A Little Chaminade

            A little Chaminade is good for the soul.

            Yes, Chaminade:  Cecile, that is.  Concertino from Opus 107 for flute.  It is a piece I performed in high school with able accompanist David See. 

            Back then, I focused on getting all the notes right.  It sort of, kind of made up for my thin, airy tone. 

            Now, I focus on producing the richest sound I can.  It sort of, kind of makes up for my many missed notes.

            Today, playing through the whole piece (and just about killing my embouchure), I emote through my flute.  What soulful music:  yearnings and aspirations and disappointments soaring through the melody and streams of scales and arpeggios.

            I am grateful for muscle memory, which allows me to play through music so long neglected.  I am grateful for music that expresses what words cannot.  I am grateful for God’s grace.

            I am at peace.

Past Her Prime

Priscilla Charlotte Johnson Lussmyer

April 24, 1927 – May 16, 2013

            Mom liked 83 best.  “A prime number,” she would say.  On her 85^th birthday when I took her out to lunch, she proudly told the server she was now 83.  She stuck with 83 most of the time except once, when wondering why she was living in a memory care center with such very old people, she asked, “I’m only 73, aren’t I, Jan?”  She was quite relieved when I told her she was 85 (or was it 84)?

            So today I wonder what Mom would say about turning 88.  I am quite sure it would be a mathematically disappointing age:  in her mind, there would be nothing terribly special about being 4 x 22 or 2 x 44.  Here’s what I say about 88, though:  it is a fine number, though today it makes me miss her fiercely.

A Long Goodbye

            Type in “The Long Goodbye” and you find the 1973 movie and the 1953 novel.  Change it up to “A Long Goodbye” and you discover poems and memoirs about Alzheimer’s Disease.  Experience a long goodbye and you understand the grinding heartache stretched over weeks, months, or years.

            I’m thinking about long goodbyes this afternoon because I read on the Whidbey Presbyterian Church prayer chain that Bob W. has made the final journey home.  Debilitating health problems compounded by a fall that messed up his memory led to a year or so at HomePlace, the memory care center where my own mother lived from 2012-2013. 

I have fond memories of Bob.  He was the one who invited me to be part of the informal band that performed for the Oak Harbor senior citizen dances once a month. We had a fine time playing simple swing music with piano, drums, several varieties of saxophone, clarinet, flute, trumpet, baritone, bass, and a solo singer.  I was the lone female in the group, and just about everyone else was old enough to be my father.  Bob would joke with me throughout our practices and gigs.  At church, he always had a grin, a wisecrack, and an encouraging word for me.   

I am quite sure that it was a long goodbye for Noreen, nursing him through repeated hospitalizations and long recoveries at home until she broke her leg and could no longer care for him.  Her cheerful spirit always touched my heart—and still does.  She seemed to take in stride poignant developments such as when he thought that the skilled nursing care facility was a cruise ship and when he stopped recognizing her, thinking she was his mother-in-law. 

Long goodbyes are never easy.  I’ve experienced them with my sister and then my mother.  However, those last weeks and months when you know that the final goodbye is on its way have their own sweetness.  Each visit gets tinged with the knowledge that it could be the last.  A fleeting moment of recognition, a shared joke, a held hand:  all carry the sweet weight of love.

So, goodbye, Bob.  See you on the other shore.  Maybe we can play “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” one more time.  I’m pretty sure my mom and sister would love to join in, too.

Music Memories

            I knew I had the right book when I saw “Bill Grogan’s Goat” in John Thompson’s Modern Course for the Piano:  The Second Grade Book.  A few weeks ago when I was sorting through the two boxes of old music that came with the piano I had just purchased, I was sure to put the beginner books in the piano bench.  Tonight I pulled out the Thompson book and started at the first page.

            A flood of memories washed over me as my fingers remembered the notes I had taught myself in elementary school.  I remember the clunky sound of our old upright player piano, which was long past the capability of staying in tune or sustaining any notes.  I remember carefully reading the instructions on each page and following the fingering.  I remember being puzzled when I tried out the sustain pedal and it did not sound any different.  I remember being sad that, according to my mom, the pedals did not work anymore.  Thus, I never learned to use them.

            It seemed a normal enough activity at the time, but now I marvel at my determination that I could teach myself to play just like my mother before me.  An elementary physical education teacher and divorced mother of four, she simply could not afford piano lessons for any of us.  If I remember correctly, I was eight years old when I started my quest.

            I eventually learned to play everything in the first eighteen pages, one song past “Bill Grogan’s Goat.” I worked on some of the later songs, but they were too hard for untutored hands.  And I never took piano lessons, though in college I took two semesters of harpsichord lessons just for fun. 

            So, tonight, as I worked my way through the music my fingers and my heart remember fifty years later, I felt homesick for those long-ago days when I was perched on the piano bench and my feet didn’t reach the floor.  If Mom were still alive, I’d be on the phone right now to tell her all about this evening of music memories.  

Stray Phrases

            Stray phrases for writing have passed through my mind of late, all at times inconvenient to record them and see where they lead.

            Looking at my decrepit front yard yesterday and comparing it to the other lawns on my street, I was reminded of an old commercial, to which, of course, I had new lyrics.

            Here are the original lyrics:

            My dog is better than your dog / My dog is better than yours / My dog is better ‘cause he eats Kennel Ration / My dog is better than yours.

            It is entirely possible I have skewed the original lyrics, but for those of you old enough to remember this commercial, they should do.  Here are my new lyrics:

            Your yard is better than my yard / Your yard is better than mine / Your yard is better ‘cause you used fertilizer / Your yard is better than mine.

            I am trying my best to remember another fleeting idea that passed through my sleepy brain just before I got into bed last night, but unfortunately, since my brain cells were under the influence of Ambien at the time, they did not retain the phrase for me.  I even remember thinking I should write it down, but didn’t because I was so sure I would remember it.   

            My doctor tells me not to feel guilty about needing to take Ambien every night in order to sleep, but that does not keep me from getting groggy.  Perhaps what I thought was a clever idea really wasn’t.  At any rate, you are spared from reading it.

Confessions of a Former English Instructor

            I ate the whole jicama, and I can’t even pronounce it.

            I love the unaccompanied flute solos of French composer Charles Koechlin, and I do not know how to say his name.

            I’ve always loved Kate Chopin’s short stories, but her characters’ names are beyond me. The same goes for Russian novelists such as Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, but for them I have an additional problem:  I cannot keep track of who’s who in Anna Karenina and The Brothers Karamazov.

            I mispronounce English words even though I was a college English instructor.  The time a student corrected me on the pronunciation of hyperbole was embarrassing, to say the least.

            And, if a person’s name is foreign to me—well, I always give it a German twist.  That does not work well for Japanese names, or Spanish names, or any names other than German names, for that matter.

            Writing is safer than speaking, because even if I cannot say a word correctly, I can usually spell it if I’ve seen it.  Even onamatoepia.

           

            

Complaints

            I’m getting tired of her.

            She sleeps a lot and leaves dirty dishes in the sink.  She wastes lots of time on silly YouTube videos.  She forgets to plug in the Chrome book and spills crumbs on the couch.  Her tossed Kleenex don’t always land in the wastebasket.  She spent two days in her jammies, and one day she didn’t even wash her hair.

She was extremely annoying before she realized she was sick with something or another, all that moaning and groaning about the pain.  Naturally, she did not realize she needed to see a doctor until after business hours.  By then, she was reduced to lying on the couch muttering, “Oh God, oh God,” and wondering if she would become delirious from the fever.  Or maybe she had already been delirious the two sleepless nights before when she was chilled to the bone and never once considered she might be running a temperature.

            She started to get a little less tiresome when she finally picked up a book again.  She knew it was a good sign that she could concentrate to read rather than staring off into space.  After another day, she finally took care of those dirty dishes.  She realized that she was beginning to walk instead of shuffle and that the dizziness had subsided.  She tried her hand at a few simple household tasks.  But she wasn’t ready to do her taxes yet because her brain still felt more unreliable than usual.  She finally got so sick of reclining in the recliner that she walked into her messy office, sat in her office chair, and wrote these words:

          “I’m getting tired of her. . .”