Author: Sally

poetry

Cold Morning

Sally2 Comments

i thank You God for most this amazing day:
for the glittering icy brilliance of snow
and the pink-streaked watercolor dawn;
for the bare branches of trees whose tiniest twigs
point upward,
upward,
upward,
reminding me there is more.

thank you for the take-my-breath-away cold
that freezes in my throat,
and for the merino warmth of my scarf, hat, mittens, socks.
the bitterest cold helps me to appreciate
the snuggliest warmth.

this, this is a privilege
that my southern neighbors rarely know —
the nip on my nose,
the tears frozen in my eyes,
the soft flakes that land
(and sometimes melt)
on upturned chilly cheeks

thank You God for winter —
for leaned-on shovels
and salt-sprinkled sidewalks;
for glacial ground
where grass breaks instead of bends;
for barren landscapes
that belie the promise
of new Life
and Spring.

thank You God for most this amazing day.
may the ears of my ears awaken to hear
and the eyes of my eyes open to see.

may the tastebuds of my tongue
rejoice in snowflakes that land there,
outstretched and waiting,
as i am
for You

IMG_5220[1]I woke up this morning with the words of e e cummings’ poem “i thank You God for most this amazing” running through my head, but winter in New York has no “greenly leaping spirits of trees.” Instead, we have snow forecast.  Still, I’m thankful.

poetry

Hey Canada – Aboot some of your words….

Sally5 Comments

There are strange things said, or at least so I’ve read,
By the neighbors up north of  U. S.
It’s more than just “-eh”. What I’m trying to say
Is there’s lingo I need to address.
They have one dollar loonies and two dollar toonies,
And couches are called Chesterfields;
A kilometre’s a click, a hoser’s a hick,
And a parkade is for parking your wheels.

XYay Tims!
Anna said, “Tim Hortons. Serving sub-par coffee and donuts since 1964, this fast-food type chain also serves bagels, chili, and sandwiches and is a strong Canadian icon. I almost cried in the Toronto airport when I was 14, returning from my first big overseas trip. It meant I was home. Stop by and order a double-double (regular coffee with two creams and two sugars) and be sure to ask someone about their Roll Up the Rim Campaign every March!”

’tis really no trouble to understand double-double-
One coffee – two sugars, two creams.
Electricity is hydro. Donair is a gyro.
Washroom means bathroom, it seems.
Poutine, I have heard, means fries, gravy and curds,
And while that sounds kind of yucky to me
I could stomach that dish – hey, it might be delish!
But I was shocked that they switched out my zee.

Just why do I feel that zee’s a big deal?
It is ’cause my name begins there.
I say “zee as in zebra” when I’m spelling to people
How to write it – a simple affair.
But still they say Daengle, instead of Zaengle
For them, I say “zee”, they hear “dee.”
Zed — it could help there, so listeners would not err
When distinguishing the good letter zee.

Yes, they use different words, these Canadian birds.
Like commotions are called kerfuffles.
When you awaken, they may serve you back-bacon,
And they carry knapsacks, not duffles.
They buy Timbits at Timmies. (Do they use sprinkles or jimmies?)
But, O Canada, this needs to be said —
Even though you say decal* — hey, what the heck, I’ll
Say thank you for making zee zed!

pronounced “deck-ul”

family

Leaving Time-Warner

Sally2 Comments

Well, we did it. We disconnected our cable and transferred our phone and internet to a smaller local provider.

Truth be told, our internet now is better than it was with Time-Warner.

I called last night to switch my email address, which I had been getting as part of the Time-Warner bundle, to a Premium Email account.  I wanted to keep my old email address, plain and simple.

A week ago I participated in a Customer Service chat to find out how it was done and then I saved the text of the chat.  Here’s the important part:

Martin Williams: Please call Customer Service on phone and with a representative who will process your request to change your service to Premium Mail.

Martin Williams: When the automated attendant answers simple say “I want to cancel my service”.

Martin Williams: When you reach the representative, tell him that you wish to change your service to Premium Mail plan.

I followed Martin’s instructions to the word.  I said “I want to cancel my service” multiple times, but it seemed to be a hard thing for the automated attendant to understand.  Finally, I was connected with a representative.

He asked my reason for leaving.

“It costs too much,” I told him.

“Oh, so you cannot afford our services,” he replied.

“No, I can afford your services. I just don’t want to pay that much,” I said.

“I will say that you are leaving because you cannot afford our services,”  he repeated. I think he had a box he wanted to check.

“No. It’s too expensive and I think that Time-Warner is taking over the world,” I told him.

He laughed. “I will say that you cannot afford our services,” he said again.

“You can say that,” I told him, “if it will make you happy, but that’s not why we are leaving. I would just like to switch our account to Premium Mail.”

“I can set you up with dial-up service,” he said,  “for $14.95 a month.”

“I don’t want dial-up service.  We have a different internet provider. I just want Premium Mail.”

“Oh. I see. I see. And what is your reason for leaving?”

“Time-Warner keeps raising our rates. It’s rather ridiculous.”

My husband was waving his hands at me.  “Tell them that their service was terrible, too,” he said, but I didn’t get a chance.

“So you cannot afford our services,” the representative was saying again, like some sort of bad mantra.

“Go ahead and say that. It’s not true, but I want to get set up with Premium Email,” I said.

Sometimes, when Maggie, our dog, is learning a new trick, she runs through all her old tricks hoping one of them will earn her the proffered treat.  I suddenly felt a kinship with her.  The treat I wanted was Premium Email.  I would say he wanted me to say to get that treat.

“So you cannot afford our services?” he asked again.

“Nope. Can you set me up with Premium Email?”

“Yes, I would be happy to assist you with that,” he said.

And he did.

Cooperstown

Cooperstown Induction Weekend 2014

Sally3 Comments

My brother told me that they’re expecting upwards of 80,000 people in Cooperstown this weekend.  The population here is usually around 2,000.

80,000.

That’s an eight plus four zeros.

As Phil Rizzuto used to say, “HOLY COW!”

If you’re coming because you want to see Bobby Cox, Tom Glavine, Tony La Russa, Greg Maddux, Frank Thomas, and Joe Torre all inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame, you’re here on the right weekend.

I remember when they used to hold the ceremonies downtown.  The little park next to the Baseball Hall of Fame would be so jam-packed full of people that they would spill out onto Main Street, and Church Street, and Fair Street.

They used to hold the ceremonies on the steps of this building.
They used to hold the ceremonies on the steps of this building.

Back in those days, the Hall of Famers freely roamed the streets wearing a ribbon that marked them as a Hall of Famer.  Autographs were free, and many felt honored to be asked.  Cool Papa Bell won my heart with a smile and a signed strip of paper.

My father saved one of those strips by gluing it into a book.
My father saved one of those strips by gluing it into a book.

A number of years ago, though, they moved the ceremony to a field beside the sports center where I work.  It holds a lot more people.  But 80,000? I guarantee this crowd will spill over Susquehanna Ave and down Brooklyn Ave, where we used to live.

So if you’re here because you want to hear the speeches and see some baseball heroes on a Jumbotron, you’re in the right place.

This year, with 80,000 people making their way to Cooperstown, I want to talk to the ones who are the tag-alongs, who aren’t here because of baseball, but because they heard Cooperstown was a charming quaint little town.

To you I want to say, please don’t judge Cooperstown by this weekend.  The people who make Cooperstown Cooperstown are far out-numbered for these few days.  The quaintness that is Cooperstown will be virtually non-existent  this weekend.

Come back in January, when the air is crisp and cold. Parking will be plentiful on Main Street. The beautiful decorations from Christmas may still be up. You won’t have to wait in line at Stagecoach Coffee to get a cuppa.  The doughnuts will be hot, crisp, and fresh out of the fryer at the bakery.

If you go to the Hall of Fame, you’ll be able to stand in the Hall of Fame gallery and read every word on every plaque.  In fact, it will be so quiet in there, that you’ll feel the need to whisper.

And you’ll see the locals — the ones that are hightailing it out of town even as I write these words — greeting each other on Main Street, because everybody knows everybody.  That’s the blessing of a small town.

If you don’t want to wait until January, pick a small town near you, one with a population under 2,000.  Go sit on a park bench or in the local coffee shop.  Watch the people. They clap each other on the shoulder when they meet. They ask about family — spouses, children, parents, grandkids, even the dog. They laugh and reminisce. They talk shop and they even talk baseball sometimes.

But if you’re a crowds-and-baseball kind of person, come on down. Be part of the 80,000.

A panorama including the stage and the field, both of which will be full on Sunday
A panorama including the stage and the field, both of which will be full on Sunday
Faith

Coracle Moon

Sally4 Comments

The moon was a luminous coracle adrift in a cloudy sea.Aviary Photo_130505071358153409

Gosh, it was pretty. Early in the morning, the waning moon drifting in and out of clouds. Dawn broke, soft and pink, full of clouds that were fluffy like cotton candy, but I was still pondering the pre-dawn moon.

Recently I heard the story of Columba, a 6th century saint, about how he was banished from Ireland, set adrift in the North Irish Sea in a round boat known as a coracle.  The story was meant as a way of explaining liminal space, that place where we are unsure of everything, where we are “unmoored.”  Part of the legend of Columba was that in this round boat he had no means by which to steer and that his fate seemed hopeless.

I wish the speaker had told the rest of the story — how Columba had landed his coracle on the Isle of Iona, how from there he worked spread the news of Christ to the people of Scotland, and how his “unmooring” actually advanced the church.

In C. S. Lewis’ book, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, Reepicheep the mouse sailed off in a coracle.   Strangely, he did not feel unmoored.  While he didn’t know his final outcome, his sole purpose was to pursue Aslan’s country.

“My own plans are made. While I can, I sail east in the Dawn Treader. When she fails me, I paddle east in my coracle. When she sinks, I shall swim east with my four paws. And when I can swim no longer, if I have not reached Aslan’s country, or shot over the edge of the world into some vast cataract, I shall sink with my nose to the sunrise.”

~~ Reepicheep the Mouse

My coracle moon, drifting in and out of the clouds that morning, seemed unmoored.  Yet I knew that it was held in its orbit with the earth by that invisible magic we call gravity.

And the earth is held in its orbit with the sun by that same unseen tether.

When I feel unmoored, like a coracle tossed on the sea, I know that, despite what I feel, I am being guided by a mighty unseen Hand.

Like Columba, like Reepicheep, I can rest in God’s great plan.

Faith

Maggie and the Rabbit

Sally3 Comments

Maggie bolted out the door this morning when I went to sit on the deck for my quiet time.  She loves laying in the cool morning grass.

When she was a puppy, I had to be vigilant about watching her because she would take off chasing a squirrel and end up three blocks away.  Or worse, she would (re) discover the stream and splash up and down it becoming a muddy mess.

Now, she’s much more mature and self-controlled. She runs out, lays down in the grass, and waits.  I’m never quite sure what she’s waiting for, and I can’t break myself of the habit of being vigilant over her. So I sit on the deck and watch her while she waits in the grass.

I read and pray and watch her. And she waits.

This morning Maggie suddenly perked up her ears, and her head, and her whole body, alert to a visitor in our yard. Off in the distance, under an old apple tree, a wild rabbit hopped, lippity-lippity, along.  It was also enjoying the dewy early morning grass.

Maggie, at the very least, would have loved chasing the rabbit.  The rabbit seemed oblivious to its danger.  It nibbled the grass and hopped around the apple tree.

Maggie, tethered only by her own self control, watched its every move.

And so the little non-drama played out for a good half hour.Aviary Photo_130503424926524578 Maggie was a good dog.  Though she watched, she never made any move to chase.  She showed the same self-control that I’m attempting to exercise around sweets these days.

The rabbit, though, the rabbit fascinated me. Unaware of any danger, so engrossed in its little patch of clover and the few green apples that had fallen, it didn’t seem to see the dog watching its every move.

And I got to thinking, how often am I like that rabbit?  I lippity-lip along in my own little world, unaware of those who want nothing more than to destroy me, or, at the very least, make me run for my life.

But therein lies a bigger truth.

Maggie can run fast.  When our neighbor got a Doberman, we were very happy to discover that Maggie can outrun the Doberman.  Not that we want her to have to do that.  It’s just nice to know that she can.

Still Maggie could not have closed the distance between herself and the rabbit fast enough to catch the rabbit. So, in fact, what looked like a dangerous situation for the rabbit really wasn’t dangerous at all.

And I think that is true for me as well.

Sometimes I see the scary monster and am immobilized by fear.

But God is always watching, and He has equipped me for whatever comes.

Perhaps I misjudged that rabbit, too.  It wasn’t quite as heedless as I thought.  As soon as Maggie rose to her feet to join me in the house, the rabbit scampered to the safety of the brush.

For a good half hour, though, it had enjoyed the coolness of the early morning in spite of the presence of a predator.  It didn’t live in fear.

I, too, have nothing to fear.

family

Woodchucks

Sally5 Comments

(October 14, 2023 — This post was originally published in 2014. For whatever reason, I had made it private some years ago. Now it’s back.)

Henry David Thoreau wrote, “My enemies are worms, cool days, and most of all woodchucks.”

I’ve been known to perform worm rescues when I see them squirming on the sidewalk.

I rather like cool days. (Cool, not cold.)

But woodchucks — yes. I’m thinking about declaring war on woodchucks.

Yesterday, Helen and I were talking in my parents’ kitchen when we both started looking around.

“Did you hear that?” Helen asked.

It sounded like someone was coming in through the side door. We heard it a couple more times, but could find no explanation for the noise. I shrugged it off as a quirk of a very old house.

Later, I was sitting on their sun porch and heard a different odd noise, like the furnace kicking on with a rattle of the metal air vents.  The heat yesterday was not from my father’s furnace, I knew that. After a few more clanks and rumbles, I decided to investigate.

I was halfway down the cellar stairs when a massive woodchuck, pretty much the King Kong of woodchucks, ran across the dirt floor at the bottom of the stairs and disappeared into the shadows.

Once my heart started beating again, I went back upstairs to find a flashlight. Crazy, I know, but I wondered where it could have gone. Suffice it to say that, upon further investigation and based on the noises I heard, there was more than one woodchuck in the basement.

“Dad, I’m afraid I have some bad news for you,” I told my father, and then informed him of the presence of woodchucks in the basement.

“I kind of want to see them,” he said, and went to the top of the cellar stairs. With the door open and the light on below, he stood and watched. Nothing happened. He began sorting through papers while he watched, got sidetracked, and left the door open.

I ran an errand in town and came back 15 minutes later to learn that the woodchuck was now in the living room. I kid you not.Aviary Photo_130487086496962973

He was hiding behind the woodstove.

It must have been Behemoth’s offspring. This version was considerably smaller.

Still. A woodchuck in the living room?!

With a little teamwork, we got him out from behind the woodstove, but then he raced behind the piano.

Aviary Photo_130487086712967775

We finally got him to scamper out the front door.

Still, I worry about the giant in the basement.

My brother says, “If he got in, he can get out.”

Yeah, but, what if he’s taking up residence there?

Thoreau’s stated enemies — worms, cool days, woodchucks — are in the context of growing beans. Still, I wonder what he would have said about a woodchuck in his house.

 

Stewart

Pieces of Stewart

Sally2 Comments

IMG_3634[1]The following is the text of what I said at my brother’s memorial service.

My siblings and I carry little pieces of Stewart in our hearts and in the way we live our lives. Each of us reflects Stewart in little ways. Today I want to mention some of the ways I see Stewart in my brothers and sister.

First, I want to say something to my mother and father. Dad, Mom, as I went through the papers from Stewart’s apartment, I saw something about you that I didn’t want to go unnoticed or unmentioned. Mixed in with all the other papers were notes from you – words of encouragement, spanning years and years of his life. Every step of the way, you were there for Stewart. In his times of accomplishment – when he graduated from Hamilton, Yale, and Syracuse – and Dad, I know you were especially proud that he passed the New York State bar on the first attempt – and when Stewart encountered difficulties, both of you were faithful and supportive. I don’t say it often enough, but thank you for all you have done and still do.

Donabeth – you and Stewart shared the secret language of Presbyterians. And it is a secret language. You Presbyterians say the word “Session” with a capital “S”. I can hear it when you say it. You and Stewart used words like synod and polity and stated clerk, and you knew what they all meant. The Book of Order, a Presbyterian thing for sure – you know, Stewart had at least 20 of them. And all that General Assembly stuff, you knew about it. I was clueless. Donabeth, the other thing you share with Stewart are the most memories. Being the two oldest, you had the most time together. Things like Stewart doing that dance before he pulled up the stump are memories I have only because of the movie Dad took – you probably remember that moment. Lucky you.

Peter – When Stewart passed away, the mantle of the oldest son passed to you, and you took it on admirably. You handled the phone calls and the arrangements and speaking at the Memorial Service in Pittsburgh so well. Thank you. When I think of the similarities between you and Stewart, I think of his sense of humor. It’s a sharp wit, an educated wit, that makes mathematical jokes or periodic table jokes. I also think of the way your minds both can see numbers as playthings. The tessellation art that you gave each of us for Christmas one year reminds me of that fractal thing Stewart had running on his computer in Jamesville. That was back in the days before everyone had computers. Stewart had a home computer and wrote computer code things back in the ’80s. Stewart also could take the complex and make it seem simple – something a teacher does, something you do, Peter, as you teach and tutor. It’s a gift – and a similarity to Stewart.

Jim – You and Stewart are the bookends. I have always appreciated the symmetry of our family – boy-girl-boy-girl-boy. Stewart was the oldest, and you were the youngest. When we were cleaning out Stewart’s apartment, I found a pile of neatly cut wood blocks in the closet, and they made me think of you. You’ve made some beautiful things out wood: shelves, frames, planters. Stewart was obviously planning his own wood project. It’s that ability to create something tangible, something beautiful, the ability to craft something – you shared that with Stewart. I’m only sorry that the wooden walking stick that Stewart made didn’t make its way back here to you, but all things are transient. We have to hold everything with open hands, even the memories, as Mom reminds us. But we can tell the stories and relive our times with Stewart. You’ve mentioned to me several times about your time spent with Stewart when he moved to Tarentum. What a gift for you to have had that one-on-one time with him! Precious memories of two bookends together.

Me? – Stewart and I shared a love of books. Mary has been going through the boxes of books at our house. “I just love the smell of books,” she said to me one day, because there is something special about that dry papery smell and the feel of old hard-bound books; a Kindle can’t replicate that. Stewart and I also shared a love of new notebooks. When I was a kid, one of my favorite places in all Cooperstown was the back room of Augur’s Bookstore, where the office supplies were hidden away. I loved to go look at the brand new notebooks, clean and unspoiled. There’s something about a new notebook that holds so much promise. As we cleaned out Stewart’s apartment after his death, we found, I daresay, over a hundred legal pads, composition books, steno pads and other notebooks, nearly all with only the first few pages written on. He was always looking for that fresh start – and I can relate to that.

In closing, I found Stewart’s little black notebook that he used for funerals. On one page was written the poem “Do Not Stand At My Grave and Weep” by Mary Elizabeth Frye. I rewrote it for Stewart.

Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I’m a ride to the doctor, a helping hand.
I’m the good listener. I understand.

I’m the synod, the session, the stated clerk.
I’m the thing that is funny, the little quirk.
I am wit and pun, fractal, tessellation.
I am homemade chili on family vacation.

When you see and feel the beauty of wood,
Think of me then, and do something good.
I’m a partly used notebook, the words of a hymn.
I’m in Donabeth, Peter, Sally, and Jim.

So do not mourn that I’ve gone afar.
Once again I have passed the bar.

Stewart

Vultures (and a boxful of Buechner)

Sally9 Comments

I’ll admit that I felt a little vulture-ish, looking through my brother’s belongings, and, in the course of deciding where things should go, choosing a few things to keep for myself.

The good thing is that my family is really not about material possessions.

Q: What did one vulture say to the other vulture?

A: I’ve got a bone to pick with you.

That (^) never happened, not even once.

We sorted through piles and piles and piles of papers. We sorted through boxes and boxes of stuff. I know stuff is a terribly nondescript word, but it is so apropos that I feel okay about using it.

Stuff includes notepads (see previous post) and office supplies, playing cards, games, craft supplies, photographs, and books.

One collection of odds-and-ends I put together was party supplies: crepe paper, balloons, plastic eggs, strings of styrofoam skulls, strings of ceramic chili peppers, a giant plastic sombrero serving dish, and smaller Cinco de Mayo serving accessories.

Two vultures were eating a dead clown. One asked the other, “Does this taste funny to you?”

I found a tin full of little plastic doo-dads.  I showed them to one of his friends, and she laughed. “I’d like to keep that if I could,” she said. “Those were all cupcake toppers from celebrations.”

Stuff also included artwork, mugs, dishes, canned foods, toiletries, and books.

A vulture tried to board an airplane lugging two dead raccoons but was stopped by the stewardess. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but airline regulations only allow one carrion per passenger.”

My sister found two framed pieces of art that she really liked and was able to pack them in her suitcase.  She called me later to tell me that she just realized that she had probably given Stewart those pictures years ago. “No wonder I liked them so much,” she said, laughing.

Other stuff included old computers, monitors that no longer worked, flash drives, cameras, CDs, DVDs, VHS tapes, a Kindle, and books.

Did I mention that Stewart had books?

Q: What’s the difference between a lawyer and a vulture?

A: A vulture has wings.

Quite honestly, Stewart was the antithesis of a vulture and a lawyer.  He did, however, have boxes and boxes of books. Several of them contained all his law books from when he was in law school. Is there a market for twenty year old law textbooks? I rather doubt it.

DSC00719It was in these boxes of books that I found my treasure, my keepsake from Stewart. I found a box full of Buechner. In fact, it held 15 books by Frederick Buechner, 6 books by Robert Farrar Capon, a Henri Nouwen book I didn’t own, and a book by Elie Wiesel. Jackpot.

Frederick Buechner is one of my new favorite authors. His thoughts are profound and full of grace. In fact, this quote of his, not about vultures, captures some of the most comforting words I have read since Stewart’s death.

“When you remember me, it means you have carried something of who I am with you, that I have left some mark of who I am on who you are. It means that you can summon me back to your mind even though countless years and miles may stand between us. It means that if we meet again, you will know me. It means that even after I die, you can still see my face and hear my voice and speak to me in your heart.”

When I look at this collection of Buechner on my bookshelf, I will remember my brother.

And I won’t feel like a vulture.

Stewart

A New Notepad

Sally5 Comments

It became a theme. A legal pad with only a few pages written upon.

When I found the first few of these on his kitchen table, I laughed and commented to his friend, “I can’t believe he only uses a few pages on each pad.”

“Welcome to my world,” she said with a smile.

As we dug deeper and deeper into the apartment — my brothers, my sister, my father all helping — it became abundantly clear that we had had a minimal understanding of Stewart’s struggles. Layered in with the notepads was a paper trail that told such a sad, sad story.

I daresay that each of us wept, though not collectively. Individually. Privately. Alone. As my family is wont to do. Hearts breaking, not just with the loss of a family member, but with the pain that we uncovered.

While over the years I was busy looking down my nose and saying things like, “I don’t understand why Stewart doesn’t just (fill in the blank),” Stewart was hitting yet another pothole on the bumpy road of his life. And I had no clue. I truly didn’t understand.

“I found a notepad if anyone needs one,” one of my brothers would call out occasionally.

DSC00693
the tip of the iceberg

We would laugh. There was no dearth of notebooks. He had legal pads – yellow and white, composition books, loose leaf paper and three ring binders, ring bound notebooks, blank journals, and paper, just plain white paper.

As I put together a timeline for Stewart’s life — the hidden part that I didn’t know — I began to see a theme. An attempt to put old things behind and start new, followed by a problem, followed by yet another attempt to start new.

This plethora of notepads was a metaphor for his life. A clean notebook. A fresh start. Followed by something I couldn’t always see that made him want to start again.

At the beginning of the weekend, I had driven to the Pittsburgh airport to pick up my sister. On my way, I had passed a man standing along a busy road where there was stop-and-go traffic. He held a battered cardboard sign that read something like, “HOMELESS. VETERAN. PLEASE HELP.” I had watched through my rearview mirror as someone handed him money out the window of their car. My cold hard heart felt nothing for him.

At the end of the weekend, after driving my sister back to the airport, I saw him again. I had no loose change to give him, but I wanted to ask him, “Do you have a sister? Does she live in a little town in a two-story house with her family? Does she know about your gritty exhaust-filled life here by the road?”

Stewart had never reached that point of standing by the road. But I never knew all the struggles he did have.

I wanted to roll down my window and hand that homeless guy a notepad.