.  Oblivious to the passage of time we talked until a phone call reminded me that time to return to Dayton.

Takk for alt,

Al

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7/23/2019 Caring Bridge

Purpose?

Journal entry by Al Negstad — a minute ago

What are we here for?  What is the purpose of life?  "Making a difference" is a recent 'catch phrase' and not a bad one.  Persons like to feel that their life has a made a difference.  Another concept with cachet today is 'paying it forward'.  It is also essentially positive.      Life slides by very quickly.  As I like to say "I never knew I would get old so fast."  Fifty-five years of relationship with Joanne and now fifteen+ plus months in the land of grief, where did it go?  There was certainly much effort and attention to issues that ultimately didn't matter.   There was definitely much neglect of smelling the roses.       Ensconced in this delightful Air B&B, I'm struck by how perfect a setting it would be for Joanne.  It's a place I'm happy to visit but would eventually make me claustrophobic while Joanne would delight in the huge trees, birds at the multiple feeders, friendly cat, neighbor woodchuck and the ambiance in the sweet little house.  Long, deep conversations with Gerry would evoke the 50+ plus years of sister-hood they shared.  Significant time with Lisa would please her.   Yes, the presence of absence is acute, while I still feel blessed, learning to dance again with a limp.    The poem by Gioia speaks eloquently to the transience of life.  Don't neglect deep conversations with your loved ones while you have the chance.  Driving through the areas of Dayton devastated by thirteen tornadoes on Memorial Day is eloquent testimony to the fickleness of life...celebrate what you have while you have it (them).Takk for alt,Al

The Road
by Dana Gioia

He sometimes felt that he had missed his life
By being far too busy looking for it.
Searching the distance, he often turned to find
That he had passed some milestone unaware,
And someone else was walking next to him,
First friends, then lovers, now children and a wife.
They were good company–generous, kind,
But equally bewildered to be there.

He noticed then that no one chose the way—
All seemed to drift by some collective will.
The path grew easier with each passing day,
Since it was worn and mostly sloped downhill.
The road ahead seemed hazy in the gloom.
Where was it he had meant to go, and with whom?
 

“The Road” by Dana Gioia from 99 Poems: New and Selected.  From The Writer's Almanac

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Pictures 1 & 2, Air B&B, pictures 3-5, storm damage a mile from our house.

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7/22/2019 Caring Bridge

Women's Restroom; Ladies Conference Room

Journal entry by Al Negstad — 49 minutes ago

Martin, Edith, Agnes and Margaret were the youngest four children of my grandparents, Olai's  and Minnie's, surviving ten children (two died as infants) and these four were very close emotionally.  Martin died in a barnstorming plan crash as a young, single man.  Margaret, the youngest, born with a heart mummer, died childless in the early 40's. This left my mother, Edith, and my aunt Agnes, who lived with her husband, Harold, in St. Paul's, St. Anthony Park neighborhood.  It was Agnes and Harold, who introduced me to Joanne, whom they knew from St. Anthony Park, in the cafeteria line at Augustana  College.  This is the story of how, once again, Harold and Agnes came into play in my life.
    In 1964 Joanne began her work as a counselor and St. Louis Park, MN., High School.  Early in our stay in St. Louis Park, Joanne went to Methodist Hospital to visit Uncle Harold, who was a patient there.  In the lobby she saw Harold's daughter, Louise, my cousin and Joanne's childhood friend, in conversation.  When she approached Louise, Louise said "this is my friend from St. Olaf College, Gerry, she's a counselor at Hopkins High School," which is the neighboring district to St Louis Park.  Naturally they chatted; knowing Joanne you're not surprised. 😉 
    A bit later there was a meeting of school counselors at a local motel and Jerry and Joanne met in the women's restroom.  Joanne offered Gerry hand lotion and asked Gerry if she was going to the planned counselor's tour of colleges and so they paired as roommates.  That was the beginning of great friendship and when Lisa was baptized at Westwood Lutheran Church, September, 1967, Gerry was her Godmother.  Gerry is why we're in Dayton and we're telling stories, many of which Lisa has not heard. Gerry, too, lives in the land of grief and her one sibling, a brother, died a number of years ago.  We share stories of the presence of absence.
       

Takk for alt,

Al

Pictured; some of the family gathered for Allan's service.

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7/21/2019 Caring Bridge

Dayton, Ohio

Journal entry by Al Negstad — a minute ago

Cross the river, take a left to the cul-de-sac, look for the blue heron under the house number, and, there find a delightful, two bedroom, Air B&B, nestled in the woods, for $104. per night.  What a beautiful end to a rather miserable drive from Chicago....construction, stop and go, and intermittent torrential rain on I-65. But here we are comfortably settled in our digs so what does the drive matter?
    The start of the day was delightful.  Leaving Milwaukee early enough to join Bonnie, at her church, Grace Lutheran, Evanston, IL., for outdoor morning worship we were blessed by an exceptionally inspiring service. Bonnie escorted us around Evanston including Northwestern University.  Bonnie and Lisa are friends from their days at Luther College and she's a dean at Roosevelt University, Chicago.
    We are in Dayton to visit Gerry, a friend since the 60's and Lisa's Godmother.  This Air B&B, is less than 10 minutes from Gerry's condo.  The location may be a stroke of luck but that would deny Lisa proper credit for finding it.  Now as the lightening flashes across the sky, thunder crackles and rain drums on the roof we're so thankful we arrived before the rain. 🙏   This little slice of Dayton missed the eleven tornadoes that wracked the city.

Takk for alt,

Al

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7/20/2019 Caring Bridge

Allan Richard's Memorium

Journal entry by Al Negstad — a minute ago

The poster board on a tripod held a map of the United States, Canada and Mexico.  The hundreds of marking pins stuck in the map indicated the locations of Allan's adventures. He certainly was a person of adventure which included hitchhiking much of the northern tier of the U.S. and Canada.
     The open mic feature of the memorial rounded out much of his persona.  For 35 years he was a camera man for WTMJ-TV, the NBC affiliate in Milwaukee.  Two of his colleagues spoke; one a news anchor and the other his boss.  His boss affirmed his commitment to the union and to the station saying that Allan was always ready and willing to share an informed opinion.  The respect and information that these two shared about his work life was very helpful because that was largely hidden from family.
     The picture that emerged of Allan was of an intelligent, wise, gregarious, adventuresome person with a huge heart.  One speaker told of calling Allan and asking for money.  Allan said "How much do you need?"  Hearing the reply Allan said "I'll be right over with it."  As his brother commented "He not only lent the money he delivered it!"  The large memorial room was standing room only. A testimony to him was that all of his cousins, on his mother's side, were in attendance travelling from Minnesota and South Dakota.
     More absence of presence in the land of grief. May God bless the memory of my nephew, Allan Richards, 63.

Takk for alt,

Al

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7/19/2019 Caring Bridge

July 19, 2019

Journal entry by Al Negstad — a minute ago

WORD FOR THE DAY

Gratitude is the memory of the heart.

The Word for the Day, emailed by a friend, is worth pondering, isn't it?   What is better than a grateful heart?  Have you noticed how pessimistic persons rob energy but grateful people are energizing?  "Memory of the heart"  I'm going to try to retain that concept/image.  Much of Joanne's charism was her up-beat attitude and unflagging gratitude.   A quarter for every 'thank you' she wrote would endow a nice scholarship.  Joanne's father, Oscar,  would preach in many congregations. After he left he'd send 'thank you' letters to the pastor, secretary, organist, and any others he encountered in the congregation.  Recently, Mark S, passed on to me a letter Oscar sent his dad who was the choir director at my ordination.  It was a one page letter specifically affirming the contribution of the choir.  It's not possible to say too many thank yous.

     Tomorrow brings a sad event.  The family will gather in Milwaukee for nephew Allan's funeral.  It was to be a fun trip as Lisa and I were planning to visit friends in Dayton & Columbus Ohio.  Included in the plans are celebrating with Mary and Chris, 50 years of marriage.  We'll still do the visits after the funeral, including a stop with Bonnie in Chicago.  The juxtaposition of grief and happy times with friends simply illustrates the reality of life in the land of grief.

Takk for alt,

Al

7/18/2019 Caring Bridge

July 18, 2019

Journal entry by Al Negstad — a minute ago

 Today I'm travelling with friends to the St. James Hotel, Red Wing, for lunch.  From there we will go to the Eagle Center at Wabasha.  Our final stop before return home is dinner at The Harborview Cafe in Pepin WI.  Therefore, I'm posting this essay by Garrison Keillor about again.  He makes a point with which I agree,

Takk for alt,

Al
The pleasure of running into Stan on Sunday

 

I stopped in a cafe on Sunday after church to get awakened from a feeling of blessedness and who should I run into but my Anoka High School gym teacher Stan Nelson, who is 99 years old and still talking and making sense. He looked at me and said, “Are you still having trouble with chin-ups and the rope climb?” I was 17 at the time and now I’m 76, and I told him that I’ve managed to stay out of situations that might require me to climb a rope or lift myself up by a horizontal bar, so the answer is, No, it’s no trouble at all.

“You’re looking good,” he said. He’s looking good too, hearty and keen, as if 99 is what he was aiming for all along. “You flunked the physical for football, didn’t you,” he said. I said, “Yes. Heart valve. They fixed it in 2001.” I opened my shirt and showed him the surgical scar on my sternum. He said he didn’t think I would’ve liked football anyway. I agreed with him about that.

It made me happy to see a man of 99 enjoying his life. It puts everything else into perspective, all the mopey poetry I wrote in college, the long single-spaced anguished letters written to friends under the influence of Kafka and Kierkegaard. Self-conscious misery is for the young; old age is the time to cheer up.

I was brought up by people who went through the Great Depression and the war and who told me how hard life could be and I matriculated into prosperous times when I put myself through college working part-time in the scullery and could still have a beer now and then. I’ve been independent ever since. I never confided my problems to anybody; I just let them go unexpressed and eventually they blew away like dry leaves. Or they became quirks. I was lucky. I married well. I got my heart sewn up by a surgeon and now I’m older than most of my aunts and uncles. I went to church and was forgiven and took Communion and now my old gym teacher is pleased to see me.

Minneapolis is near where I grew up on the Mississippi. The city has risen, spread, renovated, beautified itself since I was a boy — the old factories and warehouses are now expensive condos — and it’s lovely to walk around the old hometown, one foot in the past, while looking at the unimaginable present, the enormous towers, the male couples, the young women checking their cellphones, the ordinariness of being among people of color: that didn’t exist back then.

I’m at peace with all of it and a great deal more. The children of my friends are engaged in good works, trying to help people addicted to opioids and heroin whose lives have fallen apart, who live in ragged encampments, desperate families with small children, a scene of wretchedness out of Dickens’s Oliver Twist in the midst of my prospering city. I admire the doers of good works. I worry that they’ll forget to go to the state fair and ride the Ferris wheel in the dark and laugh and enjoy their cheese curds.

Life is good. Power and influence are illusory. Rich people often get lousy health care. Doctors don’t give thorough digital prostate exams to CEOs. Famous people are more likely to die in stupid accidents because their handlers are afraid to say, “Stop. That’s crazy.”

We live in treacherous times but so did Thomas Keillor who survived the five week voyage from Yorkshire in 1774 and my ancestor Prudence Crandall who got booted out of Connecticut in 1831 for admitting young women of color to her school and so she fled to Kansas where she campaigned for women’s suffrage. She was a Methodist. I like to imagine her sitting on a porch in Kansas, writing fierce polemics against male supremacy and the racist killjoys who blight the landscape, and at the same time enjoying the music of meadowlarks and the taste of tomatoes eaten off the vine and the pleasure of shade in the midst of brilliance. To change the world, you must start out by loving it. It’s fine to march but don’t forget to dance. The Lord is gracious. Come unto his gates with thanksgiving. In other words, get over yourself. It isn’t about you. Grab the rope and pull yourself up. Try. Try again.

Garrison Keillor 

7/17/2017 Caring Bridge

Sunrise? Sunset? Legacy?

Journal entry by Al Negstad — a minute ago

Bequeathing tangible property is not always easy.  Who should get what after a person dies, done well, requires wisdom and discernment.  Money can perhaps be simply divided proportionately but that ignores a host of other values; needs? relationship? special circumstances?, etc.  More complicated is the distribution of special effects which may have little monetary value but significant sentimental weight. Beyond the physical items are the intangibles.  How does one pass on the joy of a special sunrise witnessed?  
    These are the issues Burns raises in the poem below, copied from The Writers Almanac,

Personal Effects
by Raymond Burns

The lawyer told him to write a letter
to accompany the will, to prevent
potential discord over artifacts
valued only for their sentiment.

His wife treasures a watercolor by
her father; grandmama's spoon stirs
their oatmeal every morning. Some
days, he wears his father's favorite tie.

He tries to think of things that
could be tokens of his days:
binoculars that transport
bluebirds through his cataracts

a frayed fishing vest with
pockets full of feathers brightly
tied, the little fly rod he can still
manipulate in forest thickets,

a sharp-tined garden fork,
heft and handle fit for him,
a springy spruce kayak paddle,
a retired leather satchel.

He writes his awkward note,
trying to dispense with grace
some well-worn clutter easily
discarded in another generation.

But what he wishes to bequeath
are items never owned: a Chopin
etude wafting from his wife's piano
on the scent of morning coffee

seedling peas poking into April,
monarch caterpillars infesting
milkweed leaves, a light brown
doe alert in purple asters

a full moon rising in October,
hunting-hat orange in ebony sky,
sunlit autumn afternoons that flutter
through the heart like falling leaves.

 “Personal Effects” by Raymond Byrnes, published in Waters Deep: A Great Lakes Poetry Anthology
    Ah, yes, what really is important in the land of grief?

Takk for alt,

Al