If a tree falls

"If a tree falls in the forest, does anybody hear?"

So sings Bruce Cockburn.

I don't live near a forest, although we've a stand of trees in the back yard, and i heard one crack as it blew down in a storm. This was about a year ago.

We've been getting loads and loads of rain for much of the week, accompanied by high winds for much of the time. After a while, you become accustomed to the grey and shuffle along, wondering if you'll see the sun any time soon.

Well, i'm here to say that we're supposed to have the rain ending today—the weather forecasters said "clearing up in the afternoon"—and it's 4:30 or a bit past now with some gentle, spitting rain. With the long weekend this weekend, i was hoping for some time in the boat. We launched Monday, just after the rain let up, but it's been raining since Tuesday.

And, so Thursday evening, i went to bed around 11 after kissing the kitties good-night and seeing a large, black, long-haired cat outside. I wouldn't have noticed it, but JoJo kept staring intently in the darkness, so i switched on the light and saw it, too. I haven't seen that one before, so not sure where s/he lives. Other than the black cat, everything else was like normal.

I retired to bed, just like usual, and slept soundly until Phoebe meowed that she was ready for breakfast. Even with the grey gloom, it lightens up much earlier these days, and some days Phoebe wants breakfast before my alarm goes off. So, i complied, looked out at the grey, sodden mess, the lilacs are in full bloom, the grass is going to be quite long by the time it'll stop raining so i can mow, and i set about for a busy workday Friday. I decided to run errands over lunch and glanced momentarily at the large maple that had been dying last year, with one small branch still leafing out. I noted that this year, it seems to have given up the ghost completely, as the branch did not leaf out. But, in my cursory glance its way, i was shocked when i saw that the large branch that had hosted the small leafed out branch from last year, had fallen off the tree. "Branch" seems a bit of a misnomer, as it's huge, nearly four feet (1.2 m) in diameter. When it fell, it split the upper rail of the fence, and caused the bottom rail to become unhooked. The upper reaches fell against the weirdly shaped fir tree we have that's gnarly and twisted, no doubt from years of heavy snowfall. It didn't touch power lines, the house, or any other tree. Nobody was hurt, and i doubt if anyone saw it fall. I slept through the entire event.

I had thought to take the chainsaw class last month to see if i could take the tree down myself. My instructors said no as the tree is huge (8 feet/ nearly 2.5 m around), and i wondered if there were some way i could take down just that large branch, as it seemed to be hanging a bit ominously. Mother Nature apparently thought the same, and now that the branch is safely on the ground, i can commence to cutting it up.

A crow often used the top part of the tree to sit in the morning and survey. I've not seen him/her since the tree branch fell. I did take a photo or two and shall upload them when i get a minute.

So now, when i hear Bruce sing that song, i can reply, "If a tree falls, i'll be sleeping soundly and not hear a thing."

Another cog in the wheel

Last week, when i was overwhelmed with computer issues at work, i took a bit longer than usual returning from an appointment by stopping in a department store and looking at clothes. Some might call it retail therapy, but truth be told, i hate shopping.

I have more than enough clothes, although could do with another bra, but i'd rather poke my eye out than shop for those. Still, might as well see what's available and take it from there.

I don't wish to bore or embarrass the male readers of this blog, but i need to take a moment to rant about bra sizing. If need be, look away until the next paragraph or so. Bra sizing seems, on the face of it, pretty straight forward. You measure around at the widest point of your bust, so you know what size to look for, (32, 36, 38, etc.) and cup size has to do with how much of that number is boob and how much of it is the rest of your body. So, a 36 A would be someone with a smaller boob, while a 36 C would look more endowed. There's actually a formula which i've now forgotten, but it's something like measuring immediately below your breasts as well as at the fullest point and taking the difference as a good gauge for cup size. Something like 1 inch difference is an A cup, 2 a B, and so on. I don't know how this works out in the metric world, but in the historic English system, it seems to work. Ahem. Operative word is seems. For, if you've been blessed with a bust size that's an odd number, i.e., 33, 35, 37, you're not going to find a brassiere that really is made for you. You'll squish into the smaller even numbered size, or have some room with the larger even number. The cup sizes seem to be all over place. Well, actually, it seems that every manufacturer uses a different ruler so one size fits a variety of women, but that same size with a different manufacturer won't fit at all. And then there are those manufacturers who pad the cups. When i was a smaller size, i always felt it was akin to those girls who used to stuff their bras with paper hankies to make themselves look bigger. And for crying out loud, if i'm already a C or D cup, do i REALLY need more padding? Some manufacturers say it's a C or D cup, but there's so much padding in the cup that there's not much room for the boob. Oh, and then there are the manufacturers who make bras for women who have breast enhancement surgery. You know, the really skinny models who have a 23-inch waist and 38-inch bust? Um, yeah, so those bras are constructed so that the part that's supposed to hook together can't for a normal sized woman wearing a size 38 bra. Because the woman they have in mind would naturally wear a 32 or 34, but they've now got bigger jugs. Okay, there may be one or two women who are naturally built that way, like a girl in school i knew named Joyce, or if a small boned woman got pregnant and is breast-feeding.

But as i looked at the array of bras in different colours, textures, and sizes, my heart sank. I grabbed several that i thought might fit me. This is the ritual. Try on a dozen before one fits kinda sorta. Try on two dozen, and i might find one that fits really well. Buy all i can of that one, and there never seem to be more than one or two of that one. Oh, and try those on, too, just be sure they fit as well, because, as we know from sad experience, they don't all fit the same way. Even when they are the same make and model. Oof.

I saw four that might do the trick, and tried them on. None fit right. At all. What was more alarming, as i tried one of them on, was how my back was squished when i tried hooking the bra closed. Okay, i haven't been strength training, but i've never seen back cleavage like that in my life! Not on this body. Ever. And as i tried on one after the other, i came to the sad conclusion that my body is really middle aged. Most of the perk has left the building. That i should need this support garment even more than before and that i'm finding it impossible to find one to fit reasonably well seems sad and cruel. I also saw a few cute tops and thought i'd try them on for size. The one i liked so much on the hanger did a Jekyll/Hyde thing as it went from off the hanger to on me. I looked ridiculous. Another top that didn't make my eyes pop when i saw it, but it was on clearance and might look good fit like a dream. Moreover, i involuntarily smiled when i saw myself in it, which surprised me. I didn't want to take the top off, so i figured it'd come home with me. The bras didn't seem to mock me so much after that. I clutched my new top tightly as i left the dressing room with the ill-fitting bras and returned them to their display. Yes, they have those racks in the dressing rooms where you can hang the clothes you're not going to take so associates can put them away, but i am still from the old school where i put the item back from whence it came. I put back the too-young-for-me top. I could have worn it 20 years ago and been quite fetching, but now? Well, i'd just look silly.

I don't know quite how it happened. This whole middle aged thing. I remember looking at women about 20 years older than i was, wearing fashions that were too young for them and looking ridiculous. I wondered why their friends didn't clue them in. It might not be a comfortable conversation to have, but it's one a good friend would undertake all the same. I then took a look around the store. Many of the fashions were designed for younger women in mind. Some i could wear all right, although they didn't call to me, and while i don't want fuddy-duddy clothes, i don't think it ought to be hard to find something that will flatter me. Then i realized that i was in the juniors department. I remember having this conversation with my mother. She was always petite and often lamented that they didn't make petite clothes for older women. Somehow designers thought that petite women are always under 25. Now, here am i 35 years later, having similar thoughts. Although i'm not really tiny like Mom, as i've got more heft, but my short-waisted build combined with my short stature have me firmly in the juniors.

I left after i paid for my new top, decided my currrent crop of bras will have to hold up the tired old girls a bit longer, and that i need to get back to strength training.

And now for something completely different

In my last blog post, i said how i was going to move away from death and at some point chatter on about things not so inevitable.

Well, this past week left me gaping. I'm sure it did many others as well. I'm so happy to say that all my friends, colleagues, and acquaintances in and around Beantown are safe. Whole. Alive. I am very, very grateful for that.

Meantime, before That Crazy Week, not very much more, maybe a week or so, i was reading the local paper and saw a class being offered. I had seen it offered once before, made a mental note about it, and didn't follow through. It was a chainsaw class. At the time, Himself had a chainsaw that scared the stuffin's out of me. I just didn't trust that tool (the chainsaw not Himself ;-), and he cursed a blue streak as the thing kept breaking chains. Yes, he got it from somebody else for free, but sometimes, you get what you pay for. Just before Christmas, he saw a chain saw he thought would suit our needs very well, so bought it and told me it ought to be a Christmas gift for him. So, i made a bow to put on it, and it has been in the barn. He said he'd show me how to use it, and while he seems to have every intention of showing me, it just didn't happen.

When i saw the chainsaw class once again, aimed specifically for women, i decided this time i'd take it. I had a brand new chainsaw sitting in the barn i was too afraid to use because i haven't a clue. But it was a differnt fear— fear of the unknown to the unintiated—as opposed to fear of somethig so dangerous to use that even an expert would want to run away from it.

In order to take the class, i needed to get PPE—Personal Protection Equipment. That consists of eye protection, ear protection, head protection, chaps, and steel-toed boots. Gloves were also on the list. All of this made sense to me, although i didn't think i'd need head protection as i didn't envision myself felling any trees, rather i'd cut the huge branches already fallen to the ground. Himself mentioned that they have a three-in-one set up where you can get a hardhat and have the ear muffs and screen or clear visor already attached. I have ear muffs that i use when mowing the lawn, and safety glasses, but i could see that the ear muffs would be hard to use with a hardhat, so i splurged for the three-in-one. I also got a pair of chaps that i hoped would fit all right. None of the Kevlar® work gloves fit me because, yes, they're made for men. They don't make them for boys, and they don't seem to understand that there are women who may need to use them. So, i got a pair of leather insulated gloves, which will be very hot in summer. Because they were the only ones that fit, other than gardening gloves, and they wouldn't offer much in the way of protection.

Then the shoes. I have hiking boots, but they aren't steel-toed. The helpful email, which came with general directions for both class days (it's a two-day class, meeting on successive Sundays) mentioned two stores that carry steel-toed boots for women. One was 45 minutes away and the other an hour away. I went to a department store near me, about 10 minutes away, just to see if they had any. They did, but none in my size. they had two models: one that looked more like a sneaker/trainer, and the other that was more like a workboot. The sneaker one came in a smaller size, but the smallest one they had didn't fit me all that well; i needed 1/2 size smaller. The kind man in the shoe department volunteered to call a sister store about 35 minutes away. Yes, they had the size i needed, and they would hold those for me.

I made my way down there, about 5 minutes from the hardware store where i had gotten the PPE (the email had said they offered a discount for those taking the class, and they did, 15%), and tried on the shoes. The boots fit wonderfully well, and the saleswoman helping me there was very interested about the class.

Today was the first class which ran from 9:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. One female and one male instructor tag teamed and took us through the basics. Another man was there, from the hardware store, Albert, who could answer specific questions about the brand of chainsaw they carried (Stihl), and he had swag bags for each participant. One man worked with the instructors a lot and where there just to help where needed. One man signed up for the class, as he had never learned how to use a chainsaw. All the rest of were women, age range early 20's to late 50's/early 60's. Most of us had never started a chainsaw before. Some, like me, had brought the ones they were planning on using at home or had used or tried to use at home. The instructors had several chainsaws there for us to practice with, too, or if we wanted to try a different one from the one we brought, or for those who didn't have one. The hardware guy had brought along several models, one of them being an easy start one.

Each of us got the chance to start a chainsaw. Some of us found it too difficult to hold the chainsaw between our legs and with one hand (two points of contact needed for starting one), so we tried starting it on the ground. Mine, being absolutely brand new and never fired up, had to be switched on, primed six times, open the choke fully, pull five times, then half choke and start. Only after the fifth pull it didn't nearly turn over, and i pulled closer to a dozen times. It finally started, and i promptly stalled it out. Couldn't get the damn thing restarted. Tish, the female instructor, asked if i wanted to take a little breather and try again later. I nodded, letting someone else try her turn. Albert walked over, and Tish took the easy start model from him. She asked if i were still tired. I admitted i was just a little, and she asked me to try starting the easy start. Started right up with almost no effort. She had a few other women in my group try it. They, too, were able to start it quite easily. We all marvelled.

Still, i wanted to start the one i had brought and keep the damn thing running. Point of honour, i suppose. Tish helped me to get it fired up again, and when she tried it, she also found that it cut out. She figured out that if she pressed the throttle up all the way, it cut out. Safety feature maybe? I thought it was crazy, and she did, too. Another woman in our group had the same kind of model i did, and she had the same thing happen.

The man who worked with the instructors was helping her. Tish explained what she found with mine, and he wondered if it were not so much a safety device, as to be some sort of automatic thing used to break in the new chainsaw. That also sounded plausible, and the only way we'd know for sure was to use it or try to, and see what would happen.

After we all had chances to start up chainsaws, learn to press the throttle, release the chain brake (the SAFE way), rev it up, and then turn it off, we went into the woods. Pete, the male instructor, was going to fell a pine, Tish was going to limb (delimb), then they were going to buck it, and allow us all chance to use our chainsaws "to make cookies" or cut up or down to take little slices off the log.

Next week's class will cover felling in more detail, as Pete said, this was first blush, but boy, did he make it look easy. I know it was his years of experience making it look that way, and in short order he and Tish had bucked two good sized logs so we could take turns making our cookies.

I was going to go first, but had to start my chainsaw. I knew we were a little pressed for time, so said if i was having trouble getting mine started, someone else could see if she could start hers and go ahead of me. Everyone thought this a good idea, and sure enough, it was taking me a few pulls. Someone else got hers started on the second pull, and almost immediately after, mine kicked over. She was taller and bent at the waist to cut. That looked uncomfortable to me. She did a good job, cutting down a few times and up once.

Pete motioned for me to go next. I was one of the shortest ones there, and got into a deep squat, pressed the throttle the whole way and slowly cut. Like buttah. Granted, it was a brand new chain, and we were cutting pine, which is a soft wood, but i was amazed. I cut a few more, making one of my cookies quite thin. I hadn't squared it up, as Pete pointed out, and i said, "Yep, just like cheese." Everyone laughed and nodded, but it's true: i always cut cheese on an angle. I tried squaring it up, and it was better but still a bit angled.

After our inital tries, he then wanted us to give it a second go, cutting the thinnest cookies we could. This time i went first, my chainsaw started right up. I got too thin and again, because i can't seem to cut square, cut off half. I tried again, and was more successful with my second cut. It was more squared up, too.

The lone male student was in our group, and he cut the thinnest. It was wafer thin. We all applauded him.

One of the older women in the class, who attended with her two daughters, stood next to me as we were trying for our thin cookies. She said that Pete had said i had a really good stance and strong legs. She asked me where i had learned it, and i told her from ice hockey and yoga. She nodded and said, "Wicked strong legs." I laughed and nodded.

The class wrapped up with a quick tutorial covering how to file the chain, and the different tools available for that. By that point, i felt exhaustion invading my brain. It was a lot to take in.

I hope to practice a bit between now and next class. How to hold the chainsaw. How to engage and release the chain brake. I may even cut a piece or two off the fallen large branch from a dead tree on our property. I drove home one happy camper.

RIP, Jonathan Winters

"I couldn't wait for success, so I went ahead without it."

—Jonathan Winters

 

Glad you didn't wait.

 

Oh, and it seems that my last few entries have been about death. And, um, yes, i shall be busy this weekend with taxes.

 

At some point i shall resume chatting on aimlessly about things which may not be so inevitable.

RIP, Mrs Thatcher

I didn't always agree with you, old girl, but i've always admired your resolve to stay true to your course. Thanks for smashing through the glass ceiling. We seem to be having trouble with that in the political arena on this side of the Pond.

RIP.

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.