What is it About December?

   It's been a very long time since I've posted to this blog.  Now, as 2018 draws to a close, I feel compelled to write again.  Tonight I learned that I have lost yet another friend, and again in December.
   This is a month that is known for darkness.  Today is the Winter Solstice, the darkest and shortest day of the year.  Many celebrations surround the concept of darkness and light during this twelfth and final month of our calendar year:  Hannukah, Advent, Christmas, Solstice, New Year's Eve.  Since the dawn of time, humankind has taken a moment during this wintry month to pause and reflect on life and death.
   For me, each year that passes carries a little more sadness during this month.  Both of my parents died in December, and several friends died, as well.  I was born on December 22nd, and have always loved being born at such an energy-infused time of year.  For beneath the frozen ground, seeds are sleeping...new life will come in the spring, and this long period of sleep is necessary for their growth. Each year that passes in this decade of my 60s brings more loss.  The deaths of friends and family must, by natural law, increase as I age, until one day I, too, will pass away and become memory.
Is it morbid to focus on death at a time when most of the Christian world is focusing on birth?  No, because both are intimately entwined.  The Wise Men brought gold, frankincense, and myrrh - foreshadowing the death and burial of Jesus Christ.  These were the precious gifts they laid at the manger in Bethlehem.  And even as Jesus was born under the brilliance of a Star, Herod ordered the death of all Jewish baby boys under the age of two...just in case.  Birth.  Death.  Entwined.
   It's certainly much less dramatic for me.  My mother told me long ago that I was born on the coldest day of the year.  Perhaps that's why I've always loved the cold!  As a child, I slept in an unheated summer porch.  I remember putting my little hands on the chimney that passed from the kitchen below through my little room to the roof, feeling the warmth of it.  I was never cold.  In fact, since our grandmother lived with us, the house downstairs was kept uncomfortably warm.  To this day I gravitate to the cooler places in our house.
   Today I lost another friend.  Just yesterday she was commenting on my photograph of dawn in Ontario, and hours later, she died of a heart attack - no previous warning.  We must all be prepared.  Who knows who will go next?  In my family, the women live to be quite old.  My mother was 96.  Her aunt died at 104.  I may well live to be well over 100.
   My motto is, live each day as if it is your last, but plan as though you will live forever.
Now, as the longest night of the year is in progress, my wish for all of you, dear readers, is that you reflect upon your lives, and realize that you, too, could disappear into the night without warning.  Yes, we celebrate the return of the light beginning tomorrow (my birthday), but we know deep in our hearts that the great wheel of time will continue to roll, and bring around December after December.                What do we bring to the manger?  Does the Star shine down upon us, too?  What is it about December?

The Color Purple

   This week our community lost a dear friend.  By "our community," I mean not only greater Rochester, but also the large family of music educators who knew her.  To protect her family's privacy, I'll call her Tammy.  I knew Tammy from my final position as an arts director in a local outer-ring suburb.  I knew her not only from endless staff meetings, many informal classroom visits, formal observations, concerts, and the like, but also from social events - parties at my house, gatherings at her house.  For you see, music educators are a very large family.  One of the comments that appeared in my own annual performance reviews each year was the fact that I was "too close" to my faculty.  That one always made me smile.  My superintendent finally said to me, "You're one of them, aren't you?"  You bet I am.  I was, and I always will be.
   Even though I've been retired for 5 1/2 years now, I still have friends - former colleagues - in the school district who do a bang-up job of keeping me informed of all manner of news.  Sometimes I get news reports before the official word comes from their current central office administrators...This brings me to how I found out my friend and colleague was ill, a little over a year ago.   Through Facebook and messaging, I was able to follow Tammy through her slow, relentless downhill journey.  Thanks to social media, I was able to send Facebook messages, texts, and e-mails, along with one or two calls to let her know I was thinking of her, that she was in my prayers.  She was diagnosed with cancer right around the time that my brother was diagnosed...I offered to go visit her on several occasions, but she never felt well enough to take me up on my offer.
    When I realized she was no longer checking in to her Facebook account, I began posting photos on her wall occasionally.  Sunrises, sunsets, beautiful scenes that I had the privilege of seeing...it was my way of visiting.  And of course, she was always on my daily prayer list.
   This past week, Tammy passed away.  There was an amazing half-page article in the local paper, as well as a lengthy obituary.  The obit gave not only the times for the calling hours and funeral, but also a request that her friends and family wear purple to these events, as it was her favorite color.
   Purple.  The color of royalty.  I only have one or two things to wear of that color, purchased one summer to match my purple cast on whichever foot was operated on that year.  I wore one dark purple sweater with matching scarf to the calling hours at the funeral home, and a lavender top with a black jacket to the funeral itself.  And I was part of an absolute tide of purple in both places.
   The tributes to Tammy were beautiful.  There were photos of every aspect of her life, cut short at too young an age.  Her Celebration of Life was a glowing tribute to her faith, her love of family, and her adoring friends.  I must admit that I considered not attending the funeral.  After all, the family seemed surprised that I showed up at the calling hours.  I had originally decided I would remember Tammy by driving to a nearby state park to observe the "ice volcano" that has recently appeared on local news - a fountain that has a 27' ice pinnacle growing up around it.  Tammy had been a camper, a hiker, a lover of nature, interests that I share.  I would remember her by spending some time in a beautiful place.  Only, when I made the hour-long drive to see the ice volcano, the final stretch of road was closed!  I turned my car around, and realized that I still had time to go home, change into yet more purple, and make it to the service in time.
   I'm so glad I did.  The chapel was packed.  I was once again a part of a purple tide.  I saw a number of people I had worked with - music teachers, administrators, all members of that community.  I was content to sit in the back pew alone, singing along on the hymns, tearing up at the testimonials, and above all, basking in the glow of a true celebration of life.  Tammy was beloved among her peers, and that love was very evident that day.
   Today I wore purple one more time.  The funeral may be over, but I believe that Tammy is now leading a band in Heaven - I have no doubt that she's in charge of the elementary angel instrumentalists, cheering them on in their heavenly music making.  I know angels are supposed to be wearing white, but I believe Tammy and her little band are all wearing purple...the color of royalty.  After all, they are performing for a King.

On Hallowed Ground

   This weekend, four months after my brother’s death, I travelled to northeastern Ohio for the interment of ashes in my mother’s grave.  My mother’s grave is in a small town cemetery in her hometown, a beautiful piece of land in a verdant river valley.  Her ancestors and relatives’ graves are all over the cemetery…many generations of German Irish people whose stories we have heard for years fill these grassy plots…And now my mother’s ashes are crowned with my brother’s ashes.

   Any thought that this would be less emotionally-charged than the memorial service a few months earlier were quickly dispelled.  My nephew read the Committal of Ashes from the Anglican Book of Common Prayer, which I had coincidentally printed out for our use.  My copies were put aside for people to take home as my nephew, a man of the cloth and wearing all black, read the service while our extended family stood in a circle around the new grave in the old.  Several people spoke a few words.  Quiet sobs accompanied the memories.  We prayed the Our Father, and the service was concluded.

   We took family photos.  Some of us went to other parts of the cemetery to find other relatives’ graves, and there were many – probably five generations worth, at least.  Ultimately we caravanned to an Amish restaurant out in the country where we had a huge long table on which an ample country meal appeared.  Then we said our goodbyes to those who lived south, in Central Ohio.  Those of us from other states – Florida, Arizona, New York, and Pennsylvania, as well as those who lived either in town or within driving distance – drove back to our hotels either for rest or for further visiting.

    I chose to go to the lake outside of town where all of us cousins used to vacation together every summer.  Two cousins and I headed out to the lake with our swimming suits, looking forward to a swim on a beautiful summer day.

   As we drove through the lovely old town that cradled our mothers, I was aware that we were treading on hallowed ground.  Sure, there were plenty of stories that were anything but straight-laced, but the sense that we were driving through God’s country was undisputed.  Even if we did marvel at the fact that it’s a miracle that our older brothers are still alive after driving the Ridge Road while under the influence at high speeds…the land is still beautiful.  The valleys are still green (my mother used to love to gaze out over valleys and murmur, “How green was my valley!”), the farms are still operating, and very little has changed.

   Then, the lake.  So blue, so calm, so inviting…we drove into the leafy green paradise that sheltered our aunts, uncles, grandparents, and now some of our children and their children…small cottages and some larger homes are nestled in the forested hillside that leads down to the lake where boat slips and a small private beach beckon.  The memories that this residential woodland holds for us are endless.  We walked these roads when we were toddlers, with our parents and their parents.  Now we’re the grandparents, and the little ones at the beach are my second cousins.

   We stepped into the cool, sweet waters of the lake, and sank into the silky softness that has its own distinctive perfume.  Again, the hilarity of the past shenanigans of our siblings – the hiding of beer under the dock, the times we rocked the raft so hard it flipped over – the many family reunions – echoed in our ears and hearts like the soundtrack to a very old film.  We’ve lost two cousins, all of the aunts and uncles, and certainly our grandparents.  But we’re still here – for now.

   Then, a member of the next generation offered us a ride on the family boat.  Oh, yes – this would complete my total joy at being here again.  We threw some clothes over our wet swimsuits, and climbed aboard the pontoon boat.  Off onto the larger lake we went – past forests, houses, cottages, docks, and eventually the more remote valley and beach where we rented cottages fifty or sixty years ago.  We pulled into the cove where my father kept our little wooden rowboat, where we all fished, where my older cousins swam, and yes, where they stashed their beer for late-night rendezvous. As we pulled out onto the larger lake once more to head back toward the glens from which we had come, I received a text that yet another relative - my husband's aunt, the last of his mother's generation, had just died up in Canada.  Another soul had launched from Earth to Heaven, and coincidentally, she had been a sailor.  Perhaps it was the day, or the way the wind blew, or the incredible shade of blue of both water and sky...All of the memories coalesced into that boat ride on that gloriously beautiful summer afternoon.  My brother had been laid to rest, it is true, but now he is part of the great heavenly host of relatives whom I imagine are still out there enjoying the lake, the cottages, the children, the memories.  This is hallowed ground, and holy water.

   From dust we come, and to dust we shall return.  It is true.  And perhaps our tears become the raindrops that fill the lake, and our laughter becomes the wind rustling in the trees along those beautiful wooded lanes.

   There is loss in death, without question. But as we grow older, and as more of us pass on to the next world, the boundaries begin to waver and fade, and our beloved family homeland becomes a thin place, as the Irish say.  A place where one can walk between worlds.

O Brother, Where Art Thou?

It's been a long couple of months. While I was writing my earlier blog posts, my brother Jim was struggling with lung cancer. He was diagnosed about a year ago, but after radiation therapy, they thought they got it all. Think again. In late September, Jim found out he had Stage IV lung cancer. Terminal. My husband and I were able to make it out to Ohio to visit him and his family four times between September and his death a few days ago. Those visits were so very important to us. Each visit found Jim just a little bit weaker, although his spirits remained high. Each visit left me wondering if it would be our last. We went out in October, and Jim was still getting out to enjoy eating out and other trips. We went back in December. He was on heavy pain meds then, and slept a lot. We did have a few good hours with him, exchanging Christmas gifts and sitting around the kitchen talking and laughing. I had made a fleece blanket for him, green with white deer (bucks, of course. With antlers.) We drove back out in February, just after he spent a week in the hospital. He went home to Hospice care. That weekend, we arrived on a Friday. It was a shock to see him in his hospital bed in his living room, a darkened room curtained off from the rest of the house. The green and white buck fleece I had made him for Christmas was on his bed. I spent a lot of time sitting by his bedside, praying. Slowly over the course of the weekend, he began to get up a little, and by the end of the weekend, he was using his walker to get around the house a little bit, even venturing into the kitchen. After we departed, his wife Kim told us he had made it out to a casino! That just seemed miraculous. Then the call came a few days ago. Jim was failing. Did we want to come out? Of course we did. We made the drive, even though a wind storm had left our home in Rochester, NY without power. We found my brother sitting in his elevator-chair, the one that was bought during our last visit. However, this time I don't think my brother recognized me. At all. My husband and his sons helped put him back in his bed, as his legs would no longer bear his weight. Once again, the green buck fleece blanket was his cover. He was heavily medicated. Although his eyes opened, and he even recognized his wife, sons, and the wife of his best friend, he was clearly on his journey. The family sat vigil around the clock, and we spent many hours with them. Twice I was sure his time had come, but he rallied both times. He had the unexpected energy burst that sometimes happens with one who is ready to leave this world. Then he crashed. My husband and I had to leave on Sunday afternoon, which was very difficult for me. The family had "cocooned" so deeply that I felt cold and alone when I left the house. Of course, Jim's family continued the vigil...until I received the call about 24 hours later that my brother had passed away. I cried. I sobbed. I howled into my own fleece blanket. My brother! My brother! Where are you now, my brother? My daughter gave me a beautiful flower arrangement which I placed on the cover of my grand piano, along with candles and a photo of Jim, laughing and smiling for the camera. My brother is at rest now, at peace. My brother is no longer suffering. We believe that he is with God. We were blessed to have him on this earth for 69 years, but now my brother has gone home. Sleep well, dear Jim. We will see you in the Great Bye and Bye.

Something About December

December is a very difficult time for many. It seems as if the whole world is bright, happy, and filled with the joy of the season...after all, the Christmas carols start around Halloween, and by Thanksgiving all the stores are decked out in green and red. TV commercials try to sell us all the things, and online popup ads are relentless. Hanukah is way late this year, December 24 - January 1st, but still falls within this month of December. I was born in December, on the Winter Solstice. I've never minded having my birthday so close to Christmas, because it seemed like everybody everywhere was celebrating something. For years, my older brother Jim and I traded birthdays...his is August 8th. I always appreciated his generosity and willingness to make sure I got a birthday gift that wasn't really a Christmas gift serving two purposes. The years passed, and now we are adults. We lost both our parents in December, Dad in 1993 and Mom in 2014. I've always prided myself on not being depressed during the holidays. After all, most of the December holidays are about darkness and light...whether it's Hanukah or Advent, the candles increase until the darkness is filled with light. But this year is different. For you see, now my brother Jim is facing lung cancer. My dear brother who taught me how to climb trees, who traded birthdays with me, who used to dry dishes in our childhood kitchen while singing songs from "Brigadoon" (practicing the sword dance in a dishtowel "kilt"), and who did two tours of duty in Viet Nam, is now facing the greatest battle of his life. Today he had a lung biopsy on the campus of Ohio State University during the lockdown that resulted in the shooting of a lone-wolf terrorist, a student who drove into a crowd then began attacking people with a butcher knife. What kind of world do we live in? Where is the light in all of this darkness? Regardless of your politics, your religion, or your background, we all want the same thing...peace on Earth, long life and health for our families, and a light in the darkness. In the face of all this sorrow and loss, I struggle to reach within myself and find that light, still shining. For me, it's the increasing glow of an Advent wreath, in which another candle is lit every Sunday for four weeks until that great Light enters the world on Christmas day. This year may be the first year that I struggle to find the joy in the season...We expect our parents to pass before us. It's another matter altogether when your siblings become sick and begin making their final preparations. And so I will light the candles, say the prayers, and pray for light in this world. Grief and loss are hard at any time of the year, but there's something about December...