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.
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.
“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.
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.
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.
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.
… a condition, primarily associated with writing, in which an author loses the ability to produce new work, or experiences a creative slowdown. (Wikipedia)
The other day one of my kids called. “Did you know Mary and Laurel are watching ’13 Reasons Why’?” he asked.
I knew Mary was. The show about a girl who commits suicide had created enough rumblings before the final episodes that I was aware of it and asked Mary about it.
“It’s really well done,” she said.
“Does it glorify suicide?” I asked.
“No,” she said firmly.
When I found out that Laurel was watching too, I cringed a little.
At that point, it was too late though. The lid was off the jar; the fireflies had escaped. I can’t really change that.
“What do you think of it?” I asked Laurel.
“I dunno,” she said, the standard teenage answer for almost everything, not because they don’t know but because it’s hard to articulate thoughts and feelings.
Last night my friends were discussing it, and not favorably.
“Does the show glorify suicide?” I asked Mary again.
“No,” she answered, “it does not glorify suicide.”
“I feel like I shouldn’t have let you two watch it,” I said to them. “I’ll bet so-and-so (and here I mentioned the name of a wonderful mother I know) wouldn’t have let her kids watch it.”
Laurel laughed. She was sprawled on the couch with her head in my lap. For all her grown-up height and attributes, she still likes to snuggle.
“If she hadn’t let her kids watch it, they would have watched it anyway,” she said. “Saying no would just make them want to watch it more.”
It reminded me of when I was around Laurel’s age and “Summer of ’42” came out in the theaters. Everyone was going to see it. Everyone but me, that is. My parents were adamant.
Back in the 70s, I couldn’t sneak up to my room and watch it anyway. I would have had to walk two miles into town and hope the ticket person at the theater wouldn’t question the scrawny pre-teen trying to buy a ticket to an R-rated movie.
Nope, couldn’t do that — so I read the book.
Laurel was right. “No” to a teen means find a way.
I suppose it would have been nice to process Summer of ’42 with someone, but I also suppose if my mother had asked me if I had any questions, I would have said, “I dunno.”
But for my children, especially my daughters who watched a show about a girl who commits suicide, let me give you 13 reasons why not.
I will always love you. There’s nothing you can do to change that.
I will not get tired of you. I won’t push you away. You won’t reach a limit with me.
I will fight fiercely for you. I’ll spend hours on the phone, or in doctor’s offices, or at schools, or wherever you need me to advocate for you as best I can. I will actively pursue getting you help if I can’t do it myself.
I’m not alone in loving you. One of the blessings of a large family is that you have small army at your back. We’re a mighty group of swordsmen who will surround you if needed and fight off your foes.
You fill a spot in my heart that no one else can fill. If you were gone, you’d leave a terrible hole.
Henry. The next generation is here. He thinks you’re pretty awesome.
Grampa. You brighten an old man’s life. You are a blessing to him. Yes, he repeats himself and the things he says to you, but I see his eyes light up when you share your world with him.
You are not the biggest screw-up in the world. That would be me.
If you need me to, I can complete this sentence a thousand different joyful ways — “I remember the day you…..”
Whatever the terrible thing is that you’re dealing with at this moment will someday be a distant memory. Throw the stick in the river and let it disappear down the bend on the way to the Chesapeake. Or, better yet, throw the stick in the fire — you know we’re big on doing that.
Tomorrow is a new day.
You’ve already made a difference in the world. Think about a time when you were kind. If you can’t think of one, I can — and I’ll tell you about it.
Know that I will accept “I dunno” as an answer. I know sometimes it’s hard to put feelings into words. And that’s okay — but I’m here to listen if you ever want to try to find those words.
“Doctor Who is helping you learn Croatian,” Mary pointed out the other day.
I had given Mary this cup in her Easter basket.
Because she likes Doctor Who.
The other day, as I was trying to jam more Croatian words into my head, I threw up my hands, and said, “How am I ever going to remember that daleko means far?!”
Then I saw Mary’s Dalek cup.
I want the Daleks far from me.
Dalek — daleko. I’ll remember it now, even if only temporarily.
Hot Dogs and Marmalade 