"Still Crazy After All These Years"

            I’ve been known to parodise (It is a verb!  I checked!) great and not-so-great lyrics from hit songs of the past.  And today, as I walked the back path between Island Transit parking and the Greenbank Store on this glorious, sunny day in July—just warm enough to go outside without a jacket—I pondered parody possibilities. 

            It was the word “crazy” that caught my attention.  You see, I was trying out the mini-hike from the parking to the shuttle pick-up.  In the wee hours before dawn tomorrow, I will need my LED flashlight to find my way.  And my roller bag won’t travel so well over grass and gravel, but the back pathway cuts half the distance from following the road.

            The mountains stood out in bas relief behind the bay.  (Now, I’m not so sure that “bas relief” truly describes the scene, but the term was just too good to pass up.)  The gently warming sun soothed my spirits.  And on the trek back, the one dollar cuppa Mukilteo Coffee from the Greenbank Store, went down my throat like dark silk.  And I wondered if I am crazy to be contemplating leaving all this behind come autumn.

            Here on Whidbey Island, I have the life I always wanted but could never imagine.  Every view is a scenic one.  My cabin in the woods is the most delightful dwelling in which I have ever resided.  Sandy and rocky beaches are just a ten-minute drive away.  I keep company with the folks at Whidbey Presbyterian Church, where love, laughter, and liberation in Jesus Christ are real in the midst of our fumbling imperfections.  I play my flutes (concert and alto) in the Enchanted Flute Choir and in Tradewinds.  Sometimes I even have too much time on my hands.

            And now I plan to move to Oklahoma, where “extreme” is the key descriptor of weather and central air conditioning is necessity.  True, Bartlesville, with its amazing cultural arts center and two Presbyterian churches, among other attractions--is in the heart of “Green Country,” complete with rolling green hills and plenty of deciduous trees.  But those are not the sirens calling me away from the Northwest.  In fact, I will be moving back to the heartland for the very same reason I moved to the island:  family. 

            Four-year-old Benjamin and five-month-old Joelle tug at these grandma heartstrings.  I cannot stay away any longer, no matter how much I love mountains and ocean.  Because of the legacy left me by sister and mother, I am free to follow my heart.  So that’s what I’m gonna do. There are no lovers, and I really hate beer . . . but I’m still crazy after all these years.

Poem, First Draft

Where has a month gone?  Instead of blogging, I've been working on the final bits of a book--co-authored with Lois Edstrom--about Whidbey Presbyterian Church history and writing a sermon to be delivered tomorrow.  But this morning, as I took the trash out, I noticed the Ocean Spray bush and remembered how Mom loved it . . .

Do you have Ocean Spray in heaven?

Perhaps non-noxious Scotch Broom?

Poison-free Foxglove?

Or tamed Kudzu from the South?

Mom would like that, you know,

Even Washington nettle without the stings

and Canada thistle with harmless thorns.

She would like to pull weeds in long strips,

satisfying tugs releasing root balls and tapering fingers that cling.

She loved the clean-up of the woods

as much as its beauty.

She gloried in dirt, in pruning hooks, in trimming shears,

in her child-sized chain saw.

Do you have golf carts in heaven?

The one with the “Priscilla” license plate

so she can toodle down wooded driveways

hauling the brush of her labors?

Please tell me there are weeds in heaven

for those who love to dig and pull,

endless forests and gardens in which to happily toil.

Teary-eyed with rapture, Mom once told me

that conducting a symphony

and spreading compost

were much the same.

She spread her arms wide with the music,

scattering life into the soil.

At the time, I thought, “Dementia,”

but now I wonder if she was glimpsing heaven.