Lenten pondering

This being Holy Week and all, I thought it was a fine idea to see how I was doing with things. As with the last few Lents, I wanted to forego sugar. I wasn’t as successful this year as I’ve been past years, and I can justify it, I suppose. How at my weekly knitting group, hosted by an 89-year-old sweetheart who’s sometimes a little confused and tremendously hurt if we don’t take a slice of cake or whatever sweets she’s gotten ready for us, it’s easier to eat the piece of cake and say thank you rather than remind her that once again for Lent I’ve given up sweets. Or when on the long drive to and from Ruth’s funeral, it was easier at a few rest stops to get a diet soda than a cuppa black tea (not only meaning black as opposed to green tea, but also to find some unsweetened. If it was prebottled for iced tea was impossible.) Yes, technically, diet soda doesn’t contain sugar, but I was more interested in carrying out the spirit of my sugar-free intention, which was no sweets or sweeteners, not saying “no sugar” while saying yes to every item labelled sugar-free and loaded with excitotoxins. And, there were few occasions where I had taken some food to eat and could taste the sugar in it, but I didn’t stop eating it after the first bite. I didn’t go back for seconds, mind you, but still.

As I’ve mentioned before, what I really like about Lent is that it provides an opportunity to try out a new habit or to try and abolish an old one. And in looking at my only partial success this Lenten period, I was reminded once again how so much of my life I’ve looked at things only in an all or nothing way. Black or white. Right or wrong. I seem loathe to give partial credit but only too glad to award full blame.

At SFB’s FIL’s funeral, I thought a lot about my dad. He believed that if he criticized your efforts, you would want to do whatever it took to correct those faults and hone excellence. And although I understood that logically, just as I do now, emotionally, it was processed very differently. It delivered the message of “You’ll never be good enough,” and as he demanded perfection, I found myself not trying some new things if I knew there was no way in hell I’d be able to be any good right from the get-go. It took me many years after his death to make peace about that, and to give myself permission to try new things. Even if I wasn’t very good at them and even if inordinate practice wouldn’t render me excellent. It took a bit longer to allow myself to enjoy the process, and I found that if I were going to enjoy the process, I had to change my self-talk.

I could hear my inner voice chiding myself those times during Lent where I ate sugar willingly (at knitting, or realising after the first bite that what I was eating had sugar in it), or point out all the things I could be doing rather than take some time to rent a movie I wanted to see, or like this past weekend, take a nap.

But the whole self-talk analysis didn’t really come to the forefront until a few days ago when someone online mentioned how she always saw herself as the fat girl in the mirror. I had to get a passport photo taken recently, and while I felt quite dapper in what I was wearing and happy, the photo showed a middle aged, fat-faced woman. Not the me I picture in my mind at all. I’ve mentioned before how I hate having my picture taken, but for this trip in front of the camera, I felt happy and thought somehow the lens would capture that. But no. It captured that fat girl in the mirror, and that’s when I realized that those years of not being happy how I looked weren’t really purged. There were still a few layers where that chiding voice was embedded, that size 2 finger pointing at me, not wanting to besmirch herself poking the Pillsbury dough boy’s sister, and memories of the plump nurse at a doctor’s visit over 10 years ago now who was fine with me until I stood on the scale, and then ranted about how I needed to lose some of my heft.

If she had asked me if I had any sort of exercise programme, if she mentioned wanting to conduct a fat percentage ratio, I don’t think it would have been so hurtful, but to see her look change from benign acceptance of the patient to one of horror because of a number on a bloody scale gutted me. When I answered that I played ice hockey, this was my first season, and would she want to join us Sunday afternoons, as we were always glad to swell our ranks, she screwed up her face even more.

A younger me would have been more flippant and mentioned HER size and demand that she step on the scale so we could compare numbers and see how we measured up, but a younger me would have been thinner. The me who stood on the scale that day had only recently changed jobs from one I hated with an arduous commute to one I loved with a far shorter ride, but the three years’ arduous commute had done its damage. I had had little time to exercise, and was eating a diet that although touted by experts as “perfect” was perfectly wrong for me. My metabolism had been really damaged, and it would be another year or so after that for me to understand and accept that and make whole scale changes to my diet to repair things.

And here I was, years, yes YEARS later, carrying that around. Dead weight. Unnecessary baggage. One offhand comment and look still hurting me, and I’m sure the nurse herself would have no recall of the event.

I thought about Holy Week and for Christians, the importance of Jesus dying on the cross. Willing to take on the sins of all of us. Willing to forgive.

I needed to forgive that nurse for her thoughtless remark. Or maybe it wasn’t so thoughtless. In any case, it was still hurting me, because I was still hanging onto it. I needed to release it, and allow it to separate from me. I looked around the house and felt overwhelmed by all the things I felt I needed to do. Too much stuff, and things not put away. So, I cleared off most of the kitchen counters, put away what I could, and sorted a wardrobe and most of a closet, purging what I didn’t need. I thought that some of the nicer items might be good candidates for a nearby consignment shop, and stopped by there. It’s not a large place, and the proprietress said she’s picky due to space restrictions. She didn’t want any of the clothing items, but the one houseware item might sell, so I let her take that. I dropped off the other items at Goodwill.

When I returned, my gleaming and much less cluttered kitchen counters greeted me. Later that day, I opened the wardrobe door without having to worry about anything falling out and smiled as I could see everything at a glance.

The kitties were glad to see I had returned so quickly after leaving with bags and a box. The last time I had left with clothes in a bag or other container, I had been gone a few days.

So, I’ve not been completely successful with my goal of a sugar-free Lent, but I was able to release an old hurt, extend forgiveness, and tell that woman in the mirror that I really do love her, no matter what the camera lens may have picked up. Then again, it could be that the lens truly shows what I look like right now, and it may be only my mind that sees “fat girl.” A second look at that photo might be in order.

Another Friday, Another Funeral

Two weeks ago, we attended Ruth's memorial service. It meant a long car ride the day before, and a contingent of us who had sailed with her wanted to attend. It ended up that two couldn't make it, and among three cars, the rest of us from the upper Northeast made our way to the MidAtlantic. A sailing couple drove out from the Midwest to be there, too, and for the first time, we all met inland.

Ruth's husband was happy to see us, and his sister, D, and her longtime boyfriend, who have also sailed with us, greeted us warmly.

Ruth grew up in a religious family in a religious community. Her sisters kept with their faith, but Ruth questioned hers somewhere around college and was disappointed with God for years, wondering how He could let so much injustice prevail. Towards the end of her life, Ruth re-examined her faith and found herself returning to it. She told me she felt like a hypocrite, questioning, denouncing to a degree even, only to reconsider later on. She didn't want it to be just the cancer talking. I told her i'd tell her what a priest once told me, "There's always room for one more hypocrite in the church. You'll be among good company!"

I went on to talk a bit about my faith. How i had questioned, wondered, tried on others for size. In the end, when i found myself in a place where it was only me and knowing i needed more than just me, myself, and i, did i really give God a chance. Perhaps if i weren't so hardheaded i wouldn't have had to be in that situation. But if i weren't so hardheaded, i wouldn't be me, i'd be somebody else.

And here she laughed and agreed. But the injustice of things, and how can He let this happen? I told her it bothered me, too, and later on i wrote her a note saying that at some level i think it's a reap what we sow situation. Yes, i know there are people who are innocent who get fragged, but i think that's the double-edged sword of free will. I never liked the idea of predestination so kicked that to the curb early on, and i've no doubt God has foreknowledge of what we'll do, but we can exercise our will freely. Like a parent who gives his kid free rein, the parent knows the kid won't always get it right. But the kid has to try, and live with his success or if need be, his failure. Feel the consequences of both. And sometimes that means that lots of people who don't have it coming will pay dearly; or, and this seems to happen much, much less often, lots of people may get a free ride. Some of those folks who flex their free will with little regard for others should definitely know better, and i think of those Bible verses where they talk about some of the punishments being meted out to those who were meant to lead and instead led astray. There are times where i want God to pick me so i can go punch out their lights, and then there are other times where i leave it to Him and figure He's got it covered. I expected to hear back from Ruth about it, as she had mentioned that she wanted to reply to it, but she never did. From the sounds of it at her memorial service, i gathered that she had made peace with God.

The service was held at a Protestant church that didn't want anything too papal. Plain pews, simple altar. It was about 45 minutes away from her house, and i wondered why it was so far from her home. Maybe this was her family church at one point? In his talk, the preacher mentioned that Ruth's sisters considered this their church home. Besides the preacher a few others spoke, a few family members and a member from her book club. The one family member referred to Aunt Ruth and her sisters as "the army of aunts." This is a part of the country where the words "aunt" and "ant" are pronounced alike, so it was a play on words. Ruth had often mentioned her sisters to me. They seemed an indomitable, loving bunch. This was borne out by the family members who spoke. The women in her book club stood collectively at the lectern pulpit as their appointed spokeswoman gave her heartfelt talk. They, too seemed an indomitable, loving bunch.

I was sailing the week i turned 50, with many of the Old Salts with whom i sailed before. They had decided that each would create a page for me, and Ruth would assemble each page in a binder and present it to me. I had no idea they had planned this and was deeply touched. Ruth put a couple photos on her page to me, one with her and her sisters juxtaposed with another with her and her book club. She captioned them this way, "My sisters, all of them God-fearing Republicans," and "My book club, all of them liberal Democrats." I noticed that Ruth was in the middle of each group, and at her service, we sailing folks happened to sit behind "the army of aunts." We took most of the pew: two atheists, one Jew, two occasional church attenders, one regular church attender, then Himself and me, lapsed church attenders. We all love and miss her, and our pew was, i think, representative of those who knew Ruth. No matter where she went, she was in the middle of things, was accepted, and loved. Her sisters, of course were family in the sense one often uses the word. Her book club, that circle of women who'd been meeting for 40 years, was also her family. Her sailing friends were another part of her tribe.

After the service, there was a luncheon in the church's annex. One of the women in the book club was wearing a lovely red boa, and i wanted to tell her how much i liked it. "Oh, you must be Meg," another of the book club ladies said after i said how much i liked the boa. I nodded and was surprised. "Ruthie told us so much about you, " to which i found myself replying, "And, i'm sure all of it was true." We laughed, and i wondered if they'd come sailing. Some wanted to, so maybe we'll meet again on the waves.

Ruth's sisters visited with us at the sailing table. They welcomed us warmly, said how our friendship meant a great deal to both Ruth and her husband. I could see why Ruth loved her sisters so. Love radiated from them in everything they did.

After the luncheon we met back at a hotel where D had secured two suites. Some had stayed there the night before, and there was more food and vast quantities of alcohol. I had a dram of absinthe, something i haven't drunk in over 30 years. Given that i hadn't slept well for a few nights prior to the long drive, i knew it wouldn't take much alcohol to affect me, so nursed the drink for our entire visit. It was good to visit with the others, swap stories, change out of our mourning clothes into comfy jeans and tee shirts, and let loose a bit.

I was glad that we'd chosen to stay elsewhere, because, as typically happens with me for things like this, i craved quiet after a bit, and was called upon to drive most of the way back to our lodging. After a dreamless sleep, i awoke early next day, and we started the long ride back. SFB drove most of the way, i drove for some. We didn't hit snow until the last 40 minutes to his house, which was our meet-up point. We chatted with SFB's wife for a bit, and then drove the last 45 minutes home in a snow squall.

Earlier this week, SFB said that his FIL wasn't doing too well. The tide had been going out for a while, so this wasn't a complete surprise, and just before midweek, the tide went all the way out. He called yesterday to say that the service would occur today at 11 a.m. and was sorry for the last-minute notice. There'd been so many calls to make. This service was a far shorter drive, and i was able to attend. The hospice carer spoke a few words of his own, then read something SFB's wife had written about her dad. I was sorry i didn't get chance to meet him. Many of the attributes she mentioned were ones my dad had, too. Not demonstrative, didn't express feelings, could fix anything, wanted to support his family.

It was clear from her words that she dearly loved her dad, and i was glad for her and sad for me. At the time my father died, i couldn't have written something so heartfelt. My relationship with my father had been strained for many years, and we were on the verge of its improving when he died.

I hugged SFB, SFB's wife was surprised and glad i came and hugged me. I met SFB's MIL where i shook hands and explained i was one of SFB's sailing friends. "And that's really all you have to say, " SFB's wife said with a genuine smile. Yes, she was right. I didn't have to say more, her mother was probably already overwhelmed, and i was there for the two people i knew to lend my support however i was able. SFB's sister-in-law was on the other side of her mom, and she hugged me, too.

On the way home, i got to thinking more about what a loving daughter had written about her dad. Words i might have said had my dad and i had chance to see the improved rapport grow. And like other funerals i've attended where i wasn't close to the decedent, i had chance to mourn those departed from my life, a chance for a little more healing to take place, a chance for wisps of love to glimmer. I recalled my family's funerals and how much it meant to me when others attended out of respect or love, or who just wanted to show their support.

I don't like funerals or memorial services, but i do appreciate the genuine love and concern they can bear out, given a chance. That opportunity for a person's tribe to collect, meet, mourn, and support each other. That reminder to make the most of each day, let those you care about know you do, and to say good-bye to one who, depending on one's faith you think you may not or perhaps will or hope to see again in a happier space.

Winter project

SFB, my sailing friend, suggested that i add sail slugs to my mainsail, as it would make it easier lowering it, and easier to furl. These are little plastic, wood (old days) or metal sliders that one attaches to the edge of the sail, and the sliders go in the slot up the mast rather than the edge of the sail. Not so much difference when raising the sail, but when lowering it, the sail edge pulls out making it a pain to try and furl, especially when there's a lot of wind and if i'm sailing solo.

He helped me, and of course the cats were on hand to inspect.

Jim chewing on the telltale. The telltale is a bit of yarn that catches the breeze, and is quite a help to the helmsman.

JoJo stayed on the cedar blanket chest, catching the sunrays on her one side while looking at me. Not a great pic lighting-wise, but it shows the sweetness in her face.

Here, we're making progress. We've measured where we want the slugs to be (using the shiny binder clips to mark the spot), have got the webbing cut, and are on our way.

This slug is attached, and the webbing is first held fast with some two-sided tape, then a palm is used to help push the needle through to sew it in place. The thread is actually waxed twine.



Phoebe prefers to be cosy warm by the woodstove, and took a nice long stretch while the rest of us were occupied with the sail.

JoJo and Jim earned a well deserved nap after all their help.

Another old salt on Fiddler's Green

I met Ruth the year that i was messmate on the schooner. The year that i met Joe.

Ruth was one of those quiet, shy, very kind people who always had something interesting to say when she spoke. Which wasn't nearly enough as far as i was concerned.

I think she went sailing at first mostly because her husband wanted to go so much, but after a bit came to enjoy it as much although differently from how he does. Like me, he wants to be part of the actual sailing crew, hauling lines, learning knots, and swabbing decks. Ruth helped out with some of this, too, but more often simply enjoyed the sailing or would help in the galley. And she always had a stack of books to read.

When she told me she had bladder cancer, i bluntly asked about the prognosis. She seemed glad that i had asked the obvious rather than shilly-shally or ignore the elephant in the room. She said the docs gave her until March of this year. When i saw her in September, she had lost weight and was quite thin. Easily tired. I offered her the use of my house if she simply wanted to lie down and be quiet for a bit before the sail, and she and her husband always came up several days before the trip to walk around, shop, or for him to help out with something at the dockhouse.

She thanked me, said she didn't want to be a bother, and i told her i wouldn't have offered if i thought she were one. They decided to do some laundry at my house just before they went aboard, and i encouraged her to take a nap if she wanted. She didn't, but sat with her feet up and a book. Her husband and i went off to the hardware store in search of a part he needed for something, giving her some quiet time. Jim was a young kitten then, quickly warmed to her, and cuddled beside her as she read.

When we got back, other sailing friends of ours were at my house, so Ruth really didn't get any rest at all. I was hoping they'd realize she simply needed some down time, but i think the desire to see her every minute they could outweighed that for them, and she, obliging as ever, didn't say anything.

I was in my walking cast and not 100% either, but i knew my condition was temporary. That this not so good day of hers would be considered a very good day a month down the road.

I've thought of her often, sent the occasional email or called to say hi and chat, mindful of keeping the call short if she sounded really tired. And so the last phone call, we chatted a few minutes. She was having problems walking and had a cane. She sounded tired but upbeat by the call. I asked her how things were going, knowing the tide was going out. The tea that i had sent along hoping to help her didn't seem to be much use, although she liked it. She said that she wondered if she just ought to give in now, because it didn't seem fair to put her husband through this and lessen the estate. I told her he'd spend all the money in the world if he thought it would make a difference, so she needn't worry about that. She knew i was right, and i asked her if she were really ready to go. She said not quite yet, and i said, "You know, no matter when it happens, we'll always miss you and love you. It will hurt. I'll be sad for me but won't be sad for you if you leave when you're ready. I will be sad if you leave earlier simply because you think you are being a burden. In fact, i'm sure it will piss me off."

And here she laughed, like the laugh she always had. Before cancer. Before when we were simply sailing, enjoying the moment. She promised me she wouldn't go until she was ready. I thanked her and told her i'd hold her to it.

We each said "I love you," and hung up the phone. I cried after that and think she was relieved to be able to talk so frankly about dying. I prayed she wouldn't have to have a lot of pain and that she'd know when it was time to go. That we could accept when that was. I wondered if i'd see her again, if she'd get to see Jim as a young cat rather than just a kitten.

The answer to that last sentence is sadly, no. Her husband called yesterday to tell me, in that break between crying jags. We didn't talk long, as he had a good many other calls to make, but he did say she didn't have much pain and how wonderful hospice had been. There'd been a huge change in the last few weeks. She couldn't stay here as she was, so she had to go.

The world is a darker place without such a kind soul, and i feel very blessed to count her as my friend. Godspeed, Ruth.

It [didn't] show signs of stopping, and I [had] some corn for popping...

We indeed got some snow. It started on Friday with about 6 to 8 inches (15-20 cm). It was the light, fluffy kind of snow, and i was glad i cleared the deck and paths when it abated a bit, as that got me a bit warmed up for Saturday and Sunday.

Himself was supposed to be here, but as he wasn't going to be on the road until late Thursday night and expecting to arrive Friday morning, i thought it best for him to stay put as the weather forecast looked just menacing enough that he could get caught in its clutches. By Thursday mid-morning he reluctantly agreed.

I had a usual grocery run to make Thursday. I had planned on making a greens soup and needed to pick up some kale. They were out at the store, and as i looked at other people's shopping carts (trolleys), i saw a good many with several gallons of bottled water, batteries, frozen pizzas, and snack foods. No feelings of bedlam or panic were present, but i could see that people were thinking in terms of being snowed in for a day or two and wanting some comforts on hand. What a change from my former location, where the mere mention of snow would send people into near hysterics. Grocery shelves were cleared of bread and milk as if we were going to be in a storm lasting 40 days. While we did get measurable snow on occasion, it didn't warrant the mad grocery store rush.

I looked at my cart. I, too, had picked up a frozen pizza, as i'd thought it'd be a nice treat. A large bag of M&Ms, chocolate candies touted as those that melt in your mouth and not in your hand. A few bottles of soda (soda pop). Not typical items for me, as i usually got pizza at the place 'round the corner, but if the storm was going to be as bad as they predicted, the roads weren't going to be fit for man nor beast, and i wouldn't blame them if they were to close early. Since i'm on town water, i don't worry so much about potable water. Should push come to shove where we can't drink it without boiling it, then i can either boil what i need, fill up with potable stuff using the 5-gallon storage units i got for the boat (2 of those), or trudge up the street a ways to the spring and get my water there. The hand dug well in the back yard still has water in it, although i haven't had it tested, so i would be inclined not to drink it, but when we first got the house and weren't here full time, any winter visits here meant we brought all the potable water we needed, and we'd draw water from the well to use for flushing the toilets or cleaning the floors.

I brought in extra kindling and wood for the wood stove. Hand-cranked radio was easily accessible, and i had a flashlight (torch) by the bed as well as one in the kitchen and one in the sunroom. i knew where candles were with matches and a lighter should the need arise, as well as the oil and oil lamps.

I cleaned the house a bit on Saturday as the wind whipped the snow furiously. It was hard to tell in the 62 mph (99 km/hr) gusts if it were snowing or just flakes blowing around. i had topped off the bird and suet feeders. In two hours, the bird feeder was absolutely empty, so i made my way outside to refill it. i was about 20 feet (6 m) from the feeder when a huge gust of wind blew, and i couldn't see the feeder. It felt as if i were inside a snow globe, and i was glad i had counted my steps once i had stepped down from the last step out to where i was. i refilled the feeder and strew some seed on the ground as well before making my way back to the house. The drifts were as low as to the top of my knee and as high as my hip. i decided to clear some paths as the back door outside had 2 feet (~61 cm) against it, and focused a bit on cleaning off the top step and by the door. i didn't work for very long, maybe
45 minutes and felt a bit like Sisyphus so came back inside. The cats were glad to see me again. Kitten/young cat Jim thought about going outside, but the wind seemed a bit daunting, and i told him i thought it best that he wait out the storm with me inside the house.

Within another 2 hours, the feeder was empty again, and nearly all my paths were completely covered. The door had only 18 inches (~46 cm) against it, and i cleared the snow from it and the top step again, but didn't bother with the rest. Waded through the drifts again with the wind howling. i understood why people who are caught in storms like that feel a great urge to lie down and just call it a day. Just standing upright and trying to walk a path i know so well was exhausting, and i was well rested, well fed, and healthy.

I had a yardstick by the deck window so i could measure. It climbed to 31.5 inches (80 cm) before i went to bed, and that wasn't the highest part of the drift, near the middle of the deck. That added at least 2 inches (5 cm) more.

The snow finally stopped falling about 8:00 p.m. By that point, i didn't feel like shovelling in the dark, so went to bed after watching a movie and awoke the next day to blazing sunshine.

The yardstick measurement was 28.5 inches (72 cm), so i knew the sun had started melting some of it. The sooner i got to shovelling, the better. After a hearty breakfast and giving thanks not only for the food, but that the power stayed on, i commenced with digging out. It was too much snow for the snowblower so i did it by hand. i started about 9:30 a.m. and ended by 3:00 p.m. as i had run out of juice by that point. i did break for about an hour to feed the kitties and myself lunch, to pay and chat with my wonderful plough man who ploughed my driveway four times to try to keep up with the snow (and worth every penny in my book), and to chat with down the street neighbours, a couple who stopped by to say hi and invite me to fundraiser for a local man we know. There was a silent auction, food, massage therapists and others who would give any monies people donated for the cause, and dancing. The wife is a Reiki practitioner and was going to be there for the whole event. The husband was going to go later in the evening and would be glad to drive me, if i wanted to go. Prior to their chat, i had visions of a date with a tub full of hot water and epsom salts where i could have a good soak, but i found myself saying, "Yes, i'd love to go."

Jim helped me with a lot of the shovelling as only a loving animal can. He'd run and divebomb my boots, walk between my feet, run up and down the cleared paths when he got bored supervising my shovelling technique, and ran into the barn when the plough guy and my neighbours showed up.

I hadn't dug a path to the wood shed, and i needed to move the mountain of snow blocking the path for the oilman to the pipe in the front of the house (we have two pipes, one in the front of the house for the new part of the house and one in the back for the old part of the house), but i had some time before his next visit.

Jim had taken a nap after lunch and was loathe to come back in the house when i told him i was done shovelling for the day. He reluctantly walked with me back to the house, and after i had peeled off my layers of outdoor clothing and boots, i sat down in a comfy chair (the chair-and-a-half, Cro), with my feet propped up and enjoyed a few sips of tea when the phone rang. It was my neighbour, he would pick me up at 6:30 rather than 6:00, okay? And, if i didn't really want to go, i didn't have to go.

I told him i wanted to go, i was just a bit low in the energy department. Just before he arrived, when i thought it was his car pulling into the driveway, i opened the back door, and Jim shot out. I didn’t want him outside for hours on end and was able to nab him pretty easily. The car wasn’t my neighbour, but someone wanted simply to turn around. My neighbour showed up, and we were on our way.

The crews had done a wonderful job at clearing the roads. Except for the huge piles of snow on each side, you’d never know that we had any flakes fall at all.

The fundraiser was well attended, and i didn’t feel much like dancing. But when the young DJ played “Shout,” i couldn’t help myself. He followed that up with “Great Balls of Fire,” and “Twist and Shout.” Yes, mostly old fogies present for the dancing part ;-) Some people danced with partners and others just moved around, so i didn’t have to feel funny, although i would have brought along a lighter pair of shoes if I’d thought i was going to cut a rug. Twisting in work boots ain’t for sissies.

The cats were glad to see me arrive back home, and we all slept soundly. Felt a bit tired on Monday and a little achy on Tuesday. Not the kind that makes you wince, just the kind that reminds you you’re alive. And that it’s been ages since you’ve been dancing.

Fame and anonymity

Someone famous lived in my hometown. Everyone would know the name were I to mention it, but I’m not going to do so. I think part of the reason she lived there was precisely because we gave her the privacy she wanted when she wasn't engaged in her professional life. If I saw her, I’d wave as I went past on my bike, in my car, or on the back of a friend's motorcycle. She'd smile and wave back. I wondered what it was like, to be so well known, and I must admit I didn't envy her when I espied her at town functions fraught with summer people. She'd do her best to remain hidden so she could partake in the goings-on, but she was always marginalised, because if she sought to take part like everybody else, all the attention would focus on her rather than the task at hand.

I had a taste of it years after I moved away from my hometown, when I lived in Pennsylvania. I lived about an hour away from Philadelphia and was involved with a fife and drum corps there. We marched in some parades, but we did a lot more gigs where we were the entertainment to a degree at places around the state, and especially in Philly. There was a daily gig every summer for years where we'd have at least one fifer and one drummer involved in the Call to Arms. One year, they had us march to various points in the old part of the city (Olde City) and stop to play a few tunes. We started at Betsy Ross's house, would march and play by the cemetery where Ben Franklin is buried, and we'd end up at the Signer's Garden at 5th and Chestnut, very near Independence Hall. Other years, we simply started at the Signer's Garden where Tom Jefferson, or more often Ben Franklin would be encouraging all able-bodied individuals to join the Continental Army. We would arrive first, play a few tunes to attract attention and have people gawk, while most often a friend of Ben's, Mr James McIntytre, would select an individual to carry the flag and would encourage others to line up alongside of us so that we could march to behind the Second Bank whereupon the new recruits would receive training in how to use a musket. After we were done playing a tune or two, he'd let those gathered know that Dr Franklin would indeed be arriving, and we'd need to thrust our arm into the air and give Dr F a loud, hearty huzzah, and he'd demonstrate, then ask the crowd to do likewise, for practice before Dr F arrived. 

As one might guess, this was directed mostly towards children, but some enterprising adults good-naturedly lined up, in some cases to assuage a little one's shyness, and in others, just to be part of the experience.

Dr Franklin would arrive, sometimes comment on the weather and exclaim it was just as predicted in Poor Richard's Almanack, and then let those gathered know that these are indeed troubled times, and like it as not, we must gird ourselves for the pending crisis, as the British, indeed, were coming. He'd look at the recruits and make some remarks, such as, "Bit long in the tooth?" to a grizzled recruit or ask a young person too shy to join, "Don't you love liberty? If you do, join with us!" He was very good at reading when a youngster's shyness could be easily won over, and then there were times that the child would join up only if the parent to whose hand he was clinging could also join, and the two would cross to where the other recruits were.

On one occasion, there was a little boy in a wheelchair who plainly looked as if he'd love to join up, but no one wheeled him over to the other recruits, nor did he seem to expect anyone to do so. Just that wistful look of wanting to be a part of things mingled with the sad acceptance that this was the closest he would get. Ben looked at the boy and said, "I see, sir, you have already fought at the Battle of the Brandywine and wish you could do more. Thank you, sir, you have indeed done more than enough already for your country. Perhaps you can fall in behind the new recruits during the march and watch as they are drilled to ensure they are instructed properly." Here the little boy beamed, feeling as much a part of things as any other child there.

And so, after his chat about the pay and rations a soldier would receive, and encouraging those who wavered to join the cause, the drummer would tap us off, and we'd march to Yankee Doodle and a few other tunes as we made our way from the Signer's Garden to behind the Second Bank. The onlookers would fall in behind the recruits. Once we all made it behind the Second Bank, and at the sergeant at arms' nod, we'd stop playing the music. Ben would then say he would leave the recruits in the sergeant’s capable hands, they’d each bow, and the sergeant at arms would take over, handing out musket-shaped wood pieces to the recruits, showing them how to march, how to shoulder their guns, how to present arms.

The time that the boy in the wheelchair was there, Ben Franklin let the sergeant at arms know that we had a wounded veteran from the Battle of the Brandywine present, and he'd be seeing to it that the sergeant omitted nothing during the training. The sergeant at arms thanked the veteran for his service and asked if he'd like to be beside him during the drill so he could have a better view of the new recruits as they learned. The veteran nodded and said he'd like that very much, and I don't remember a broader smile ever for all the times I performed that gig.

Most years, after we were done playing our tune and as the sergeant at arms started his instruction, we'd quietly leave with Ben Franklin.

We were dressed as 18th century military musicians, which meant that our jackets were the opposite colors of the infantry. This was done in part so we were easy to spot. Infantry wore blue coats with red trim, so our coats were red coats with blue trim. This confused a great many, who sometimes thought we were Redcoats, i.e., British, and I got hissed at a few times when walking about the Olde City. The British wore red coats with white trim, and their musicians donned white coats with red trim. So, a chance to explain a bit of history if anyone asked, and we were asked that often. We played music that was mostly 18th century or earlier. One time we purposely didn't was when Roy Watrous died. Perhaps not a household name to many, but among fife and drum circles, he was well known as he penned many tunes in the 20th century. I was doing the gig the weekend the largest fife and drum muster was taking place miles away from where we were. Roy had recently died, we knew that lots of corps at the muster were doing something to commemorate him, and we wanted to do likewise, so played all Watrous tunes that weekend except for Yankee Doodle, which we had to play as lead-off tune for the parade. One visitor remarked that one tune we played didn't sound 18th century. We then explained it wasn't, and why it wasn't. The man was shocked to learn that all the pieces we had played before that were 20th century, as they sounded older. He thought it a fitting tribute.

For a time, rather than drive all the way into Philly and try to find a parking space, I decided instead to drive to the outskirts and take the El. (El meaning elevated train, which it was at the 69th Street terminus, but it ultimately became a subway later on in the route.) The parking was much easier to find and cheaper, but it did take more time as the El made quite a few stops. I rode it through West Philadelphia, which is a dangerous neighbourhood, and heard quite a few remarks. Some told me to say hi to Ben or George (Washington). Others asked what a British Redcoat was doing on the El (and here I had a chance to explain about the reverse colors). A few thanked me, one of them a real veteran from a real war. I told him, "It is I who should be thanking you, sir, as your service allows me to do this." He smiled, and he got off several stops before mine. He turned to me, stood at attention, and saluted. I rose from my seat, and returned his salute.

So, yes, I did stand out a bit as I made my way around Philly. This had its advantages as people made way for me. It also had its disadvantages as people would ask me where things were. I didn't always know, and developed the habit of carrying several maps of Philly with me. Some I could give away to those who needed it, and others I kept for myself but would let them see the route they needed to take.

I have never liked having my picture taken, and I have appeared in holiday snaps all around the world. What I found most surprising when doing 4th of July gigs in Philly, was the number of people who weren't from the US who wanted to be there on the 4th of July. I found it was very humbling and quickly learned to ask, "And what country are you from?" when people asked if I’d stop so they could take my picture. My favourite drummer, H, when asked if we could stop for a picture would always reply, "Only if you're in it!" He'd ask a passerby to take a photo of all of us, and then very often the passerby would want a photo, too. Or if it were a couple people asking, they'd take turns using their cameras so all of them got in at least one photo with us.

On one 4th of July, when we had five gigs, H and I were making our way from Gig 4 to Gig 5, which was the long 4th of July parade, and we needed to hightail it to get to the parade start on time. We were making our way towards the subway when two young people in their early 20s wanted us to stop for a photo. We explained that we had to rush, sorry, and we needed to get to the other side of the city for the parade. They were excited and said they wanted to see the parade, could they tag along? Yes, of course, so they ran with us as we caught the subway, and took a few snaps of us in the subway car. They were from Norway, couldn't believe how hot it was in Philly, weren't we hot in those wool coats (another often-asked question), why were they red coats, and to answer our question, yes, they were having a great time in America. Such a big country with so much to see and do. It was great to see them enjoying their holiday so much. H told them that we needed to get to the parade start, which was a number of subway stops yet, but if they wanted a great view of the parade, they'd do well to get off at this next stop. They thanked us and told us they'd wave to us when they saw us in the parade so we could see them. We nodded, bid them welcome, and after the doors shut and we were once again underway to the next stop and closer towards the parade start, H smiled incredulously at me and said, "Yeah, with at least several hundred thousand people here along the parade route, we'll be able to see them?" and we laughed. We liked their naïveté thinking that we'd all see each other, and their energy revived us a bit, which was a good thing because the parade went about 4 miles (~6.5 km) and at 90°F (32°C) those 5-lb (2.2 kg) woollen coats would feel hot and heavy.

We made it to the parade starting point just in time, lined up with our other red-coated friends where most, like us, had had other gigs around the city earlier in the day, and after a few minutes, we started our march. As expected, the parade route was muggy, long, and lined with people on both sides, easily five deep. About halfway through the route, when we felt ourselves flagging a bit, we heard two excited voices exclaim, "There they are! Hi, H! Hi, Megan! This IS a great spot to see the whole parade!" and there were our two Norwegian friends, their faces bright with happiness and sweat. I was fifing so could do little more than nod at them, point with my elbow, and smile with my eyes. H called back to them, "Hey, you made it!" waved to them with one hand, and drummed with the other.  At the next stop in the parade, H and I were stunned that not only did they see us, but we saw them again.

We found out later upwards of 750,000 people lined the parade route and filled the Parkway for a concert later that evening and fireworks. And in that number, two Norwegian kids had snaps of people in funny red coats taking a subway ride and believed that we'd see each other again.

I went into Philadelphia many, many times during the 27 years I lived in the Mid-Atlantic, and I think most times I was dressed in 18th century togs. As strange as it may seem to others, I’d forget what I was wearing and would sometimes wonder why they'd stared at me.

So not a household name to anyone, but as previously noted, in many holiday/vacation snaps around the globe. So, a bit of fame.

One afternoon, I was meeting a friend who lived in Philly and I was going to change into modern clothes immediately after the Signer's Garden gig. It was another scorching summer's day, and before the gig, I had to use the loo, or in 18th century parlance, "the necessary." Now women know that they need to think of their necessary needs several minutes before they really need to use the necessary to allow for lines/queues and loosening garments so they can do their business. Men have it far easier with Y-front underwear and button-fly or zippered jeans and trousers for those quick relief moments. But with 18th century breeches, there are no zippers or flies. There's a front flap with buttons across, then buttons down which must be unbuttoned before all clothing is out of the way of the line of fire, so to speak. I suppose men who are used to using urinals find it a bit noisome to have to hold up their breeches with one hand while aiming with the other, and I’ve heard more than one newcomer to our group complain about how long it takes to unbutton then rebutton the breeches each time. I let them know this is part of the reason why women can take longer than men for a quick loo stop, and a look of newfound understanding usually spreads across their face.

I say all that as a preface; for I was on my way to the necessary, having allowed enough time to unbutton and rebutton my breeches, plus have to wait a moment or two for a free stall, but I hadn’t factored in the photo shoot time. A woman approached me asking if she could take my photo. I didn’t stop, told her she could walk with me and snap one that way or join us in the Signer’s Garden where I and a drummer were due to appear in five minutes. She looked cross and while I felt bad, I knew I had to think of my bladder and I didn’t have time to explain how damnably uncomfortable it is to play a wind instrument when one’s bladder is full. She stood in front of me, expecting me to stop, but I went around her, made my way to the loo, finished my necessary business, washed my hands, and came back out. She approached again, and again, I encouraged her to walk with me towards the Signer’s Garden, where she would not be disappointed.

“I’m on vacation, you know!” she snapped in a disapproving tone.

“Then all the more reason to join me in the Signer’s Garden where we have the Call to Arms. Have you seen it?” I said quickly, and glancing at the clock at Independence Hall, saw that I needed to walk a tad more quickly to be on time. “I’m on my way there right now, it’s just across the way here,” and I pointed.

She reluctantly followed. I saw my friend there, already waiting. She gave me a small wave, which I acknowledged with a quick nod. H was already there, surprised that he beat me, as he usually arrives only at the very last moment.

“Necessary call,” I tell him as I line up alongside him and then in a lowered voice, “And a fan wanting to take a picture, not understanding that I couldn’t stop just then,” and here the woman and I meet eyes. I nod and smile. She looks like a thundercloud.

“The happy one, you mean?” H asks sarcastically.

“Yep, that’s the one.”

Mr McIntyre gives us the nod to start playing, so we do. The thundercloud woman is transformed and happily clicking her camera at me, H, Mr McIntyre, and is positively overjoyed upon seeing Ben Franklin appear.

When we start the march towards the Second Bank, she’s right by the gate we pass. She catches my eye, gives me a thumbs up, and says, “This is just great!”

I smile as much as I can while fifing, which really means I crinkle my eyes, and nod a little. She continues taking pictures.

After the sergeant at arms takes over, I leave, my friend joins me, and I go into the Second Bank to change my clothes. The Second Bank is one of the coolest places to be on a hot July day in Philly. Minutes later, I’m in shorts and a tee shirt looking like everybody else. We make our way to a nearby eatery for a bite. Afterwards as we are walking back to my car (for I drove in that day, and she took public transport), I’m jostled by the crowds, and one of them is the reformed thundercloud woman. I nod at her, and she flashes me a look as if to say, “Who the hell are you? I don’t know you.”

And that’s when it hit me. All she saw was the red coat and breeches. Then I was Somebody to be seen with, talked to, and photographed. In modern dress, I look just like everyone else, and it was clear, she didn’t see ME at all. Just the togs. I most likely would be mugged or at the least harassed riding through West Philly on the El. I was anonymous now. No one made way for me. I was just one in the crowd.

And I thought of that famous person in my hometown. How, while it was nice to have people want to see you, say hi, talk, and take your picture, it was also a real gift to be able to frown or walk over to a loo without someone taking it the wrong way if you couldn’t make time for them. And how so many who wanted to be with you didn’t want to be with YOU but with what they thought you were. How that made them feel far more special than you ever could.

When I hear people saying they wish they could be famous, I wince a little. There’s a wonderful gift in anonymity that we don’t see. The freedom to be ourselves, without every moment photographed, taken out of context, or held against us forever by a fickle public. Yes, it also means that we can get jostled in a crowd, are sometimes denied the best table in a restaurant, or most likely are not remembered. It’s true much of the time. I can’t remember all of the people who watched me play at the Signer’s Garden but I can recall one very happy boy in a wheelchair. Nor can I remember 749,998 of the people along the parade route on a hot 4th of July day, but there are the happy faces of two ordinary Norwegian people having a wonderful foreign holiday I’ll never forget.

Wonder what happened

to G. We dated briefly, before i met Himself, and from time to time, he dances across my brain, and i wonder how he fared.

I was reminded of him last night when poring over old photos. I had mentioned to someone how Himself, when younger, looked a lot like Daniel Craig. Not the spitting image, but enough so that you'd think them related, and another friend, who first met Himself at my wedding agreed with me. So there i was, looking through some old photos i had neither categorised nor filed, when i came across a packet i had taken at G's housewarming party. I loathe getting my picture taken, but there were two snaps of me there, and i remember the evening well. It was a very fun party attended by all of our colleagues, a few of their friends, spouses, or lovers, and by one of G's housemates.

I dated the photo packet, which was unlike me, and i wrote the names of everyone on the back of each photo. I must have been in one of my organising moods and was glad of it now, as one or two names escaped me when i looked at the photographs, but rushed back as soon as i read the scrawl. Of course! How could i forget Russell's name? Or Junata's?

I don't know why i showed up with my camera, but i'm glad i did. I've lost touch with everyone in the photos but recalled each acquaintance or in some cases friend with fondness. One former colleague, Tony, went into banking around the same time i did, and we stayed in touch for quite a few years after the party. He and his partner had invited Himself and me to a party at their house, and i jokingly asked if we were the token straight couple on the guest list, as Tony had felt he and his partner had been the token gay couple at a number of social functions.

One snap of me showed me on Bill's lap. Bill was calm, steady, and a really nice guy. There'd never been any spark between us but mutual affection aplenty, and Tony was gobsmacked when he found out Bill was gay. Tony was very out before it was the thing to do, and Bill didn't see the point of advertising. Bill was with a dancer, J, for quite some time, and i think i put my foot in it when years later, i saw Bill with another man when Himself and i were having a meal at a local restaurant, and asked Bill how J was. Right after i enquired, Bill gave me a funny look, and i apologised to the other man, saying i hadn't seen Bill in quite some time and was just wanting to catch up. I slunk back to my table as quickly as i could. I just didn't think about his being on a date with someone; hell, i've been out to restaurants with men who weren't my husband or date, and never gave it a thought.

I looked at the several pictures of G and smiled a bit. He was trying to find himself when we were dating, and while i would have been happy to wait for him, he decided he needed to go off by himself. I wished him well and still do. Wherever he may be.