In memoriam: September 21, 2009

I may be one of the most blessed of women when my blessings are counted in sisters. If you read here now and then, you probably know this already; you know that through pure good fortune and kindness my adult life has been to sisters what Willie Wonka's place is to candy. There are marvels everywhere.

By birth I am gifted with three half-sisters, all younger; two daughters of my mother, and one of my father. As an adult I have cordial but distant, intermittent connections to the daughters of my mother; sadly no more contact than one ancient, bitter letter from the daughter of my father. There's much archaeology of family here to be sifted and considered but mostly it comes down to this: we have no shared memories. Because of circumstances, we were thrown together and pulled apart like celestial objects with unpredictable orbits throughout most of our childhoods. The result is we don't understand each other very well. My extended family, however, gave me Daisy, a cousin near my own age, who began by brightening some of the long, sweet days of summers when we were young and who has been as close and connected in my thoughts these last years as she has been faraway in miles and lifetimes.

You probably know someone a little like Daisy; you may have your own sister of family or choosing who is as dear to you. She's very brainy, to begin with, and funny, and as open with her heart as a songbird with his morning love song. This is no real stretch for there's a good bit of the songbird in Daisy; it is one of the gifts of our family that most of us have music in us, as we have breathing. She is an empath by nature: that person everyone wants to tell everything to, partly for her lack of judgement, partly for her understanding and unpretentious humor and perhaps most of all, for that feeling of finding yourself and your confidences to be the most important thing in the world to her as she listens to you. But lest I paint a silly picture of some sainted being with wings and halo...well, Daisy is as human as everybody. She has issues with her own natal family, professional challenges and road-forks, she has fallen into and out of love, or thought herself in love only to find she'd married someone she hadn't really chosen for herself. In other words, Daisy is special and marvelous and prosaic and not that different from anyone else.

Last August I was caught up in the familial melodrama of Pop's death. It was a blessing, releasing him as it did from the sadness of Alzheimers and all that meant for him and the whole family. Bitterness was rekindled for me, as he had lived that long, long life, the final 15 years or so lost to the tangle of the disease. A few short years before he died, my dear old friend O'Hare had been lost to breast cancer. She was 45 years old, her youngest son only 5 years old when she died. Pop had to be buried and the sad chores of probate undertaken, and I'd been out of touch with Daisy for some while. This worried me not at all, for with Daisy I have the shared memories that knit us together for always. We would talk at the holidays, I thought, and went back to the work at hand. But it turns out that Daisy spent last August tangled in her own love and grief.

Lily had been a presence in Daisy's life for some years. They lived in a city large enough for all the amenities, but small enough for people in smaller circles to know one another. Not unlike St. Augustine, which you'll know from reading here, it's a city where, for instance, most of the people singing classical music attend one or another church or synagogue because regardless of their commitment to a given dogma, the best music directors can often be found there. And there are other smaller circles, as there are everywhere. Daisy knew Lily peripherally. They had common friends, knew of one another, finally were introduced casually at a dinner. In its aftermath, Daisy seems to recall nothing but Lily. Laughing, talking, laughing more: it seems to have been one of those moments in which, in movies, all the other characters and sounds fade to distance so that there are only the two people, falling in love. People talked, Daisy says: people looked at other people, after the dinner, and said, "What about Lily and Daisy? They barely spoke to anyone else..."

No surprises, so far: Daisy wrote in one of her brief-but-always-remembered birthday greetings of her dear friend Lily, and then later that Lily had had a recurrence of breast cancer, and later still that while Lily was sick, Daisy was helping care for her, and was herself content. No surprises, but of course, I missed it. I missed all the small mentions and the clues until after the fact. I missed that Lily was Daisy's Person. Here was the love Daisy had waited for. Here was the love we all wait for, the love some of us are actually fortunate enough to find in our lifetimes. To my dear cousin, one of the dearest sisters of my heart, my little much-loved Daisy, Love had come.

Fast forward, Spring 2010: Daisy came to Florida on business and we met for a drink and a talk; just a few hours to share between flights, but so much to say, to cover and no longer the talk of children or teenages beseet by angst or the serious intellectual talk of students. Now the hearts we opened to each other were those of grownups. Professional lives, aging parents - Rodney's father, her mother, and our common aunts and uncles, kids growing up - my near-grown sons, her growing nephews- her music, mine, our common friends and then at last: Lily. Daisy, whose empathetic nature always brought an open, affectionate expression; whose clear-headed professionalism would bring the same openness lit with bright intelligence, always warm but seldom sentimental or even demonstrative, suddenly looked up with eyes brimming and a tight expression as she struggled for control. "My dear friend," she said, her voice full as she spoke of Lily; her dear friend. Lily died. September 21, 2009. "Time," Daisy said, with quiet finality. "Time is all that really matters."

Daisy recalled Lily softly for me. Lily was one of those people everyone wants to be around, she said, one of those people everyone wants as a friend, one of those people others find themselves honored to serve. Her native generosity came back to her many times over, and as she confronted the accelerated process of dying, was surrounded by people willing to help with the burdens. They were perhaps people whose grief took a practical turn, or who loved Lily differently. Daisy surely found her way to offer Lily every comfort, but there was also this: she was frozen in a grief so profound it may have taken even her by surprise. It was difficult, so unspeakably, terribly difficult to consider life without Lily. And yet Lily herself whispered, "You know this will be fast, don't you?, and you know I want it to be fast, yes?" Daisy could only nod and agree. And it went quickly, and one year ago, Lily was gone.

I have used an image of The Kiss, by Gustav Klimt, for obvious reasons, and also because it dovetails in history with the writings of Rainier Maria Rilke. As I was driving in the car Sunday, listening to public radio, I heard a brief piece of an interview with a woman whose expertise is Rilke. I'd been thinking about Daisy and Lily as the date approached, and I kept hearing the echo of Daisy's voice, saying, Time is all that matters. Time is all there is.

And then I heard the words of Rilke, and thought I could not possibly write words of my own that would more more beautifully capture the sense of what I wanted to say here, how I wanted to remember Lily, how I wanted to honor the very human holiness of Daisy's love. And so I finish, with love to both of them and to all of you who have loved and grieved, lost and found:

"Is not impermanence the very fragrance of our days?"
-Rainier Maria Rilke (12.4.1875 - 12.29.1926)

Booksmith Recollection IV: Peter Bogdanovitch

This was the view he would have had, Mr. Bogdanovitch, as he set up a scene and began shouting at the young woman at the other end of the block. He was standing with the Cathedral on his left, looking down toward that very small, very last building on the same side of the street. This tiny block was home to so much of what was central to my life, for a long time and through much change.

I worked at the wonderful Booksmith, as many of you know. I learned the fundamentals of small business there, where it was closely tied to the magic of matchmaking though admittedly the matching of books with people is less fraught with disastrous possibilities than matches with no books involved. Some of the friendships that would frame my whole adult life were born there. We gradually began the long process of mourning the demise of the small, independent bookseller, and we figured out how to keep our professional affinities alive in times of drastic change.

Just up the block was the Cathedral. I was born with a love of singing and perhaps some small talent, but it was at the Cathedral that my voice found its wings, coaxed and nurtured and enriched by Sister Patricia. More friendship came to me, or (in the case of Miss Jo) returned to me, and here again, the architecture on which I was building my life was made strong. Here I learned how to be a friend and how not to. Here I learned about love, and about having sisters, an ironic lesson for one whose family includes 3 half-sisters. Here I learned that people really can love you forever, no matter what, and that you can love people in the same way. The lessons I would need to be a married person, to be a mother, to be a friend: too many of them to count were learned on this tiny block. At the Cathedral end of that block, they were all learned against a backdrop of musical scores. Standing in front of that very large congregation, I found some reserve from which I could sing week in and week out without being crippled by stage fright. So well-integrated is that lesson that to this day I'm able to talk in front of people without more than a gentle nervousness. Sister used to say, "As you rehearse, so will you perform..." and she usually added some reference to not goofing off, or working harder. She was right in many ways, not the least of which was repetition helps improve performance, and training shows, often just when you need it most.

In large measure I grew into the person I am in the tiny neighborhood described by that block. And one morning, as I stepped outside the beautifully embossed brass door of the Booksmith to hang out the "Open" sign, the street was deserted except for a handful of people all focused on the same job of work, a man in big glasses standing in front of the Cathedral shouted down the street, "HEY! You there! Get off the street!!" And then I saw the camera, and realized what the job of work was: they were the movie crew we'd heard about, come to town to shoot a movie. The shouting man was the director, Peter Bogdanovitch. (Another of his movies had enjoyed a summer run during the time of my first high school job at St. Augustine's drive-in theater, but that, my loves, is a tale for another long winter's evening.)

Back into the store I stepped, away from my closest brush with moviemaking, to wait for Gamble Rogers to browse through a copy of Wooden Boat, to wait for Mr. Montagnaro to pick up a stack of erudition and art books and tell me about the blue collar working person passion for opera in Italy, to wait for you, maybe, and all you brought me in that tiny, dusty, beautiful library of books and sisters and learning, down the street from the heart of music, emerging spiritual thought, sisters and music. What a block that was you shouted down, Mr. Bogdanovitch. What a street. What a town.

The EatHere bulletin board

Stuff you post on a bulletin board: notes, schedules, updates, coming events: works in progress. I have 2 exciting works in progress to talk about, and others that seem to have emerged from their intersection.

Reminders. This is a picture of jasmine, just coming into full bloom, growing against a huge framework of thunbergia which twines itself up along a hickory tree every year, and has become an annual joy since Miss Inga gave it to me for my birthday about 200 years ago. It reminds me, as the beautiful tiny pink roses from last night's blog do, of resurgence, of spring, of my heart's sisters whose graces can't be confined to a bulletin board post.

Alzheimers. I've been writing about its effect on my family, and mean to keep doing so. Rodney's dad was badly afflicted with it. So was a much-loved uncle, sister of his mother. As hard as it is to talk about Alzheimers, it's too scary NOT to talk about when it's found on both sides of the family, and its destruction lurks too closely for comfort.

Teaching. My dear old voice teacher Sister Patricia Eileen, who taught me what it meant to find my own voice, is herself (irony of ironies) suffering from dementia. She's been retired for some years, and although remembered with energy, inspiration and laughter by individuals, she has been collectively forgotten, I think, and this small humble blog has begun to put energy behind Not Forgetting. We are using the tentative beginnings of my blog recolllections to help frame reminiscence.

What do they mean, together? For me, for my sisters, for our friends and their friends? This will come from the work we do in the next year or two, I think. And more: Michelle's own Not Forgetting (by which I mean, connections made InRealLife, outside the confines of the blog) is driving us (both) to help voice some people with Downs Syndrome, another exploratory path with its own unwritten ending.

And in the short-term, kind comments following last night's post about Mother's Day breakfast and the simple fare of the night preceding have inspired a new direction for tonight. Usually I respond to comments with comments. Last night seemed worthy of a different approach, though. Ms. Moon and Michelle were sweet enough to take pleasure in a shared Mother's Day and a new photo of Rodney and me, squinting into the generous sunlight of a May afternoon.

Dylan's gorgeous golden pancakes got the attention of our Lulu, who knows a thing or two about good food AND about serving it beautifully. I'm working on the Home Visit Pancake Man thing, Lulu. To my surprise Dylan announced his pancakes would have been better had I provided fresh blueberries. Hmm. I suspect he has listened mor closely to Miss Lis than previously believed. In any case, let's see whether he's willing to take his Pancake Act on the road. They're worth getting up early for, that's for sure. In your case, I expect pancakes might be delivered day or night.

From Suldog, there was a well-timed reminder that the image of Mother's Day breakfast will remain with me always, even without the photo. And I think he was inspired by the Mother's Day Vigil menu, plates (photos) prepared by me, as was our dear Michelle H., who asked me for the meat loaf recipe. The rest of you can stop reading here. In honor of a fine writer, an excellent friend, and a person whose livelihood has been endangered by people apparently too blind to see the value of her presence as a member of any team, here is the recipe Michelle H. requested. To the rest of you, thank you for your continued care, and lots of love until next time.

Michelle H., here are my secrets. I believe my meat loaf to be the central reason for the naming of the imaginary restaurant my family envisioned some years ago. It was one of those meals that everyone loved, one that yielded leftovers that never lasted long. So if we ever HAD a restaurant, this would be featured.

You can make it with whatever ground meat you can live with, whether turkey or chicken or bison; in its humble form at our house, I use ground beef, ground pork and ground bison if available, about a third of each. And in this recipe, we're using roughly 1-1/2 pounds of meat.

Using a nice big mixing bowl, place the meat, about 1/4 cup each of finely chopped onion, green pepper and garlic, more or less, to your taste. Add one egg, a dash of ketchup (perhaps 1/4 cup, or a little less) and one slice of bread, finely ground into crumbs. I've found a slightly stale slice of bread can be broken in half and the two halves ground against each other to make crumbs....whatever works for you, but fresh bread crumbs is what you're after. (In a pinch, you can use 1/4 cup of uncooked oatmeal, crushed crackers, or dry bread crumbs. It's Angie at EatHere cooking, so more art than science.) Add a dash of Texas Pete (or just some black pepper) and 1/2 tsp. of salt (I like kosher salt). A dash of Wocestershire sauce is good if you have it, as is a bit of dried basil and one of marjoram; some people like a touch of oregano, too. Tread carefully, as these are all things you can add. You just can't take them out. Now use one hand to blend all the ingredients together (mixing really well) and shape into a loaf. Place in pan (I prefer a cast iron skillet, and often cook on the grill outside). Bake at about 325 degrees for an hour or so.

Meanwhile - and here's the 1960s Redbook, Woman's Day or whatever women's magazine my mother read back then - becomes important. It directed he creation of a simple sauce of 1/2 cup of ketchup, 1/8 cup of yellow mustard, about 1/8 cup of brown sugar and just a touch of ground cloves, whisked together. Use this to glaze the meat loaf about 15 minutes before the end of the cooking time. Be sure you have enough to use for meat loaf sandwiches to take to work the next day.

Michelle, DO NOT TELL anyone this recipe. It's a super top-secret revelation of the 1960s but I'm delighted to share it with you. In fact, I'd love to cook it for you, so let me know when you've started to take over the world as the great writer you are. I'll be ready.

EatHereEatery bulletin board readers: thank you. Thanks for staying with us, thanks for waiting us out. Mostly, thanks for watching for what I hope will be the fine work to come, as I dredge the Alzheimers memories myself and partner with old friends and new to create a portrait of our dear Sister Patricia. Stay tuned.