Blessings abound!

    Joanne was the queen of "staying in touch".  Hopefully some of that rubbed off on me, though it did not come naturally. With a cousin living with her husband in Canby, Mn., it's easy for me to stop off for dinner with them on my way to The Little House. Since their sons died in an airplane crash 5 years ago I've tried to do it regularly.  Last night we had a meal with good conversation at a cafe in Canby. After dinner I headed south on Hwy 75, and a half mile south of the Porter corner I had a meeting with a dear.
   There was only flash of fur as the deer ran out of the ditch, committing suicide by automobile. With the radiator punctured the car was undriveable. The impact wasn't sufficient to activate the airbags.  Cousin to the rescue, they picked me up, brought me back to meet the tow truck driver, gave me bed and breakfast, fed Trygve and took me to Marshall this morning to get a rental car...which had a very interesting twist.
     Evidence that I should not be living without adult supervision: my insurance policy doesn't include a rental car  😒...dumb. The claims agent told me they could get me a discount at a car rental place (un-named for a reason you'll soon see). This morning my cousin fed me a hot breakfast and then drove me to Marshall to rent a car.  As I was explaining my need for a car to the rental agent we were settling on a rental for $43. per day. When I mentioned that I did not have rental car insurance she asked "which body shop?"  I said "Abra." She said "They have a loaner, do you want me to call them to see if it's available?" "Yes, please." "It is for $1.00 and a copy of your drivers license." !!!!!!
    How kind is that???   So the agent gives up a sale and gets me into a loaner for a dollar! WOW! As I was leaving the body shop I said "I'll call you from Miami." She said "Take me with."  Oh, yes, there was one request "We only ask you bring it back with as much gas as it has when you take it."  I'm so grateful I plan to leave it with an extra gallon. 😃😃


Takk for alt

Al

Uffda

A Little Rain Must Fall!

  Driving in western MN a deer committed suicide by automobile.  I'm fine but car's not...more tomorrow.

Takk for alt

Al

Reconsidering?

 
    "You don't live in the land of grief," she said, "you live a rich, full life with periodic episodes of  grief."  This was her analysis based on the reading of my blog. Such feedback gives me pause as I ponder the truth and accuracy of her perception.  Writing daily as I do it is easy for me to miss the forest and only see the trees.
     Certainly I agree that I'm living a rich and full life. It is also true that there are moments...episodes of deep grief. Does this mean that I do not live in the land of grief? Or, is that just the nature of my current position in the land?  Much of the time I'm not conscious of my loss until something brings it, or her, to mind.
    Well, whatever, I do live a rich, full life and for that I remain profoundly grateful.

Takk for alt,

Al

Remembering Tami

  Tami was our barber, Joanne and mine, for a number of years. She came to mind today as I was reflecting on the story I'm now writing in the land of grief. One day, as she was cutting my, hair she asked a question which I've never forgotten nor have I forgotten her reaction to my response. Her father had recently died, rather unexpectedly. Tami was recounting her mother's deep grief at the loss of her husband. Tami asked me "How long should it take mother to get over dad's death?" I replied "Give her a year and then see how she doing." She stepped away from the barber chair and looked at me wide eyed saying "A year? I was thinking two weeks." From there the conversation proceeded about loss, grief and recovery. Tami was endued with great common sense and Joanne I bonded with her during the years she cut our hair.
    Sometime after her father died she was diagnosed with breast cancer. She struggled through chemo therapy and radiation but eventually succumbing to the cancer. Her last days were in hospice and when she knew she was dying she made some requests for her funeral. She asked that I do a eulogy at the service. As she was a member of the Russian Orthodox Church in North Minneapolis that was the site of her service. The priest gave permission for me to speak with the following stipulation; "you will speak after the service concludes and you are to say nothing theological."  At the time of her death she was in her late 20's leaving a husband and a young son, with whom I have no contact.
     Journeying thought the land of grief now,  my experience bears out my advice "give her a year and then see."  Certainly the time varies, for some shorter and for others much longer. Grief moves at its own pace and not in a steady direction, rather with peaks and valleys. After about 10 months, in my case,  I began to feel like myself again.
    The salon where Tami worked always put up a Christmas Tree to which each stylist added an ornament. After Tami's death, Joanne and I were give the ornament Tami had placed on the tree. It is a small globe of the world. Every year as I hang it on my tree I think of Tami and again remember her loss...she was so young!             "...ask not for whom the bell tolls..."


Takk for alt,

Al

Flashback!

      Overheard at book club:
"What is the difference between a graveyard and a cemetery?
    Answer:
"A graveyard is by a church and a cemetery can be anywhere."
     I didn't know that, nor did I look it up in my Funk and Wagnalls to see if it is true. Also mentioned was that Indian sites are always referred to as "burial grounds." Why?

Flashback:
   When I received notice of a friend/acquaintances sudden death today I flashed back to Joanne's death. Bev lived in Sioux Falls and since we left we (I) have been out of contact. We didn't "run around with Bev and Les, but we were often as the same events in our South Dakota days. When we met we always had deep, significant conversations.
    Bev was only 70, and died suddenly and unexpectedly which reminded me of how fortunate we were to have Joanne in hospice for 23 days. Joanne was 82, and I am thankful the length of her life. As I imagine Les confronted now with the sudden death of his wife I recall the trauma of those early days after Joanne died. Now Les begins his journey in the land of grief  tormented by the presence of absence.
   What carried me though? Largely relationships...family and friends and they are what continue to make life in the land of grief meaningful. A huge thank you to all you my 'virtual' friends. You are such a gift.

Takk of alt,

Al

Recommend reading and........

     She received a purple heart and The Distinguished Flying Cross with valor. MJ tells the story of the episode that gave her the Purple Heart but there is only a picture of the Distinguished Flying Cross with valor.  MJ, Mary Jennings Hegar tells her story in a biography/memoir Shoot Like A Girl: One Woman's Dramatic Fight in Afghanistan and  on the Home Front.  

     While it may not be considered great literature it is a fascinating story of MJ"s struggles, success and failure in the Air Force, and beyond. Sexually abused in a faux physical by an Air Force Doctor she decides not to press charges when her superiors promise to discipline the doctor. When MJ is at an awards ceremony to receive recognition she decides to resign her commission when the doctor who abused her is also honored.

    After leaving the Air Force she joins the National Guard and it is in that capacity she participates in a daring rescue of wounded soldiers that garners her both the Purple Heart and Distinguished Flying Cross. It was in Afghanistan and she was in a Medevak  Helicopter rescuing soldiers from an ambushed caravan. Yes, I'd recommend reading it.

     Perhaps I never told you that I was once lost at sea? Don't go forming images of the sailors in whaleboats after the sinking of the Whaleship Essex. It happened like this.

     For a couple of years I was stationed at Camp Pendleton, California, which is on the coast north of San Diego. Our time was spent training. The Marines, being an amphibious landing force,  gave us opportunity to practice going ashore from ships at sea. This 'losing' was during  a major maneuver that involved the whole battalion.

     We were boarded on a liberty ship which sailed a few miles out to sea. We left the ship going over the side on rope netting into small landing craft. These craft were designed to hold 20-30 Marines and run up on the beach where the front would drop open creating a ramp for disembarking. They were simple little boats, operated by a coxswain, and powered by a diesel engine. There was no navigational equipment aboard.

    The first landing craft loaded would circle while the waiting for the last ones to be filled. On this night, shortly after dark, we off loaded,  but by the time the last one was full, fog had rolled in and the coxswains didn't know which way was land. For hours we circled in the dark and fog, all the boats staying in a circle. Finally the fog lifted and we were put ashore, twenty miles north of our intended landing.   The sea sickness some experienced was our worst causality, unless you count the extra 20 mile march. 

    Now a bit from the Bard.

Sonnet 73: That Time of Year Thou Mayst in Me Behold

by William Shakespeare

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see’st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire
Consumed with that which it was nourish’ d by.
This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

Takk for alt,

Al

In retrospect.

     A couple of white settlers were walking through the land near The Little House in the 1880's. Passing the rocky hills of a small lake after a prairie fire, they commented "It looks like Mt. Sinai." That is how the lake was named. The lake was dry and farmed in the 1930's. My first memory of it was a huge cattail slough in the 40's. In the 50's I could wade much of it with chest waders.  Since the wet years began in 1984 it has become a huge lake of thousands of acres and many feet deep.
   In the late 1880's, when a Lutheran Church was founded, it was named Lake Sinai Lutheran.  Eventually 'Lake' was dropped from the name and it remains Sinai Lutheran today. The churchyard was also the cemetery.
   In 1907  The Great Northern Railroad  ran a line from Sioux Falls to Watertown which required water stops, for the steam engines, every seven miles so the town of Sinai (pronounced locally as Siinyii, a corruption of the Norwegian) was founded. Sinai is a half a mile east of where the church stood. When it was time to build a new church it was built in town, dedicated in 1950.
    There were very good reasons to locate it in town. In retrospect though, I think something was lost by moving from the cemetery.  "You are dust and to dust you shall return" says the pastor on Ash Wednesday. Walking into church on Sunday, past grave markers, perhaps even those of your ancestors, is a visible reminder of our journey toward dust. "Teach us to number our days and so get a heart of wisdom." If the church was in the cemetery, on my way to the entrance, I'd walk near a grave marker with my name on it.
     Now, that I've become a denizen of the cemetery, a church on the grounds would be welcome. Would it be helpful to others? Or, is it just me?

Takk for alt,

Al
 

"Her children rise up and call her blessed" Proverbs 31:28

      That's what her children, all five of them, did today.. rising "up to call her blessed." They memorialized their Mother Lorraine, January 2, 1919-September 28, 2018,...yes, over one hundred years old. The "children's choir" sang and the youngest child was born in 1953. Her short term memory had been gone for awhile but deep in her being she never forgot her kind, gracious, positive outlook, She epitomized the joy of living positively in the moment extending grace to her companions in the memory care unit and all whom she met.
      During my working years I noticed the effect on me when I was in the presence of a grateful person. Perhaps Lorraine, because she lived years and years in gratitude it soaked so completely into her being that when much else was lost, she remained a beacon of light.  Today there was eloquent testimony to her life filled with gratitude.
     Mother-in-law jokes? Au contraire...her sons-in-law also rose up to "call her blessed,"  acknowledging deep grief at her death at age 100. It's an odd experience to become an orphan no matter how old we are when it happens but what a gift to be able to call the deceased blessed.

Takk for alt,

Al

From The Little House on the Prairie

"How are you doing?"

   That question is most often asked by those who do not read my blog. As, Tom, has told me "Because I read  your blog, I don't have to ask." A friends often says to me "You have a big life." Size is not my usual measure of life. I don't know about that, quality is more often my measure and I say "I have a good life."  It's a life of many blessings. It's a life with a hole in it caused by Joanne's death. It's a life with joy, pleasure, meaning and opportunity in spite of Joanne's absence. What I learned from Joanne continues to enrich this life in the land of grief.
    When I answer "how are you doing" I'm likely to say "I'm doing as well as I could hope, given my loss." Relationships have carried me through. Family and friends have been with me on this journey and, one of the blessings from this blog, has been a virtual community who have grieved Joanne's death and accompanied me on the way. There are so many to whom I owe a deep debt of gratitude.


Takk for alt,

Al

"I am not resigned."

Dirge Without Music

By Edna St. Vincent Millay 

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 and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,—
They are gone.  They are 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.

Source: https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/dirge-without-music-by-edna-st-vincent-

millay

    Edna St. Vincent Millay is the poet who gave me my oft repeated phrase "the presence of absence" in another of her poems.  Perhaps her "And I am not resigned' is another phrase I may borrow. Now as I live in the land of grief I am reminded of Joanne and the presence of absence less often. But when she, and the loss of her, comes to mind "I am not resigned." Still, that absence feels so wrong and inappropriate.
    Contemplating a trip to The Little House On The Prairie this week gives me some satisfaction in anticipating a visit to Joanne's grave. There I will ponder even though "I am not resigned."

Takk for alt,

Al

Recommended Reading???

  Perhaps it's a sign of recovery of some sort. In the first weeks and months after Joanne's death I had to will myself to read. The best I could do was try to keep up with my two book clubs. Now reading is a joy again and I take that as good sign. Frequently when I've finished a book I post a "Recommended Reading" notice on Facebook.  Included on the post is a bit about the book and my response to it.
   Now I'm ambivalent! Do I recommend the book I just read or don't I? It's well written, interesting and very well researched. But in the author's own words "The Essex disaster is not a tale of adventure. It is a tragedy that happens to be one of the greatest true stories ever told."  P. 236 of  In the HEART of the SEA: The Tragedy of the Whaleship Essex, by Nathaniel Philbrick.
   Do you want to read the gory details of whale hunting and slaughter? Do you want to read about the cannibalism of the sailors shipwrecked by the attack of a sperm whale? Then, this is the book for you.
The tale is very well told and accompanied by a prodigious amount of information about Nantucket and the early whaling industry. It is a fascinating study of human behavior when men are pushed to the very limits of survival. It's always good to be reminded of how thin a veneer civilization is if it leads to self-understanding and compassion for others. This is the tragedy that lay behind Herman Melville's Moby Dick, which I haven't read since I was aboard ship in the early '60's.
   I'm still ambivalent, so, you decide,

Takk for alt,

Al

Subic Bay Incident

      Of the year I spent in Asia, while in the Marines, about six months of it were spent at sea. Much of that time was aboard the Princeton, the aircraft carrier, which I referenced in my blog yesterday. While aboard that ship in the spring of 1962 we were anchored in Subic Bay, Philippine Islands for some time.
      Announcements aboard navy ships are piped through a sound system throughout the ship. The actual announcement is always preceded by shrill piping from the bosun's whistle. For example; "Tweet,  tweet...Clean sweep down fore and aft." Marines would often make jest; e.g., "Tweet tweet...the captain's going to the head (toilet)."
      It was a beautiful tropical Sunday. Subic Bay was so quiet only a few mild swells rocked the ship The quiet calm was broken by the bosun's whistle: "Tweet tweet...Lower the captain's jig. The captain's going ashore." Having nothing better to do I stood on the walkway just below the overhanging flight deck to watch. The captain's jig, a motorized boat, was swung out away from it's hangers below the flight deck and was being lowered to the water when one of the sailors slipped and fell into the bay. In the perfectly calm waters, with a motionless ship and wearing a life jacket, I erroneously thought "he's in no danger."
      With a man overboard the bosum's whistle wailed again "Shriek shriek...man overboard, man overboard, lower the motor whaleboat, lower the motor whaleboat." The coxswain leaped into the motor whaleboat, fired up the diesel engine preparing to rescue the sailor in the water. With the motor whaleboat's propeller spinning it was dropped directly on top of the sailor. The effect was quickly apparent from the blood in the water from the injured sailor. He was soon picked up and taken to the ship's hospital. Nothing was ever revealed of his condition.
    Were I to go overboard in those conditions, I decided, I'd swim a good distance from the ship before calling for help. On the other hand, a man overboard at sea is seldom found. By the time a ship can turn it could be as far as a mile from where the sailor entered the water.. Finding a person, even floating with a life jacket, is almost impossible.
    Writing the post yesterday re: literacy and life brought this memory to mind.

Takk for alt,

Al

Tears...

   In the days, weeks, months after Joanne's death I cried often and a lot. Now, over 18 months into the land of grief tears are infrequent. Today they welled in my eyes as our music director played "Joanne's" piano for the offertory.  It was the combination of the beautiful Impromptu in G Flat Major, played flawlessly on "her' piano.

    Joanne would have loved the music played by her beloved, Steve Self, and been tickled that the instrument is in her memory. Music can stir the soul and it did today. It was powerful combination of beauty and the presence of absence.

    Aging has brought many gifts to me. Today in jest I told a friend that there's nothing left after age 60. The years after 60 have brought me profound loss but also innumerable gifts. The day that they ask me for my car keys is a day I dread (see the poem) below. 

Dangerous Driving
by Caroline Johnson

"The car is a lethal weapon," my father swore
to me when I was getting my driver's license.

Still I went on, laughing at him, driving to the most
dangerous places, pushing the accelerator
as fast and hard as I could.

I received my stack of speeding tickets,
and my father threatened to remove
my name from the insurance policy.

"The car is a lethal weapon," he said again.

Thirty years later, my brakes go out while
driving on a busy Chicago expressway.
I read the billboards, numb, unable to stop.

I get my car fixed, then we take the keys
away from my father, who is struggling
from years of Parkinson's disease.

"The car is a lethal weapon," I tell him,
but he still wants to drive.
 

Caroline Johnson, “Dangerous Driving” from The Caregiver. Copyright © 2018 by Caroline Johnson. Used  (Writer's Almanac)

Takk for alt,

Al

"Joanne's" piano.

The gift of family via fostering.

     .It was a bit of a jolt for Joanne though it was very much her choice. The first four years of our marriage she worked as a counselor at St. Louis Park, MN,, High School. The fourth year she also worked as new mom, because Lisa was born that fall. When we moved to North Dakota the adjustment to not working outside of the home wasn't easy. Moving into that gap was foster parenting adolescents, a role for which her professional life had prepared her.
     First came Allan to our home for a school year. (He is my nephew and he died in July at age 63.) Shortly after Allan left Cathy came to us before her junior year in high school. She lived with us until her marriage, to Tim, after she graduated from high school. Yes, Joanne sewed the dresses,
     Deeply bonded with Cathy, we were also her legal guardians, we welcomed her husband, Tim, into the family. Tim and Cathy remained in ND and there they raised their children, Kimberly and Derek, Derek still lives in ND and Kimberly lives in Florida.
     After suffering with cancer for several years Cathy died in 2012. Now, Tim and I share the land of grief. We stay in close touch via phone calls. This weekend, at Kimberly's initiative, she came with her daughters, ages 15 and 13, and Tim came from ND.  When Kimberly and her girls came for Joanne's funeral the girls bonded with Joanne's (mine too 😉) granddaughters and they wanted to stay in touch.
      Joanne's willingness to open our home to foster children has blessed us with a larger family, our own nuclear family being quite small. Joanne's graciousness continues to bless, even as we live with the presence of absence. It has been rich weekend.

Takk for alt,

Al

Literature and life.

    It was the spring of 1962. With my USMC enlistment winding down I was aboard the USS Princeton, (LPH 5), an aircraft carrier built during WW II to replace the one sunk by the Japanese. The Princeton had been retrofitted as a helicopter carrier which is why it was carrying a battalion of Marines.  On the flight deck was a squadron of Marine helicopters being ferried  to Vietnam.  One bright sunny day the helicopters lifted off off, one by one, and flew to Vietnam, too far to be seen. They were the first Marine helicopters deployed there and they relieved Army  helicopters that had been ferrying South Vietnamese troops.
     In June I was discharged but, though I had been released from active duty, three years of inactive duty remained of my enlistment. During that time I could have been recalled to duty at any time at the discretion of the Marine Corps. As the fighting in Vietnam intensified involving increasing number of American troops I fully expected a recall that never came.
    As the conflict grew I became convinced that our involvement was a mistake. When one of my classmate's, from the safety of his seminary enrollment, argued for increasing U.S. involvement in the fighting I said "Then why don't you enlist?"  With American incursion into Cambodia, the "secret war" in Laos and the intense bombing of the North, my opinion of the immorality of the whole war intensified.
     In the mid-90's, when I visited Lisa in Cambodia, my interest in SE Asia re-ignited. One of the factors in that interest was the guilt I felt as an American over what was done by my country to that region. Over the years I've read much about the war, S.E. Asia, and our complicity in the destruction caused by the fighting.
    Now, fresh on the literary scene, is a debut novel, The Sympathizer, by a Vietnamese American, Viet Thanh Nguyen, which received the Pulitzer Prize.  Nguyen came to America as a four-year-old refugee. The book was published in 2016. The book begins with the fall of South Vietnam and continues in the years following.  In his own words:
“I wanted to write a novel that was entertaining, that people would actually want to read because I knew I would be dealing with a lot of very serious political and literary matters.”  Nguyen on NPR.
    He succeed on both accounts. It is a very well written novel, a 'page turner', which carries profound reflection on literature but especially on politics.  It is gratifying to me that it has reached a wide audience.  On my recent Road Scholar trip I was surprised to discover two of the participants who had never heard, either of the "secret war" in Laos, or of the Hmong.  With Nguyen's novel he has struck a blow for a more informed American populace.

Takk for alt,

Al

Learning to be grateful!

It was time to take Trygve for a walk. We entered the 15th floor elevator. Two floors later it stopped and a man in a motorized wheel chair swept in, spinning his wheel chair in a circle, he stopped facing the door. "It's nice you can turn on a dime" I said and he agreed.  Why is he in a wheelchair and I have good legs, hips and knees? No answer comes to me, except to be grateful. Then I open my Christian Century, October 9, 2019, P. 22, and read the essay below. This essay was submitted in response to the Century's invitation to write about "dirt". 

"For years, I wished every spring that I’d planted daffodils the previous autumn so I could reproduce William Wordsworth’s vision: “A host, of golden daffodils; / Beside the lake, beneath the trees, / Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.”

I happened to be walking through a garden store one Saturday morning in October when I saw a cardboard bin full of bags of daffodil bulbs—50 bulbs to a bag. I was ecstatic! I bought two bags and couldn’t wait to get home to plant them.

I spent the rest of the day trying to dig four-inch holes for the bulbs. Our dirt is very hard, clay-like, and dry. I rely on a cane to keep me upright because of a stroke, and I found that working with my cane in one hand and a spade in the other was very difficult.

At dusk that day, I attempted to soften the soil by pouring water on a certain plot. Then I turned to set the hose aside, and my cane slipped in the mud. I spun around and fell backward into a big mud puddle. For a moment I lay there stunned, my limbs and head splayed out.

I began to move to see if anything was broken. I seemed to be intact, but my stiff and arthritic limbs felt useless as I lay there. I felt like a large Kafkaesque dung beetle, tossed on its back in the mud, arms and feet limply flailing the air, perfectly ineffectual.

I knew I needed to turn over and get my feet under me. The mud was slick, and I struggled to get traction. After several tries, I was able to dig one elbow into solid dirt beneath the mud so that I could turn over. My shoulders flipped quickly, and my face bobbed once in the mud. I snorted and blew wet dirt and was able to hold my head up. From there, I worked to get onto my knees. Successful with that maneuver, I rested there, suddenly surprised to find myself in a prayer position.

Kneeling in that thick mud, surrounded by gathering darkness, I prayed: “Out of the depths have I cried unto thee, O Lord” (Ps. 130:1). I suddenly felt a living connection with the psalmist, whose desperate cry was the perfect expression of my own muddy lips. God was not lurking and laughing in the distant shadows at the edge of the yard. His warm love welled up in my chest. Astonished, I rested there for several minutes, grateful—so profoundly grateful—for the presence of God in my life.

At length I noticed a chill in the autumn air, so I begged God to help me get up fully. I felt around in the mud for my cane. With great effort, leaning on my cane with both hands, I was able to get my feet under me, then straighten up.

Later a dear friend of the family came and planted the bulbs for me. And I was delighted that almost all of them grew in the spring. I was at last able to walk among “a crowd, / a host, of golden daffodils.”'

Don Simpson
Colorado Springs, Colorado

Lord, give me a grateful heart!

Takk for alt

Al

Comm

"Grief is the seed of.singing..."

Citizen of Dark Times
by Kim Stafford

Agenda in a time of fear: Be not afraid.
When things go wrong, do right.
Set out by the half-light of the seeker.
For the well-lit problem begins to heal.

Learn tropism toward the difficult.
We have not arrived to explain, but to sing.
Young idealism ripens into an ethical life.
Prune back regret to let faith grow.

When you hit rock bottom, dig farther down.
Grief is the seed of singing, shame the seed of song.
Keep seeing what you are not saying.
Plunder your reticence.

Songbird guards a twig, its only weapon a song.
 

Kim Stafford, “Citizen of Dark Times” from Wild Honey, Tough Salt. Copyright © 2019 by Kim Stafford.  Writer's Almanac

     Being a writer, and not a singer, I turn for help to Tom, who posted this when his beloved mother-in-law died.

To my dear sisters and brothers, After gathering around Mom's body yesterday for one last time - such a profoundly sad and grateful moment - I left the Cremation Society with a song in my heart ... which was still there this morning.  "Sometimes I feel like a motherless child."   Not one, but both of my mothers ... gone.  So hard.   I think I wailed the song all night long.  Needing to cry, I went to YouTube this morning and found several fine renditions of this traditional spiritual by African American women , including Mahalia Jackson (start at 2:18), Lena Horne and Bessie Griffin.  The rendition that resonated most deeply with me is the one by Jesse Norman, who just died on Monday at 74.  When you've got time and a quiet place, I think you'll find listening to each of them to be evocative. I also found the following commentary from Wikipedia helpful in understanding the depth of soul from whence this spiritual emerged: "Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child" is a traditional Negro spiritual. It dates back to the era of slavery in the United States. An early performance of the song dates back to the 1870s by the Fisk Jubilee Singers. Like many traditional songs, it has many variations and has been recorded widely. The song is an expression of pain and despair as it conveys the hopelessness of a slave child who has been torn from her or his parents. Under one interpretation, the repetition of the word "sometimes" offers a measure of hope, as it suggests that at least "sometimes" the singer does not feel like a motherless child. Richie Havens performed a historical rendition of the song – retitled "Freedom (Motherless Child)" – on August 15, 1969 at the Woodstock festival (opening for the festival).  See/listen to Richie HERE. Yes, we're relieved and grateful that Mom's long journey is over. Yes, we'll gather to celebrate her life and tell stories.   But we'll also grieve, as grieve we must. Becky and I found yesterday full of profound sadness and a deep sense of loss. I hope that when you do ...  or to help you to that place of befriending your grief ... that this spiritual might be your guide.   May your "sometimes" offer a measure of hope. Blessings and love, Tom P.S. Thanks to each of you for allowing/encouraging me  to claim your mother as mine as well. Don’t ask what the world needs.  Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it.  Because what the world needs is people who have come alive. Howard Thurman Thanks, Tom, for this eloquent tribute which speaks to all of us in the land of Grief. Takk for alt, Al PS I forgot to hit "Post" last night...sorry, my bad.

"Where do you buy groceries?"

     When we relocated to downtown Minneapolis we were frequently asked, "Where do you buy groceries?" Tempted as I was to say "In a grocery store" I resisted and explained the situation. Since we moved here nine years ago there are several new options. Downtown Market, accessible by Skyway, two blocks away was here when we arrived.  About ten blocks away is a new Lunds/Byerlys, Whole Foods is three blocks and Trader Joe's is five blocks.  (Food is easy to find, but gasoline....)
    When I mentioned to friends that I was going to Trader Joe's the response was "It's all prepared food." To which I said "That's why I'm going." Cooking isn't really my thing...grazing is closer to an accurate description. In our house in Golden Valley the grill on the deck, just outside the sliding glass doors from the kitchen, was convenient for much food preparation. Now condo rules restrict grills to small, camping style and the deck is not near the kitchen, so now I don't grill.
     Grocery shopping has been my responsibility for twenty years or more. Between Lund's/Byerly's and Costco I've done most buying. Tonight Lisa introduced me to Trader Joe's which takes a bit of orientation after the more traditional stores to which I'm accustomed. This may be the correct store for my current lifestyle. The first time I visited Joe's on my own I felt lost. With some adult supervision in the introduction tonight I should now be able to navigate it on my own. You all know that learning a new store takes a bit of time and also Joe's is different from old norm.
   Ah, yes, so much to learn!

Takk for alt,

Al

Poster for the Communist Party, Portugal: They lost 5 seats, going from 12 to 7, of 230 total, in the recent election.

Perseverance

       Much of living with grief is a matter of perseverance.  The bereaved is challenged to 'keep on keeping on' and if he/she does there may be a light at the end of the tunnel. A middle class lifestyle insulates against many of the forms of oppression others experience  In the cocoon of middle class existence we're seldom tested in ways that could show either the depth of the goodness or the reality of evil that lurks within. We don't know the depth of our perseverance because we haven't been challenged to our core.
      With the news of Toni Morrison's death recently, our book club was moved to read her book Sula,  It's one of her earlier books, published in 1973, and quite short. It's the type of book many reviewer's would call 'searing.'  Set in a small town in Michigan, and an African American neighborhood, it covers the period of 1919-1965. In it she has this reflection on the perseverance of these African Americans.   
    "What was taken by outsiders to be slackness, slovenliness or even generosity was in fact full recognition of the legitimacy of forces other than good ones. They did not believe doctors could heal --for them none ever had done so. They did not believe death was accidental--life might be, but death was deliberate.They did not believe that nature was ever askew--only inconvenient. Plague and drought were as 'natural' as springtime. If milk could curdle, God knows that robins could fall.The purpose of evil was to survive it and they determined (without ever knowing they had made up their minds to do it) to survive floods, white people, tuberculosis, famine and ignorance. They knew anger well but not despair, and they didn't stone sinners for the same reason they didn't commit suicide--it was beneath them." P. 90

   "They knew anger well but not despair,..."  Is not that the essence of healthy grieving which may be full of anger, yet, not giving into despair?

Takk for alt,

Al

Go-carts on a Lisbon street.

Birthplace of Henry The Navigator, Porto.

Monument to Henry The Navigator, Lisbon.

Random musings.

Boredom
by Louis Jenkins

Nowadays I am seldom bored. There simply isn't time. Not
because I am so busy, it's just that time passes more quickly
as one gets older. Boredom that once lasted hours is now
compacted, concentrated, so that one can experience hours
of boredom in a few seconds. Intense boredom that causes
one to nod off....But only for five minutes. Or has it been
an hour? Well, time is relative. Like that distant relative
who used to be me, plodding home after school in a day-
dream, in a fog, so that each time he wakes he finds himself
standing on the same red ant hill or running, side aching,
breathless, for miles in the wrong direction with the
murderous Willard brothers right behind.

Louis Jenkins, “Boredom" from Just Above Water. Copyright © 1997 by Louis Jenkins. From today's Writer's Almanac

Robert Coles said, "We should look inward and think about the meaning of our life and its purposes, lest we do it in 20 or 30 years and it's too late."

" I remember Joanne and I talking about the luck part--that we were both lucky to be born into the families and the times that we were.  Now those circumstances (families hers and mine) were very different in many ways:  from religion (but not the importance of religion, that was very similar) to location (in my case never too far from the farm, in her case town, city and foreign travel etc.)  But what was the central thread?  Parents that valued women's education.  And that made all the difference in many ways.  We talked about that with great gratitude to our good fortune. 

There are so politically charged efforts today in places where women's education is not only not valued but actually suppressed with vigor.  When I think of this all in perspective,  that cause seems quite valuable indeed." MJV

     When I came across the poem about boredom I wondered "When was the last time I was bored?"  There's too much stirring in my mind, too much to do, too much to experience to be bored. Perhaps that's a function of my age. Or, maybe the blessings that surround me...but boredom, nope. 
     Then came MJV's email reflections on her time with Joanne. Joanne was blessed with wonderful parents and part of their blessing on her was their value in her education. It's good to think about that.  Then, too, any reflections about Joanne means much to me.  MJV and Joanne enjoyed deep relationship and those connections are always gift.
     Robert Cole "...meaning of our life..." Even in the land of grief life has meaning and that is good.

Takk for alt,

Al

18 months in.....

    On April 12, 2018, I awakened Joanne to give her her morning meds. When I asked "What's special about April 12?" she shrugged her shoulders. Three house later she died. My life divided into before and after.
    Now 18 months into life in the land of grief what's the assessment?  There have been many surprises and learnings. It quickly became apparent to me that I had to reach out to others, to fill my people needs, now that Joanne was no longer physically present. The balance between being with others and being alone feels good to me. Living with Joanne for 54 years taught me many things and I'm using many of those learnings to make life in the land of grief fulfilling. Joanne was the queen of "staying in touch" and I've taken that seriously and have worked to maintain relationships.
    One surprise to me is how significant I find her place of burial. Visiting family graves was not a part of my experience in my family of origin. Though we lived close to my grandparents graves we did not visit them regularly. When we moved back to Minnesota Joanne and I would assist her mother tending the family graves prior to Memorial Day. After her mother died we continued that practice. So it comes as a surprise to me how important I find it to go to her grave. But,  I do, though I can't fully articulate all of that significance.
    Eighteen months into life in land of grief and I'm fully engaged in life with a variety of meaningful outlets. Joanne didn't fully understand her influence on me and she'd be surprised and pleased with the life I've made in her absence. The raw, overwhelming, overpowering grief of the first weeks and months has become a constant empty place, more of a dull ache than a piercing pain.For example she loved fall and the cooler temps so as the weather changes it serves as a reminder of the presence of absence, and, all that I get to experience that she is missing.
    Driving back from The Little House today I passed the farm on which her father lived as a child. It would have been opportunity for her to tell her memories of that place. Perhaps those memories would have been repeats or I might have learned something new. Absence at that moment was part of the ache of loss.
    Life is good and I am richly blessed. Yet........

    Yes, folks, do ask your loved ones questions before it's too late.

Takk for alt,

Al

Joanne with her siblings and their spouses.

Snug Inside

     The calendar I keep of visitors to The Little House shows my last visit ended on August 28!  No wonder if felt like a long time...it was a long time. It's good I came because my dehumidifier died. It was early death at age 3, R.I.P.  I'll leave a bit of heat one and get a new one in the spring.
    Trygve and I got our chores done in the wind driven rain. The Norwegians have a saying; "There is no bad weather, only bad clothing." If this is true my clothing is bad because I got wet. It wouldn't be so bad if I'd at least shrink. But, I don't, I just get cold. Yet. there's a bit of satisfaction in persevering. Yes, I did tend Joanne's grave in the rain, though admittedly, I did n't linger long and I know she would understand.
    It's incredibly wet here. Roads under water, fields flooded, basements leaking and the totally saturated ground testifies to the excessive rain. Driving home from dinner with the family this evening there were snow flurries...so it begins.
    This will be a very brief visit but still meaningful. Just being on the prairie is therapeutic. My chores took me on foot over some of the native sod I'm working to restore to native grasses. It is heartening to see those grasses being re-established.

Takk for alt,

Al

Little House On The Prairie

   The Little House On The Prairie has been sadly neglected.  It was bit of brain failure on my part. During the summer months I tend to visit the earlier part of the week. In that mode I scheduled a number of things for Thursdays and Fridays these last weeks. The synapse that didn't fire was the one that should have remembered in the fall I volunteer at school Monday-Wednesday. The result was no time for S.D.  The Portugal trip also meant time away from The Little House.
    So, now back from Portugal and my week at school finished, I can go. Then the weather predictions are for snow beginning Friday. 😟 There are some things I really need to do and among them is to check on the House, given all the rain. So I have plan, leave early tomorrow for a 24 hour trip.
     Part of my distress at being away is not visiting Joanne's grave. Her burial there, with the marker in place, is a significant comfort to me. What it all means is beyond my ability to articulate but her presence there in a location where I have deep roots is very important to me. Rain or not I'll tend her grave tomorrow and, perhaps, make up for my time away.

Takk for alt,

Al

Poster on the wall of the museum of Jose Saramago, Nobel Prize Winner for literature. This is in Lisbon and one third of him is buried there, another third where he lived and another where he ws born.

Happy to be home......

From today's Writer's Almanac 

Small Kindnesses
by Danusha Laméris

I've been thinking about the way, when you walk
down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs
to let you by. Or how strangers still say "bless you"
when someone sneezes, a leftover
from the Bubonic plague. "Don't die," we are saying.
And sometimes, when you spill lemons
from your grocery bag, someone else will help you
pick them up. Mostly, we don't want to harm each other.
We want to be handed our cup of coffee hot,
and to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile
at them and for them to smile back. For the waitress
to call us honey when she sets down the bowl of clam chowder,
and for the driver in the red pick-up truck to let us pass.
We have so little of each other, now. So far
from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange.
What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these
fleeting temples we make together when we say, "Here,
have my seat," "Go ahead—you first," "I like your hat."

"Small Kindnesses" by Danusha Laméris from Healing the Divide: Poems of Kindness and Connection. Green Writers Press, © 2019

     It's a gift to be able to travel but it's a greater gift to come home.  One of the benefits of travel is a renewed joy in my little daily routines and to be welcomed home by family and friends. My students at Noble Academy gave me a warm "welcome back." Yes, I recognize that part of their delight is my presence frees them from their class room for a a few moments. 😃
     Before I entered the land of grief Joanne might have accompanied me on this trip, If she had not gone I would have had much to tell her. Because I could not tell her I tell you and that is important to me. Painful it is to have news to share and no one with whom to share it.
     Road Scholar lived up to the accolades my many friends have given it. Were I to change one thing it would be this.  If it offered a bit less programming I would have found it helpful. There was bit of free time offered but by the time it came I was too tired to take full advantage of it. The amount of programming overfilled my people bladder so, between that and fatigue, free time became time to rejuvenate alone.  I would like to have done more solo exploration.  If and when I take another such trip I'll likely just opt out of some the activity to meet this need.  
      With the signs of fall in the color of the leaves it struck a sadness in me. One more season that Joanne is not here to enjoy. It brought back the memory of the same feeling as spring came.  It's been weeks since I visited her grave and that too makes me sad.  It's time to sweep the grass away give it some care.

Takk for alt,

Al

Porto from the 17th floor dinning room of the hotel.

17th floor view of Porto.

Home again...

    The wake up call came at 1:40 a.m., which is 6 hours ahead of Minneapolis, so I'm thinking about sleep. Trygve's home, too, and also tired because the last few days he stayed at a house with other dogs. From Porto I flew to Amsterdam and then home. For once I managed to sleep on the planes, but I'm still tired. Bags are unpacked and it's my goal to have things put away tomorrow.
     Yes, it was a good trip, and yes, it's good to be home.

Takk for alt,

Al

Finally...

    Activities today included a boat ride on Douro River and a walking tour of downtown Porto. Porto has a sister city across the river; Gaia, which is slightly smaller. The metro area has a population for about 1.3 million.
    Portugal is holding elections today. Polls are open from 7:00 a.m., until 7:00 p.m. Electioneering is not allowed the day prior. Our guide does not expect much change to happen.
    This has been a good trip for me. However, the balance between being with others and being alone is very different than that to which I've become accustomed.  B y today I found myself ready for more individual experience. Said another way; my people bladder is full. This no critique of the group. All members have been pleasant, curious, prompt and cheerful...and no one has gotten lost. Our guide's use of a electronic device broadcasting to an ear piece we wear has been very helpful, especially given my compromised hearing.
      My flight leaves Porto at 5:00 a.m., tomorrow (Monday) for Amsterdam. If all goes as scheduled I'll arrive in Minneapolis at 1:10 p.m.  Tonight is our final meeting and dinner.

Takk for alt,

Al

The Eiffel bridge where he tried out his construction ideas before building the tower in Paris.

Buildings lining the waterfront.

Old town street.

Central church tower which serves as a land mark.

Tiled frescoes in the train station.