This weekend my daughter and her husband were visiting. One evening we went to the Wayside Inn. The lore has it that George Washington stopped by there for a dram. A century later Henry Wadsworth Longfellow told and wrote ‘Tales of a Wayside Inn’ in the room across from the pub where we had a glass of wine. Over the years the inn experienced several fires, but Henry Ford came along, had it rebuilt and kept it going. These days it is a full-fledged, not-for-profit organization, with an inn keeper, trustees and volunteer Minutemen from Sudbury and surrounding towns greeting visitors at the door.
It’s time to return to the cottage. The good news is that there is no snow to shovel. The bad news? Well, there isn’t any. It’s all win-win, with solitude at the cottage and community at home. Very grateful. This weekend my daughter and her husband were visiting. One evening we went to the Wayside Inn. The lore has it that George Washington stopped by there for a dram. A century later Henry Wadsworth Longfellow told and wrote ‘Tales of a Wayside Inn’ in the room across from the pub where we had a glass of wine. Over the years the inn experienced several fires, but Henry Ford came along, had it rebuilt and kept it going. These days it is a full-fledged, not-for-profit organization, with an inn keeper, trustees and volunteer Minutemen from Sudbury and surrounding towns greeting visitors at the door.
0 Comments
Yesterday I attended the memorial service for my friend Denny, a friend for 45 years who died at age 90. Evidently she happily faded away, which is what all of us would expect from her. I remember Denny telling me that when she was a little girl she noticed that she often felt sad. “So one day I decided to pretend to be happy. And you what? I started being happy and I’ve been happy ever since.” More about Mom and her sewing group. The town-wide Sewing Group was comprised of many subgroups--knitting, crocheting, needle point, and actual sewing. There were two big sales a year, with all proceeds allocated to local charities. Each member made a commitment to contribute a certain number of items to her group (um, don’t know if any men were involved). Mom group knit little baby clothes, and I mean little--newborn to one year-old. Mom’s specialty was owl sweaters (a row of owls with button eyes across the chest), size zero to 3 months. I don’t know how many blue, pink and light green sweaters she knit over the forty or so years that she went to her Monday afternoon meeting, but she was a big producer of a very popular item. However, during the last few years I doubt that she contributed more than one sweater, and I pretty sure that the group waved her obligations, although up until the last year when her memory faded away, she hardly missed a meeting. After she stopped driving at age 95, someone in the group would pick her up and off she would go with her knitting bag, but probably only to smile and eat the goodies provided. They loved her presence and on her 100th birthday her sewing group friends celebrated by planting a tree on the grounds where she lived. Of course we, her daughters, wanted her to knit an owl sweater for each of our grandchildren. The first few great-grandchildren were lucky enough to get one, but the younger ones were too late. When my sister asked Mom about it, Mom pursed her lips and said that she had to knit for the sewing group. This didn’t see right or fair. Mom was being selfish. Well, maybe not. Maybe we were being selfish. Mom must have figured that it would be selfish of her to knit for great grandchildren when her sweaters could raise money for less-fortunate children!. And besides, Mom was not a big gift giver: ‘I want my grandchildren to love me for who I am, not because of anything I give them.’ I still have Mom’s knitting bag with a blue owl sweater half completed. My sister thinks we should finish it. Um, maybe that will happen. Mom would like that. Most mornings it is mighty cold here at the cottage. So, before the heat comes up, I put on mom’s red knitted hat and sit, waiting for the sunrise. Mom purchased the hat at her sewing groups sale years ago, and I mean years ago! She must have worn it for at least ten years, from age 90 to 100+; it is still as good as new. Being frugal, she had no inclination to buy a new one, not even one to match her blue/violet coat (she had stopped caring about fashion). My most vivid memory of Mom and the hat is from the half-mile walks that we took. It was always the same route; Mom would clonk along with her walker and periodically stop and pick up trash, which she deposited in the little carrying pouch attached to the walker. Since she always carried a pocketbook, the pouch was always empty and ready. Our ritual was to walk a quarter of a mile to the Roger Sherman Inn, give its sign a tap, and make the return trip to where Mom lived. When we got to the lobby, Mom would dump the trash into the nearest available wastebasket. Civic duty done; right up until the end, Mom doing what she could to make the world a better place. I miss those walks. Periodically Mom would stop, catch her breath and face me so she could read my lips while we talked. Then on we would go. Mom had always been a routine person. As she walked those last five years, the routines became rituals that gave form to her life. They always delighted me, even when they were slow and sooo repetitive. You see, throughout my life my job was to make Mom happy. I loved the job. Mom was happy and that made me happy. A win-win life together. Simplicity followed me all day yesterday, and it was all about snow. To being with, our driveway was so well plowed that I was able to pull right out and head for the cottage. The roads were clear and traffic particularly light, even for a Saturday in early January. But what was simply wonderful was what greeted me when I arrived. Besides another well-plowed driveway, handyman Ron had shoveled the steps. All I had to do was simply turn the key and walk in. The only shoveling that remained, and which was clearly optional, was the deck porch, where I sometimes go to watch the sunrise and take a few photos. Even shoveling that was simple because the snow was light. It occurs to me, however, that this is more about gratitude than simplicity. Sure, Ron was grateful for the brownies I made him, but if we were competing, I definitely would have won. I mean, all that shoveling! How grateful can one be for that? Very. But forget about competition. We each did what we could, and to quote my mom, we each were ‘very grateful’. The holidays have been put away, as we say. What a relief to return to a simpler day-to-day existence. No, existence isn’t the word I want, for it lacks soul. It connotes making it through the day, and although that’s the way for us sometimes, we don’t want that. My thesaurus offers ‘survival’, with ‘extinction’ as the antonym, so you can see, existence is not quite it. I’ll have to settle for being, day-to-day being, which may sound rather awkward, but it’s what I’m reaching for. Much of the solitude that I long for has to do with being; sitting, walking, reading, writing, praying, all at whim, not because of obligation. Turning 74 a few days ago helps this being feel right—one of the benefits of ageism. I’m done with most of my obligations. Snow has been falling since 1 AM Thursday and now it is 7 AM on Friday. Only 8 or so inches here but more in Boston and more still at the cottage. By the time I get there on Saturday the driveway will have been plowed and all I’ll have to do is shovel the steps. Right now there is solitude here at home. Being is a state of mind, and so, here I am, being, minus the walking. I meant to post this yesterday, but not to worry, the New Year has just begun and undoubtedly we will all need a little help throughout the year. So, whether you have weight deadening on your shoulders, or you are feeling the clarity of light, take this blessing for yourself and send it out to others. Beannacht (Irish Blessing) On the day when the weight deadens on your shoulders and you stumble, may the clay dance to balance you. And when your eyes freeze behind the grey window and the ghost of loss gets in to you, may a flock of colours, indigo, red, green, and azure blue come to awaken in you a meadow of delight. When the canvas frays in the currach of thought and a stain of ocean blackens beneath you, may there come across the waters a path of yellow moonlight to bring you safely home. May the nourishment of the earth be yours, may the clarity of light be yours, may the fluency of the ocean be yours, may the protection of the ancestors be yours. And so may a slow wind work these words of love around you, an invisible cloak to mind your life. beannacht John O'Donohue |
Contact me: bobbifisher.mac@mac.com
Categories
All
Archives
September 2023
|