Vincent

TW: depression and suicide 

I've been obsessing lately about the song Vincent by Don McLean. If you are unfamiliar, the song is about Vincent vanGogh. It was inspired by a biography that Don McLean read about the artist. vanGogh's story is tragic: brilliant artist dies by his own hand before achieving success. The song is a tear jerker for me and gives me the feels every time I hear it. I know that part of my reaction is due to the sad story told so brilliantly by McLean and some is due to the lyrics resonating with something deeper. It's both, but more of the latter.

About 10 years ago, there was a story published regarding an alternate version of events, saying that vanGogh didn't shoot himself but claimed he had in order to protect the person who did shoot him accidentally. It didn't gain a lot of traction because it's mostly speculation and, whether the injury was misadventure or intentional, when he realized he probably wouldn't recover he embraced the relief that death represented. His brother reported in a letter that Vincent wanted to die and when faced with the prospect of getting well he said "La tristesse durera toujours” [The sadness will last forever]. 

There's a fair chance that his last words inspired the lyrics "no hope was left in sight" regarding his death by suicide. That got me thinking about how often this reason is cited for other suicides. It's a pretty common thing with depression to lose touch with the fact that suffering is nearly always temporary. When you are depressed, your suffering is all you can think about, like you have blinders to hope. It's what makes suicide seem like a reasonable solution to a temporary problem, because it FEELS like the sadness will, in fact, last forever. 

When I was suffering through my divorce, the perpetual torture and betrayal from the man I used to love sent me into a dark spiral. He threatened to drag out the process until I gave up, and I nearly did. I only ever seriously contemplated suicide once and I'm grateful for the friend who was there to help me see my hope. I said (out loud) "What reason do I have to not just drive into a tree?" They responded, "I can give you four reasons." They were referring to my children, the innocents who would be devastated by my actions, both by the loss of a parent and the knowledge that their other parent drove me to it. In the short term they became my reason for living until I embraced the semicolon project and paid for a tattoo that would continue to remind me that my story isn't over. (I did ultimately prevail in the divorce, retained custody, and moved on.)

McLean's lyrics did resonate with me, particularly the part about seeing the darkness in my soul. vanGogh was right; the sadness will last forever. Depression never really goes away, but sometimes you can see clearly enough to keep hope in sight. 

Bridges

I'm afraid of bridges in much the same way that I fear heights. I have what I  consider a very rational fear of falling. But I irrationally fear bridges because my fear is that they will suddenly collapse while I'm crossing, thereby causing me to fall. 

I hate having to drive across bridges - walking is worse - and I don't feel safe until I'm on the other side. Ensconced in a car I feel safer but still not completely free of the phobia. As a passenger, I don't fear the bridge because I'm confident that gravity doesn't have it out for my driver. Likewise, I have no problem going to the top of a tall building and looking out because my brain tells me it's completely illogical that an entire building will collapse. That said, I can't stand on a clear platform 100+ stories in the air and look down. The irrational voice in my head says that it will give out under me and I'll fall.

So why do I love bridges?  Beyond appreciating the sheer genius of engineering I think bridges are beautiful. Their symmetry and repeating patterns  catch my eye in a way that few things can. Bridges are my favorite things to photograph and while there's beauty in the full view sometimes there's a more striking image in the detail so I like to capture that too.

There's a bridge over the Kishwaukee River in Illinois that I pass under every year on a canoe trip and take dozens of pictures from different angles. There's no easy place to get out of the boat at that point so I'm at the mercy of the speed of the river. I haven't captured a masterpiece yet but just taking the pictures gives me great joy. 

So imagine my great delight a few years ago to be in Cleveland's Metropark Zoo and discovering that a portion of it sits under the rebuilt Fulton Road bridge. My kids had to drag me away because all I did was capture pictures from under the bridge.

She's a beaut! If you search the internet for this bridge you'll find there's a lot of other people obsessed with it too.

For Christmas my rather talented artist BF (of course I'm biased) reproduced this image in paint on two enormous canvases and yesterday mounted them above my fireplace, which itself is still a work in progress. 

Since I moved in 8 months ago, he'd been promising me a large painting to fill that 10-12 foot space above the mantel. He works in abstract while I prefer representational art but I was willing to expand my art horizons and, frankly, anything from his talented hands would be a gift. When I first unwrapped it I thanked him for meeting my basic criteria of large format and the color palette to match my walls. I saw it up close and assumed it was an abstract until I stepped back and recognized what it was. I absolutely lit up at that point and exclaimed 'It's my bridge!'

Maybe we're not that far apart in our art interests after all.

The Ebullient Aunt

I went to a funeral this weekend. Last year, in the height of the pandemic, my dad's sister died. I learned of it only belatedly because I'd stumbled upon it doing genealogy research. This discovery led to a reunion with my cousin which is detailed in another essay. I don't recall if I told my cousin how much her mom had meant to me growing up, but I did offer my condolences. The event was so far removed that I didn't actually feel any emotions at the time so when I made plans to attend her memorial service I thought I'd be fine.  And I was, until the eulogies began.

I'm human (most of the time) and am swayed by emotions, and I suppose that any heartfelt eulogy would likely move me to tears.  But this was different.  Each of my cousin's children stood up in turn and shared some memories and observations of their grandmother.  The theme was the same - she was loving, generous, thoughtful and fun.  She doted on her grandchildren and was a big part of their lives.  She was who they turned to for comfort.  These were moving, but no tears yet.  Then my sister stood up and shared a memory of hosting the family in our home when they moved back to Chicago from California.  She mentioned being the favorite niece (being the first) and I thought I'd lighten the mood by challenging that assertion.

My eulogy was impromptu and unsolicited.  I intended to claim that *I* was, in fact, the favored niece because I was the youngest and she had given me a pet name.  That's when the tears started.  I was practically sobbing out the story of when she went out of her way to make me feel special, because that's just the kind of person she was.  My brother, too, gave a eulogy and shared happy memories of our aunt.  Afterwards, a cousin on my mother's side came up to me to share a story of when she met my aunt at our home, during one of many visits, and she remarked at how different my mother and my aunt were.  

It's not enough to say that they were complete opposites.  The effect they had on others was different as well.  My adoptive mother died last year too, and at her funeral there were no effusive eulogies from any of her 12 grandchildren. Not one of them stood up to say that they were inspired, supported, or encouraged by their relationship with their grandmother.

I was describing the funeral to one of my daughters and relating the exchange I had with the cousin on my mother's side, who described how my aunt had greeted her with an enthusiastic hug and the overall impression was that my aunt was much more friendly and outgoing than my mother.  It was an accurate assessment.  The word I used to describe my aunt to my daughter was ebullient, and my daughter shared that she wasn't familiar with the word.  For a moment, I was second guessing myself that maybe I'd used the word incorrectly.  I looked it up in the dictionary to confirm.

e·bul·lient

/iˈbo͝olyənt,iˈbəlyənt/

Learn to pronounce

adjective

1. 1.

   cheerful and full of energy.

After reading the definition, I half expected to find my aunt's picture there.  

I didn't invite my children to the funeral.  They had only met my aunt once, at my dad's funeral 15 years earlier; They didn't know her, but how I wish they had.

Slideshow

 (originally published Oct 20, 2012)

My mind has a slideshow of memories.

When my heart is lonely,

they cover me like a warm blanket. 

You kissed me and made me tingle. 

You set boundaries and I pushed at them.

Again and again I wanted more. 

We shared music and pictures and dreams. 

You fulfilled fantasies and created new ones. 

I am cold now and I wrap myself 

with thoughts of you. 

Bird of Prey

 (originally published May 20, 3013)

I see him from a great distance and gaze in awe.

Who can look upon him and not see his majesty? 

He sees me now and approaches, and my heart beats faster. 

We soar together and I think too late that I should flee. 

I do not realize I am captured until he pierces my heart. 

The Dance

(originally published May 21, 2013)

From my balcony, I notice her greet the sun each day. 

I say hello but my words do not reach her.

Nor is she aware of my gaze or how much I admire her.

I see her bend and sway as she dances in the breeze.

As the days grow warmer, I watch her blossom. 

It won't be long before she attracts 

The one who will complete her.

Her whole life she has awaited his arrival. 

Suddenly, he appears and begins their intimate dance. 

She is ready for him and nods at his touch. 

He clings to her, taking in not only her scent

But that which he needs as well and

Giving her what she needs most.

Their contact is brief but mutually satisfying.

He will dance with others, but she does not care.

Others will dance with her, but it does not concern him.

Perhaps I will have the opportunity tomorrow 

to capture this intimate embrace in a photograph 

When I spend another morning in my garden. 

Dear Buyer,

Recently, a series of unfortunate events conspired to pressure me to sell my home sooner than I would have liked. My experience as a seller has been less than favorable overall, from the chaos of packing, cleaning and staging, to the disruption of any semblance of a normal life while my agent allows strangers to walk through my house and judge my interior design skills. And I haven't even started the closing process.

I first entertained the idea of selling my home earlier this year when a co-worker commented about the seller's market.  Then, later, a friend whose child was heading to college listed their home because they didn't need to stay in district and, to their surprise, it sold within hours. Knowing that I could probably ask more for my home in a seller's market, I made a cautious call to a friend who is a realtor to find out what I had to do to get my home listed. The list was simple, and yet daunting.

As anyone who has ever put down roots somewhere, you tend to collect stuff.  I have more stuff than most people, with what some would call hoarding tendencies.  While I don't hoard junky stuff like old newspapers, I did have a dedicated box for collecting used toilet paper rolls to turn into campfire starters.  I also have ten storage crates full of quilting material, and I don't quilt.  Or at least, not yet.  It's a habit I have been intending to take up for going on 10 years now.  Choosing what to pack and what to toss was an ordeal of monumental proportions. I should note that the toilet paper rolls were responsibly recycled.

At first, I was careful and organized, going through my collections of stuff with a discerning eye.  I did keep quite a lot of it but I tossed and donated a lot too. Each box was labeled and sorted into neat stacks based on where they would eventually go.  As the target listing date drew nearer, I started to panic and created dozens of miscellaneous boxes - basically anything that wouldn't be part of staging got boxed and labeled as a junk box for me to go through once we moved.  With the strength of the market, I thought this would be a short term situation.  Boy, was I wrong.

After agreeing to delay my listing for first one and then two weeks, my agent gave me high praise, telling me that it was the most professional looking home-owner staging she'd ever seen. All the nights spent burning the midnight oil to clean and paint the concrete floor in the basement were totally worth it. Every drop of sweat moving boxes and furniture were going to pay off handsomely. Pictures were taken and a 'LIVE' date was chosen, and a list price was determined.  All I needed now was a buyer to fall in love with the house like I did. Dozens of showings later, I'm still waiting.

After two weeks on the market, my agent suggested that the price that she set was too high and it was lowered to match what other homes in my area were selling for.  This seemed like reasonable advice and I agreed.  Another week has gone by and while everyone who has come through says my home is lovely, they end up looking and buying elsewhere.  Now, my agent has suggested lowering the price yet again and asked me to write a "love letter" about the house for buyers to read.  I didn't even know that was a thing, but now I'm seriously considering it.

My home, built near the end of the Arts and Crafts era, still retains some of its original charm along with solid wood doors, hardwood floors and high ceilings.  But for all it has going for it, its surrounding neighborhood was interrupted by the Eisenhower Interstate Highway in the late 1950s.  What I see as a feature - easy access to the highway - others see as a deterrent.  Never mind that you can barely hear the highway, and during the times when there would normally be traffic most people are at work or school anyway.  I retain the hope that the right buyer will walk into the house and see their future home.  Meanwhile, I have a love letter to write.  

The most memorable gift

 25 years ago when I bought my first home, the seller brought a gift to the closing.  He presented us with a bottle of wine, a loaf of bread, and a container of salt, inspired by a scene in the classic movie 'It's a Wonderful Life.'  Now, there's no way that he knew that this was my favorite movie and that I was well acquainted with that scene, but it is a touching gift that I remember to this day because it had special meaning for me.  It is also something I have given as a housewarming gift when friends move into a new home, along with the blessing from the movie: "Bread, that this house may never know hunger; Salt, that life may always have flavor; and wine, that joy and prosperity may reign forever."

Now that I am in the process of selling my current house, I have thought about the best gift that I can give the new owner of my home.  I know it's not a common thing (to present a gift to the buyer), but I consider myself an uncommon person. The seller who sold it to me didn't give a gift, but they did leave a note welcoming my family which was appreciated.  I could go the Wonderful Life route again but I fear it might not be as memorable to someone who hasn't watched the movie thousands of times and has most of the dialogue committed to memory.  My friends come to expect this of me; strangers maybe not so much. Clearly, a different memorable gift should be considered.

While we were packing to prepare the house for sale, I considered gift options and I was drawn to the story of the butter dish I received as a wedding gift.  I have a crystal butter dish that I use daily, and it has a heartwarming story that I tell quite often.  As the story goes, my Aunt wrote in her gift card that I would soon forget who gave me a place setting of china, or a couple of wine glasses, but that although I didn't ask for it in my registry I would use this gift daily and always remember that it came from my Aunt.  For what it's worth, every time I use the butter dish, I do remember my Aunt.  This is where it gets interesting. 

One of the boxes I was going through to purge before packing included all of my wedding papers from planning to post-wedding thank yous. I had everything in there, extra invitations, every response card, every gift card, every gift receipt, even the seating arrangements and guest list.  I have no idea why I saved all of this stuff but it was time to cull the stack.  As a memento, I kept one invitation, a copy of the map I drew to the reception hall that was long ago torn down to build a CVS pharmacy, and the congratulations card from my parents with a handwritten note from my mother wishing me a long and happy marriage.  I read through all of the gift cards one more time, just in case one of them had something memorable I might want to save and that's when I found the card from my Aunt.  

I was elated to find this card, finally some tangible proof that I wasn't just making up the story of the butter dish. I confirmed the part about not recalling who gave me china or crystal - which to her credit has borne true - and then she went on to say that every time I use the sugar and creamer set that I would remember her.  What?!  I don't have a sugar and creamer set or at least not anymore.  I rarely drink coffee at home and I don't even own a coffee maker. Plot twist! For over 25 years, I have been remembering my Aunt and daily giving her quiet thanks for this butter dish that she didn't even give me, and I have no idea who did.

Oddly, I am now more determined than ever to present a butter dish as a gift to the new owners. Hopefully, it will be as memorable to them as mine was to me.

The Prodigal Cousin

Shortly after my adoptive mom died and her home was cleaned out for resale, I was handed a box of memories.  Included in the box was a large envelope full of notes or letters either to me or from me that she'd kept for unknown reasons.  It's also unclear when some of the items came into her possession.  As I pulled out and read more of the notes and letters I grew increasingly horrified when I wondered how many of these my mom had actually read. There is probably a whole novel of essays that could be written about what happened as a result of opening the letters inside this Pandora's envelope but I'm only going to write about one today.

The letter in question was from a cousin I'd been pen pals with as a teenager. We had been close once, this cousin and I.  Close in age, we were in the same grade though at different schools. When her family moved away, we saw each other less and less.  She found new friends and gradually we stopped writing to one another.  I went to her wedding and visited her once, but our lives had diverged and slowly we drifted apart.  I didn't even know that her mother had died until I discovered it while building a family tree on a research website.  It was important to me to write to her and I sent a condolence card to her last known address.  She responded with a sympathy card for the loss of my mom.  And once again we had stuff in common.

The old letter I'd pulled from the stack was her response to my confession of recently acquired carnal knowledge. There were no parental recriminations that I recall, so this must have come into my mom's possession after I moved away, possibly left behind in a hiding place that I'd forgotten.  When I mentioned to my cousin the discovery of her letter in my mom's possession (and now mine), she was justifiably dismayed at what could only be called my betrayal. We had revealed secrets to one another and I allowed a letter of hers to fall into someone else's possession.  I did not tell her of my own dismay at the discovery of things I'd long forgotten about myself, or how I'd discussed with a close friend whether to read the rest of the letters or to just burn them like trash and release the negativity.  It may take years of therapy to recover from this assault on my memories. But, like other mistakes, they provide an opening for starting over.

My cousin provided her number in the card and I sent her a text acknowledging it.  And just like that we were having a conversation.  Within a couple of hours, I brought her up to speed on the last 30 years since we'd spoken and to me it feels like picking up where we left off.  I shared this blog with her and we talked about my writing. I mentioned an essay I'd written about the day I was adopted but I haven't been able to find a copy of it.  All I really remember is the title, "Hot Breakfast on a Wednesday" which was supposed to cleverly allude to a day that wasn't like all the others.  Now that I regularly have a hot breakfast, this seems less clever.  At the time, it was one of the most powerful essays I'd ever written. I've been encouraged to write down what I remember and I will do so in time.  For now, I'm relishing being the prodigal cousin. I'm rejoicing not only at having found my way back to family but at being allowed back in. Kill the fatted calf!  I'll bring the beer.

Parenting Pays Off

I've always had a drive to be a parent.  I'm not sure where it came from, and my life experience did nothing to encourage the idea.  I was orphaned at 5 and effectively abandoned by my adoptive parents at age 18.  Perhaps the thought that despite my upbringing I turned out okay led to me thinking that I could raise better humans, or maybe some women are just programmed (or brainwashed) with a desire to be mothers. Whatever the reason, some combination of forces led me to consider each romantic relationship in light of what kind of partner they would be in parenting.  I even rejected one suitor despite our compatibilities because he had no desire to be a father.  I later learned that he had hidden failings that made me thankful for having dodged that particular bullet, but that's a story for another day.  

Parenting is a roller coaster of emotions that is more volatile than even the most contentious romantic relationship. Probably not the best advertisement for parenting, and I'm about to throw another obstacle in the way of would-be parents.  The financial cost of parenting is intimidating: over $200,000 to raise a child from infancy through the age of 17. [source: https://www.usda.gov/media/blog/2017/01/13/cost-raising-child]  While 30% of that is the cost of housing (the difference between the cost of a 2-BR vs a 3-BR home, for example, multiplied by 17 years) and another 30% is the cost of childcare/after school care, it's still a substantial sum.  Using the calculator here: https://themeasureofaplan.com/cost-of-raising-a-child-calculator/ I calculated my costs without the added expenses of childcare and housing at $150,000.  And while there is some savings in hand-me-downs for subsequent children, the cost of education and medical care is still around $100,000 each for your second or third (or fourth) child.  Add into that the career cost of lost income from being a stay at home parent for many years, and my parenting cost tops a million dollars for 4 kids.  And that doesn't even include the cost of saving for college!

So why would anyone want to have children? If you asked my teens, it's because I wanted free labor.  That's certainly a perk, and I won't deny having occasionally forced them into chores, but that's not it.  Beyond perpetuating the species and hopefully leaving behind better versions of ourselves, parenting pays off in the most unexpected ways: when they are small, observing (and nourishing) their sense of wonder at the world around us; when they are school age, the random gifts that show their generosity (picking flowers on the way home from school, or macaroni necklaces crafted in art class); when they are teens, their struggle for independence overshadowed by their need to know your unconditional love. Parenting is the worst emotional investment in the world, taking decades to see tangible returns. Then one day you'll be thrown for a loop by the most random thing.  

You'll be planning your menu for the week and one of your kids insists on trading the gourmet meal you've planned for grilled cheese and tomato soup, because that's what you always made on Halloween when they were young enough to go trick-or-treat. And when you insist that maybe they've outgrown it, they text their older (adult) sisters to ask if they approve of scrapping Korean Bulgogi in favor of this traditional meal for family dinner night and the girls respond with enthusiastic exclamations.  Tears, you say?  I'm not crying.  My cup is running over.

How to Accept Advice

I read an article recently about giving advice.  The crux of the piece is that advice is almost always more beneficial for the giver, and it cautioned the advice-giver that even offering advice on request isn't always well-received. It goes without saying that offering unsolicited advice is rarely welcomed. Most people when they ask for advice really just want to hear their own opinion validated, and will discard advice that doesn't align with what they'd hoped to hear.  I found myself in this exact situation recently when I asked a co-worker for advice on where to stay when I traveled to a city where they used to live.  In retrospect I realized that I'd made a few mistakes just in the asking.

I believe my first mistake was that I don't know this person socially. I have no idea if their food or entertainment choices would match mine.  I was asking purely about 'safe' neighborhoods to stay in but I didn't consider what biases would color their response, which leads me to my second mistake.  I was guided by my own unconscious racial bias in choosing to ask someone "like me" for what *they* considered a safe part of the city.  My destination was an ethnically diverse city and I sought the opinion of one person I didn't know well only because they were in the same ethnic and socio-economic group.  In my defense, I don't know anyone else who is from my target destination so my choices were limited to this person or strangers online.  I defaulted to the devil I know.  

So, how did I receive the advice given?  Not well, actually.  I had found this really cool AirBnb that met everything on our checklist - location and price and amenities - and I was basically looking for permission to stay there. I wanted someone else (other than the host) to tell me that it was in a cool neighborhood where we'd find interesting things to do and places to go.  My co-worker responded with a map highlighting the 'good' neighborhoods and not only was my AirBnb not in any of them but the exact neighborhood was X'd out and was discouraged.  When I asked specifically about the neighborhood I was targeting, there were coded phrases I was hoping to hear like "transitioning" or "trendy" or even "edgy."  What I heard instead was "high in crime" and "unsafe at night."  In the end, I booked the stay and ignored the advice given.

To be fair, I was prepared to tell my co-worker if they were right had I actually felt unsafe.  But we didn't.  The home we stayed in was delightful with a huge yard for our dog.  The neighborhood was primarily residential and friendly, where we met other dog-walkers during our stay. Our host (who lived in another unit) recommended some local eating establishments that were mixed-use properties (commercial spaces below with residential spaces above) and featured a clientele of regulars who seemed to know one another. We felt safe and welcomed, and ultimately well-fed.  Upon my return, my co-worker inquired about my trip and I shared photographs first before they asked where I stayed and I had to sheepishly admit that I hadn't taken their advice but it had turned out okay anyway.  They admitted to me that it's an "up and coming" neighborhood but they aren't too familiar with its features.  It seems we both failed in the advice arena.

My recent foray into seeking advice didn't include due diligence in evaluating the expertise of my advice-giver.  By their own admission, they didn't know the neighborhood I was considering so any advice they gave was suspect, which I only learned after the fact so my dismissal of their recommendations was pure luck on my part. In general, asking for advice is a compliment to the asked; it implies that you trust their judgement.  But in following advice received, consider that although you might have things in common you are different people with different biases and interests.  So how does one deal with advice? With grace and gratitude. If you wind up on the receiving end of a request for advice, consider that your advice may be rejected without any acknowledgement of the effort you put into the giving of it and, if you're the one requesting, thank them for their contribution even if you don't agree. If you can avoid giving or seeking advice, do that instead.  Trust me.  You'll both be happier.

On the Importance of Bleach

 At the beginning of 1996, I was married with a baby and a new house. It was early spring and the weather was near freezing. We bundled up the baby and went out to the new house to take measurements and decided to order a pizza and just eat on the floor of the dining room. We had no refrigerator, an ancient stove that came with the house and questionable plumbing. But it was ours. My husband, we'll call him M, had arranged earlier in the week for his mother to meet us at the house to bring a housewarming gift, which turned out to be an antique steamer trunk I'd had my eye on. I loved it. When my husband carried it inside, it was our only furniture. 

 While M goes to get the pizza, I stay behind with dear daughter(DD), who was perfectly safe crawling around on the carpet. My biggest fear is that she'll chew on the window sills and get lead poisoning from eating paint chips (She did none of those things, btw). Meanwhile, I'm measuring windows for curtains and getting room dimensions to plan furniture placement while the baby explores at my feet or in view if not in reach. Some time after M leaves, DD loses interest in whatever I was doing and she makes a beeline for the trunk. What happened next I re-live in slow motion. 

 At first I think I'm just going to intervene and prevent her from chewing on it, so I start walking towards the trunk. I swoop in a moment too late to rescue her. Her legs collapse from under her as she's pulling herself up, faceplanting directly onto the closing latch of this ancient trunk. The shrieks that followed would rival a banshee and I'm hoping this is not the way I meet the neighbors. It's not just the indignity of the injury. There's blood. A *LOT* of blood. Passersby were amazed by the unusually large amounts of blood. 

 I clasp her to my chest and rush her to the bathroom, where we had set up the diaper changing station. She's barely 10 months but she has the strength of legions, fighting my every attempt to staunch the blood so I can see if this is a serious injury. Did I mention there was a lot of blood? I read that scalp injuries bleed a lot, but this seemed like too much. All I have at my disposal is baby wipes and toilet paper. I'm having zero luck with either of them, so I sit down on the floor and decide to nurse the baby to calm both of us down. This works like a charm, and while she's nursing I wipe the blood from her face and realize it's just a scratch. She won't need stitches. 

 M returns to find me and the baby covered in blood. She's quiet now but I'm at the edge of hysteria, trying to calmly explain what happened and feeling very guilty for letting her get injured on my watch. M remarks jokingly that my shirt used to be white and I'm still worried that he will think I'm a terrible mother. I say out loud that I'll never get that stain out and he says, "That's what bleach is for" and that was the end of it.

Thanks for the Memories

Music is a funny thing.  Memories decades old can be resurrected on the notes of a forgotten tune.  One might be transported to any number of music-related memories.  I can think of a pleasant memory, like how the song ‘Bennie and the Jets’ takes me back to a summer day, splashing around at the public pool where the lifeguard chose to tune the radio to an AM music station.  I have a silly (and favorite) memory of my dad who, not realizing I was watching, did an improptu jitterbug (solo) on the driveway while he was working on his truck when Glenn Miller’s ‘In the Mood’ came on the radio. And there’s the vivid, tragic memory of Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight Sonata’ (Piano Sonata No. 14) linked forever to the day I learned Opa, my dad’s father, had died.  I was sitting at the piano playing the first movement, practicing for a recital when the call came and I heard the gasp after my father answered the phone and spoke to his sister and the sob that followed when he handed the phone to my mother. I ran upstairs to my room and cried for an hour. It was the first time I knew someone who had died.  I was 14.  When I hear the song, I feel it like it was yesterday and all the emotion it carries.  Oddly enough, hearing the 3rd movement of ‘Moonlight Sonata’ evokes a happy memory of my piano teacher who was an accomplished musician and could play the challenging 3rd movement with panache.

 

Today, music did a number on me again.  I read in the news this morning that Bent Fabricius-Bjerre had died at the age of 95.  He was known to the world as “Bent Fabric” and he composed an instrumental song called ‘Alley Cat’ that in 1962 actually made it to the top ten list of pop songs in the US.  When I saw the news, I thought to myself, “Who’s he?” and I read the article mentioning the song’s popularity, but it wasn’t until I clicked on a link to a recording of the song that I became an emotional wreck.  I listened and forgotten childhood memories came flooding back.  I owned that record, even though it was a hit years before I was born.  My parents (probably my mom) bought me a Kenner Close ‘n Play phonograph when I was 5 or 6 and I played ‘Alley Cat’ nonstop, much to the annoyance of my siblings.  In the wake of these resurrected memories, I recalled that there was a piano in the house, that neither of my parents had ever played but I did, after all, use to practice my music lessons.  Holiday gatherings always had music playing on the Hi-Fi and my own tradition of playing music while decorating the tree was born there.  My love of music has deeper roots than I ever realized.  I took piano lessons. I sang in the school choir. I learned history and math and English to music (and I am forever grateful, Schoolhouse Rock). I can quote a song lyric in just about any conversation and it all started with a record player. It hit me like a ton of bricks that my parents, for all their faults, gave me this gift because they loved music too. 

 

This revelation is late in coming, probably too late, to offer any kind of gratitude.  My father has been gone for 15 years and my mother, who recently turned 87, is lost to senile dementia.  But I can rejoice in sharing the love of music with my own children.  Each of them was forced to take music lessons for a minimum of two years.  Three out of four continued longer than that.  And while only one continues to play her instrument regularly, the others have an abiding appreciation for music and a rich library of songs (from Elvis Presley to the soundtrack of Hamilton) that they listen to regularly.  To hear one of my boys singing along to a song that was popular 20 years before he was even a sparkle in my eye makes me elated to no end. On a family trip to Ohio to go to a roller coaster park, *they* (my children) asked to take a detour to Cleveland to see the Rock ‘n Roll Hall of Fame.  I may have done my parents proud, if only they knew. 

 

RIP, Mr. Fabricius-Bjerre.  Thanks for the memories.