(a different) Mother’s Day

In the US, we are observing Mother’s Day today. While its origin was in a call for peace after the Civil War, today it is celebrated as a tribute to mothers of all types and ages.

Since the death of my mother in May, 2019, Mother’s Day has felt bittersweet to me, as it brings back that time when, within two May weeks, there was my mom’s last Mother’s Day, birthday, and the date of her death. It’s complicated further by having daughter E and granddaughters ABC and JG five time zones away.

This year has brought the additional worry of a family member’s upcoming surgery and the possibility of an underlying disorder yet to be diagnosed.

Then, there is the general upheaval in the US and so many other places in the world, war, hunger, the climate crisis, disasters, and I will end the list here, but we know it is much longer.

It’s a lot with which to contend and I’m not coping very well.

I mentioned in a Stream of Consciousness Saturday post in mid-April that I was hearing a sound in my left ear. This, along with some additional symptoms, has led to several primary care visits, a diagnosis of tinnitus, some attempts at treatment, and, on Friday, a decision to order an MRI to rule out various tumors or other abnormalities.

Of course, there is the possibility of not “ruling out” but discovering.

I admit that I’m struggling. I’m practiced with blocking things out or setting them aside to concentrate on caring for family members. Part of my problem right now is that the timing is unfortunate as I am the main driver and errand-runner and don’t want to be out of commission when I’m needed to help with surgical recovery and follow-on medical appointments. I know spouse B will drop everything at work to take care of things but I also know that his project is in a critical phase right now.

I need humility, trust, and the grace to step aside and let others take over the work I should or have been doing and put other things aside for a while, but it’s hard and I’m worried and tired.

Maybe they will examine my head and not find anything.

Wait. That doesn’t sound right.

Maybe they won’t find anything dangerous.

Maybe, I can get a grip when the MRI is actually scheduled and on my calendar. After all, this is not my first rodeo with medical mystery ailments. Some of them have even been mine. I’m just more annoyed with my own. I know I need to channel some of the compassion I have toward others and apply it to myself.

And maybe take a nap.

It’s been helpful to write this down. I am questioning whether or not it is wise to post it, but have decided to do so because authenticity is part of the charm? hallmark? conceit? of Top of JC’s Mind.

And, yes, it’s Mother’s Day and B is making lamb spiedies and grilled asparagus with his homemade tiramisu for dessert.

And there have been sweet cards and a present.

And the lilies of the valley are starting to bloom.

They were my mother’s birth flower and a favorite of hers.

The photo is from my mother’s 87th and last birthday, lilies of the valley from our yard and cards from my father and their artist-friend Jim.

Miss you today, Mom.

19 years ago

(Hearts graphic by Angie Traverse)

Nineteen years ago today, my friend Angie died from lung cancer. She was only 54. She had never smoked or lived in a house with high radon or worked in a place with known carcinogens but, by whatever combination of genetics and living, cancer appeared and was diagnosed when she was fifty.

She was treated by some great doctors locally and in Boston and she fought hard for four years and some months, but passed away on Good Friday, 2005.

There have been a lot of developments in cancer treatment since then, some of which are advertised on television. I often wonder if any of those medications would have helped Angie live longer and better.

For years, I made contributions on March 25 and on Angie’s October birthday to the charitable fund established in her memory but, a few years back, the online page went away. Now, I just remember and write an occasional post. One of my favorite Angie posts is this one, written when I turned 54.

That year, I also wrote a poem about Angie, which was published by Wilderness House Literary Review:

Fifty-four

We were the October Babes,
You from 1950,
Me from 1960.

On your fifty-fourth birthday,
You managed coffee ice cream with hot fudge
Despite the metastases in your neck.

On my fifty-fourth birthday,
I raise a solo toast with your favorite Coke-with-a-lemon-wedge
To the October Babes being fifty-four together.
*****

This October, God willing, I will turn 64.

I wish Angie were still here, as an about-to-be 74-year-old grandma, mom, artist, and dear friend. The world could use her compassion, creativity, and spirit right now.

SoCS: living room couch

Linda’s prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday this week is to write about a memory of the room you are in. I’m in my living room, looking at our empty couch and remembering a holiday photo when out-of-town relatives arrived to visit after Christmas. We had gathered in front of, on, and behind the couch.

There were my parents, my sisters and one brother-in-law, daughters and son-in-law, niece and nephew. My other brother-in-law isn’t in the photo because he was the photographer.

The person who was there but declined to join the photo was my mother-in-law. We wanted her to join in but she didn’t want to because it was “my side of the family” and she didn’t feel that she belonged. To me, it was just family and she belonged in the photo but, of course, we accepted her decision.

We didn’t know that she would suffer a heart attack that next March and pass away. We just passed the anniversary of her death.

We’ve since lost both my parents. Daughter E and her family are living “across the pond” in London. With my parents gone, I don’t have as many opportunities to see my sisters who came to our area to see them.

So, this morning, empty couch. Lots of memories.

the empty couch

(grand)childcare

(Photo: ABC’s bear wearing a Binghamton Rumble Ponies cap)

Spouse B, daughter T, and I are in London this week visiting daughter E, son-in-law L, and granddaughters ABC and JG for half-term break. This first half of the week, both E and L are working, so our main goal is taking care of ABC and JG so they can do that.

The last time we were together in person was April when they came to our home in the US. Although we do video calls, they can’t really capture the changes that happen. JG, now 3 and attending full-day nursery school is chatting up a storm! She loves making puzzles, zooming around our rental house near their home, and following the lead of 6-year-old ABC, who likes or tolerates it most of the time. ABC, now in year 2 at school, is reading well and a master of make-believe. She can make up songs and lyrics on the spot, taking after her musically-and-literary-accomplished parents. ABC also enjoys dance and art.

I love watching B being Grandpa, playing games, reading stories, preparing meals and snacks, and dozing off during naptime. T is an involved auntie, playing endless games of hide-and-seek and whatever make-believe ABC has invented and giving gentle hugs, in deference to her still-healing shoulder.

My favorite thing is just being here as family. With the ocean between us, it’s a rare gift to snuggle on the couch, especially with JG who was born during the early part of the pandemic and whom we didn’t get to meet in person until she was a year old. Such a different grandparenting experience than with ABC who lived with us in the US until she was two.

For JG, I’m just Nana. ABC, though, remembers her Great-Nana, who passed away in 2019.

I miss my parents and wish I could be as good a grandparent as they were with E and T.

Writing about family

Today’s prompt for Linda’s Just Jot It January is “family,” contributed by Kim of Twisted Trunk Travels. Check out their blogs!

Over these last ten-ish years of writing poetry and blogging here at Top of JC’s Mind, I have written way more often about my family than I thought I would. Of course, it made perfect sense to blog about visiting daughter E and son-in-law L in Hawai’i, as folks often blog about their travels, but as time and circumstances changed and I faced the challenges of caregiving for various generations of the family, posts about family became more frequent. I also used poetry as a way to process things that were going on with my family, most notably about my mother’s experiences living with and dying from heart disease, which became my first published chapbook, Hearts (Kelsay Books, 2023).

I do try to protect my family members by referring to them with initials or nicknames rather than their given names. Nearly all of them use a different surname so only people who know us in real life are likely to recognize them from posts. Currently, spouse B and daughter T are most likely to appear as we are living in the same house, although we will soon be going to visit daughter E, son-in-law L, and granddaughters ABC and JG in London. which may generate some posts. My daughters’ grandparents were called on the blog by the names they used for them, Nana and Paco for my parents and Grandma for B’s mom. (Sadly, B’s dad, known as Grandpa, passed away in 2005, before I was blogging and writing poetry, although his death was the subject of one of my earliest published poems.) If you are perusing the archives of Top of JC’s Mind, you’ll come across posts dealing with their final years and the grief following their deaths.

One thing that strikes me about my family posts and poems is how often they spark comments and conversations about people’s own experiences. Knowing that I offer that space for people to reflect on themselves and their own families is a big part of why I continue to write about my family.

What about you? Do you find it helpful to write about your family, either privately in a journal or in more public ways?
*****
It’s not too late to join in with #JusJoJan24! Find out more here: https://lindaghill.com/2024/01/29/daily-prompt-jusjojan-the-29th-2024/ 

SoCS: the phone

At this point in my life, I’m not a big fan of the telephone.

It can take a lot of time and energy to convince myself to make the call, especially if I know I’m likely to have to work through endless phone menus or get put on hold multiple times and shuffled between service personnel.

(Yeah, looking at you insurance companies, utilities, etc.)

There were periods in my younger years when the phone was an important lifeline and source of connection – when B used to travel a lot on business, when I was away from my mom.

Even after my parents retired near us, I usually also spoke to them every day by phone, even on days when I also saw them in person.

Those calls were not hard to make. Or receive.

I still use my landline for calls whenever I can and still have an answering machine to pick up if I can’t – or if the caller ID suspects spam, which is most of the time these days. All three of us happened to be out together earlier this week and I went to check the machine for messages when we got home. I realized that since Paco (my father) died over two years ago I seldom get personal messages on my phone.

Actually, it’s longer ago than that because Paco forgot how to make phone calls in his last months.

Somehow, though, I keep checking for a call…
*****
Linda’s prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday/Just Jot It January today is “make the call.” Join us! Find out more here: https://lindaghill.com/2024/01/26/the-friday-reminder-for-socs-jusjojan-2024-daily-prompt-jan-27th/ 

Christmas ’23

I’ve been struggling with whether or not to write a post for Christmas Day.

Maybe, it’s because I’ve been struggling with just about everything related to Christmas this year.

For so many years, the Christmas season brought most of our extended family together, often over a period of days and in various constellations, but this year, it will be just me, spouse B, and daughter T at home together. Daughter E and her family are celebrating an ocean away at home in London. B’s and my siblings are all busily dealing with their families and/or medical issues.

This lack of planned travel and guests turned out to have a silver lining when T was offered a slot for a needed shoulder surgery last week due to a cancellation in the surgeon’s schedule. So, our already subdued Christmas plan got even quieter as we have factored in the early stages of recovery.

While I’ve done some of the Christmas preparations, like singing in Lessons & Carols with the Madrigal Choir of Binghamton, writing Christmas cards and letters, and some gift-shopping and wrapping, the bulk of the decorating, cooking, and baking has been handled by B, with an assist from T prior to her surgery.

I’m sure that my feeling more somber than festive is not helped by the state of the world. The continuing horrors of war in Ukraine, the Middle East, Sudan, and elsewhere. The ever-increasing evidence of climate change impacts. The increasingly vile political rhetoric and threats against judges, Jewish people, Muslims, immigrants, pubic officials, etc. here in the US. The local battle against CO2 fracking with global implications here in the Southern Tier of New York. Increases in cases of flu and COVID in the Northern Hemisphere as winter sets in.

This somber time we face is also reflected in my religious observances. For many years, I was actively involved in music and liturgy planning for Advent and the Christmas season, but I haven’t been for a number of years now. While I still attend and participate in services, some of the anticipation and joy is muted for me.

It’s also true that there are many difficult issues raised by the nativity narrative that seem particularly salient to me this year. The real dangers that Mary faced as a young woman facing pregnancy before marriage. Her being forced to travel and give birth away from the comforts of home and neighbor-women who could come to her aid. The threats to her baby’s life. The slaughter of children ordered in an attempt to kill him. Fleeing to protect her child and their becoming refugees.

Angels and magi aside, there was a lot of pain, fear, and loss.

With all of this in my head, I went to 10 PM mass at my church for Christmas Eve. There was a photo of the baby Jesus amid rubble as displayed at a Palestinian-Lutheran Church in Bethlehem, the birthplace of Jesus on the West Bank, where Christmas observances usually draw crowds from around the world but are not being publicly held this year because of the war. The homily dealt directly with the struggle that I have been having this year and called on us to have hope. As part of the homily, we sang the first verse of “O Little Town of Bethlehem” near the beginning and the fourth, final verse at the end. We sang:

O holy Child of Bethlehem,
descend to us, we pray;
cast out our sin and enter in;
be born in us today.
We hear the Christmas angels,
the great glad tidings tell;
O come to us, abide with us,
our Lord Emmanuel!

Phillips Brooks

The message is to have hope because God, who is Divine and Eternal Love, is with all people of good will, as the angels announce.

I admit that hope is not one of my better virtues, but I will continue to add my actions, small though they are, in the efforts to make the world safer, more loving, more kind.

After all these centuries, still searching for the peace the angels proclaimed…

One-Liner Wednesday: five years ago

Our then one-year-old granddaughter ABC enjoying Thanksgiving dinner with her great-grandfather Paco in the background; I’m missing both of them today, one due to distance, the other to death.

Please join us for Linda’s One-Liner Wednesdays! Find out more here: https://lindaghill.com/2023/11/22/one-liner-wednesday-clownin-around-2/

Two years without Paco

I work up in the very early morning darkness today thinking about my father, known here and in real life for the last 33-ish years of his life as Paco, the name bestowed on him by my firstborn and his first grandchild E as she was learning to talk.

I suppose this is not surprising because this is the second anniversary of his death. You can read a tribute that I wrote to him a few weeks after his passing here.

What is unfortunate is that in the early morning darkness in which I am now writing this post I am remembering so much of his final years, when I was struggling to get proper support and medical care for him, exacerbated by the pandemic. Even though I was living locally, there were long stretches in which I could not visit in person at all or only for short amounts of time. Phone and video calls were often frustrating, as you can tell from this poem, which was first published in Rat’s Ass Review.

Video Chat with our 95-year-old Father

You said it was scary
today
that we were there

in your bedroom
your three daughters
in pulsating squares

on a screen
You remembered where
home

is for each of us
but not where
it is for you

confused that you
could see us
hear us

but we were not
there
with you

We talked about the snowy
winter, so like our New England
childhoods, when you would

wrangle your orange
snowblower to clear
our way out

We asked if the cut
and bruise on your hand
had finally healed

if you had finished
all the Valentine
goodies we’d sent

Distracted
by a sound
from the living room

you set the tablet
aside
left us

staring at the ceiling

What was most difficult was that, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t secure correct diagnoses or treatments for Paco, illustrated by the fact that his death certificate states that he died from end-stage heart failure, but he was only diagnosed with heart failure about ten days before he died. I had been trying for months to tell the staff at his assisted living and then skilled nursing units of his continuing care community that he was having unexplained symptoms and had accompanied him to outside doctors and emergency room visits, when the pandemic protocols allowed me to stay with him, but it was never enough to get to the bottom of his health difficulties.

I thought I had worked my way out of most of the trauma of that but, in the early morning darkness of this anniversary day, apparently there is still some of that pain left. It’s not that I think I could have further prolonged his 96 years – something that would not have served any of us – but that his final months would have been so much easier for him if he could have received timely, proper diagnosis and medications.

One of the comforts of Paco’s death was the thought of his reuniting with my mom, known here as Nana, who died in May, 2019, also of heart failure and, gratefully, before the pandemic struck. I drafted this poem, which was first published by Wilderness House Literary Review, only a couple of weeks after Paco’s death.

We probably should have taken off					

his wedding ring before
he died		    before
his hands cooled	      started
to claw
but we couldn’t		       remove
that symbol
			of Elinor
	of two years
		   three months
			twenty-three days
						left
without		her
after
	sixty-five years
		      one month
			   three days
married to her
			the ring
				of her
even    in    days    of    delirium
	    haze			confusion

his ring		not
	sixty-seven years	  old
		but	   twenty
her gift 	         a remedy
	 for missing		some		thing
		of his
  to cling to 		during his three weeks
			       in the hospital
his chest cracked			 open
     		widow-maker averted
				somehow

She inscribed 		his ring	
      ALL MY LOVE  “ME”
     the way she signed 	cards to him
birthday	anniversary	  Christmas
	St. Patrick’s Day
		valentines
the words against his left
	ring finger		believed
to lead most directly to the heart
	which finally failed
		after ninety-six years
			five months
				nineteen days
as hers had
	after eighty-seven years
		     six days

While I go to the sink
to fetch soap 		to ease
the ring off 	his finger
my sister works
it over	 his reluctant 	knuckle

I carry it 	home 
to my daughter
Elinor’s and Leo’s rings
	   unite
on their granddaughter’s finger

[For those of you who might be new to Top of JC’s Mind, I will note that it is really unusual for me to fold poems into posts like this, but somehow, in the early morning darkness, it seemed appropriate.]

I’ll close this post by explaining the significance of the four-generations photo, taken a few weeks before Paco’s death, that begins this post. It shows Paco, me, eldest grandchild E who named Paco, and great-granddaughters, then 4-year-old ABC and just turned 1-year-old JG. This was the first and only meeting of Paco and JG, who had been born in London, UK, in the early months of the pandemic. ABC lived here in the States with us for her first two years and remembered Paco very well. The restrictions on international travel had kept E and her family from visiting but they were able to get special permission to travel together to come visit Paco one last time.

Paco’s health declined quickly after that visit and I’m so grateful that we all had that brief, sweet time together.

Remembering that final farewell through a few tears in the still-before-dawn darkness of this anniversary morning.

Remembering Ron Perera

Ronald C. Perera, composer and the Elsie Irwin Sweeney Professor of Music Emeritus at Smith College, passed away on August 4, 2023 at his home in Massachusetts.

Mr. Perera – I’m supposed to call him Ron but can’t quite bring myself to do so – was one of the most important people in my education at Smith (1978-1982). I was fortunate to be placed in his first-year music theory section. At the time, Smith’s sequence for teaching theory was unique. The first semester was based in 20th century music, with an emphasis on studying rhythm and melody. Having almost no background in 20th century music, I was in over my head, but Mr. Perera was always patient, good-humored, and available for extra help. The wisdom of studying the structure of melody early on in theory studies didn’t sink in until much later but it is still a help to me when learning to sing new pieces.

In the second semester, we studied common practice period four-part harmony, which meant a lot of exercises in realizing figured bass, setting hymn tunes, and analyzing Bach chorales. I was an organist at the time and Mr. Perera had been one earlier in his life; I remember us sitting together at the piano in his office geeking out over the intricacies of Bach’s harmonizations. I think some of the class thought we went a bit overboard, but I will always honor the way Mr. Perera deepened my appreciation of the genius of J.S. Bach.

(For the record, the second year of the theory sequence was a semester of counterpoint, followed by one of chromatic harmony.)

By my junior year, I had declared music as my major and Mr. Perera was my major advisor. Not wanting to finish my required theory sequence with an elective in analysis, I decided to take a semester of music composition. Once again, I was in Mr. Perera’s class. I had, of course, been doing some composition as part of my theory classes, but formally studying composition with Mr. Perera was a revelation. I was inspired to sign on to his music composition seminar for my senior year.

Composition seminar was basically private lessons in composition with occasional meetings with the other students, some of whom were graduate-level, for special presentations. That year deepened my appreciation for Mr. Perera as a teacher. He offered guidance in realizing my artistic vision for the work without interjecting his own style and aesthetic. He was always gentle, patient, and understanding, which became even more important when a family emergency occurred during my senior year. He also taught me that the work of composition is not just the creating and revising. The technical aspects, like score creation and extraction of parts, were also important; I did all of that by hand before there was software available as is common today. My seminar piece, “Psalms of Praise and Justice,” for string quintet, SSA chorus, and mezzosoprano soloist was performed at a concert for student composers and won the Settie Lehman Fatman Prize.

It was also a privilege to hear some of Mr. Perera’s compositions in concerts on campus. I particularly remember a concert featuring “Bright Angels” for organ, percussion, and tape performed in John M. Greene Hall. Mr. Perera wrote and taught electronic music as well as acoustic music and sometimes combined the two in live performance, as he did here. The score was intricate and beautiful. As a former organist, Mr. Perera understood well how to write for the instrument and fully use its capabilities while leaving the performer room to adapt for the particular instrument and room.

The other concert that immediately springs to mind was the world premiere performance of The White Whale, a monodrama for baritone and full orchestra, based on the character Ahab from Herman Melville’s Moby Dick. It is a riveting character study. All these years later, I can still recall the recurring motif, “Have you seen the white whale?”

Mr. Perera was especially well-known for his ability to wed words and music. He composed songs for solo voice, choral music, and several operas, with texts ranging from Sappho to St. Francis of Assisi to Shakespeare to Robert Frost to Mary Oliver. His love for both words and music is evident in his work.

After I graduated, I would try to reconnect with Mr. Perera when I was back at Smith for reunions or events. This became trickier after he retired in 2002. He was often at his home on Cape Cod during my visits to Northampton. I was lucky that he was in town when I returned to campus to sing in the chorus for Mahler’s Second Symphony this spring. Ron treated me to lunch at the Coolidge Park Cafe in the historic Hotel Northampton. We had a wonderful, wide-ranging conversation about family, music, poetry, current events, religion, and life in general. This quote from his obituary expresses it very well. “Ron was deeply and genuinely curious about many things, including each person he encountered. A long, thoughtful conversation was his signature, and his generous listening made everyone feel that they were the most important person in the room.” 

Mr. Perera and Jay, his wife of 56 years, attended the Mahler concert. I was pleased that I got to see them there and re-connect them with some of the other Smith singers from my era who were in attendance.

At that time, I knew that my poetry chapbook Hearts would be published soon and Mr. Perera asked me to send him notice when it became available. I did so and he ordered it. He sent me a lovely note, reflecting on his reading.

I didn’t know that would be my last contact with him.

I am so grateful to have had that wonderful conversation with him over lunch. I told him how much he meant to me when I was his student and how much I admired his ability to empower his students to realize their own artistic vision. He was an inspiration to generations of students and colleagues at Smith and beyond. They are part of his legacy along with his family – his eyes always lit up when he spoke of them – and, of course, his music which will outlive all of us.

Rest in peace, Ron.

He did tell me I should call him Ron.