Another Silent Hallelujah, Part 1

Mary

Couldn't even hum along

   What is it about Handel's Messiah that renders me speechless?  A year and a half ago I was rehearsing for the church's Hallelujah Chorus when I came down with a case of  laryngitis that lasted for 6 weeks.  This fall, when the North Clackamas Community Chorus prepared to present a sing-your-own Messiah,  I got laryngitis again.  I sat silent in the audience, watching my friends Lois and Mary Jean working through  the alto part, and thrilling to the father and son standing behind me who sang every note.  I was not able to speak, much less sing.
     When our friend Mary had a holiday supper and sing-along, I could barely converse, much less join in the carols.  When Janet and Robert came over with Christmas cookies and the latest pre-natal grandchild report,  I couldn't ask all the obstetrical questions I wanted to.

Robert

     Judy by then had had a 4-week respite from conversation with me.  "Don't talk! Don't whisper!" she'd say, "You could damage your vocal chords." I have to be careful, in any case, when I talk to Judy. It takes her a few minutes now to regain her breath after walking from the car to her easy chair or walking from the bedroom to the kitchen. I wait to speak to her until she has enough breath to reply.
      Judy has new medicine to help suppress the cough that takes her breath away and makes her oxygen- saturation levels plummet. When I tell people that she has an (awful) new normal, she reminds me, "Always add that I hate it."

Merry Brucemas

      Lois and Chuck appeared with brunch on Christmas day.  They brought along their banjo and accordion and the words to Lois's Brucemas Carols, lyrics of traditional carols changed in honor of Lois's  first cat. ("We wish you a merry Brucemas" etc.)  Could I sing along?  Oh, no. But by Christmas  I could talk.

Chuck and Lois cook

     Lois, who is Jewish, pointed out that her people don't usually sing the Messiah.  "Neither do yours," she said. "It's a Protestant thing."  She's right. I used to think that only those who belonged to churches with handbell choirs and adult Sunday schools could master those notes.  Those people who, like the character in Marilynne Robinson's Housekeeping," conceived of life as a road down which one traveled, an easy enough road through a broad country, and that one's destination was there from the very beginning, a measured distance away, standing in the ordinary light like some plain house where one went in and was greeted by respectable people and was shown to a room where everything one had ever lost or put aside was gathered together, waiting.” A far cry from Gregorian chant.
      When I wanted to sing the Messiah choruses from my easy enough road, I could not. But I was happy in this season, silently preparing for our granddaughters' visit.
 
 
 

Motorcycle Santas

One Santa

 

Motorcycle toy run

Another Santa

  Judy has counted herself lucky in recent years to catch sight of hundreds of Harley-Davidson motorcycles roaring through town, carrying large stuffed animals.  Sometimes the bikes are decorated for Christmas, and often driven by a biker Santa.  They navigate en masse up our windy Pill Hill to the Shriners' Hospital, where the designated Santa gives the stuffed animals, along with a trailer truckload of donated new toys, to the young patients.  The bikers also raise thousands of dollars to buy braces, wheelchairs and
other medical equipment  for the kids.

All kinds

   

of bikers

 This year we decided to find the beginning of the toy run.  I found the least illegal parking place directly across from the parking lot where 2000 motorcycles were gathering.  I parked the wrong

Another kind of Portland biker

way in front of the driveway of a distributor of gluten-free soup.  We had about 45 minutes to stay there and photograph the cyclists as they rode in.  To my dismay, the driveway just behind us became the meeting place for the motorcycle cops who were to form the escort for the parade.  As one cop, then another, then three more pulled into position behind me, I got more and more nervous.  "Put your oxygen on," I urged Judy.  She just laughed and continued taking pictures.  She was having a fine time.   The police made sure not to notice us, but I was greatly relieved when they drove off to begin the parade.

Illegal parking

Thanksgiving swirl

   I heard someone refer to  Thanksgiving as "the one dinner of the year when we say grace."  Oh, no. In my family we said grace every night.  There were a lot of us, and almost always visitors.  First we passed all the serving dishes  around the table.  When everyone had been served, we CLAPPED once  in unison and began "Bless us o Lord..."  Only then did we begin to eat.
      My mother's cooking was plain and adequate.  We had  roasted meat, two frozen vegetables without sauce,  potatoes, and a glass of milk every night except Friday, when we had fish sticks or tuna casserole. Thanksgiving was a bounty, and so were birthday dinners.  My mother made a fancy l
lunch of chicken salad and curried fruit when I brought Judy home for the first time.  Usually, though, the meal was simple. One young man joked, with early college arrogance, that my mother's meals were Hobbesian--nasty, brutish, and short.  But he kept coming back, eagerly, for Sunday dinners. The food was nothing special, but dinner was.
    Dinner was an occasion every night.  We caught up and told stories and celebrated the children and told more stories.  We often sat around the table long after we'd finished eating, some of us drinking coffee, some of us smoking.  When we were teenagers, there were boys who came for dinner every night for months on end.

Proud parents-to-be

     The daily celebration depended on my mother's faithful cooking and on all of us showing up. We are scattered across the country now: three sisters in Maryland, one in Washington and one in Oregon, and my brother in Texas.  In the next generation, we have one in Massachusetts, one in Connecticut,  five in Maryland,  one in DC, one in Texas, one in Chicago, two  in Seattle.  And yet, as my sister Siobhan says, "We're Sullivans. We show up." We learned that by showing up for dinner.  This Thanksgiving I am grateful for the family's continuing determination to come together.

Janet and Kelli at Thanksgiving

   For big events like weddings we gather en masse.  We can't do that for Thanksgiving every year, but it pleases me no end to think about the swirl of ways we still connect.  David and Courtney go to Donnie's, Cole and Bianca join Jess and Rob at Rob's sister's, Florrie and Eileen and their families are at Vonnie's, Rose is at
Jacob's who has invited his cousin Christopher from New Hampshire, Paul and family stopped at his cousin's in Cleveland just before Thanksgiving.  Judy and I were invited to Sequim by Rose's brother-in-law's son Joe.  We couldn't make that trip, but celebrated Thanksgiving with our good neighbors, Janet and Robert.  In Janet's family, they show up.  That makes me feel right at home.
 

Abby's wedding

Florrie and Abby

Abby and Cliff

     I couldn't stop crying at Abby's wedding ceremony, from the time Cliff's  grandmother was wheeled down the aisle in her wheelchair to the recessional when Maxine declared, "I'm gonna dance with that ring bearer."  Dance she did, and so did everyone else at the reception.  Simone began dancing in her fascination with the string quartet.  Bianca's example got the crowd on the floor, and TJ wowed us with his rhythm.  Charlie tried to imitate  Bianca in his athletic way, and Sammy learned disco moves from a woman I did not know.  Jack had his own style, and Maxine danced with the ring bearer the whole time.
   In the week before the wedding there was much discussion about what to wear, because the invitation said "formal."  The men fretted about tuxes and suits.  I decided that dressy pants were OK for me.  In Oregon, if it's not fleece it's formal.  Once the dancing began, all levels of formality were lost in the music

Colin and Maxine

.

Simone playing

David and Simone

My guys

    We were  gathered at the Tidewater Inn in Easton, Maryland for the wedding weekend. The 52 of us from our portion of the family took over one of the many comfortable gathering rooms off the main lobby, telling stories and playing cards.  Everyone was there eventually except for Judy.  Tom helped Maxine mix colors in the  perfectly chosen coloring book that the wedding bunny had given her.  Simone wanted to climb the grand winding staircase over and over again, whispering so as not to wake the other guests, Charlie found the courtyard and explored the outdoors.  Don's four caught us up on their college studies. Don had been going through our father's papers, and brought us treasures.  He gave me the tax returns that Dad and filled out when I had my first job, as a 16 -year- old lingerie clerk at the S. Klein department store.

Florrie

    Abby is the younger daughter of my sister Florrie and her husband Mike.  Last year, at big sister Liz's wedding, I sat with Mike's family.  I was happy to see them again, and also Liz's in-laws, who came up from North Carolina for the party. I had a good conversation with a member of Florrie's 27-year book club.  That made me happy, because I know what a treasure it is to have longtime  companions in the sharing of books. I like seeing my sister in the context of her life.

    Before the weekend in Easton  I visited Mary and Jeremy at their farm. Mary and I tromped through the rolling land they have nurtured. We walked over cut cornfields with pretty vistas and through the rich autumn woods.  Jeremy's loving, direct questions helped me clearly my thinking.  At dinner with Bo and Rita I was surrounded by Mary's fine landscape paintings.  I had rental far kerfuffles and borrowed car breakdowns, so the next morning Mary drove me the two hours to

Mary and Amelie

Easton while Jeremy waited for AAA. Mary and I  had lunch and caught up with a librarian friend, and shopped in the upscale consignment shop. The next day, Mary and Jeremy drove Vonnie's old but mostly reliable Buick back to the Maryland suburbs, and then continued on to a christening in DC.
     After the weekend, we relaxed back at Vonnie's house.  Ernie lit a fire and coddled Bert, who had been at doggie camp.  Eileen regaled us with her (disputed) theories about why our family is a little strange.  The next morning

Shep in farmhouse kitchen

John went searching for his grandmother's grave in the Greenbelt
cemetery.  Florrie, the official hostess of the elaborate wedding, showed up with still-warm banana bread she had baked that morning.  My sisters and I talked and laughed, and then it was time to fly home.
   At Abby's wedding, I was overwhelmed with all the good people I have known so well for so many years, lives distilled and gathered together for a joyous beginning.   Now that I am home, I remember how they make me strong.
   

Veterans' day

Our director, John Baker

At the concert

   When the director of the North Clackamas Community Choir said we were going to do a Veterans' Day concert, I didn't hesitate to sign on. My resident veteran is proud of her years in the Air Force, and I have great admiration for the way Judy has lived her life.  However, I suspected that it would be difficult to sing our planned program.
     I spent many years brushing off patriotic music, not wanting to stir any martial feelings in my teenage boys.  The era when I came to political consciousness had an influence on my music preferences, too.  We sang This Land is Your Land, but never, ever God Bless America.  The national anthem was confined to baseball games. ( I still automatically shout the O before "say does that star-spangledangled banner yet wave," in support of the Baltimore Orioles.)

With malice toward none...

      At our first rehearsal, I was stumbling and mumbling.  Finally I blurted out to the conservatively dressed Milwaukie matron sitting next to me, "It's hard for me to say these words." I expected that she would just look at me with polite wariness, but she replied, "Me too!  I'm glad I'm not the only one!"  I concentrated on one selection, called A Just and Lasting Peace, which uses the reconciling words from Lincoln's second inaugural address.
   At the concert, though, I was singing every piece with gusto.  The hall was packed.  I could see Judy rocking and singing along with the medley of Motown tunes that we sang especially for the Vietnam-era vets.  Toward the last, we sang the signature songs for each of the armed services.  The veterans from each branch stood when their anthem started, and the crowd clapped and clapped.  I had a hard time with the very easy alto parts, because I was so focused on the proud faces of the veterans.
    A few veterans come to the free food pantry where I occasionally volunteer.  They wait patiently for an hour or two until it is their turn to "shop" the aisles of canned beef stew and tuna helper.  My favorites are Stan and Red, who served in the Korean war.  Each one is "shopping" for two; I assume they have sick wives at home.  They tease and joke with each other about who makes the worse selections of groceries, and who is the worse cook.  Another vet was a pilot. He's had a stroke; his son pushes his cart around the aisles.  He wears a jacket on which his daughter-in-law embroidered the planes he flew.  What's that medal on your pocket?  I asked.  A purple heart.

Government surplus

House blessing

Bianca

Cole

      John and Rose and Judy and Mutt Leigh and I rode the ferry over from Sequim to Seattle to visit   my nephew Cole and his wife Bianca in their new house.  They have just moved from Boston in order to take positions at the University of Washington.  Bianca teaches theoretical math.   Cole runs a lab that maps genetic code and works closely with the Hutchinson Cancer Center about glioblastoma, a type of brain cancer.   Cole's mother Siobhan and her husband  Ernie were visiting from Maryland.  The wind was blowing fiercely outside, but Cole and Bianca have made the house warm and light and bright with stylish furniture.

A respite for Vonnie

Rose beams at Cole

    Mutt Leigh glommed on to Ernie.  John and Cole tested the wine. Siobhan is being worn to a thin frazzle by her work in infection control. ( How do you train 1600 employees to deal safely with
Ebola?) Judy sat on a chaise lounge in the sunny corner and watched Ernie pet Miss Mutt Leigh.  We all tried to figure out just what "formal wear" means on the invitation to niece Abby's wedding.  Cole made a good beef bourguignon, which we ate at the elegant, glass-topped table.  We talked and laughed for hours, never tiring of one another, while we tried not to be too obvious about beaming at these great young people.

6 hours of petting

Judy in the window corner

John beams at life

    When my father died ten years ago, we closed up the house on Duke Street,  where the family and practically- family had gathered  for dinner every Sunday.  My son Paul wondered how we would  all continue to meet.  "What will be the new Duke Street?" he asked.  Hanging out at Cole and Bianca's felt like old times to me.

My guys in Evanston

   "Come in October," Paul said, "before cold and flu season."  He is mindful about Judy's health.  So I went to Evanston for a long weekend in the bright Midwestern autumn. ( We here in the Northwest insist that we have fall colors, too.  Around Lake Michigan they have the whole gestalt.)

Jack's campaign poster

    After Tina picked me up at the airport, we went directly  to the boys' school to hear Jack's campaign speech in the race for student body treasurer.  Jack was the 26th of 29 children to speak.  He was poised and confident, and gave a straightforward but clever speech.  "Vote for me for treasurer, and I'll treasure your vote.  Remember, Jack's got your back."  It was a fine moment when he found out, via e-mail to his parents, that he had won.  I was relieved to see Jack looking healthy and upright and energetic, full of plans with his friends, after his awful 6-month siege with Norovirus last year.

Charlie on the field
   

   On Saturday, we watched Jack's flag football game and Charlie's soccer game, and then went to the local ice rink for Sammy's 6th birthday party.  Sam skated and fell and got up over and over again, never losing his game face as some of his buddies whizzed around him like ice hockey speed demons.  He blew out the candles on his cake and sang Happy Birthday to himself with gusto.  Sam loves to do art and crafts; Tina has set up an easel in a studio for him in the garage.  Sam and I painted peace symbols in various color combinations and taped them up on the walls.

Grandmother park, no guns allowed

   Evanston has a park every two blocks.  The ice arena is a part of the public park system, and is surrounded by soccer fields.  On Sunday, when Sam's team played, there were ten little-kid matches going on those fields.  I took a walk through  the nearby neighborhood and came across a pocket park dedicated to grandmothers.  The boys can walk to the end of their street to Mason Park, where Charlie's team got soundly outplayed (except for Charlie) at soccer.  Jack can meet his friends there to ride bikes, and Sam can find playmates on the swings.  At the park, or wherever he goes, Charlie becomes the center of a pickup basketball or football game.  In  summer Paul and Tina organize neighborhood cookouts at Mason Park.  Everybody walks.

Dewey school garden

School paper

    Early Monday I walked Charlie and Sam to school for their before-school chess club.  On Tuesday, they went early for chorus.  Charlie was talking about the special classes they have each day:  Monday is library, Tuesday music, Wednesday art, Thursday drama, and Friday something else I can't remember.  They have a young writers' club before school,  a school newspaper, and a garden.  I thought about the old song, Them that's got shall get.

Tina coaches Sam's team

   Jack does not walk to Dewey Elementary in the mornings.  He goes to the middle school for sixth grade math for the  first period, picking up three of his buddies along the way.  I was rejoicing in this Leave It To Beaver way of life, where an 11 year old can be the master of an expanding part of his kid world.  Then I saw the enormous, heavy backpack that Jack carries on his one-mile walk, and observed the amount of math homework he faces every afternoon.

Sam plays soccer

   On Monday Sam's kindergarten class had its first field trip, to the public library.  The library had three children's librarians on hand to greet the kids; one to take them on a tour, one to perform a story time for them in the private, dedicated story room, and one to do a craft with them.  After the story and the crafts, Sam sprawled on the floor reading a book to a classmate.  "His name is Owen, so I read him a book called Owen.  He didn't like it, though, so we read an Elephant and Piggy book."

Jack concentrates on his recipe

    There is a whole separate area  devoted just to children's crafts.  It has  low counters with built-in bowls and a long wall of storage cabinets and sinks.  As someone who struggled to staff children's programs with one children's librarian, and to set aside the library's one common meeting room for their story times, I was agog.  Such riches! There is wealth in Evanston, to be sure, but also a solid 150- year history of investment in the public good.
    I loved the quiet times I had with the family.  We played charades one  evening after one of Tina's delicious, creative dinners. Another night Paul lit a fire and we talked. Jack made his signature coffee /chocolate chunk cookies.  I played cards with Sam.  Jack and I read quietly by the fireplace every evening after the other boys had gone to bed.  I had surprising conversations with Charlie, who is curious and interested in other people in a way that I have seldom seen in a 9-year old boy.

Mutt Leigh and her lamb

   When I arrived home, Mutt Leigh greeted me.  She celebrated by fetching one of her toys and racing around the house with it, then settling at my feet and making the toy squeak.  She squeaked her lamby for twenty minutes straight (I looked at the clock.)   It was a better reception than a brass band could have given me.