It Takes One to Know One

There was one person who spoke up at the funeral yesterday. "Should I say something?" Heidi whispered to me as we all sat in uncomfortable silence under the expectant gaze of the chaplain.

"Yes, please!" I answered.

She sighed and stood stoically, then strode up the aisle to the pulpit. What followed was an amazing off-the-cuff tribute to the women who had been the longtime secretary at our school when we both started. Heidi recounted all the help and guidance Penny had provided to her each time she switched positions at the school. "It was her job to know all the answers," Heidi concluded, "but she was so good at it. She was a fixer-- she could fix anything." 

Then she looked at the family in the front row and added, "I bet she was your fixer at home, too." They all nodded. "I know you'll miss that." Then she returned to her seat, and someone else got up now that the ice was broken.

"She really was a fixer," the next speaker said. 

It was a sentiment we heard repeated several times for the rest of the afternoon, along with many thanks to Heidi for her thoughtful words.

Considering the Alternative

"No one ever tells you how hard it is to get old," my 88-year-young aunt joked yesterday. "They call it the 'golden years' and the 'glory days.' Good grief!" she laughed.

"Really?" I pushed back. "I feel like I've heard that aging is not for the faint of heart. Didn't Grandma and Granddaddy complain at all?"

"All I remember is hearing them say that everyone they knew was dying and they had to go to funerals all the time," she replied. "They never mentioned not being able to bend over enough to put your own shoes on."

Our conversation took a different path from there, but I thought of it this morning as I scanned my wardrobe to choose an appropriate outfit for an end-of-summer memorial service for a former colleague. And then again as, somberly dressed, Heidi and I sat in the chapel of a local funeral home. 

The service was led by a chaplain who turned out to be the parent of a boy I taught in my first year, and who I knew had passed away a couple of years ago at the age of 41. She opened the service with welcoming remarks and the information that she had been a personal friend of Penny, the deceased. Then, after a granddaughter read the 23rd Psalm, the chaplain opened the floor, inviting any of us mourners to come to the pulpit and share an anecdote. 

Perhaps it was the holiday weekend, but the turnout was small; there were fewer than 50 of us gathered to pay our respects, mostly family, and the ten of us who knew her from school. The silence that followed the request to speak was notable and quickly grew uncomfortable. I sat in my pew two-thirds of the way back and racked my brain for something kind and comforting to share, but when nothing came to mind, I switched to berating myself for coming unprepared.

I realized then that, as my grandparents noted six decades ago, there might be many funerals in my future.  It would probably be prudent to spend some time in advance considering the person we'd be honoring and have at the ready some words and stories to share. 

Now that's something they never tell you about getting older.

The Wave

"There's a Jeep!" Heidi pointed out the minute we left the highway in Maine at the start of our vacation a few weeks ago. We had only been in the state for 30 minutes, but I was hungry and we had time to explore. "There's another one," she noted as we wound toward Kennebunkport. "Two more!" she reported a moment later. "They're everywhere!"

And it seemed like she was right. "Maybe Mainers keep Jeeps and vintage convertibles in their garages all year just to enjoy in the summer," I hypothesized, thinking how fun it would be to roll through the forests and along the coastal roads with the top down, enjoying the balsam and ocean breeze.

"But Jeeps would be good in the snow, too," Heidi replied. "Why did we ever get rid of my Jeep?" she asked wistfully.

We had our reasons at the time. But now? We have reasons to own another one, which is why we drove out to Maryland early this afternoon to pick up our new (used) Jeep.

Dark Clouds

Every school shooting is awful, but I was especially horrified by the one in Minneapolis yesterday. Beyond the tragedy of children being shot as they gathered in the sanctuary for the first mass of the year,  perhaps the fact that the Catholic school that was targeted was only about three-and-a-half miles from where my mother lived also made this attack seem close to home. My mom would have been so upset with such a senseless act of violence, and in her neighborhood, too.

When someone dies, it's common to regret all the happy occasions, holidays, graduations, weddings, and other milestones that they will miss. However, since 2019, there has also been a litany of bad news that I'm glad my mom did not have to endure. 

Cannery Row

When I agreed to split a half bushel of peaches with a neighbor this weekend, I had forgotten that I ordered a half bushel of tomatoes to be delivered today. I got my peaches on Sunday, and with the freshness clock ticking, I have been preserving the ones we haven't eaten ever since. Monday, I dehydrated a half-dozen as an experiment, and then yesterday, I added them and some toasted pecans to a buckwheat sourdough bread dough.

This morning I finished baking the loaves just as the tomatoes were delivered. After I prepped another half dozen peaches for dehydration, I decided to make peach jelly, which is more technical than jam, as it requires the extra step of making juice and straining it several times. That part was kind of fun (and it used up a lot of peaches), although as the process dragged on, the box of tomatoes on the table did weigh on me a bit. The end result was eight half-pint jars filled with beautiful red-gold jelly.

Once the jelly was jarred, I turned my attention to the tomatoes, boiling water to skin them, then chopping and salting the chunks. I filled thirteen quart jars with the diced tomatoes and proceeded to the hot water processing. Unfortunately, by then, it was apparent that my jelly, as pretty as it was, was not setting, and a minute later, an acidic smell alerted me to the sad fact that one of the jars had broken in the water bath. 

I confess, I was a little dismayed by these setbacks, but what can I do? Shit happens, and I still have 12 quarts of tomatoes, along with the prospect of re-cooking the jelly with more pectin tomorrow. 

My Word

Earlier this month, I sent birthday greetings to a friend and former colleague. "Thanks," she replied. "What's my birthday word?"

She was remembering a silly tradition I started years ago when I got my first "Word of the Day" desk calendar. Students and adults alike were fascinated by it, and the kids especially loved to find the word for their birthday. When it came time for me to pack my things for the summer, I always made it a point to tear off the months that we were on vacation. If I knew of a colleague with a summer birthday, they often found their birthday word taped to their door sometime in mid-June.

This went on for years, and I even photographed the words and texted them to friends who had moved on to other jobs, so it wasn't surprising that she asked. I no longer have a WOD calendar, though. When I retired, I passed it on to Treat for his English classroom, and I got him a new one at Christmas, just as my own used to be replaced at the holidays.

"I can't believe you don't have a word for me!" my friend replied when I explained the situation.

I was a little surprised by the strength of her reaction, but maybe I shouldn't have been. "Happy Birthday!" I texted another friend from school this morning.

"Thanks!" he answered. "What's my birthday word?"

Too Many Tiny Tomatoes

One of my weaknesses as a gardener is extreme resistance to pulling up perfectly healthy plants, even if they are crowding others. This aversion extends to volunteers, too. If I recognize a little sprout as a bean, squash, or tomato, I either try to transplant it or, more often, let it grow. How can I not admire the pluck of a plant that has taken root against the odds? 

My frequent co-gardener, Treat, sympathizes with my attitude. Still, he has an easier time, both pruning back plants (even when they have blossoms or fruit!) and discarding volunteers, all in pursuit of a healthier, more productive plant and garden. Earlier this season, he cast a kindly but skeptical eye on all the extra little tomato plants I was nurturing. "You know they're probably going to be tough little cherry tomatoes," he warned me. "Unless they are heirlooms. No hybrid ever re-seeds as itself."

Of course, he was right, and I have spent considerable time this summer harvesting those tiny tomatoes: painstakingly plucking those plucky little pearls one at a time. (Because, of course I can't just leave them there!) There has been a yield of over ten pounds, but I know I'll never get them all. Maybe next spring, when the ones I missed germinate and start to sprout, I'll have an easier time nipping them in the bud.