“Where are you leading us, brother? It’s so damned cold…and dark…we’re only doing this because we love you…and it’s your birthday…listen to those waves…even up river they’re wild tonight….” The bitter wind penetrates the thin stuff of his shirt, the dress shirt he wore to their dad’s funeral, the last time they had all been in one place together.

He hears the mingled laughter and complaints as he leads his siblings and their partners to the place that had moved him so deeply. One night he had discovered it by chance. Now as they walk away from the glitz and the noise of the party, he remembers that kind of beauty you absorb through your skin and your gut: the sound of a leaping fish in the stillness, the thrum of oars as a canoeist passes; on this night, the opalescent moon casting its spell.

They are all in evening dress, his sisters in high-heeled shoes. His words are slightly slurred. He has drunk too much wine.

“You’ll love it…it’s worth the pain. You all know the rules. No pain…no gain…and you’ve had too much to drink…we all have… that’s why we need to clear our heads. Here, Mum, take my hand…this is your kind of place.”

Are we there yet?  They come to a standstill around him.

“Stop wingeing, you lot. Look! See! The glimmer of waves coming close …across the strip of land… and see there.”

The wind gusts in icy swirls. There is no light except from one or two mobiles. He moves on and they scramble after him along a narrow path between rocks and abutments of turf, to a strip of land that divides the waters of the bay. Waves rush in. They watch the moon coming out from the clouds with twin mirror images in the waters below, splintering into slivers of gold in coiling streams. They are mesmerized when, on the gnarly branch of an overhanging paperback, a cormorant suddenly appears, a moving black sculpture stretching its curved neck to dive. A fish leaps, in a maelstrom of moon-dappled light.

He remembers when they swam weightless in the river near their home, dived from tree branches, and rowed upstream in that long Canadian canoe of the Avon Descent fame.  Memories. How time slipped through their fingers.

We are all here, he thinks. This is a moment…and don’t we all know? You only have moments.
 

From Women of Joy, a suite of photographs by Merry Song

Interesting, I thought, and set to it. Reflecting on my day, I began listing my five gratefuls; then, after some deliberation, the one that was the highlight. He then, on my insistence, shared his. Then I fell asleep.

He made his request again the next night. And the next. A couple decades later, it is now as integral a part of the end of each day as brushing our teeth.

One by one, I count off the five gratefuls with taps of my fingers on his arm. We alternate, back and forth; ONE, you and then me, TWO, you and then me, all the way to five. Sometimes he goes first, sometimes I. Then, the highlight of the five.

Rules have evolved over time. We can have the same highlights, but cannot repeat gratefuls. First come, first served. Also, my interpretation of the original request was that the gratefuls be from that very day. Some nights are tougher than others; we might have had a rough day, might be a bit disgruntled and even sarcastic. On those nights, I’ll allow him a more general, all-encompassing grateful, our home, a safe place to live, for example; but ever the rule follower, I encourage him to add “on this day.” I, on the other hand, force myself to find five and a highlight from this day.

On occasion, if we start nodding off without having said them, one of us (usually me) wakes up, “Wait, Wait, gratefuls and a highlight.” One, two, three, four, five, and a highlight. Then, gratefully, joyfully, off to sleep.
 

From Women of Joy, a suite of photographs by Merry Song

The three of us sat in the last row of folding chairs set up in the school’s multi-purpose room. At the front of the room Laurie stood behind a table. In between were rows of middle school kids – mostly girls – holding books in their laps, waving their hands, and pelting Laurie with questions.

“How do you think up your stories?’

“How long does it take to write a whole book?”

“Are any of your characters based on any of us?”

Laurie laughed, then invited her audience to come up to get their books autographed.

There was a mad dash to the front.

Libby beamed.

With a copy of Laurie’s book in my bag, we headed out the door into the spring sunshine. As we turned left down 23nd Street we heard a shout: “Kathy! Jon!” And there was Todd, daughter Annie’s dear friend from college. A pal since freshman week Outdoor Action and frequent visitor during school vacations. Since graduation, professional squash player for Team USA. We had last seen him in 2019 when we crossed paths in Lodon.

“Todd! What are you doing here?”

“I live in Philadelphia now. Off Rittenhouse Square.”

“Are you still playing?”

“This is my last year. I had to miss Annie’s wedding because I was at a tournament. But she told me all about the mother-in-law’s crazy weird toast.”

The three of us rolled our eyes, laughed and hugged, and promised that the next time Annie was home, he would come out for dinner.

Todd continued south and we went north for a walk. The breeze had become brisk and wispy white clouds flew across a cornflower blue sky, but the sun was still warm. At Spruce Street we stopped, drawn to the bright blocks of orange, red, yellow, and green painted on a corner stucco wall, and a sign that read Sally. The black board outside promised small plates and natural wine. It was only 4:30, but we couldn’t resist. The hostess with a bright smile and bare midriff tucked us into a protected outside picnic table. We were easily the oldest patrons by 30 years. Jon had the house ricotta; I had grilled prawns. We both drank a glass of a sparkling wine we couldn’t pronounce. And we watched urban life go by. Runners. Young parents with strollers. Women who knew how to wear scarves.

We drove home—west, into the sun—and found the light still streaming into our family room. We didn’t watch PBS NewsHour Weekend. We didn’t watch Call the Midwife. We didn’t watch Masterpiece Theatre. We sat on the couch, with Buddy the cat between us, and I read Laurie’s book until it was time to go to bed.
 

From Women of Joy, a suite of photographs by Merry Song

When I was a child, our neighborhood was full of kids who got together each year on Christmas Eve and went door-to-door, ringing bells and singing carols.

Loudly, robustly, full of pride and joy and innocence.

No matter the age, voice, tempo, range; we sang out, together.

Sometimes we’d be presented cookies on a big Christmas plate. One memorable year, we were offered hot chocolate.

Of all my childhood Christmas Eves, I remember this one in particular. It was snowing, on snow. Big, fat, fanciful flakes, the size of my hand, or so it seemed.

After caroling home-to-home, we gathered under the single streetlamp to finish with our most heartfelt and earnest rendition of “O Holy Night.”

Lo and behold, a traveling group of jazz musicians joined us in what was surely a heavenly band for a heavenly moment—from where on earth could they have appeared?

On our little dead-end road, or cul-de-sac as we said in Ottawa; roads filled with knee-high snow.

Two trumpets, a sax, a flute.

They must have seen us. Heard us? Suddenly, there they were.

If that happened to me today, I’d cry with joy.

Back then, a child, I was mute with surprise – but only for a cold moment.

Then I lifted my chin and sang out, and rang out, with wonder.
 

Spring has arrived and the peepers have been chirping up a storm. I drive through the park and stop the car when I hear the racket—just like we always did. Twilight has turned to night, and I turn off the headlights and roll down the windows on both sides—just like we always did. I enjoy the chorus for a few minutes, and then I call out in a loud voice—just like we always did—PEEPERS!

On mornings when I don’t have a yoga class or workout, I make myself a pot of coffee and return to bed to read the news. I pile up the pillows and pull the covers around me. Then, I inhale the intoxicating scent of coffee and take my first, and best, sip. I look out to the morning light and watch the birds whoosh past my window on their way to the bird feeder. I listen to Peanut’s scratchy tongue as she takes her morning bath and then curls up beside me.

You are not there like you always were, sound asleep, turned towards me on your right side, arm tucked under your pillow, warmth coming off of you, me smiling to myself and thinking how perfect we are together.

I am grateful to have these memories and grateful I can conjure them up just by hearing the peepers at twilight or sitting in bed drinking coffee in the morning. It is less than perfect now, but if I close my eyes, I can hear your voice and feel your warmth, and you are still there.
 

From Women of Joy, a suite of photographs by Merry Song

But after I flew into town and accompanied my sister, brother-in-law, and his family to the sports arena at George Mason University, I realized that there was one matter I hadn’t prepared for, and perhaps couldn’t prepare for. My emotions. I was thrilled that my nephew had reached this milestone, but I was in low spirits because his maternal grandparents—my parents—weren’t there.

Mom and Dad, who lived a six-hour car ride away from my sister and her family, were present for my nephew’s milestones from the day he was born, years of holiday gatherings and impromptu visits. They’d opened an account for his college education when he was an infant. But they didn’t live long enough to see him walk across the stage to get his diploma. They were elderly when they passed away. My sister and I took care of them during the last few months of their lives. I missed them dearly.

I was thinking of Mom and Dad as we sat in the nearly empty arena, waiting for the graduates to begin their processional. My heart was heavy. But I was jolted back into the present when the pep band, called The Green Machine, started to perform. My sister and family jumped to their feet. At first I thought they were moved by the propulsive horn section. But then they started pointing at someone in the band. I was incredulous. It was my nephew. In his cap and gown, he was with the band, dancing freestyle to the music of Beyoncé, striking a cowbell with a drumstick. He had been a member of The Green Machine when he was a student, but his time with them had ended because he was graduating.

Soon, I was on my feet too, pumping the air with my fists, dancing with abandon and marveling at my gregarious nephew, who stayed through several selections with the pep band and at one point grabbed the microphone and performed a rap he thought up on the spot. It was refreshing. He pulled me out of my grieving and brought joy to my heart. After the ceremony got under way, I continued to think about Mom and Dad, but in a celebratory way, celebrating their legacy, as he walked onstage, received his diploma, spun around and took a bow.
 

From Women of Joy, a suite of photographs by Merry Song

At times the space between her car and the car in front of her grew to two car lengths. I refrained from honking, hoping she would come out of her screen trance and move up, which she eventually did. When at last she reached the ordering station, a long conversation ensued, including questions and answers, suggestions, and indecision. This went on for precious minutes.  I was at full seethe mode now, stuck between cars with an idiot driver in front of me and no way to back up or get out.

She had returned to texting, forgetting to move up again. Three of us honked at the same time, startling her. When she finally arrived at the pickup window, she decided to change her order.

Twenty minutes to my destination. What excuse could I give for being late? This bizarre truth would have to suffice.

Finally, decisions were reached, a credit card handed in through the window, returned with a receipt, and the driver drove off—without her drinks and pastries. The barista looked in disbelief. Soon she came zooming back in reverse, looking like she wouldn’t stop in time to avoid hitting me. I honked to make her aware she was inches from my bumper.

She picked up her drinks and pastries, and with little warning, was backing into me again, forgetting she was in reverse. I was no longer shy about honking as I blasted my horn. She stopped with no room to spare.

Finally, she sped off, and I drove to the window, card in hand to pay and retrieve my order. As I pulled up, I couldn’t help but vent to the barista, “What was going on with that driver ahead of me?”

I expected the barista to commiserate with me, but instead he held out one hand like a stop signal, and the other hand held my mocha. He said, “She paid for your drink.”
 

From Women of Joy, a suite of photographs by Merry Song

Deep, wide, soft—what we want for the place we stow moments of joy. The bookmark my grandson made with early attempts at mastering scissors, coloring an owl’s head. How it slides into my mysteries and romances. The play bow of my rescue dog, who boots have kicked  and who bears scars from wounds around her eyes. The arresting scent of the deep purple lilacs that have been working toward blooms for many days of rain and opened today. The wood frogs that still jump into the pond’s stew of rotting leaves and duckweed—and, it being May, will mate. I brake for a rabbit crossing the road from the hay field to the second-growth woods. The French radishes have broken the surface of the soil.

Any one of these and all of them unwind my fists so my fingers cup inside of today’s pocket. I can’t make it to the memorial for my friend’s husband; it’s too far away, but every night I can breathe a meditation for her. I can walk beneath the lilac’s bloom.
 

Adam is wearing white Oshkosh overalls printed with topsy-turvy red and blue cars. He loves things that move, especially cars. Sometimes he stands in the driveway shouting their models as the cars pass by: Rabbit, Mustang, Cutlass. He likes cars as much as his Big Wheel.

Adam plays in our station wagon, jumping up and down in the driver’s seat, exuberantly steering away to nowhere. He helps wash the car, focusing on the tires. When he’s in kindergarten, a neighbor gives him his own galvanized pail and a car-washing sponge.

Adam is an early talker. He narrates his life as he lives it. His pre-school, the grocery store, a playdate—all enthusiastically reported. He talks himself to sleep, recapping his day. His voice rises at highlights, like lunch and dog kisses.

The horn blasts. Adam covers his ears. With a deep moan, the ferry chugs out of the harbor, the waves slopping against its sides. Passengers take photos of each other holding a baby or a beer or of a lighthouse in the distance. I have dozens of my versions of such photos. Through the years, on the same ferry, the background in mine remains the same, but the characters change—two more sons and new dogs added, a husband cropped out.

On the open water, the ferry picks up speed. Squawking seagulls circle, searching for morsels of hot dogs and Fritos, sometimes plucking them out of a passenger’s hand. The ferry moves faster and faster. Adam looks up. “The seagulls are flying backwards,” he says. For a sliver of a second I see what he sees. The ferry is not passing the seagulls. The seagulls are not falling behind. The seagulls are flying backwards.

After 45 minutes the ferry bobs up and down, groaning against the landing pier. The seagulls fly off to the mainland. I am sad because I suspect that as Adam gets older, he will lose his poet’s eye; his openness will be boxed up by facts. He will be told that pigs aren’t radiant and that he can’t touch the stars no matter how close they seem. His teachers, family, and friends will tell him what they consider to be true. I hope he doesn’t entirely believe them.

Now, decades later, Adam brings his wife and teenage children to the ponds and beaches where he learned to swim. He tells me that his son and buddies wait in line for fresh-out-of-the-oven donuts. And his daughter dances in the dark on a pier overlooking the ocean. They are the children of a boy who saw seagulls fly backwards.
 

From Women of Joy, a suite of photographs by Merry Song

It occurs to me to ask him to write down the recipe for posterity. From our soggy chenille couch I say, “When I’m gone, everyone will want to know how I lasted so long. You’ll have to give out the recipe at my funeral. Instead of Kaddish cards.”

“This,” I tell him, “is my prayer.” The tremor in his right thumb is worse when I talk like this.

The hospice nurse arrives, and before he takes my blood pressure, we convince him to taste the soup. I tell him, “You haven’t lived until you’ve had Arnie’s Soul Soup.”

“Bring it on!” says the nurse. He comes three times a week now, usually with Shadow, a therapy dog who sits by my side and curves herself into my ribs, absorbing all that’s too much for me to bear: my dread, my grief.

Before the nurse can ask, I say I’d give him the recipe if I could, that recipes are to be shared beyond where the leaves of the family tree fall. He touches my cheek and reminds me that he’ll see me in a few days. “It wouldn’t be a tragedy,” he jokes, “if there were more soup.”

After the nurse and Shadow leave, Arnie says, “I make the soup from memory. I don’t have a recipe.”

“Next time write it down as you go,” I say. “People will love you for it,” I say. “The funeral will be a hit.”

I remind him that my mother’s banana bread recipe saw us through her shiva. “Six nine-by-thirteen pans—not one crumb left!”

He remembers and adds, “We kept one plain. In two, we put chocolate chips. In another two, walnuts. One we loaded with chocolate chips, walnuts, M&M’s, and dried cranberries.” His voice is thinning. “We named that one The Party. Every bite, a celebration.”

The soup has energized me, and I push myself to leave the couch. I have this idea that Arnie and I should rescue our browning bananas and make my mother’s recipe. Summoning good cheer, or perhaps reaching for something that has eluded us these past few months, he says, “Yes! Let’s make The Party!”

Before we know it, the counter is covered in flour, sugar, butter. When we open the M&M’s, they spill relentlessly all over the floor, a green one here, a blue one there. We bend down to stop the spill. And we’re laughing—giggling, really. Sores be damned, we place them in our own and each other’s mouths and check our reflections in the oven glass to see that our teeth are speckled — red, yellow, all of it. Every bite, another moment. Every bite, a declaration.
 

From Women of Joy, a suite of photographs by Merry Song

Dancing Between the Raindrops: A Daughter’s Reflections on Love and Loss

by Lisa Braxton

  Dancing Between the Raindrops: A Daughter’s Reflections on Love and Loss, is a powerful meditation on grief, a deeply personal mosaic of a daughter’s remembrances of beautiful, challenging and heartbreaking moments of life with her family. It speaks to anyone who has lost a loved one and is trying to navigate the world without them while coming to terms with complicated emotions. Lisa Braxton’s parents died within two years of each other—her mother from ovarian cancer, her father from prostate cancer. While caring for her mother she was stunned to find out that she, herself, had a life-threatening illness—breast cancer. In this intimate, lyrical memoir-in-essays, Lisa Braxton takes us to the core of her loss and extends a lifeline of comfort to anyone who needs to be reminded that in their grief they are not alone. Dancing Between the Raindrops is a heartfelt homage to Braxton’s parents in the wake of their passing. She touches the soul of every adult child’s mourning in ways poignant, nostalgic, aching, and funny with a clever patchwork of writing styles. A must read!

— E. Dolores Johnson, author of Say I’m Dead, A Family Memoir of Race, Secrets and Love

 

Available from Amazon and Bookshop.org. For more information see https://lisabraxton.com/.

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One Small Step

Roberta Schultz

 

One Small Step is the latest recording by Roberta Schultz, who describes herself as a moon-influenced 20th Century singer/songwriter treading lightly on a spiritual soundscape of keys and strings. Cover artwork is by folk artist Jefferson Ross.

Go to her website, https://robertaschultz.com, to download songs, purchase the album and to see examples of her other work.

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