I have very few friends who

understand me as well and tolerate me as patiently as does Florence, my former neighbor. Within ten minutes of walking into her kitchen for an overnight visit, I asked, "Would you mind if I take a few pictures of your garden before lunch?"

"Of course not!"

And so I did.

I do love tulips, but I love Florence so much more.

Among Other Things, I Am Grateful For

the continuing friendship of a former student and her mother

and the blue sky all the way home.

Shared Histories

A life is lived, especially these days for many of us, not just through time, but also through space and place: shared histories of childhood with family and first friends, with mates in clubs or armed service or causes, with peers in school, at work places with colleagues and clients, associates or students, patients or collaborators, in towns and countries scattered far from first home.

Few in my generation live the long life, spent mostly in one neighborhood or village of one larger city, associating with one large circle of acquaintances and friends through school into adulthood, in varied civic and personal and professional associations.

I thought about that kind of long life today, sitting in a pew next to a high school/college friend, in front of high school school mates, behind camp friends as we and others celebrated the death of a friend's father, friend to my own deceased father, and I dizzied when someone said, "She's Betsy's first oldest friend." 

"It isn't entirely true," I said.

But then I remembered the names of two our forebears carved on the same commemorative First Settlers stone in one 17th-century New England town, and marveled at the lineage we share.

A Satisfactory Day

My friend Jere's highest compliment was simple and direct: if something was delicious, or beautiful, or comfortable, or enjoyable, or . . . anything good, he'd announce, slowly after thought, "It's satisfactory."

This day was satisfactory, thanks to breakfast in Bell Buckle, my visit with Florence and her daughter A and step-son D, freshly groomed Prince, and the flowers in the window through which Jere enjoyed his garden during his last months.

A loss, surely, but love for satisfactory friends, too.

Celebration of Life

My friend Jere died at midnight, not unexpectedly and peacefully, at last. Today, I have no words but these, which I have previously published in this blog.

End-of-Summer Blooms
September 15, 2008

This afternoon, I visited my friend Florence, who with her husband grows magical flowers. When I pulled onto the gravel driveway, I was struck by the clematis weighing down the arched gateway into a nearly forgotten garden where zinnias bloom nearly shoulder-high, a small rabbit snoozed, grape tomatoes ripen, and a dog and cat lie buried next to a sundial. It's one of several vignettes, as Jere describes the different gardens composing their yard. It's a place of life, and of death that renews life.

When my cat Grady (a nickname for her official name, Gray Drawers) dragged herself into my den and yowled one evening six years ago, I called my vet who agreed to meet me and then my friends who agreed to take me. Grady died in the car, mid-yowl. I had never before witnessed a dying animal's suffering , although I had been part of putting down another cat, Poor Pitiful Pearl. She, however, had purred as the vet administered her final dose.
Most upsetting was that I couldn't bury Grady the next day because I had to go to Chattanooga, two hours away, for the entire next day where I was to present two sessions at a teachers' conference. In my place, Florence and Jere conducted a private service, complete with a few words, singing, and flowers. They buried Grady near their beloved dog Buddy.

Their small kindness and their beautiful blooms serve as fitting memorials to our pets.


Friendship
November 7, 2009

Jere has rescued me many times.

During an especially bitter winter, in an old and drafty house, with a heating system involving gas and a tank totally foreign to me, I called him for help. He came, took the temp inside, hovering only a bit above freezing, investigated the tank, and announced there was no gas. He walked home across the street and came back, with space heaters and an invitation to come on over.

Another time, when a squirrel ran under my tires and I felt the thump of death, I called him, crying. I drove a block out of my way for a week just so I wouldn't see the corpse between our houses. I hadn't needed to make my detour. Jere had removed the squirrel immediately after I called.

He and his wife drove me to the vet one Sunday evening with my dying cat, comforted me when I sobbed, and buried her the next day in their garden because I had to leave town at 4:30 in the morning. They said a few words, sang a hymn, and placed flowers and a stone rabbit above her little body.

Just this past Saturday, he rescued me again when my car stopped on the Interstate, where I stood, nervously for an hour, before his arrival. He called a tow truck and gave me much-needed auto advice and let me rail and cry. He later said he knew I'd get over it.


This is Jere the next morning, enjoying his daily routine. His smile says it all. He's a mensch.

And I love him.

Overnight Visit
September 14, 2013

At one point during dinner, Florence interrupted me and said, "You're not a guest!" 

She made that Florence face, tilting her head down a bit and raising her eyebrows, the "locking look" of "you-hear-what-I'm-saying?" that requires no answer.

She continued, "You're family!"

In Florence and Jere's house, I sleep as I don't sleep in my own home: soundly, without tossing or turning, settled as naturally as the spider, who spent the night in this zinnia, waking as this spider did to sun and warmth, still ensconced in the comforts of home.

I am grateful for them, and for my having found them in a strange place at a strange time in my life, and for their large generosity, and for their making me one of their own.


A Long Good Day,
February 18, 2014

I
Another night of vomiting and diarrhea for little Cleo meant no sleep for all three of us. Another visit to the vet, this time with a fever, a bit of dehydration, and the mystery of Cleo's unbalanced gut.

When my vet came into the exam room, she said, "What happened? You got a dud?"

I laughed, just as she knew I would.

"Let her spend the day," the doctor said. "I'll have a chance to run some diagnostics and observe her."

So I did.

II
Then I drove up to Bell Buckle to see my friends F and TJ. 

Home now from hospital and rehab, TJ holds court in his "command center" (the kitchen): birds outside, Prince the semi-poodle at his feet, his wife F busy cooking or cleaning or arranging the next visit or opening mail and paying the bills, his phone in his hand. 

Desmond Tutu said, "You don't choose your family." Well, OK, your birth family, maybe, but I've spent a lifetime choosing my families and they me in the places I have lived.

These two come closest to blood relatives. Even when they're having a hard time, they make me laugh and they enjoy a dog with a ball, sun on skin, and the gift of friendship.

III
It seems that Cleo had a negative reaction to the antibiotic prescribed for last week's bout with iffy digestion. She will eat a special diet for a couple of days, laced with probiotic.

This evening, both she and her sister Doodlebug snuggled for a good long time, one on my lap, one slung over my shoulder, happy to have the Human home and each other.

IV
Love.

For better or worse.

On Hygge-ing

Dear T,

Thank you so much for sharing "How 'Hygge' Can Help You Get Through Winter" by Russell McLendon. For the second time this month, I have realized I should be Scandinavian. The first time had to do with the place of religion in society and one's life.

I must be Nordic at heart (I am certainly Nordic in DNA-origin as doctor once told me, based on my complexion and hair and eye color and tendency toward diseases due to those traits).

I want you to know that I just hygged: I lay in the tub with an adult beverage in hand, filled and re-filled the tub twice with hot water; the bathroom lit only by a dim nightlight; both cats in attendance and curious.

I thought of you and our friendship, your pounding on my windows to raise me before a hurricane (and our long tedious journey to Hope, AK, where we found a Munger machine in an old cotton mill), your husband's good beer, your generous birthday gift of an unexpected stay in the Everglades when I visited the family in Miami. I hygged then through friendship.

Now I hygge more often than not by myself, happily ensconced with Netflix or a book, a cat on my lap and one squinched between back and pillow; or hunched over bug or leaf, camera in hand; or captured by a vista, building, or work of art; or writing on the computer.

I think my ancient Viking blood is showing, and for that I am grateful

Love,
R

A Long, Good Day

I
Another night of vomiting and diarrhea for little Cleo meant no sleep for all three of us. Another visit to the vet, this time with a fever, a bit of dehydration, and the mystery of Cleo's unbalanced gut.

When my vet came into the exam room, she said, "What happened? You got a dud?"

I laughed, just as she knew I would.

"Let her spend the day," the doctor said. "I'll have a chance to run some diagnostics and observe her."

So I did.

II
Then I drove up to Bell Buckle to see my friends F and TJ. 

Home now from hospital and rehab, TJ holds court in his "command center" (the kitchen): birds outside, Prince the semi-poodle at his feet, his wife F busy cooking or cleaning or arranging the next visit or opening mail and paying the bills, his phone in his hand. 

Desmond Tutu said, "You don't choose your family." Well, OK, your birth family, maybe, but I've spent a lifetime choosing my families and they me in the places I have lived.

These two come closest to blood relatives. Even when they're having a hard time, they make me laugh and they enjoy a dog with a ball, sun on skin, and the gift of friendship.

III
It seems that Cleo had a negative reaction to the antibiotic prescribed for last week's bout with iffy digestion. She will eat a special diet for a couple of days, laced with probiotic.

This evening, both she and her sister Doodlebug snuggled for a good long time, one on my lap, one slung over my shoulder, happy to have the Human home and each other.

IV
Love.

For better or worse.

The Turkey

The box says it all: a famous smoked turkey.

Even though the Joneses have sent me one for several years now, somehow I forgot, so its arrival took me by surprise. It's a famous turkey -- or, at least, the folks who smoked it are.

But I didn't know that the first year I received one. I took it to Birmingham for Christmas, to share with the family, celebrating their first Christmas without my sister-in-law. My nephew-in-law was so delighted he could hardly contain himself. Impressively, he got every single bit of meat off the bone, and I mean every single bit, with a knife. I didn't do so well. I dismembered it as best I could (I love the direction: have your butcher . . . -- oh, if only there were a butcher up here), stored the parts wrapped in toil foil and placed in freezer bags. One sandwich today, happily, and then lovely turkey after the 26th.

The best part of the treat is the friendship of the family who gifted me. Three daughters -- all of whom I taught, all of whom love books and reading as much as their parents, all of them gifted themselves; one "little" brother now at a rival college as kicker on the football (which should bring parents here next season for the game); and one set of parents, both smart and funny and kind.

To them all, I say only what I can, Thank you for your kindness over these many years and for your continuing friendship.

Oh! And for the famous turkey!

An Old Friend

On her way to New Orleans to spend her sabbatical year with one of her daughters, an old friend and former colleague paid me a welcome overnight visit. Pizza, conversation, Facebook, wedding photographs, life stories -- we shared them all the way old girlfriends do.

Thanks, Cindy!

Two Families

Today, I drove to Birmingham and back to attend a funeral, the last person to die in the older generation in two families. I have posted before about the Hoods and the Chenoweths, two families as close as could be without shared blood.

At Independent Presbyterian Church, the three Chenoweth children, their spouses, one ex-spouse, three grandchildren, and relatives and friends gathered to celebrate the life of Barbara Derr Chenoweth, known as "Babs" to most and as "B" to her grandchildren.

Babs was generous and kind. Her smile defined the cliche: it lit up every room. She and her husband, Uncle Arthur, who preceded her in death by several years, made everyone welcome, comfortable, and safe.

A 1970s Christmas photo shows Billy, my father, me, Babbie, Sandra in the front and David, Brenda, Wham, Uncle Arthur, Emily, Babs, Rhonda, Rhonda's father, and Chip in the back.

I know that firsthand. After my mother died 45+ years ago, I often stayed with the Chenoweths whenever my father traveled for business. Babs was the one who held me when Uncle Arthur, my father's closest friend and one of my mother's doctors, told us Mother had died. I am certain it was she who arranged for another of Mother's close friends to sit with me on the couch at home as I greeted visitors that night. She introduced me to Indian curry, New England boiled dinner, three-bean salad, and reading for pleasure (along with my grandmother). She was born in Pennsylvania and talked about Wilkes-Barre, which I always imagined as an exotic place, and she didn't talk with a southern accent. She was only one of fewer than five people who got away with calling me "Rob." Indeed, she called us Emmo, Babbo, Chipo, Willo, Robo, bringing us into some special circle of warmth.

Today, at the funeral, when I saw my old friends, I cried. When I hugged their former next-door neighbor Virginia, whose parents were part of the circle of my parents' and the Chenoweths' friends, I cried again. Not for Babs, whose suffering ended on her youngest child's birthday, but for the passing of my childhood with the death of the last older member of that circle.

They were blessed, as are we to have known each other for so long.

The Cat Card

Sometimes, a simple card does more to heal than anything. Witness the cat card.

M. C. Escher cat: white, at ease on a linear surface, against a black background.
Personal message: "Hope this lovely cat card makes you smile. Writing this before I leave for the booksale at Latter. Just wanted to write three sentences which relate to our phone conversation yesterday. You were marvellous. You are marvellous. You will be marvellous."

Thank you, S.

School Girls

In the last two weeks, I've been communicating with some women I taught years ago at a girls' school when they themselves were girls. On Facebook we chat and gossip and reminisce and share photos. They are strong women and have maintained strong friendships over a long time now and, in some cases, over great distances.

Just within this week, one daughter of an old friend found me on Facebook. We've exchanged lenthy messages and I've seen pictures of her partner and their two children. She has been a completely unexpected connection made through her discovery of my "friendship" with my niece, whom she had just befriended. I think that the last time I saw her, she was 8. That was at least 25 years ago.

This morning, an old friend called from New York just to check in. She and I met in a summer theatre in 1968 and still check in every now and then to see how the other is doing. I have a few other friends like P, but almost no long-term relationships like the McGehee women I know, even though I went to a girls' school too and even though I was once a girl.

When my sister-in-law of forty-one years died about fifteen months ago, my brother and his children organized a memorial service, or a Celebration of Life as it's called in the Episcopalian church. The day was beautiful -- sunny and warm, with clear skies and fall colors. In the courtyard following the service, I stood, somewhat apart from my brother, niece, and nephew, and greeted folks I know.

Among them were a few girls from my prep school. I'd have known their faces anywhere even though I hadn't seen them in years. Another woman, a bit older than I but who attended the same school, came over, spoke to me, and handed me a copy of a photograph I had forgotten posing for: a group of high school friends, relaxing in and around a swimming pool. I don't remember where we were or why we posed, but I think the photographer was a professional.
One of the girls in the front, wearing the white suit, smiles widely into the sun, eyes closed. The photocopy had been hers. She was a brilliant girl, smart and funny, articulate and idiosyncratic. She went to Smith when most of us stayed in the safe south. I used to see her during vacations, when we were in college and for a few years afterwards. Sometime in our twenties, she changed. Her mother told me she had been in a car wreck and suffered some kind of brain damage. Later I heard she had psychological difficulty. I never learned what happened.

I do know that she stopped visiting me and other friends, gained a lot of weight, and became a recluse, shuttered inside the little house she and her mother had long shared. After her mother died, she stayed in the house and rarely left it. I received the photocopy because Betty, who had become diabetic and suffered greatly, even to the extent of having an amputation, had died a sad and lonely death in that house. The woman who brought me the picture was her neighbor who had been allowed to enter the house after Betty's death. She took the copy especially for me.

Some of us former girls have such unexpected and difficult lives. I take strength from friendships forged among women, and for unexpected connections, I celebrate the social fabric of Facebook.