Stitching

When I visit Boo, I sit quite near her, where she reclines on her couch. I show her pictures (she enjoys them), sometimes read her a blog post (she enjoys those too), and tell her what news I might have.

It's hard sometimes, though, to focus on her, not because I don't want to, but because the needlepoint tapestry hanging on the wall behind her distracts me, so striking is it in design, color, careful stitching.

I needle-pointed myself, a long time ago, and no matter how hard I tried, I always pulled my stitches too much in one direction (usually the right). Even blocking didn't always correct my errors. Only twice did I follow someone else's patterns (Christmas stockings). Otherwise, I made my own -- Winnie-the-Pooh characters for children's rooms, backgammon boards (including one designed in imitation of Piet Mondrian's Broadway Boogie-Woogie), house portraits.

Boo has told me the story of this tapestry before -- several times, but I always confuse its origin with the figures parading below, spread out on a mirror, making them even more enchanting. They, I think, are Indian, but the tapestry may simply have been one of her nephew's "finds."

At any rate, I look at the tapestry and speak with my elderly friend, slowly and loudly so she can understand my words. And I try to answer the questions she asks, the same ones each visit, the same ones many times in each visit, and I remember that, like the tapestry, her words and memories once fitted together in tight patterns, stitched carefully in her mind, and I think on all the other old folks I've known like her in advanced age.

If only I had paid more attention earlier.

When Breakfast Is the Best Way to Start a Day

Start with something forgotten: a distant friend's Christmas gift with a name that makes two insider insights at one and the same time -- a reference to my favorite I-always-cry-when-it-happens line from my favorite movie (think Scout/aka Mary Badham saying "Hey, Boo" upon seeing Boo Radley/aka Robert Duvall in Jem's/aka Phillip Alford's bedroom in a great scene from To Kill a Mockingbird) and a reference to a favorite Sewanee friend whose nickname is Boo and whom my friend met when she visited Sewanee; then make sure that that something forgotten is as delicious as this Indonesian "jam," a delicious riff on curd that I could love on anything, even just a spoon.

Trial and Error

I showed my friend Boo two pictures I recently took, one of an Episcopal church in Cowan and one of Taylor's window. 

She couldn't understand what I saw. 

Her advanced age, perhaps. Her hearing, perhaps. Her vision, perhaps. My own inability to explain, perhaps.

So on leaving, I stopped on her front porch and tried another outside/inside/outside shot, this time of her own house. Then I shall try to explain again tomorrow, with something familiar.

(Now if only I could figure out how to take what I actually see. But that's a whole other issue.)

Spellbound

weather-worn
star-topped
skirted in turquoise
a carnival booth
or gypsy caravan
promising an electrifying attraction
Boo's shed
anchors the garden
and holds me in thrall

Catching Up

Boo with the news; me with a new cellphone.

Easy lies the head that wears the crown

and eats chocolate ice cream.

Hospital? Who cares!

Mobility

"Aren't you the nature photographer?" he asked when I got out of the car.

"Yes! Dragonflies and damselflies!"

"We've met before," he said.

"I remember! Are you leaving?"

"Not yet," he said, grabbed some soft drinks from the back of his trunk, then headed through the gate toward the dam.

When I caught up some minutes later, I saw him and his wife, toast each other with their blue plastic cups.

"What are you toasting?" I asked when I was close enough.

"This is our mid-summer toast," she said, smiling. "A bit late, but this is our first visit this summer."

We chatted a while, reminding each other that we're all teachers (they've been retired about nine years), commenting on the beautiful afternoon, before I took off toward the odes.

An hour or so later, I followed them back through the gate.

They love wildflowers and always consult their guide to Tennessee ones, the same book I have on a shelf. They also read when the come, classics mostly, each a different book.

"So many Virginia meadow flowers this year!" he said

"Yes," I said, "but no cardinal flowers, thanks to the really big mow."

"Don't worry. They'll come back," he assured me.

"How long does the drive back home take?"

"About two hours or so," he said, "depending on the Chattanooga traffic."

"That's an awfully long way to come to read and see flowers!"

She said, "We love it here. Reminds us of Europe. There's something magic about Sewanee."

"Especially Lake Cheston. It's so peaceful and beautiful," he added. "We're headed to Green's View next."

"Just know that it's changed a bit," I warned them. "It might not be as accessible as it used to be."

"Oh," she said, "we always manage. As long as we can get there, we always manage. I'd never let this slow me down."

Afterwards, at the hospital, I thought about mobility -- hers, Boo's, and mine. 

I think it's time to stop complaining about my bad feet.

Another Movie Night, Missed

Still in the hospital, hearing worse than ever, my elderly friend recovers, slowly.

She hates the yellow-orange gown, but at least she can wear one of her bright slippers.

Sometimes, she's in a chair when I visit.

It's easier to focus on what's familiar instead of what's not.

Old and New

My friend is old and hospitalized, thanks to a broken ankle.

This view off the plateau is old, but the approach is new.

The woods in Sewanee are old as is what grows there.

The balls in the woods that have been chipped of the golf course beyond the tree break are new.

 

Today, what's old is great. 

The new, not so much.

On Leaving

After the movie, my friend Boo said, several times, that she really wanted a puppy. She has said this before since her Dandy died several years ago. She doesn't remember saying it, but she remembers Dandy and she knows she loves dog.

"Oh, Boo," I said.

"I know."

"Is that a good idea? You could trip over a puppy. You know they're always under your feet."

"Yes. But it just wouldn't be fair;" then she added, "To the dog. I'd probably die before the dog. And then who'd care for him?"

A bit later, on leaving, the misted windshield, the blurred streetlight, the receding car gave me pause.

The Lost Week (October 12-16)

An actual vacation: what a blessing. And in New York, no less. Good thing I've been there quite a lot. Good thing I spent a semester there in college. Good thing my only agenda was to visit family.

Day 1: To avoid an early morning drive to the airport (i.e. 3:15 am), I took the shuttle from Monteagle to Nashville to spend the night. The hotel puzzled me and other guests, as I discovered when four other people and I couldn't figure out how to operate the elevator. (Insert key card, then select floor, finally elevator moves.)

Day 2: Flight to New York. Uneventful in the best way: sleep. Once there, I had great difficulty understanding the fellow driving the hire car. His Indian accent was so thick and the noise at the airport so great that I couldn't understand a word he said. Not only that, but the woman I originally contacted told me to cross two islands (only one was correct), but fortunately, I finally located the driver, a traffic lane away.

Even my brother, whom I visited, was a bit impatient, given the driver's reluctance to stop in front of his building and his poor choice of a traffic route (an hour to get from LaGuardia to midtown). 

But.

I had arrived.

A lovely afternoon of clear skies, Japanese ramen, chatting, a niece-kitty cuddle, settling in at the Airbnb, napping, and Netflix splurging.

Day 3: A morning stroll along Fifth Avenue and into Central Park, a happy sit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art fountain, where I saw more people in one hour than live in Sewanee. Then a lovely luncheon and an even more spectacular stroll (my choice, said my art historian brother) through American art, the rooftop garden, and modern art, culminating in long contemplation of a beautiful new installation of an important Thomas Hart Benton mural.

A lovely Indian dinner downtown with new friends, one of whom gave me a first-edition E. B. White Here Is New York capped off a full day of pleasure.

Day 4: A short walk to Hale & Hearty on Lexington for a satisfying sandwich, followed by another ramble through Central Park, including a black squirrel, a mouse, beautiful gardens, and the model sailing pond (where photogenic ducks swam). All before I headed to the Duke mansion, home of NYU's Institute of Fine Arts for my brother's class (he teaches PhD students). On the way to his apartment, I couldn't resist a visit to Lady M, a high-style pastry shop. If only I could have brought home an endless supply of Caramel Miroir, a delicious way to celebrate a day much enjoyed.  

Day 5: Departure at 9:45 am in another hire car, this one driven by a competent immigrant (15 minutes to La Guardia), a long stand in the TSA line (in front of a companionable chat with a father and daughter and her husband), and, an hour later, immediate boarding. One of my seatmates took this photograph of NYC on the prettiest day of my visit and was kind enough to email it to me. 

At home, Friday evening on my weekly movie "date," I described my visit to my elderly friend Boo, who said, "You're the only person I have ever known [keep in mind that she is 93] who ever had a relaxing holiday in New York."

Yes, I did.

And I enjoyed every minute.

Panasonic GH3: Day 4, or Big Eyes

My friend and I saw the movie Big Eyes tonight, and though both of us remember those kitchy waifs and all the press they earned, the back story escaped me entirely. I'm not sure that Margaret Keane cared what art critic John Canaday said about her paintings. She said, or the actress playing her said, several times in the film that the paintings come from inside the artist.

I tried photographing some big eyes today, not very successfully. A 90mm macro is no match to a Fragile Forktail's three-quarters of an inch to one inch. I kept creeping closer and closer and more and more plant material kept getting in the way. In fact, I finally gave up and grabbed the superzoom. 

What you see isn't always what you get: a lesson from my frustrating photowalk this afternoon and the movie tonight.

Just Call Me Curmudgeon

Some students arrived mid-week and others dribbled in since.

The rest will storm the campus within ten days.

Meantime, I treasured this last tranquil Friday evening after my movie date with Boo.