Author: Sally

poetry

Three Turkey Vultures

Sally4 Comments

Three turkey vultures alit on the roof
Because they have no voice organs,
I really have no proof
That there was any conversation
Between them at all
Maybe a guttural hiss
Instead of other call

This imaginary dialogue then
Really didn’t occur
But for the sake of storytelling
I hope you won’t demur.

Three turkey vultures sat on the barn
One gave a sniff
“Is that carrion?”
And off that vulture flew
But he went the wrong way.
The other two just shrugged and said,
“I. D. K.”

Two turkey vultures sitting in the sun
Basking in the warmth,
Resting…
Then they heard a gun
“Is someone after us?”
One asked the other.
“I’m not taking any chances.”
And he flew off in a bother.

One lone turkey vulture slowly looked around
He was a long way up
It was a long way down
He felt a little woozy
And his head began to spin
He tipped off the roof
Then his wings kicked in

And he felt a thermal lift
Higher, higher, higher
Sitting can be fun, he thought
But I’d rather be a flier.

elderly · family · friendship · Leaning In

The Gift of Giving

Sally3 Comments

About a month ago, I received a curious piece of mail.

When I opened the envelope, I found a folded-up piece of yellow construction paper. In red marker, the sender, Juliette, a little girl from our church in Greene, had drawn a heart, an elephant, a waterfall, and some flowers covered in dirt. (Her grandmother wrote explanations for me.) 

It also included a dandelion. I actually love dandelions. I loved when my own children were of the age of bringing me dandelion bouquets.

That letter made my day. It was so fun to receive something so unexpected. I knew I needed to respond, but, in the craziness of getting ready for France, I didn’t do it until the other day.

I made a card for Juliette. 

The rabbits were just a little too big to fit neatly on my card, so one rabbit’s ear and tail fold around onto the back. I guess you could say its back side is on the back side.

I asked her grandmother for Juliette’s address. She texted the address back and added, “She is fascinated right now with giving everyone the pictures she makes.”

 

Juliette is learning at a young age that giving is its own gift.

***

Last night at the dinner table, as my father repeatedly repeated himself, I found myself wondering at the wisdom of bringing my children here to live with him.

It can be frustrating and even, sometimes, a little irritating to listen to the same comments about the blueness of the skies and the greenness of the plants.

I’ve heard Mary patiently explain how to operate the remote control to the television and sometimes resort the explanation of “magic” when asked how she found the right channel. The other night I heard Karl trying to explain the remote control. Again.

My youngest children have to live in a house with rooms still full of items from previous occupants. My parents’ house became a repository for so many things from other family members that it’s hard to find space for its current residents.

I wonder repeatedly, is this good for them? Is it good for our family to be a little fractured for the sake of the eldest member? Is it good to stretch between two homes, and in so doing, to almost have no home? Is it good to see their grandfather needy and weak and forgetful?

But I remember my mother caring for her mother and mother-in-law. With patience, sacrifice, and great love, she did for them what they could no longer do for themselves.

I suppose I’m following in her footsteps.

It’s a different kind of giving from sending a sweet greeting in the mail.

Sometimes this kind of giving seems like a terrible gift, but I need to remember that it is a gift nonetheless.

I need to lean in. Embrace each moment. These gifts are good.

collage · friendship · Travel

Guiding Principles

Sally7 Comments

When I started planning the trip to France, I had no idea what I was doing.

I take that back. I knew two things. One, that my father had talked for a long time about going to the beaches of Normandy, and, two, that I was going to make that happen.

So I started planning the only way I knew, with economy and frugality at the forefront. It’s how my mother always did things. It’s how, of necessity, we did things with our children.

My neighbor set me straight. I had asked her about how to find a private guide, things to do in Paris, stuff like that because she traveled extensively.

“We got a real bargain on our airfare,” I told her. It had cost only about $500 per person to fly economy from Newark to Paris. I was pretty proud of myself for finding such a deal.

“You need to book a bed for your father,” she said. I had no idea such things existed on commercial airplanes. “This trip is all about him. Remember that.”

And I did. Book a “Biz Bed” — and remember her advice.

It became a guiding principle. When in doubt, think about what was best and most comfortable for him.

Hence staying at the Villa Lara because it had an elevator.

Hence doing only half day tours of the beaches. (It would have been more economical to hire Colin for full days, plus we could have covered more ground, but a half day of touring was plenty for my father.)

Hence forgoing the Arc de Triomphe in Paris and choosing the Eiffel Tower. (Eiffel Tower is  much more wheelchair-friendly.)

Hence hiring the Paris Black Car to pick us up at the airport, drive us right to Bayeux, then pick us up again at Bayeux and get us back to Paris. (If we were all able-bodied, I probably would have looked into the train to save a few dollars.)

When I think about that advice and how we used it to guide us for everything — how we got around, where we stayed, where we dined, what activities we chose — I am so thankful for it.

Looking ahead to my trip to Croatia and Bosnia, I thought, I need another guiding principle. It added so much clarity to France.

The first part of my next trip is spending time with my friend, Leah, while exploring Dubrovnik and Mostar, and the second part is a work project in Bosnia with a team from our church.

We had a team meeting last week, and we had to say why we were going on the trip. I hadn’t clearly formulated my thoughts on that, but I have now.

For me, that trip is about investing in friendship.

Friendships, like every other relationship, take work and time. I’m looking forward to my time with Leah as an investment in my friendship with her. When we reach our work project, I’m looking forward to investing in time with the other members of our team, especially Amy. And, I’m looking forward to meeting new friends from a new place and investing in them.

The more I thought about it, the more excited about it I became — not the trip, but the purpose.

So much so, that I’m dedicating June to “Ulagati u prijateljstvo” which, Croatian means, “Invest in friendship.” Kind of like a jumpstart on Bosnia.

Today I’m sending a little package to a dear friend who’s going through a difficult situation. I made her a little card showing one rabbit helping another. She’ll understand what I mean.

Tomorrow, I have another little package almost ready to go.

They are investments.

I’m so excited for the next few months.

family

The Canoe Race

Sally11 Comments

Memorial Day threatened thunderstorms all day.

When the rain started at 6 AM, I knew that the weatherman had been at least partially correct.

In Cooperstown, a 70 mile canoe race begins early on the lake on Memorial Day. When I was little, I remember running down to the river from our house, crunching through skunk cabbage and violets, to stand on a tree that extended over the river. My family cheered the canoeists on from that secluded spot.

My oldest son at our tree spot — 1989?

When my children were little, we would get up early and go to the bridge down the street that was the site of the first portage. For many people this was the first place to cheer for the racers once they left the lake. Afterwards, my parents would join us for a big family breakfast at our house — eggs, cinnamon rolls, fresh fruit, orange juice, and coffee.

Always a thrill to see the line of canoes coming down the river.
Portage — 2005

Now, since I’m staying with my father, I suppose we could go crunching through overgrown pasture and hope to find our tree over the river, but I doubt it’s still there. Plus the idea of getting wet trekking through the tall grass doesn’t appeal to me. We usually drive in to the bridge and follow-up with the pancake breakfast at the Baptist Church.

Except this year.

Oh, the rain! It wasn’t drip-dropping. It was out-and-out pouring.

I pitied the canoeists.

My father and my brother once participated in the race on a rainy Memorial Day. My father told me that in the middle of that miserable race, my brother said, “Dad, if you finish this, I’ll never ask you for anything again.”

They finished. Not sure about the rest.

The things we say in the midst of trials! Another time when they entered, he had accused my father of having no rhythm, but, then, I may have said something similar when my husband and I attempted a different canoe race. In fact, I think I threatened to throw my husband overboard.

We also finished.

Paddling together is a learning experience.

This year, however, with the rain, and with my father having had a small scare (ER visit, one night hospitalization) a few days before, I didn’t ask him if he wanted to watch the regatta. I hoped he wouldn’t remember it.

But, of course, he did. The next day. When the results were on the front page of the newspaper.

“We missed the canoe race,” he said to me, a little accusingly.

“It was pouring, Dad,” I told him, and he acquiesced.

But he brought it up again.

And again.

The last time he said it was when we ran into a lady from his church.

“Did you watch the regatta?” she asked.

He looked at me. “No. We missed it,” he said.

“It was raining,” I offered as explanation.

“Pouring,” she said. “Plus, if you’ve seen one canoe race, you’ve seen ’em all.”

That may be true, but not for the racers. It was their day, their race — and we missed a chance to cheer them on. I still feel a trace of guilt.

Next year.

Life

Maggie in the Way

Sally4 Comments

“Maggie,” I said, “you’ve got to move. I’m doing my stretches.”

I’m trying to ready for my upcoming trip to Croatia and Bosnia so I went for a walk-run this morning.

When I sat on the floor to stretch, though, Maggie plopped herself right in the middle.

Look at that face. I think she was peeved that I didn’t take her with me, but walking with Maggie means stopping at every woodchuck hole along the way, and I wanted to push myself a little.

I finally shoved her away and stretched, reaching toward my left toes, and feeling every bit of tightness that comes from not stretching regularly.

As I shifted around, folding my left leg and stretching out my right, Maggie quickly got up and plopped herself in the middle of things again.

Then she feigned hearing loss when I tried to encourage her to move.

This getting buff thing is going to be harder than I thought.

 

Life

Memorial Day

Sally3 Comments

 

In 1943, Antoine de Saint-Exupery traveled with an American convoy to North Africa.

He later wrote this “Letter to an American” which is fitting for Memorial Day.

at the Musée du débarquement Utah Beach

… If your soldiers had gone to war only for the defense of American interests, the propaganda would have emphasized your oil fields, your plantations, and your threatened commercial markets. Instead, it scarcely touched on such subjects. If other things were being spoken of, it is because your boys wanted to hear something different.

And what were they told that could motivate them to sacrifice their lives? They were told of hostages hanged in Poland. They were told of prisoners shot in France. They were told that a new form of slavery threatened to extinguish a part of Humanity. They were told not about themselves, but of others. That gave them a sense of solidarity with all mankind.

The fifty thousand soldiers in my convoy went to war not to save American citizens, but rather for Man himself, respect for Mankind, liberty for all men, the greatness of Man…

poetry

Stress Relief

Sally5 Comments

This is for all my fellow game-players.

The more I stress, the more I play
Like games can wash my stress away

The more I play and squander time
The more I feel that it’s a crime

And so I leave to get stuff done
But, then, I also need some fun

Such a dilemma, such a quandary
Play a game, or do the laundry

Play a game, or clean the floor
Play a game, or go to the store

Play a game, or walk the dog
Play a game, or write this blog

Play a game, or pay some bills
One depletes, the other refills

The more that I pursue distraction
The less gets done, the more inaction

The more I stomp distraction down
The less I smile, the more I frown

The more I frown, the more I stress
I need an exit from this mess

I know — I think I’ll play a game
To clear my mind, to keep me sane

And so I’ll play and then I’ll stress
Get something done and then regress

Travel

The Villa Lara

Sally6 Comments

Traveling with a mobility-challenged person limited our choice in accommodations. We knew we needed a hotel with a “lift” (an elevator).

(Side-note: Sometimes having a lift doesn’t mean it can accommodate a wheelchair, as we learned at our hotel in Paris. The elevator was so tiny that my father had to leave his wheelchair in the lobby and use his walker to get to the elevator and then to his room.)

Through a series of missteps and sheer luck, we ended up at the Villa Lara. I cannot imagine a better place to stay.

(Second side-note: I initially booked at a place just outside Bayeux that looked lovely. I emailed them to ask if they had a lift or rooms on the first floor. “All our rooms are on the first floor,” they replied. Then our guide told us that the first floor in France is what we consider the second floor in the US. I cancelled our rooms at the lift-less, second-floor room place, and, thankfully, the Villa Lara still had three rooms available.)

When we first arrived, and our driver pulled up right in front, Louis greeted us before we were even out of the car. I hesitate to call Louis a bellhop because he was so much more. He was the first ambassador for a pleasant stay, doing everything in his power to make us feel welcome and comfortable.

My brother and sister planning their geocaching for the day — Louis is in the background

I don’t remember who was at the front desk to check us in that day. The weariness of travel blurred my memory.

But I do know that every single person that sat behind that desk was cheerful and helpful. They made reservations for us for dinner every night, taking into account that we needed a place that was wheelchair friendly. They helped us with our French. They got us the all-important coffee tray in the morning.

Laura was my favorite. She was from a small nearby town and obviously loved where she lived. I know that feeling. It’s infectious.

The rooms at the Villa Lara were spacious and comfortable. My sister and her husband had a room with a sitting area off the bedroom. It had gorgeous views of the cathedral.

The evening view of the cathedral

While we didn’t eat our breakfasts at the hotel — we’re a coffee and a pastry kind of family — we did visit the hotel bar one evening for Calvados, the local apple brandy. My sister, her husband, Bud, and I sat in the lounge sipping our brandy — a first for me — and relishing the experience.

New York Times always available so we could keep up with the news from home — the hotel bar is in the background

If I’m gushing about the Villa Lara, it’s because that’s exactly how I feel. It’s a place infused with hospitality. If I ever have the opportunity to visit Normandy again, I would plan my trip around their availability because for me, now, there is nowhere I would rather stay.

elderly · family · Travel

Ominous Beginning — Part 2

Sally5 Comments

Traveling is a weary business. Especially when traipsing across time zones.

When you start in a rural area and end in a rural area, travel time is extended by the road time at either end.

We left Cooperstown around 12:30 PM and arrived in Bayeux around 1 PM the following day — which would have been 7 AM New York time.

A little walk, a little food, a little wine — and I was refreshed. When it got to be dinner time, my father didn’t join us because he wasn’t hungry. My sister stayed with him while the rest of us got some crepes.

The next day was to be our first day touring the Normandy beaches. I had gotten up early and been served a lovely tray of coffee in the lounge area downstairs. My sister joined me and we walked to a patisserie to buy some pastries. So far, everything was absolutely wonderful.

But…

an hour or two later…

I was in our room when my brother pounded on the door.

“I need you,” he said, and we hastily followed him back to the room he shared with my father.

My father was laying on the bathroom floor, his face roughly the same color as his t-shirt — white — and damp.

“I saw him hanging onto the counter,” Peter said, “like he was going to pass out, so I helped him lie down and got you.”

Bud quickly sat on the only available seat — the stool — and elevated my father’s legs.

We got a pillow for under his head.

And we discussed what to do.

Last year, right about this time, my sister stayed with my father, heard a crash, and found him on the bathroom floor.

My brother had gotten more than one call from Lifeline after my father had fallen.

I had seen him near-collapse and called the nursing service we use for home care.

Each of us had seen our father like this before —

And therein lies the blessing.

While it was scary, it was not unfamiliar.

“I think it’s a syncopal episode,” one of us said.

I remembered the nurse telling me that one of the causes can be dehydration. Had he drank enough while we traveled? Probably not.

I ran downstairs and got a glass of orange juice. By the time I got back upstairs, his color was much improved. My father felt like he could sit up, so my husband and brother lifted him to a chair.

Orange juice and pain au chocolat work magic

The episode passed. We had a reprieve. The rest of the trip went without incident.

He had a cardiology appointment when we got home. They interrogated his pacemaker and could tell that it hadn’t been a cardiac event. We had been correct in our assessment.

For one moment, I had visions of getting to know the French health care system — but because of my brother’s quick thinking to prevent a fall and our collective experiences with his syncopal episodes, we weathered that storm.

Sometimes, in the midst of a terrible situation, it’s hard to see the good.

And maybe the good is never really good, but becomes a relative goodness — one where you’re able to say a little thank you for a terrible thing that previously happened.

Life · Travel

Ominous Beginning

Sally9 Comments

The man seated ahead of us on our Newark to Paris flight was large and loud.

I missed the beginning of the “discussion” because we were getting situated in our seats, stowing my pack in the overhead compartment, turning my phone to airplane mode, finding both ends of the seatbelt.

My ears tuned in at — “NO! You listen to me!”

His angry voice rose above the murmur of the other passengers who were doing the same things I had been doing.

The flight attendant, a neatly-groomed small-framed man who spoke excellent English with only a trace of a French accent, remained calm. “Sir,” he said, “I’m trying to explain.”

The passenger interrupted. “I’m paying your salary,” he bellowed. “You need to do what I say.”

“Please listen to me,” the flight attendant said. I was amazed at how unrattled he was by the confrontation. “I cannot give you two pillows right now –”

“I need to be comfortable on this flight!” the man interrupted with another bellow.

“Sir,” the flight attendant began again, “if you will listen, I will explain.”

I looked out the window at the raining pouring down outside, wishing I could be almost anywhere but there, where the groundwork was being laid for the next ugly airline confrontation. Getting my phone out to record it didn’t cross my mind.

“As long as your explanation includes a second pillow — ” the man said, interrupting again.

“Yes, sir, I have to wait until everyone is seated. We have only enough pillowcases for the passengers on board,” the flight attendant said.

“Well, what’re THOSE?!” the man asked, pointing to a small pile of pillows in an overhead compartment across the aisle.

“Those are pillows without pillowcases,” the attendant said.

“Gimme one of ’em,” grumpy man demanded.

The flight attendant complied, repeating the fact that it did not have a pillowcase on it.

“See?” the man said snidely. “We found a peaceful solution.” His sarcasm cut rudely through his words.

As he plumped his pillows and settled into his seat, the flight attendant moved down the aisle to assist other passengers.

I sighed. It’s no wonder Americans have a bad name.

The plane was quickly prepared for take-off and didn’t linger long on the runway.

Once in the air, the man ahead of me signaled the flight attendant as he walked past. He beckoned him to lean close, so he wouldn’t have to yell, but I could still hear.

“I’m sorry for the way I treated you,” he said. “I was out of line.”

“No problem, sir,” said the flight attendant.

Above the clouds, the rain was gone. The sun truly looked like a silver lining.

And the angry words were washed away in one man’s humility.

I more than survived the experience. In an unexpected twist, I was blessed by it.