wingmother

The Other Shoe

August 8, 2013August 8, 2013 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Pics4 Comments

Thursday morning

We’re going to take dad to the hospital today as he’s been complaining of stomach pains for a few days now. While mom and I think it might be good old-fashioned constipation, and he’s been drinking more fluids to help things along, the pain hasn’t really gone away. Mom suspects all he needs is some hydration by way of an IV. That, and the overall stimulation that another atmosphere and new people might provide. I’m not so sure this will have a happy ending. Martha, the other matriarchal figure in our lives, is also in the hospital today. She awoke around four this morning because she was having difficulty breathing. Martha knows the drill well. She pushes the button on the pendant around her neck, calls her friends Doreen and Mike, and shortly an ambulance arrives. She’s been in the hospital – admitted through ER – many times over the past couple of years. Sometimes things appear dire, yet she always ends up returning to her large, historic farmhouse in Greenfield. And every time she enters the place, I pray she makes it home again. Above all things, Martha is a woman who must die in her house. And no matter how infirmed her state, it seems she always has the resolve to make sure that one day she will.

My father, on the other hand, might have a different story. If admitted, he might be considerably disoriented by an extended stay in the hospital. Mom’s hope is that he ends up staying for a few days. She’s even posited his going then to a rehab facility in town (Martha’s done that herself several times). But if he can be made well by a simple round of hydration, then why would he need to stay there? My suspicion is that mom isn’t even aware of her own secret wish to be relived of her care-taking duties, if only for a couple of days. I’ve been lobbying hard for a weekly visit from an private nurse, but mom continues to say ‘we’re not there yet’. ! A few days ago she began to acquiesce, and told me her intention was to call the office of the aging and schedule an in-home interview, yet every manner of obstacle has prevented her from doing so. She doesn’t work, dad doesn’t get up til way past noon. What on earth could be preventing her from calling, save her own, deeply-embedded fear of entering this next phase? This is all a sad new territory for sure, and it’s made even harder to navigate by virtue of my parents’ values and upbringing. They are not a generation that discusses their feelings. And my mother is definitely not one to accept help. This creates a challenging environment when it comes time to deal with these issues of aging. Man, if there’s one thing I’ve made good and clear to my own son, it’s that he should do what he needs to do when the time comes. If I don’t know who he is and I can’t wipe my own butt – then by all means ship me off. And honestly – you may think me morbid, I do not care – I am all in favor of assisted suicide (however loathe that term) if a person should face an irreversible, debilitating disease. It’s even my hope to be able to sock away enough money to have that be a viable option one day (one possible place is in Zurich, Switzerland. It’s legal there). After all, looking to my father and paternal grandmother, the genetic possibility for growing old with dementia is a potential reality for me. I cannot pretend it isn’t.

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Thursday, early evening

I’ve been at the hospital for much of the afternoon with mom and dad. The staff at Saratoga Hospital continues to impress me, and I’m so very grateful for their service today. Turns out dad just had a hernia. Not a big surprise, he had one on the other side years ago which he had fixed surgically. The doc massaged it back into place, and dad felt relief right away. He had a CT scan which showed some ‘white matter’ around his brain; the ER doc surmised that it may have been many ‘tiny strokes’, but mom and I wonder if it might not simply be evidence of his memory loss and the related diminishing brain volume. Either way, my feeling is that it doesn’t so much matter. In my eyes, it’s my father’s quality of life and comfort that is most important now. Little prevention can be done to stop the progress of what’s probably inevitable. Guarding against falls is another concern of mine now too (mom and dad have a tile floor, argh. Knock on wood). In the end, dad’s cheerful, as well as he can be, and most importantly, feeling better. And I for one am relieved that he didn’t need an overnight stay in the hospital. (Although mom might feel differently.)

Martha was just down the hall, and on the way out, we wheeled dad into her room for a visit. It only just occurred to me right now – that it might have been the last time that dad and Martha will ever see each other in person. On Martha’s 87th birthday, just a few weeks ago, it took dad nearly fifteen minutes just to get inside her house. It was a huge production. I think we all knew as we watched his incredibly slow progress to the car afterward, that this was probably his final visit to the farm. This whole chapter is bizarre and bittersweet. I realize I’m lucky to have both of my parents alive and doing relatively well. So many of my friends are in that stage of life when they’re losing theirs. I watch, I wait, I worry. Nothing to do but try to savor the time remaining. It’s tough for me, yes, but I think of my folks. My dad is actually blessed by his dementia; he can’t truly appreciate that his life is reaching its end. And my mother, while she herself is actually doing ok (in spite of bad arthritis and chronic back pain), I can’t help but I wonder if there’s not a low-grade worry present in her thoughts about how her own end will come. An occasional passive-aggressive aside will come out every now and then which betrays a darker side to her concerns. On the face of it however, she jokes, she makes light… There is a mildly haunting sense to this time in all of our lives, although none of us ever says as much. But even if we were to talk, what would we say? I’d like to think that Elihu and I will face these tough conversations with absolute honesty when the time comes, but I can’t know that for certain. I cannot begin to assume that I will behave any differently, or approach the last years of my life with any more candor than my folks. I just don’t know how it will feel to be in that situation. I’d like to think that I’ll be able to face it, but it’s been a bigger challenge than I’d thought just turning fifty!

For now, I cherish the little things that have been so familiar to me all of my life. That certain, charming way my father has of laughing. The way my mother always shows concern, the way she always takes care of things, and makes me feel in the end like everything will always be alright. I can’t grasp in this moment, today, that one day they will be gone. And as frustrated as they can make me, they are my only parents, and I love them so. Every remaining moment is important, because you never truly know when the other shoe will finally fall to the ground.

I am a fan of Saratoga Hospital. The staff there have all been so kind and gracious.

Dad was in good spirits all afternoon.

There’s his gallbladder. All looks just fine.

Now we’re in Martha’s room for a visit. Note how she raises her hand for emphasis as she speaks. She is still in control! And she remembers the name of every last person who comes into her room – not only that, but she remembers where they live! Martha always inquires where people are from. That’s signature Martha Carver. !

That profile I know so well.

You can see what a production it is to move dad.

Aaron was so kind and patient.

Mom needs a cane these days – she can’t walk far without it. Even so, she’s the rock in the duo so far.

So fragile looking.

What a relief. I asked mom if she needed help on the other end – getting him back inside the house – but she insisted she didn’t; she said it simply took a long time. I can’t help but wonder each time he leaves the house if this will be the last time he does. You just can’t ever know for sure.

…And Found

August 7, 2013 Posted in An Ongoing Journal...1 Comment

Guess I indulged in a bit of old-fashioned self-pity yesterday. Thanks to Jim for so candidly suggesting that perspective. Had me stop and re-assess for a moment. As I said before, I do know things are ok. I’m at a fine place in my life. And I can’t compare my current life to my old one, because it’s an entirely different set of circumstances – and that’s really as it should be. One’s life at 50 shouldn’t look too much like one’s life at 25 – at least not if things are moving along as they should be. And hey – if my life was simply puttering along without a whole lot of new experiences or opportunities to learn, I might be whining for different reasons. ! Very likely I woulda been. Cuz while I crave solitude and a somewhat consistent routine in my daily life, I also need new challenges to keep me intrigued and happy about waking up in the morning. Ok, so maybe this last life-changing round of challenges was a wee bit more than I might have bargained for, but I can’t change it. All I can do is keep going. A sense of humor helps, and so does a mind open to the potential lessons disguised as a crappy situation. Personally, I feel that difficult chapters in your life give you the chance to get some new skills under your metaphoric belt. That might mean learning to identify feelings of guilt and letting them go, learning how to forgive someone a painful transgression, or it might even mean learning to make simple fixes around the house without calling a handyman. Unforeseen situations really do open some interesting doors.

Lest I sound like a proselytizing pitch-man for a series of self-help DVDs – I want to make clear that while I do believe it’s usually wisest to roll with the punches of life and get right back in the ring, there are just some times when the room spins and I see stars, and I don’t have the oomph to get back up. You know, like yesterday. It was the second such day of a low and dark mood, and of course it was natural to me that I write about it. Maybe I sounded a bit too pitiful, but the writing here in this forum is by nature exposed – and very much about the experiences I’m living – while I’m living them. I hope you’ll forgive me if from time to time I lose my good cheer. Certainly we all lose it every now and again. In the wake of my post I heard from old friends, received an amazing and unexpected gift, plus of course there were comments left here, and personal emails too. It’s easy to forget anyone’s ‘out there’, so thanks for reminding me once again that I’m not alone. How blessed I am to have the love and support of friends. I send you all my love right back. If ever you should need my help, please seek me out. I would like to return the favor some day.

Ok, I’m gonna quit my bitchin now. Cuz I know that I got it good. Was lost, but now am found.

Lost

August 6, 2013August 6, 2013 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Mommy Mind8 Comments

Kid’s been gone over two weeks. Maybe it’s three by now. You’d think I’d know, but I don’t. Been busy, busy, busy, trying to get all the things done that I simply can’t during the year. I suppose now that he’s ten it’ll become easier for me to do things. He can get himself something to eat or entertain himself easily enough. It’s just that I always feel badly about digging into solitary projects like filing, organizing teaching materials or other time-consuming stuff when he’s home. Which is why I’m hitting it so hard now. But today I feel stopped. The sun is shining and the day is bright, yet I can’t shake this feeling that the world is passing me by. I’m here in my windowless basement office, going through boxes and files and papers that just never seem to end. And I wonder, as I have so many times before, how on earth do working people deal with all this crap? There’s never an end to things that need tending to, never an end to the drawings and schoolwork that needs to find a home, there’s never an end to the personal correspondence, the filing, the bills, the paper…. And yet, at the end of the day, when someone asks me “what do you do all day?”, I’m hard-pressed to properly explain myself. Which leads me to this very moment. Right now, I’m feeling tetherless and lost.

In going through my music closet, and in finally opening great manila envelopes marked “to look at and file”, my past spills out onto my lap in old set lists, cocktail napkins scrawled over with chords, laminates and other small, useless items that only break my heart today. I remember the feeling of hope that went along with that time in my life. Our lives seemed all yet ahead of us then. Yes, I can say that I knew I was enjoying a good time in my life, and I did enjoy myself. I loved doing what I did, and I never took it for granted. But there was always another show coming up, another project, another seed of hope… I was always swimming with a fast-moving current. There was never anything static about that time in my life. But my life now is very different. Aside from my beloved son, I have to admit to myself, there’s very little of that sort of hope inside me today. There just doesn’t seem to be any forward pull. Yes, I have my writing, I suppose. Dear friends and readers who check in to bear witness to our tiny adventures, but is that in of itself a destination? What, I wonder, as I hold the evidence of a life once fully lived and enjoyed, just what the hell is my ‘thing’ now? Mom? Part-time accompanist at my kids’ school? Goddam recess monitor? Man. So much hope, so much forward-looking energy in these old scraps of paper. Yet where did they land me? I haven’t touched my Wurlitzer in ages. I haven’t played in a band since I left Evanston. It’s been two years since I’ve sung a proper show. And I miss it all like crazy. I fully admit to flat-out jealousy when I see the Facebook updates of my friends who are still making music. How lucky they are to be playing. To be doing what they love. I do know that I’m lucky to be here, and to have this new chapter from which to learn and grow, but still….

I can’t make much progress as I feel right now. I have no food left in the house, and I’m hungry. My hunger is no doubt helping to make my mood even darker, and I’m trying to muster the resolve to do something about it. It takes some gas and time to get into town, and I just can’t find it in me to go. I’m almost out of cash now too, cuz kids don’t take piano lessons in the summer (I sure never did), but that doesn’t stop bills from coming. August is always something of a financial challenge, and especially now in the wake of our July trip and some small home improvements. I know this has been a great summer, and I was so blessed to have visited Chicago (and to have eaten all that gorgeous food!), but it seems the spark has worn off. I know things aren’t bad by any means. I do. And I’m doing better than I was a year ago. I know it. Plus I’m home, surrounded by things I love, by nature, by a beautiful summer day. Even so, in this moment I’m still not quite sure where I am.

Wait for It…

August 5, 2013August 5, 2013 Posted in An Ongoing Journal...Leave a comment

I mighta known that the woman who ‘reminded me of Queen Elizabeth’ in the previous post was not in fact, Marylou Whitney, as I had declared her to be. I chose to ignore the tiny voice that kept nagging this woman just doesn’t seem glamorous enough to be Marylou. And in addition to that hunch, this woman’s silhouette actually looked slightly familiar. The photo I had tried to enlarge showed instead Jane Wait, and son Charlie (president of the Adirondack Trust Company) sitting beside her. Jane was on the board of my father’s Festival of Baroque Music for years. I too was on the board with her. In fact, Jane Wait figured prominently In the summertime world of the Conants for over a decade. She did everything from pen checks to the Festival to help arrange tea and cookies for the intermission refreshments. When I was young, I didn’t see Jane in the larger, social scale of our town. She was just a kind, older woman who showed an interest in dad’s music.

Some memories, unrelated bits of the past come back to me… I remember attending a party at their lake house once, where I met actor John Houseman. I remember he wore a purple jumpsuit and kindly gave me an autograph. I remember learning that Mr. Wait had died in a fire in that house not many years after. I remember that Mrs. Wait also had a daughter my age with whom I got together a few times. I was never able to get into a groove with the girl, in spite of feeling as If I had given it my very best (and the distinct feeling that she had not met me half way). They had a summer house just a couple miles down our road. And I remember I once played piano for Caroline and her mother at their place; it was a blues tune of mine with a little hook in the chorus and a repeating, catchy riff. They insisted I didn’t write it, they both insisted that they’d heard it played before. As an adolescent girl I didn’t have the language to articulate that they were mistaking the form and style for the song itself. That this, being a blues song, shared a common structure and tonality with other blues songs. The moment even got a tiny bit confrontational. My emotional take-away is that Mrs. Wait just knew me to be lying. It changed the feeling in the air between us all. Hey – to be fair, they might not have thought about it another second, but for me, it was insulting, and it showed me I’d been diminished somewhat in their eyes. That afternoon may have been the last time the young Wait and I hung out. We were fundamentally different people.

And today, the Wait’s world and ours intersect in only the very tiniest of ways. Knowing Jane to be ‘getting up there’, I wrote her a Christmas card last year just to reconnect, and to let her know that while dad is losing a bit of his short term memory, he was still very much himself and retained that certain, recognizable twinkle in his eye. And that he sent her his warmest greetings. Jane, as a wealthy pillar of this community is something of a local celebrity, so I didn’t expect to hear back – but at the same time she’s also a real person whose day might be cheered to hear news of an old friend. It made me feel like I’d done something kind; sending the letter warmed my own heart.

Now I can replay the memory of Jane and son Charlie on Friday night, waving from their carriage to the throngs of onlookers, and it makes sense. They are a much more conservative-looking duo. And then when I saw the super-wide brimmed hats trimmed in flowers in that other carriage on the front page of the Saratogian, I got it. Yeah, now that’s Susan Lucci. Now that’s Marylou. And man, they look great. Good Lord, Marylou is 88! (Ms. Lucci, 67). “Hey dad” I said, pointing to the photo of Marylou on the front page, “this woman is your age!” My mother reacted with great agitation. “No she’s not!” she said, almost angrily. Then she began her version of ‘math out loud’… “eight from ten is two….” Sheesh. I looked at her, waiting for the punchline. “Your father is seven years older than me, and I’m 78” she said, her tone still vaguely angry. She clearly thought she was imparting new information. ?? “Yes, I know” I said, still confused. “Marylou was born in 1925!” she emphasized. Still confused. “She’s three years older than your father”. “Yes, I know that too.” I answered, still not seeing her point. “So yeah,” I continued, “she’s about his age. We’re talking three years’ difference.” She went on to demystify her emotional response…”You’ll come to to the point in your life one day when every year counts. You want to be given credit for each year you’ve made it.” She went on to explain with a smile on her face (I just hate it when she smiles when she’s clearly very upset. Ich, it makes me queasy) that when you’re a young child or an older person you cannot make such generalities about age. “When you’re your age, it’s ok. But not when you’re older. Absolutely not.” There was a distinct tone of martyr in her voice, as if she meant to impart that she’d worked and suffered on this planet for seventy-eight years, goddam it and she’d paid her dues… It was rather fascinating to see my mom get so worked up about such a seemingly tiny thing. Hm. Interesting. I’ve been called any number of ages with a good two decade spread, and don’t find it offensive either way. Why mom should find offense at this tiny generality was news to me. “I just mean she looks damn good. That’s all”. (Yeah, and now she looks three years better! I thought to myself.) I shrugged, indicating dad with my eyes. In his pajamas for the umpteenth day in a row, I’d hoped Marylou’s image might serve as motivation for cleaning up a bit. But this is a tired, old and oppressive household. No one’s putting on their Sunday best anytime soon.

I look back at the two beautiful faces on the front page of yesterday’s paper. Honestly, it’s hard to believe their ages. I’ve been told it’s all about the fillers – you know, the tiny injections to keep faces inflated… and man, if the technology exists to create such quality results, sign me up. I admit it, I’m one vain-ass woman, and I don’t wanna be an old lady! After a recent mid-life battle over ‘to color or not to color’ I think I can just end that discussion right here and now. Color. And filler up, too while you’re at it. Do what ya got to do. I realize I may not have the bankroll for the job, and my life isn’t exacatly fodder for the society pages. So I probably shouldn’t hold my breath. But I probably won’t go the conservative, poofy old-lady hair direction of Jane Wait either. I’ll probably end up somewhere in between. But that’s still a ways off. I can wait…

Town and Country

August 4, 2013January 15, 2014 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Pics1 Comment

What do Susan Lucci, backyard ponds and karaoke bars have in common? They have each been a significant landmark of my weekend thus far. I feel I must admit that while I did actually see Ms. Lucci, at the time I wasn’t aware of exactly whom it was that I had seen in the carriage sitting across from the Queen of Saratoga, philanthropist, filthy rich and unendingly effervescent Marylou Whitney. I saw these fine ladies pass by from about a hundred feet away as I sat on the outside porch of a downtown restaurant. I had finished a long and arduous day in the garden on Friday, and I thought I’d treat myself to a night out. The town was celebrating the 150th anniversary of the track with a parade down Broadway and ice cream social at the Casino. The theme was a “Floral Fete” and the parade showcased bicycles, horse-drawn carriages and old-timey cars festooned in live flowers (the idea being they were decorated as they had been a century and a half ago when the races first began).

While I’d had in my mind the very intention of sitting outside at one particular restaurant, I had no idea the reality I’d be up against. Even as one lone diner I faced an hour’s wait. No matter, I gave the hostess my cell number and went to a bench out in front to read. Wendy, the gal who does my hair (and whom I give credit for my radical new blonde “I’m 50 and I’m worth it” highlights) was on the very bench, waiting, as I learned, to see her young granddaughter in the parade. We’d hardly chatted more than a few minutes when the hostess called my name. I had my front row seat! Had an good meal, an enjoyable margarita, and before long the parade had begun. The street was absolutely packed, and in just a few minutes the magic carriage was gliding past in front of me. All my life I’d heard of her – but never seen her with my own eyes. (My father loves to recount Marylou’s response to him when in the 1970s he’d asked her if she’d consider donating something to his Baroque Music festival: ‘I’m sorry, that’s not my bag, honey!’) So here she was. Marylou. And her junior husband beside her. And, as I learned later, Susan Lucci, her long-time racing buddy was in the carriage too. I snapped a couple of pictures, hoping to take a closer look later on. Marylou, nice. But Susan Lucci? Wow.

After my dinner I followed the throngs to Congress Park in hopes of hearing the Dixieland band. Met the leader just as they were going on to play. Gave him my cd and card. Told him how I missed the old music, and how I’d love to sing. He then told me they “were looking for a singer”. Really? Might I be so lucky? Indeed, this was the feel of my weekend thus far. I was in the stream of life, and so far things were going along nicely. Ran into Charlie, one of the handful of people I know in town (it was he who’d told me I’d just seen Ms. Lucci) and felt an even keener sense of things all happening with an element of magic. I snapped some pictures of young women strolling the park in 1890s costumes, took another swing around the beautiful park, then headed back to my car. The town was packed, and I’d had enough of humanity for the day.

Early Saturday morning I resumed my work outside and after a culmination of a good thirty hours’ of manual labor I had finally finished the hand-tilling of my side yard, I’d finished installing the edging for the garden beds (cutting, painting and drilling the lumber) and I’d completed the pond. This was a lot of work. A lot. Exhausted at the end of the afternoon, I sat surveying my work and realized that while it might have represented a supreme effort on my part, if I’d been a guy it might not have seemed such a big deal. And it occurred to me that maybe that wasn’t quite fair. It’s a lot of work, man or woman. Or was it? I’m not a very big gal, and these days not exceptionally strong, so to someone else this might have been just another day’s labor in the yard. But to me, my accomplishments took on an extra-triumphant feel. A ‘me against the world’ sort of victory. Maybe if I was a guy I wouldn’t be quite so satisfied – or impressed – with my work. But regardless of the gender question, a job had been done – and it was one I never could have afforded to pay someone else to do for me. So what if the timbers didn’t end up being quite plumb after the soil went in? And even if the pond didn’t quite fill as I’d hoped, even after checking it over and over again with a level – so what? At least it was done, and finally, after five years here, the entry to my home didn’t look trashy anymore. No longer would I hope the view would excuse the mess outside my door. Finally.

Armed with a little remaining value on a gift card for another downtown restaurant, I was able to justify a second night out. I knew that there was a pianist playing at the joint, and I was vaguely aware of a karaoke night at another place down the street. Might not be the Saturday night of days past, but it was something. Turns out I had the most wonderful dinner I’d had in months, and also enjoyed the company of the gentleman who’d been playing piano – as I was the last guest in the dining room. I invited him to share my table, and he told me stories of when he’d played the swingin old joints in Saratoga Lake back in the late ’40s. Thoroughly enjoyed my meal and the company. Finished up and headed out to the karaoke place down the street. Never having sung karaoke out in public I was hesitant at first to jump in, but forced myself to enter the club and find a place at the bar. I perused the song books and thankfully found my hopeful tune. Surprisingly I didn’t have to wait too long before I was called up. I sang. I so enjoyed singing. Thought I sounded good, too. But I learned three important things about karaoke. One, you gotta sing for the demographic of the room. Otherwise, no one gives a shit. Two, you can’t sing too well. (Same effect as for point number one.) And three, while they ask you “what key” you’d like your song in, that doesn’t seem to count either. You get what you get. Good thing I’ve sung plenty of male charts and have routinely had to break up melody lines, going up or down an octave to make it work. I can deal. But still, why ask if you don’t intend on delivering? All that aside, and in spite of my unfamiliarity with the culture of karaoke, I enjoyed myself immensely. And honestly, I wasn’t singing to connect, or to make anyone feel my message. I was singing for purely selfish reasons. Cuz I love to sing, and I don’t get many opportunities to do so these days… Who cares if no one knew “Fooled Around and Fell In Love”? I’m a singer of classic, American popular songs, not a pop or a blues singer. Just to be able to sing something out of my usual purview was pure joy.

At last it was time for Cinderella to go home. The night before I’d pooped out by 9:30, but now it was approaching 2 am. Too much later and I’d screw up the following day (morning is the high-drive productive time for me). The town was still popping, just not with anything that interested me. It’s a young town, and every bar has a cover band playing in an open window or interior courtyard to smartphone-wielding drunks. Young ladies in obscenely high heels and unfathomably long inseams crowd the narrow streets and make me feel a bit older than I had just a few hours earlier. Time to move. On the way to my car I did manage to catch the very end of the only true jazz set in town. They were good players too. A nice surprise and the perfect way to end my night in town.

Sunday I’ll tweak my home improvements with a renewed vigor. I’ll upload the pics from my nights out. And I’ll see if I can’t find Ms. Lucci in a frame or two. Things were so magical this weekend, that I almost expect I’ll see her waving directly at me. Let’s see…

Elihu’s pal Keithie helps scrape the garage

And his uncle Dennis paints the house while I tear up the walkway

The girls follow my work, picking bugs from the fresh-turned soil

Keithie and pal Schuyler take a break on the trampoline with poor Thumbs Up.

Next phase: digging out the pond area

Madeline watches as I lay down the liner

Framing up the garden. Not straight quite yet

I swear they follow me everywhere. Fresh poops always afoot.

Starting to fill up the pond. Guess who can’t wait to try it out. !

Curiouser and curiouser… they are fascinated and watch as the pond fills up

My handiwork just about done

Oh, but I don’t want poop in the fresh, clean water! Can’t leave til I goose-proof the pond. Must remember to keep Maximus inside the run until I can fashion a pond cover.

My stonework. (Smaller, river rock to fill in over the dirt at left.)

Ah. So happy it’s done! Looks so simple, yet represents so many hours. !

Ok, let’s take a look at those parade pics, snapped from my cozy table for one on Broadway. Hm, this is a bit disappointing. Reminds me of the time I saw Queen Elizabeth in Toronto. She appeared as the tiniest speck of white, discernible only from the hat on her head. Dear me. Marylou is in white to the right side of the carriage. Let’s see if we can get a closer look…

Oh dear. In spite of my best efforts to enlarge and crop, there’s not much benefit. Let’s see one more…

Why this isn’t Ms. Lucci at all – it’s Charlie Wait and his mother, Jane (she was on the board of my father’s Festival of Baroque Music for many years). A pillar family of Saratoga.

This was a clever ‘float’. The fellows played tennis as the parade moved.

Captures the feel of old Saratoga.

A street musician plays a lap version of a steel drum. She called it a ‘tongue drum’. Elihu might be interested in one of these…

This gal does the most intricate and amazing black and white mandalas.

Well hello, Mr. Bass!

A magician in the park under the big willow tree…

And the carousel, a favorite of all ages.

Old timey characters strolling around the park give the evening charm.

Pretty.

Outside the music tent – that’s my friend Charlie at the far right.

And inside the music tent. My new pal Skip Parsons on right.

The real party’s inside the Casino. I creep around, peeking in the tall, Victorian windows hoping for a glimpse of the host or her actress guest.

Hmmm….

I see a top-hatted waiter. Ah well. I get the elegance and the look of the era. That’s good enough for me.

The Ice Cream Social begins to wind down as modern costumes mingle with old.

Saratoga’s famous Phila Street. Caffe Lena upstairs at right, Hattie’s Chicken Shack below.

And the famous Caroline Street bar scene. Few cars can navigate through the nighttime crowds.

Every bar has a line to get in.

Heading back to my car I see this fun percussion jam in the acoustically perfect drive-up banking tunnel of the Adirondack Trust Company. When Elihu gets back I’ll make sure he takes a spin with these guys.

The ATC clock. As well-known to Saratogians as is the old Marshall Field’s clock in Chicago’s loop.

The Adirondack Trust Company. A bastion of the old-world wealth upon which Saratoga Springs was built. I can remember my father securing a short-term loan for his music festival each year, a deal closed simply by a handshake with president, Charlie Wait. Another time indeed. I feel lucky I knew a bit of the older way of life as a child in this community. Now I often feel more like a spectator than a resident. But I’m doing my best to get out and keep up. For now, however, between Marylou sightings and karaoke bars I feel I’m sated. Done with town life for now.

Post Script: This weekend marks the thirteenth anniversary of the murder of blues guitarist Elvin Bishop’s ex wife and daughter. (He wrote ‘Fooled Around and Fell In Love’.) I cannot imagine how one continues to go on living in the wake of such a tragedy. Please send Elvin your positive and loving thoughts today….

Bye Bye July

August 1, 2013February 20, 2016 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Farm Life5 Comments

In much of the Western world August is the month of vacations and holidays. In Europe folks head to Mediterranean coasts and leave signs in windows telling all that they’re gone for the month. People there fairly expect it. But here in the states there is no one favorite summer month for vacation. In fact, it seems that much of the country favors a spring getaway to a trip in muggy mid-summer. (I can remember classmates returning from mid-winter and spring breaks with those telltale ski goggle suntan lines while I secretly felt sorry for myself that I had never had the privilege.) I myself come from a family that never once took an honest-to-good vacation. Since my father was a musician, the family accompanied him to some lovely places where he performed, but it was not quite the same. Ditto with my ex husband.

Our family did, however, spend the summers in our tiny country cottage here in Greenfield Center, New York, as my mother and father were busy hosting their long-running Festival of Baroque Music. While my youth’s memories are colored by the sounds of early music and the scents of freshly mowed fields, I cannot say that as a child I necessarily looked forward to that particular time each year, nor did I realize at the time how rare and lovely the experience was. To me as a child it was just plain hot, muggy and buggy. And there was little to do.

Some years I headed for New Hampshire, where I spent two weeks in an overnight camp that both my mother and grandmother had attended. (While I enjoyed it once I got there, I remember feeling a low-grade dread growing in my stomach as the trip approached.) In our tiny house we had a black and white tv that got only three channels; we seldom watched it much during the day anyhow, as my mother’s constant refrain was “it’s too nice a day to be in the house – go outside!” In retrospect I can realize how lovely and innocent my summers were, but as I was experiencing them I just remember thinking mainly this: July is hot, long and boring. As a kid I never really did like July.

But here I am today on the final evening of the month, and my feeling about this time of year has changed. It’s fascinating to me that I feel so differently about July as a fifty year old woman. Today I relished the gorgeous day, the blue sky and puffy white clouds. The breeze was exquisite, my progress on the house encouraging, and my plans for the future invigorating. As I sat in my chair admiring my freshly painted house – plus my windswept view – I just kept thinking about how lucky I was. I loved this spot, I loved my home, and was beginning to finally love my life.

This year July had been a great month. And, it occurred to me, although it really had been just visiting my old neighborhood, I did even manage to take a trip to Chicago. And I suppose that constitutes a vacation. After all, it was refreshing and very enjoyable. So yeah, I guess it counts. That makes my July a success for the books: a proper vacation, some kid-free time to do some fixes on the house, and a few moments alone in the fresh air with a good book. The garden’s going well, the house is tidy and no one needs me right now. Yes, this has been a very good month for me.

August is just icing on the cake. I feel like the next two weeks before Elihu comes home are the most supreme gift. Will use every minute, will savor every summer breeze. Soon enough I’ll need to prepare for the upcoming school year; gotta get ready for my fall classes and start thinking about lesson plans… So August won’t be all mine. But still, I got it good. Financially summers are always very tight because I don’t have any private students – that means no income. But the time itself – that is just so precious. I wait all year for the time to open up so that I can finally get to that list of projects. This year I got a lot of em done. And that feels very good.

July also marks my one year anniversary as a divorced woman. Another milestone, another step towards this new life we’re making for ourselves here in upstate New York. Sometimes I wonder how I ever got here, and what on earth I’m doing sharing my property with forty chickens and a goose, but sometimes it feels like the best fit ever. Especially on a fine summer day. Thanks, July, I’ve enjoyed you immensely. See you again next year…

Monday Monday

July 30, 2013July 30, 2013 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Pics4 Comments

I live a mere 5 miles from the cosmopolitan hub of downtown Saratoga Springs, New York. And from The Hillhouse to town, it’s all one downhill shot. Pretty easy: a right, a left, another left and a final right and you’re on Broadway at the Riggi’s place. Can’t miss it. It’s a Disney-esque mansion on the corner. It’ll be on your left hand side. Then you make your final turn (right – and due South) and now you’re on Broadway, ready to do the cruise. Ready to see and be seen…

Right now, at the end of July, we are in the midst of racing season. For some folks, this is a Very Big Deal. There is a lot of money floating thru ‘the system’ right now; one doesn’t have to look long or far to see evidence of it. The Mercedes-to-Honda ratio has risen dramatically almost overnight, and so too has the number of people casually walking up and down Broadway in search of their next shamefully over-priced dinner.

I’d had a full day of appointments and errands, and in that they required I wear ‘town’ clothes (the nitty gritty work will happen tomorrow and will require a much humbler wardrobe) I thought that I might as well take advantage of bein all prettied up and take a walk up and down the strip just to see what was a goin on…. Now I don’t really know too many folks in town these days – my life is a rather cloistered one out in the country – yet as it turned out, the few people I might have run into I actually did run into. Such a lovely surprise is life.

At the risk of sounding like an embittered local, this town has changed. Even though I can agree that it’s a much cleaner, healthier town than it was some thirty years ago, much of the soul of the town seems to have disappeared along with the grit. And while Saratoga still has the overall aesthetic feel of a late nineteenth century town, nonetheless I feel its true charm to be waning with each season; each year it seems the large town moves closer towards the status of small city as it loses some of its most iconic, irreplaceable treasures and enormous new structures edge their way in. The Aldelphi Hotel, the very last bastion of old-world elegance, was Saratoga’s last authentic tie to the culture that gave birth to this town almost two hundred years ago. But it’s gone now too. We can only breathe out and through the pain as we ready ourselves for the anonymizing renovations being done presently behind the blackened-out facade. The gold hand-lettered name on the lobby doors from years past remains, and it gives us hope that the Adelphi Hotel will be back again one day, just as it has been for the past century and a half. But those of us whose hearts have been broken before by far less hopeful signs, we know better. It’s really best to remember the grand Adelphi of yesteryear, to savor those memories and then relinquish that lovely vision into the ether of all fond remembrances…

The grand promenade. Not so grand these days, but an evening’s entertainment, no less. Not a long walk: four blocks up, four blocks back. I say hello to some friends, watch the people and smooch the dogs. An extended and friendly chat with Jim and Gerry, two very kind gentlemen who belong to the resident motorcycling population, then it’s back to the shadows of the country, just in time to get the chickens secured for the night. A quick call in to mom and dad, a brief and enjoyable conversation with each, and I’m ready for a glass of wine and a quick post before I tuck into bed with a book. As Mondays go, this was a nice one.

This is the 150th season of racing at the Saratoga flat track. I was born in 1963, and my mom tells me I attended the tracks’ centennial celebration. Me and MaryLou! (Whitney, that is.)

Just a corner of me – but look! It’s our pal Cecil! At least ONE of Saratoga’s ‘historic’ treasures is still around!!

The new building’s up – but he’s not playing favorites – he splits his time between the Cantina side and Lillian’s…

Don’t we love Cecil? Elihu and I sure do; his CD is a permanent part or our car’s audio library

And look! It’s my buddy, Seamus! I’ve known him since before he was born. His dad and I were jazz-loving college kids who piled into cars and made road trips to shows all over the East… This kid’s doing well in college (pre-med now I hear) and also plays pro-level pipes. Plus he looks damn good in that outfit. Oh the hearts he’s yet to break…

I’ve seen some twenties in his case at times…

Handsome, talented young man…

These guys are having fun across the street. Even the cop (at right, leaning on the column) was digging it.

Not a lot of coin yet, but there’s a lot of competition too.

This is Saratoga’s new thing this year. The giant en pointe shoes. Strikes me as kinda silly. Or maybe it might be better to say pretentious; the New York City Ballet was here at SPAC for less than one whole week this year. In my youth they were here all summer long, and this was truly a ballet town. Now it’s just posing as one. IMHO.

You can see some of the artists’ names…

And here, of course, you can recognize Balanchine’s name. I remember watching him direct the dancers at open rehearsals. Many of my summers as a youth were spent as an NYCB groupie.

The beloved Adelphi Hotel. Such an interior – beautiful trump l’oeil paintings on the walls, the coziest, most densely-green walled-in garden patio you could imagine in back. And each floor had its own collection of antiques and treasures. The floors creaked, the stairways leaned. And I smelled the distinct scent of hyacinths one night in the salon by the main balcony. But now its interior is being radically changed. Likely very little of its historic charm will remain. Progress, you say? Hmm. I have another, far different opinion. Could ya tell?

These are the two final grand hotel fronts on Broadway (the Adelphi’s brown awning in foreground). The one in the background with the white pillars was once the Rip Van Dam Hotel – and as the grand, historic hotels of Saratoga went, this was the lowest one on the totem pole. Appartently is was downright small in comparision with the giants of old, but today it looks fairly regal with its two-story portico. The hotel finally closed a good decade or more ago and became office space. These days it has been restored to a higher station in the city scheme and enjoys its newest incarnation as a high-tag, top-tier restaurant.

There’s always a cluster of bikes in front of the coffee house. Those are my new pals, Jim and Gerry standing guard.

I had an enjoyable visit with two of the riders, Gerry and Jim. This lovely machine is Jim’s ‘third last bike’. ! Love it. My last bike was a long time ago. Maybe when lil man’s a bit older I’ll give bikes another spin. But for now, walking the strip on foot is more my speed. And these days I think I’m less about weekends – and more about Mondays.

Day Away

July 28, 2013August 6, 2013 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Farm Life, PicsLeave a comment

Had occasion to visit a new friend in a neighboring community yesterday. It was about an hour’s drive west, and I was excited to visit the town, as I’d known about it all my life but had never been there. Gloversville, NY, was once upon a time the very seat of America’s glove-making industry. Sorry – no historical pics of the town or its industry here. In fact just snapped a very few, but just enough to remind myself that I got out for a day and went someplace new…

Now this lifts my heart – a good, old-fashioned music store, very much in the style of my beloved Village Music School ‘back home’ in Deerfield, Illinois. Saw four old-timers on the porch and just had to stop by and say hi. The future of joints like this seems a little iffy in our culture of big box music stores. But ya never know. There’s just no substitute for a place like this.

Such sweetie pies! The men of Dad’s Music Shop invited Elihu and me to come and join em on a Saturday night jam. Our skills are rather primitive (at least mine are on the accordion) yet I do think we might be able to keep up on a tune or two. It’s on the ‘to try’ list for sure…

And look, I found myself a mid-century home in town! Hmm, gets me thinking…

And an old filling station. A 1930s building, a 1950s light fixture. Awesome.

But here’s the real Mecca. WATER. Plus mountains. Crazy silly awesome stuff of dreams. Man do I miss a lake…. The Great Sacandaga Lake is a river basin that was flooded in the late 1920s. While not truly a ‘natural’ lake, it is nonetheless a very beautiful place, with wide open vistas framed by the Southern Adirondack Mountains. Love driving over the bridge – it almost feels like I’m flying….

Keeping my eyes on the road, I took a chance that these pics would come out…

The end of the long bridge ride. The rest of the trip home was made up a steeply graded mountain and over miles and miles of dirt and gravel road. My ears clicked as the altitude changed and a cool mist covered the road in places. I imagine the folks two hundred years ago first carving these roads out of the forest – and I give up trying to even understand what that must have been like. I may still use the archaic flip phone (is it old enough yet to be ironic or cute?) but nonetheless I am a modern woman. While I may engage in some minor farm activity each day, truly, there is no ‘pioneer’ in me. Not sure how well I woulda fared in 1830.

I am eternally grateful for the physical infrastructure all around us, and in awe of its construction and design. All I gotta do is drive and take in the scenery. Which makes for a very low-key, pleasant day away.

Woman of Oz

July 27, 2013 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Divorce Diary, Farm Life, Mommy Mind4 Comments

When I write my posts, I sometimes remind myself of the Wizard of Oz. Or rather, the man behind the curtain pulling the levers and speaking into a mic. It’s an interesting feeling to sit in my comfy chair, alone in my room, ‘talking’ into the box on my lap. Feeling quite alone as I do (except for the constant crowing of roosters outside my window), it’s nearly impossible to realize I’m speaking to a group. And yet, luckily for me, I’m still able to do my thing, relatively unaffected by my growing and invisible audience. I had wondered recently if this might become challenging as time went on, but I’m happy to find that I can still tap into that universal mind and enjoy a line free of outside interference. As those who create will know, when things are going good and stuff is just coming to you, that’s a spiritual sweet spot. It’s kinda like getting in a canoe and joining the already moving water. Off you go… The trick here is not only knowing that I’m not exactly alone in my thoughts (nor would I want to be; the point of a blog is to share ideas), but that everyone in my life’s wake is privy to these thoughts and observations. Because of this, there are sometimes repercussions. But this is my life’s art for now, so on I go, broadcasting from my little chair behind the curtain.

Keeping one’s voice the same, without modifying its tone or exaggerating the day’s events when they seem a little too common, these are some of the challenges that face me. Thankfully, they aren’t affecting me at present, nor are they really concerning me. I’m surprised at this. Thought by now things might be getting trickier. You know, running out of ideas, becoming bored with what I already got goin. But I’m alright. My mind rolls up and down all day long as I tend to my outdoor work and I make mental notes to examine things more closely when my work is done. The biggest hitch in all of this is just remembering ideas later on. Guess that’s why writers take notes. I have a dry erase board in the kitchen, and a small pad in the car. If I’m lucky I’ll be near enough to one or the other that I’ll get something down in time. And while it aint Alzheimer’s yet, I forget far more than actually occurs to me – and this has me wondering sometimes if it’s not a foreshadowing of the fate awaiting me. But I’ll no doubt write about that chapter too when it descends on me. Cuz no matter how my aged years present themselves, whether it be memory loss or the inability to get around (hopefully neither!), that will be an entirely new adventure that will bring with it its own observations. And as long as I’m able to write, I’ll probably be letting you know exactly how I feel about things.

It seems that from the observations and ruminations I’ve published through these last few and difficult years, I have actually concluded the makings of what might be my first book. In this particular moment, my life has come to something of a stopping – and starting – point. Divorced, the ex married off, small farm chugging away, son just about in his pre-teen years… All of that, plus a recent little explosion of reaction to the blog on Facebook, and I think things are fairly tidily wrapped up. A period has been placed at the end of a long sentence. Life is by no means a static thing, and I am still grappling with some of the same challenges, but I feel a bit more confident these days, thanks to the most supportive readers and loving friends a gal could have. It strikes me as a bit ironic that at the ‘dreaded’ age of 50 my life is beginning again! I feel possibility now. As I watch the new garden outside my door begin to take shape and become real – all from the birth of my simple imaginings – so too I feel the birth of whole new future taking shape. I feel a little relief with the onset of this new chapter, too. A friend had suggested to me recently that this was the start of Elizabeth 2.0. I really like that. Nice way to welcome the new into my life, in all the forms it may yet assume. And with that, I’m think I’m done for now. Off to work in the garden. Pay no attention to the woman behind the curtain! The great Oz has spoken…

Ponderous Planet

July 25, 2013July 27, 2013 Posted in An Ongoing Journal...2 Comments

Life on planet Earth is certainly not for wimps. And while I may know only the mildest of challenges when seen in the larger scope of this immense world, the tiny events in my own life keep me ever-engaged in an unending process of disbelief, resistance, learning and acceptance. I try not to give my power over to these challenges of mine, but oh it’s tempting. Arthritis sneaks into my hands and begins to cause discomfort, an injury from some thirty years ago blossoms into a full-on nerve problem, low-grade poverty still makes it hard to sleep some nights, and of course, there are the familial concerns. The last Facebook flare-up of my ex and related responses has finally died down just in time for life to present some fresh, new dramas. Like my brother, who when faced with a family intervention for his alcoholism, bled the water line in my house dry, puzzling helpful neighbors and costing my mother several hundred dollars in plumber’s fees. Then there’s my father, who has in this past week decidedly turned a corner. Although he speaks in well-constructed sentences (and highly entertaining ones at that – his use of language still beckons an audience to listen) there is simply no point to his speech. He speaks in a conversational cul de sac, leaving even me feeling confounded and at a loss as to how to respond. Then there’s my mom, whose mobility is so much worse this year than last, and whose work load does nothing but increase – in spite of her having recently retired. And there’s Martha. The other matriarchal figure of the extended family who requires my brother’s help each day to assist with the most basic of tasks. She is not happy about this intervention of my brother’s. After all, if he goes to the hospital (which is highly unlikely at this time), who will tend to her?

This is a good month for my son to be gone. I’m not sure how it all would have played out if he’d been here. I even locked my doors last night for the very first time in my five years here – on account of my brother, and how enraged he became at our suggestion he admit himself for detox. Gotta give him props for his method of retaliation. He simply opened up both hoses and bled out the water line. Pump lost its prime, and without some serious manual intervention of said pump, no water was coming into the house any time soon. Good one, Andrew. It mighta made me laugh if it weren’t for the fact that it inconvenienced two neighbors and ended up costing our mother. Clever though, very creative. Better than a busted window I guess. (Yes, I did move the sledgehammer to a more covert location.) Now the clock starts. In a week’s time, if he still chooses not to be admitted to the hospital, mom will no longer let him use the car. Sure, she’ll ask him for the keys. That won’t do it, of course. So we’ve got our own means of enforcement, which I won’t go into here. Suffice to say the car won’t be starting for him.

Meanwhile, my house and garage are being painted. Which is fine – it’s great, actually (God bless my mom, once again she comes to the rescue) – but the folks doing the job must dodge a cranky goose and fresh chicken poop as they work. They’re a nice bunch, and really, they’re kinda like family. The dad of Elihu’s pal Keithie is running the show. But there’s a decidedly ‘Bad News Bears’ feel to the outfit; cigarette butts lay all over the driveway, and work in general seems a bit stop-and-go. But in the end there’s more ‘go’ than ‘stop’, so it’s all good.

Yeah, I don’t have it bad by any stretch of the imagination. But each day has its hiccups. And I know that for all of our sunny and polite on-the-street greetings, each one of us is a damn lier more than half the time when we answer ‘good’ when asked how we are doing. Are we really doing ‘good‘? Are things all just going swimmingly at home? Ok, so maybe they are for the most part, but there’s always that other part. We humans are so adept at keeping up fronts. I suppose we can’t all just go into it everytime someone asks us how we are, but a part of me wishes we as a culture were a bit less undauntingly cheery about things. Not that I think we should all carry our burdens forefront in our thoughts, but rather that we should all aknowledge that while things might be going well for the most part, not everything is exactly easy. We are all such troopers here on this planet. So much to do, so much to learn, such challenges yet before us. And some days, just too much to ponder.

The Hillhouse

The Journey of a Mother and Son

Author: wingmother