A Tale of Two Pianos

 One thing I love to have in my home is a piano. Not a keyboard. I'm not great at piano, but I love to have one around. I love to play classical piano--not well-but still I love to do it. I'm not being modest either.

My dad played piano very well. I loved to hear him. He picked interesting things to play, my favorite being Scarlatti. I play Scarlatti almost exclusively, now that I realize my days on this earth are numbered and there's no use wasting time playing stuff I don't like.

My Uncle Chris played the piano so beautifully it made my cousin and me cry, even when we were skulky teenagers. He played romantic pieces by composers like Brahms and Ravel. Sometimes I play that kind of stuff. My Uncle Chris was an amazing musician. He had an old spinet piano, not a great instrument, but pretty. It was maple and had a nice leafy design carved into the music stand. I always secretly wanted it. 

As a young adult I lived in apartments, often on the third floor. Back then we didn't have a piano, obviously. However, when we finally settled down in a little bungalow where we knew we would stay, I started looking. There had once been a piano factory near where we lived. It was long gone and they had actually turned it into a mall. However, some of those pianos were still kicking around.

In fact, a venerable octogenarian living only a couple blocks from us was advertising her piano for sale in the local paper. I rushed over to check it out. The woman's name was Mabel. She lived with her sister and brother-in-law. She had never married. In her younger years she had worked at a watch factory, and once upon a time, she had bought herself a piano from that local piano factory.

The piano was nice, a dark cherry wood upright, in perfect condition. It was actually not as good of an instrument as my Uncle Chris's piano, but he had not offered me his yet. You see, he had multiple sclerosis, and was unable to play the piano anymore. Still, he was not ready to give it away, which I understood. I asked Mabel how much she wanted for the piano. She looked at me cutely and said, "Fifty dollars?"

We were pretty broke in those days, and I'm not gonna lie, I knew I should offer her more, but I didn't.  So, I got my piano. Next time I saw my Uncle Chris I told him about it, of course. I think it kind of made him jealous that I had got myself another piano, not his. So then he decided that I should have his piano. I said something about what would I do with the one I just bought then, and he told me I could throw it in the garbage. I hope you are laughing now. I know I am.

So, for a while, maybe a couple of years, we had two pianos in our little bungalow. I never did get to my point in this story though, so stay tuned...

Hard to Swallow

I was speaking to a friend the other day on the phone. She lives far from here, in another state. However, it is as though we are knit together and no distance apart whatsoever. We have known each other since we were tiny kids. Our relationship has been on-again-off-again for various reasons, yet we are always close at heart. And now we are sisters in Christ, bringing us even closer.

She was telling me about her daughter, who a while back, to my friend's horror, got a motorcycle. Gasp. Recently, her daughter got into a wreck. Thankfully, she was not seriously injured. However, it was apparently terribly painful. So I would have thought, like my friend might have thought, that it would be the end of motorcycles for this young woman. 

Nope. She went and bought another, bigger motorcycle. And from what I understand, it is not even that she loves motorcycles. She might possibly have given up riding motorcycles. But there was another issue altogether affecting her decision.

My friend told me that the motorcycle community there is a very tight group. They are strongly supportive of one another, evidenced by a group of bikers who hung around the parking lot of the hospital all night while her daughter was there. They were not allowed in to see her, but stayed outside just so she would know they were there. They helped her other times too, like coming to the rescue when she had a flat tire. It sounds like they would be there for each other 24/7, no matter what. 

So this young woman would forego other options, even risk her safety, rather than lose that fellowship. I get that. I know what it is to long intensely for that level of community. I'm not saying that I'm desperately alone. I do have close friends and family. But if this group can rally so passionately around the commonality of motorcycles, it is very convicting to me as a member of the church of Jesus Christ.

 

Stuff that Makes Me Happy

 I wish I could write something funny today, but I'm not in a funny mood. But I am hopeful. Here are some things that make me happy right now. 

My new mug--blue with a cute orange fox in a snowy scene. I love blue and orange, and it was drawn by a friend.

My son Daniel's enthusiasm and zest for life.

My son John's strength.

My son Tim's heart.

My son Chris' integrity. 

All of my sons' funny stories and jokes.

My husband's kindness.

My Uncle Chris' piano, which is now mine.

My dad's U.S. Steel tie clip.

My sister's voice.

My brother Mike's funniness.

My brother Robert's gentleness.

My cousin Lindy's laugh.

My cousin Dawn's laugh.

My cousin Anne's wit.

There are a lot of other people but I'll stop there for now.

This End Up

 I just heard of somebody who needs a heart transplant because his heart is upside-down. He is an adult, with a family, so I don't know how he could have lived all these years with an upside-down heart. I can't ask about it or research it because I am so squeamish I would definitely faint. 

Growing up, I always thought I would have lots of kids. It never occurred to me that I might not be able to birth a baby naturally. However, my firstborn son was breech. In fact, he was sitting up, cross-legged. He was upside-down. So, I had to have a Cesarean section, and that limited the number of kids I could have.

In a somewhat recent Netflix series, Stranger Things, there is an alternate reality, dark and full of horror, which is called, "the upside-down." The show is very disturbing and scary, and I do not recommend it. People unexpectedly find themselves in the upside-down, and they are trapped there. 

I had a dream two nights ago about my dad, who passed away a couple years ago. I am having trouble forgetting it. In the dream, my dad came walking into the house, a thing he couldn't have done the last few years of his life. He was younger, and looked so healthy. His hair was thick and dark. His face was rosy and full.

 At first I was overjoyed to see him, but confused. Then I realized, he could not really be my dad. I said, "Dad! You're walking!" But then I said, "This can't really be you. I'm dreaming." It was sad, and I didn't want it to be true, but I knew it must be. "I'm dreaming. This is too good to be true. I have to wake up." It was so real I almost believed it, especially when I didn't wake up right away. But I kept saying, "I have to wake up. It's not really you." And eventually I did wake up.

The dad in my dream was not my real dad. So it was no good. It didn't mean anything to have a fake dad there. I woke up and was met by the grief that has been there for the last couple of years. My dad was gone. Nothing could change that. And even in the dream I did not want to be consoled by some falsehood that might have made me feel better temporarily. It was the opposite of true. It was upside-down.

Lately I have been fighting negative thoughts. I've been in a bad mood. I talked to a friend about it and she recommended a book she's recommended before. I admitted that I never got the book. She told me the guy also did videos on YouTube on the subject of the book. Well, watching YouTubes happens to be an ambivalent habit of mine. So I watched.

The guy on the video reminded me that it's important to rehearse an attitude of appreciation intentionally, for at least five minutes, at least twice each day. Gratitude. Duh. Anyway, I may have dragged my feet at first, but after working on that a bit, I can confidently say that now I am no longer trapped in the upside-down. I am, for the time being, right-side up.

Jerry, the Squirrel Part Seven: The Squirrel Wars

 "Many years ago, before Great Grandfather Squirrel was even born, things were very different around here," Jerry began. "In those days there were red squirrels in these parts. They are smaller than us, reddish, and they have tufty ears." He continued,"But as people moved in and cleared the trees for timber and to plant farms, gray squirrels, like your mother, and fox squirrels, like me, spread to this area. The farms were rich with food and the larger squirrels thrived."

"Naturally, the red squirrels were not happy, having so many new squirrels crowding in. They missed the quiet and spacious land that had been theirs alone. At first they tried to be friendly. Most squirrels of all types wanted to share the land. But sadly, some of the squirrels began to squabble and quarrel. Eventually it escalated into warfare."

"The Squirrel Wars were a horrible time. They lasted almost three years. Many squirrels lost their homes and were forced to move away. Mostly it was the red squirrels who left. Great Great Grandfather Squirrel was one who tried to forge peace. Even the gray squirrels and fox squirrels were fighting with each other. Eventually a truce was called. All the squirrels agreed to stop fighting. But by then the red squirrels were gone. It was very sad, as many of them had been friends with the squirrels that remained."

"Squirrel Day is the day we remember that truce. Great Great Grandmother Squirrel also started the tradition that at the celebratory meal, each member of every squirrel family shares their hopes, dreams, challenges, and something they are thankful for. In this way we support each other and remember that we all need each other."

Jerry's children were very solemn. A tear rolled down Pickles' cheek. His father plucked him up and hugged him. "Don't worry, Pickles. That was a long time ago. All the squirrels are friends again, well, for the most part!" "But Daddy," protested Pickles, "what about the red squirrels?" "Well, buddy, they're okay now. They found new homes, and you might even meet some down by the creek when you're older. I believe there are a couple of families living there now." Pickles cheered up at that thought. 

"Today is a day of celebration," Carrie proclaimed. "It is a day for all squirrels to be happy that we are squirrels and that we have so much to be thankful for!" "Hooray!" cried Robbie and Dana. "Let's eat!" "Okay, okay," Carried conceded. "We'll share our thoughts as we enjoy the food." And a very fine feast it was.

Jerry, the Squirrel Part Six: Squirrel Day

 Jerry expounded on his adventures that day as the kits snuggled closely around him. Carrie was busy setting out the feast, also listening. The cozy nest was well lit, due to some "window" holes provided by Martin, the huge pileated woodpecker, who lived in Bluebird Creek. Just as the story was finished, supper was ready.

The squirrel family gathered hungrily around the table. Carrie had cracked open the huge black walnut and set pieces for everyone at their places, garnished with crumbled rosemary leaves. Aside the main course each squirrel had one or two bright red holly berries, and one or two kernels of dried corn. There would be acorn for dessert--the kits' favorite.

"Thank you, Carrie, for preparing this fine meal!" exclaimed Jerry. The kits nodded in agreement. Then Jerry folded his furry paws for prayer. The rest of the family joined in. "Thank you, Heavenly Father, for your provision for us, your woodland creatures." "Amen!" said all the squirrels in unison. "Let the feasting begin!" Jerry proclaimed.

Carrie spoke up, "We all know that Squirrel Day is a day for sharing our hopes, dreams, challenges, and what we are thankful for. So, who wants to go first?" "Well, now, wait a minute," insisted Jerry, "little Pickles here might not know the history of Squirrel Day, so I thought we might go over that first. All right, Dear?" "Oh, Sure, Honey. Go ahead," smiled Carrie, allowing her husband another occasion for dramatic narration, which he relished...

Jerry, the Squirrel Part Five: Home Sweet Home

 Jerry hopped across the short stretch of Farmer Ben's field into the woods. He scrambled through the dry brush and scurried up a sturdy old sycamore tree which was his home. About twenty feet from the ground, knitted into the smooth mottled white trunk, was a large knotty hole, the front entrance to Jerry's residence.

He crawled backwards down a short narrow passage, the entryway to his cozy nook, into a larger opening where his family eagerly waited. "Daddy! Daddy!" squeaked Pickles, the littlest kit, bouncing up and down, but staying close by his mother, Carrie. Robbie and Dana, Pickles' older brother and sister, hugged their father warmly. Jerry scratched his children behind the ears affectionately. He dropped his packages on the table, an oval cross-section of a thick branch he had found in the Millers' woodpile.

Carrie greeted Jerry with a quick nuzzle as Pickles leapt onto his father, his arms clinging around Jerry's neck. "Happy Squirrel Day, Daddy!" he cried. "Happy Squirrel Day!" Robbie and Dana joined in. "Happy Squirrel Day to you too, kits!" chortled Jerry. He flopped down, fairly exhausted, onto his comfy chair made of twigs, leaves, and cotton from Mr. Miller's cotton plants. "Ahhhh," he sighed, as his kits clustered around him.

Carrie was already busy unpacking the groceries, humming happily. "What a glorious feast for a glorious day!" she exclaimed. Jerry beamed with pride and contentment, also a bit of relief. "I had a bit of a run-in with Lila on the way back," he admitted. "Oh no!" yelped the family in unison. "What happened?" demanded Dana. Jerry, being a bit of a story teller, relished the opportunity he had earned by his harrowing experience...

Jerry, the Squirrel Part Four: Squirrel in Peril

 Snowflakes grew thicker, falling around Jerry as he dug. It was only a few seconds before he had the treasure in sight. He stuffed the corn and berries into a small mesh pouch he had buried with the stash. (He had found the tiny sack one summer day when children were playing in the yard. It had been for a doll, but it was even better for a squirrel!) He grasped the black walnut and the sack with his front teeth, looked around for possible danger, then bounded across the yard to the herb garden.

Jerry quickly found some green rosemary growing close to the ground. He snapped off a sprig with his teeth and added it to the sack, now bulging with goodies. It was time to get home. Jerry turned toward the house to check for Lila. Sure enough, she was standing by the sliding glass door, peering right at him, licking her chops! Fortunately, she was on the other side of the window. However, Jerry had seen enough and turned quickly to head back home.

He wasn't able to run his fastest, being fattened up for winter, especially while dragging the bulky load. He was about halfway to the fence when he heard it--the door was sliding open again! Jerry gritted his teeth, not wanting to drop anything, and leapt toward the farmer's field behind the Millers' yard. 

The cattle farm had galvanized mesh fencing, with wide squares and timber posts, stretching along the back of the yard. There was a sizable gap under the fence about eight inches from the ground. Squirrels could easily run under to make their escape if there wasn't time to climb.

Jerry stretched his body, darting forward, at top speed. But Lila had the body of a racing dog, and she was lightning fast. Jerry could hear her gaining on him. He contemplated dropping the booty as he flew toward the field. CRACK! Jerry stumbled across a fallen branch, but he didn't slow down or drop his prize. Lila flinched at the noise, not slowing much. Her mouth opened wide nearly on Jerry's tail--just as he slipped under the fence to safety!

Why I Love the Coffee Shop

 My favorite thing these days is going to the local coffee shop for breakfast with my husband. We go twice each week. I love the atmosphere--old dark wood floors, brick walls painted creamy white, mortar oozing out thickly like abundant frosting. Yes, I want to eat the walls. 

The coffee shop is set in old downtown. Huge glass windows allow a pleasant view of Main street happenings and passers-by. There are plants here and there and sometimes little flowers on the tables. Local artists display their work on the walls, adding a bit of culture, which I am always thirsting for.

Also, we enjoy seeing the workers. They are young, breezy, friendly types. We know them all by name, they know us too, and what we always order. They play cool music in there, but not too loud. Just the right ambiance. I like to watch people come and go. It's nice to see them enjoying each other's company. 

This morning a little girl came shuffling over to the bus tubs to deposit two mini metal jelly roll pans. She was white blond, with part of her hair in a silly side-car pony tail. She smiled, turned around, and clomped back hoppily to her mother, who then lifted her up, seated her on the counter, and began bundling her up to go outside.  

 She was a young mom, with thick brown hair twisted into a loose old-fashioned bun. As she put a white knit hat on the girl, she paused. Then she put her face right up against her daughter's little pink cheek and whispered something. She then gently caressed the sides of her face as the little girl grasped the lapels of her mother's coat.

I can never express the tenderness of that moment.

Jerry, the Squirrel Part Three: The Standoff

 

Jerry froze, sitting perfectly still, the only movement his fur ruffling in the wind. Lila stood surreptitiously on the patio, also frozen, left paw raised, her slender black body camouflaged behind a small wrought iron table and chair. For a few crackling moments no one moved. 

The scenario, however, was not unfamiliar to Jerry, who had a plan. Patiently he waited. By and by a mockingbird fluttered over the house, landing tinnily on the roof peak of a large metal barn which stood next to the house. Lila's attention snapped as she jerked her gaze toward the timely diversion. Jerry quickly scuttled into a large globe of dried flowers in the "bean," as the flower bed was called by the Millers.

The bean was about thirty feet long, ten feet wide, and packed with brownery. Though it was winter, Mr. Miller liked to leave the dried perennials and deciduous shrubs untouched so that birds could eat the seeds and berries. It also provided ample shelter and great hiding places for little furry ground creatures.

Lila looked back to her mark, who had already disappeared. She yawned, her muscular body relaxed, and she turned her attention to the other side of the yard. She trotted away and began sniffing around the "pond," a dry retention basin of large and small rocks, dug out by the Millers for drainage on the property. More plantings and herb gardens surrounded this area in the warmer seasons, and Jerry intended on gathering some dried rosemary for his dinner as well.

Jerry sat under his cozy cover, peering out to the exact location where he had hidden the victuals. Soon Mrs. Miller whistled for Lila to come in. Once the sliding door barreled shut, Jerry crept out of hiding, leapt over to the spot, and began to dig.

Jerry, the Squirrel Part Two: Finding Favors

 Jerry stood cautiously on a thick exposed tree root at the foot of the watchtower maple. He sat up, drumming his delicate furry fingers together, dark sparkling eyes surveying the expanse of the Millers' back yard. 

His head darted about, perceiving the sounds of rustling leaves caught in the black chain link fence, the rumbling of someone dragging a garbage can up their driveway, the swooping and chattering of two blue jays landing in the adjacent maple.

Although a foresty swath meandered through Bluebird Creek where the actual creek was nestled, the rest of the neighborhood was built on what was once a farm. This meant that refuge for squirrels was scant in some places. Once home to four large trees, now two (and two four-foot high stumps), the Millers' yard was not woodsy but had other perks.

Despite the occasional ominous presence of the prowling black hunting dog, Lila, the property boasted a prolific vegetable garden, fanciful flower beds, grapevines, berry bushes, copious compost, and plenty of soft earth for hiding nuts and other precious prizes.

A few feathery snowflakes flitted in the stubborn wind. No sign of Lila. Jerry rubbed the fur on his face, smoothing his whiskers, and began to hop, gingerly, tail flowing, toward a large kidney bean shaped flower garden near the center of the yard. 

He paused a moment, blinking, trying to think of exactly where he had buried the bounty. And just then he heard it--the sliding glass door slowly rolling open, Lila's nails hitting the concrete steps.

Jerry, the Squirrel

 The bellowing easterly wind caused a clanking commotion amongst the cacophonous collection of wind chimes dispersed throughout Bluebird Creek. The small neighborhood, nestled in the lush rolling landscape of south central Kentucky, was home to many curious creatures, and one Jerry the Squirrel.

Jerry clung to the trunk of the leafless maple tree, boughs swaying gently, despite the gale. His fat little body, cloaked in rusty brown furry down, hugged the rough bark as he twitched his blinking crinkling gray fuzzy face--checking for enemies.

Though it was a cold winter day, the ground was brilliant green. Only the teeming sprawl of barren deciduous life forms betrayed the time of year to the eye. The snapping wind was enough to convince the cheek and the nose of unfurry faces, though wrapped in thick colorful scarves and hats.

Jerry scratched his way cautiously toward the ground. It was mid afternoon and almost time for supper, which would be a feast of his prized cache of dried corn, berries, and a fat, juicy black walnut. 

It was a special day for Jerry's family, a very special day indeed, worthy of much celebration. Jerry was pleased with himself for having prepared ahead of time. Although, naturally it was his job, he took pride in a job well done. Now, if only he could remember exactly where he had hidden the treasure...

TO BE CONTINUED

Patience

Today I spent all day cooking, which I do not enjoy. I made bread and granola and soup and chicken and applesauce. It involved making several messes and took hours to get it all done and cleaned up. Normally I wouldn't have done all that. Normally I'd say, "I hate cooking and I'm not going to do it." 

However, today is January 3, and I'm still trying to live by my New Year's resolution, which is basically to try to be a better person. That involves doing things instead of just thinking about doing them. 

For instance, in order to try to help the whole family to be healthier, I bought so many vegetables last week. (A lot of them were marked down.) But then Ron & I decided to leave town for a few days and I left all that healthy produce behind, expecting it to be throw-away-able when we got back. 

No such luck. It was mostly salvageable by making a big pot of soup. The soup required a lot of prepping and seasoning, mainly because of so many bean sprouts! Then there were the dreaded "boneless skinless tasteless" chicken breasts, as my dad used to call them. Fortunately, Ron was frying sausage (doing his part for the health-kick) and I was able to pan fry them in the grease. 

I had to make oat-based bread and granola because I am such a genius at buying oats in bulk. Anyway, you get the picture. It was a productive day, even though I wasn't loving it.

Sometimes I have trouble praying, so this morning I was reading a prayer out of a book written to help people pray. The prayer was going along fine--I was in agreement with everything--until, the prayer asked for patience. A lot of people say, "Whatever you do, don't pray for patience!" 

So, I kind of cringed, even though I know it's kind of superstitious. But I continued praying, thinking, "Well, God's not really out to get me, and, it certainly makes sense that I could definitely benefit from having more patience... 

So, guess who had to keep reminding herself all day that I should be thankful that I'm well enough to cook, that we have food to eat, that I have a family to feed, that we have a warm house, that I have a dog to help me vacuum the floors, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera?

Day Two

 Once upon a time there was a little girl named Margaret.  Margaret was pretty much a normal kid, but she didn't know it. That was because she almost never told anybody what she was thinking, and she almost never asked them what they were thinking either.

She tried to navigate her way in the world by watching other people, and by listening all the time. She especially tried to listen when it was hard to understand what was being said. She thought she knew how to read between the lines, but in reality, she wasn't very good at it.

Sometimes when there was a group of people together, like at a party, or at a picnic, or at school, she felt like  she was just an observer. That she didn't really belong there, and wasn't entitled to join in the fun. She didn't know what to do in those situations, but she liked having people around just the same. She watched them all. She remembered their names and their faces and the feelings she had attached to each one.

Margaret didn't know that many people are shy--even some of her favorite people. She thought they were happy and carefree. She didn't know that they felt awkward too. She didn't know because she didn't ask. She didn't ask because it never occurred to her.

Happy Anniversary

 

Ron and I have been married 40 years now. At 30 years I wrote a blog entitled "10 Ways to Help a Marriage," so I just re-read, well, most of it. Disclaimer: Don't bother reading it.

I've heard people say that you should journal so later you can look back and see how far you've come. I rarely journal, but occasionally, usually at the end of my rope, I will. I've run across these old entries, from maybe 5 or 10 years previous, and the vast majority of the time it has been pretty excruciating. 

Because. Usually. I. Am. Still. Struggling. With. The. Very. Same. Stupid. Issues.

Primarily I have made little or absolutely no progress with whatever the thing is. Like stuffing my feelings with food, being a bossy and controlling shrew, being hyper- and/or hypocritical, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

And it's not because I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I know exactly how to avoid these pitfalls. But I don't. Basically because, deep down, I'm kind of a jerk. This may come as a shock to some, but I assure you it's accurate. I mean, I don't want to be a jerk, but then again, sometimes I do.

Don't worry, I'm getting to my point.

The surprising thing that happened to me fairly recently was that I ran across one of those old journal entries--"blah, blah, blah, I'm struggling with blah, blah, blah..." which I still struggle with. And this is what was different: 

I had compassion for my younger self.

I was like, "Yeah, it's okay, you're probably going to fight that one til you die. Don't beat yourself up too much. It's actually pretty common."

WHAT?? I was NICE to me!

So, I guess there could be, occasionally, a burst of progress, a glimmer of hope, or maybe we just get old and tired, I mean wiser. 

Anyway, I no longer have any advice about marriage. Other than, I thank God for my husband and the survival of our marriage against all odds.