Time Travel with Tears

I went to church today. It wasn't my usual church here in Stockton Springs, but my first "real" church down in Bath. I went to get a table, and a cross, and a hymnal, and I left with a heart full of sorrow and of joy.

When I was a child, we walked to a huge gray gothic church, where the wisest, kindest, smartest, everythingest minister I have ever known, Rev. Ellis Eaton, guided our congregation through life and faith.

In the late 1960s, we realized we could no longer sustain the old, drafty, creaky, stunningly beautiful building, and began making a plan for a new space. We loved the old church, with its balconies and organ and choir loft and stained glass windows and fellowship hall, but God had another plan for it, and for us. We purchased some land in the woods on Congress Ave., and began saving to build. As soon as we could secure a mortgage, we broke ground.

During construction, I was in high school, and deeply involved in youth fellowship, choir, Bible study, committees, you name it. Our church was our family. My current pastor said recently that when he was young, if the doors of the church were open, he was there. That's the way it was in Bath, and not because it was our duty to be there, but because it was our joy and desire to be.

The ultra-modern new building featured a 30-foot glass wall at the rear of the sanctuary, anchored by a cross cut from a tree from one of our member's woods. Inside, the spare, Danish pews felt shockingly comfortable for their lack of cushions. Wide wood beams held up the soaring ceiling, directing our prayers to God.

While a professional crew did some of the major construction initially, our new home was mostly built by its inhabitants. After school or work, weekends, vacations, we all pitched in at whatever task we could.

Rev. Eaton and the others at that church, taught me, showed me, the meaning of true faith. During those years, I came to a personal relationship with my Savior that has been, and will always be the center of my life. I learned to love God, and that He loved me, passionately and without reservation.

That relationship and the church, were about joy and fellowship and love and prayer. It was about Advent Events with ginger snaps and hot cider and tromping around in the woods to gather each year's greenery for the building, then gathering for dinner in fellowship hall, exhausted and thankful and happy. It was about caroling through the streets of Bath every Christmas. It was about sunrise Easter services and confirmation classes and adult baptisms in the Atlantic ocean and prayer meetings and prayer life.  It was about tremendous support in times of tremendous sorrow, and exultant celebration in times of joy. Most of all, it was about serving God, learning His will for us, listening to that still small voice.

My youth fellowship friends and I grew up and moved away, to college, jobs, marriages, nearly all in places away from Bath. Some of us came back, and found the church much as we had left it -- vibrant, spirit-centered, growing.

Yet as the years went by, things began to change. After several years back in Maine, I moved away again. Family and friends told me attendance was down, the mission changed. My mother relayed her experience of receiving a form letter telling her she was being dropped from the enrollment lists for lack of attendance, without even a phone call to see if she was ok. (She wasn't, in fact; she was in a deep depression following the sudden death of my father.) A FORM LETTER??????? Without even her name typed in at the top?

In recent years, Mom has been attending a book club at the church, made up mostly of women from the old Women's Fellowship there. The congregation, she said, had shrunk to 40 or so members, and they were having a hard time keeping the heat on.

In August, I read the building would be sold. The remaining congregation, now focussed on social justice issues, would move to a boarded up storefront downtown.

Last week, Mom called to tell me that the church was selling the remaining furnishings, and told me who to call if I were interested. I was, and immediately called Jane, whom I had not seen in 30 years or more. She told me what was available, including a table and a cross.

Today David and I went to Bath. The front door of the church was locked, so I went in through Fellowship Hall. Immediately, waves of memory washed over me, along with an entire ocean of tears.  There was the spot where I gave Rev. Eaton a huge hug at his retirement celebration. And the place where we sewed Gloria into her dress (broken zipper) at my sister's wedding. The building was shabby from deferred maintenance and neglect.

In the sanctuary, I found my table, in which we had kept the attendance count forms (usually over 400) and on which we put the bulletins for the ushers on Sunday. On it rested the large brass cross from Fellowship Lounge, where prayer meetings and youth fellowship and bridal preparation had taken place. Jane also left four of the blocks we had made from leftover wood from that huge, blessed cross. The once-beautiful table was rickety and covered in cobwebs, and the cross pitted and unpolished.

Over lunch, Mom and I shared a good cry over the fate of the place we had loved so much. At one point I asked her, "What do you think Rev. Eaton would say?" And suddenly I knew. He would say that the church was not the building. The church was the family within it, and that the Christian works and Christian love of our church family had gone out into the world and multiplied by a factor we would never know. He would say it was ok. It was a building.

He would be right.

Several hours into polishing that dear cross, I realized that the building was like a wedding dress, all beautiful and special when it was new, now faded and worn with age. But the church itself represents the marriage -- created with vows before God, and sanctified forever. We'll remember the dress and the building, but we live the church, the marriage, every day.

My artifacts, especially the cross, feel as dear to me as my wedding ring.

Flush Grammie Down the Toilet

 

I don’t know why this story bothers me so much.

Bangor Daily News, which I always check on the iPad with my morning coffee, held a story today about a local crematory offering a new service. http://tinyurl.com/flushgrammie 

For a mere $1,995, you can now get your dearly departed boiled in water and lye for twelve hours, with the resulting liquid remains simply deposited in the town “wastewater system.” In other words, dissolve Grammie in a harsh chemical and flush her down the toilet. The remaining bones will be ground up and delivered to you as a “cremation-style” by-product.

Seriously?

The story touts the environmental benefits (save 40 gallons of propane!). The liquidators say their service is extremely popular, one that will appeal to “people who choose to drive a Prius,” according to the Bangor Daily News. And this is the first place in the country to offer it for any purpose other than disposing of medical cadavers and animals! Woo Hoo! Aren’t we the innovators! 

Funny, I drive a hybrid, albeit not a Prius, yet this process doesn't appeal to me one bit. Never mind that a regular old cremation costs half that much.

EEUUWW!!

If environmental awareness is your motive, can’t you just wrap Grammie in a cotton sheet and bury her sans coffin in a green cemetery, letting nature take its course? In my case, it would be cool to use quilting fabric, but either way, it would keep me out of the sewer! I am a sew-er, as in one who sews. I do not want my remains in the shit plant.

And as a marketing tool, is flushing Grammie that appealing? Really?

Now I’m the first to say I really don’t care, at least I haven’t until now, what happens to my physical body after death. David and I have an agreement, whomever has to deal with the departed spouse may do as the survivor needs/wants to do to facilitate healthy grieving and healing. But I think I’ll have to put my foot down on this.

Speaking of putting my foot down, there is a legend near us about a general who allegedly had his wife burned for a witch, and she pledged to have her foot on his neck forever. In perpetuity, a stain in the shape of a woman’s stocking has appeared on his gravestone. Whether you believe it or not, it’s a cool story.

But if David decides to flush my dissolved remains into the Searsport sewer, as in waste disposal plant, a foot on his gravestone will be the least of his worries.

Getting Ready

Dereka shamed me into it. My friend and fellow Friendship Sampler Quilter, Dereka Smith, is riding her bicycle (as in, no clutch, no throttle) from San Diego to St. Augustine, camping along the way. Dereka, sweetie, you have moxie to spare. When a guild member posted her blog url derekasblog-dereka.blogspot.com, I realized that I’ve sadly neglected my own blogging responsibilities, and should get back into the habit before we go to Africa.

David and I leave in just under two weeks on our third Ayres Adventure, Call of the Wild ayresadventures.com/Africa_CallOfTheWild, where we’ll ride BMW motorcycles through South Africa, Botswana and Namibia, with a possible short jaunt into Zambia to see Victoria Falls. We’ve been assured our trip will include lots of wildlife, and at least one spa. What camping will be involved is promised to include luxury tents with ensuite bathrooms. If not, one smiling tour leader will have a very cranky grammie on his hands!

As I continue to struggle with competence and confidence on the bike, I’ve been working with Mark Brown of MotoMark1 motomark1.com. Since mid-January, Mark has made bi-monthly trips to Greensboro to work with me one-on-one, and he and I both see real progress.

Mark was a professional motorcycle driver (he scorns the word, “rider”) for many years with the North Carolina State Police, and has trained Marines, adventure riders, beginners and everyone along the motorcycle continuum. He has a rare gift: the talent to teach, as well as the talent to ride. We have one more lesson next week, then it’s off to Africa!

In the mean time, I’m riding nearly every day here in Greensboro, and spending my Maine days compiling lists and piles of stuff for the trip. This being our third Ayres Adventure, we have a much better idea what to expect. My last stabbing happened Friday, a yellow fever shot allegedly good for ten years. I’ve had hepatitis A and B, tetanus and typhoid shots, giving me more pincushion experience than I normally have in the sewing room, and malaria pills are on the dresser ready to go.

Plus I’ve been reading books on Africa, watching National Geographic pieces arriving daily in red Netflix envelopes and listening to my No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency audio books with a new attentiveness.

LL Bean has made their first quarter earnings on my purchases of insect-repellant clothing. The molded earplugs we ordered at the IMS Charlotte show last month have yet to arrive, despite the salesman’s promise of their being here within a week. If they don’t make it, we’ll take the Shoei helmets instead of the Schuberth, which are far too noisy to ride all day without better hearing protection than what we have. I also scored an awesome, orange, vented Olympia riding jacket at the show for less than half price. I’ve test driven it several times here, and it will do nicely.

Are we ready? But for the actual packing, I believe we are, physically anyway. In my stomach though, it isn’t quite real, not yet.

A Multitude of Miracles

Friday Morning Flight with Beth
Stowe, Vermont

Absolutely flyable weather for six out of six scheduled flights was miracle enough, but the week in Stowe with Maureen held blessings far beyond the sunny skies.

Maureen is the daughter I never had. While technically my cousin, she is the appropriate age to be my daughter, and I have loved her that way since I held her tiny little self a few days after she was born. Mo came to her first Stoweflake Balloon Festival in 2001, and has been my right arm/copilot/girl Friday/executive assistant there ever since. This being my last year as balloonmeister, we left Maine knowing the event would be extra poignant for us.

Real Cousin Maureen

After Maureen and I spent a couple days enjoying mountain trails and the company of good friends, the first batch of pilots arrived Thursday. Friday morning I ended up in a balloon basket with my friend, Beth. Sometimes I forget how much I loved flying all those years. And laughing with Beth.

Last December, one of our long-term pilots lost a sudden and vicious battle with cancer.  Unbeknownst to me, one of his last requests was to be sprinkled from his balloon at a few of his favorite events. So his student, Ben, brought Harry’s balloon, and Saturday morning we held all the others on the ground while they launched in silence and drifted peacefully over Shaw Hill.

As the rest of the aerostats inflated and stood up, a sudden gust of wind started knocking them around the field like weeblewobble toys. All deflated safely, and no one was hurt, but we laughed later that Harry had claimed this flight for himself, allowing only Gary to join him as escort. They landed calmly behind the hill by the way, after a beautiful journey.

Later that day, a local crew member invited Rastro and me to a small, impromptu concert by Tony DeBlois, a blind autistic musical savant who was staying with Barry at his B&B in Stowe. Meeting and hearing Tony was such an unexpected miracle, it still fills me with wonder. You can read Tony’s story on his web site, www.tonydeblois.com but the short version is that he plays 20 or so instruments, with a repertoire of more than 8,000 songs, and learns anything he hears instantly. On my iPhone, I played him a very intricate piano piece by one of my favorite composers, and he not only learned it, but offered several improvisations, which he performed with such joy it made all of us laugh with happiness. Hearing Rastro do the Chinook roo roo and a couple barks of applause as well, Tony instantly transitioned into an impromptu riff on “How Much is that Doggie in the Window.”

Tony hung out with us for the rest of the weekend, for dinner, pilot briefings, concerts on the field, all the usual balloon meet stuff. He whipped the festival band into shape in no time, teaching them songs and variations right on the stage. Sunday morning, we were able to get him aloft for his first balloon flight. (Tony already has a pilot log and time at the controls of an airplane.) To the delight of those who got up early enough for the morning launch, he played the balloon classic, “Up, Up and Away,” on his trumpet as the balloon floated into the calm morning sky.

I don’t have many relatives left on my father’s side of the family, but have kept in touch off and on with Brian, a third cousin twice removed or something like that. Brian’s wife, Charlane, joined us in Stowe this year, as crew for one of our teams. She was referred to as my pseudo-cousin for the weekend, Maureen being the real one of course. Sunday morning, Charlane’s pilot, Tim, invited me to fly and we soared into the sky for a classic Stowe morning -- high altitude steerage to the right toward the valley, low altitude shift to the left down its length, the miracle of perfection. It was a joyous way to close out 20 years of balloonmeistering, and 23 years of participation in my favorite event of all time.

The Perfect Morning Flight
July 10, 2011,  Stowe, Vermont

After a day of unpacking, laundry, kittens, mail, phone calls, and all that other post-vacation stuff, David and I took the dogs down to the beach right before dinner last night. Listening to the waves, picking our way along the rocky shore, watching Rastro and Zucchini play in the surf and snuffle for dead crabs, we discovered a miracle of Maine. Shining brightly in the sun was a rock with a delicate white feather painted on its surface by the sea. 

Sparkling in the sun, its perfection no less wondrous than Tony’s musical genius, it reminded me that miracles happen everywhere, and that the beauty of life fills the universe to bursting. 

Miniature Maine Miracle

Summer Haircuts

Before

I came across an old photograph recently of myself at about age 4, posed in a pretty pink dress, with my long, platinum ringlets framing a face smiling so sweetly no one would ever suspect I was about to break a lamp over my little sister’s head. (kidding, I was too little to pick it up) I remember that long blonde hair, the curls, the ribbons and bows, the barrettes…and I remember painfully the day it all came off.

Mom was ever the practical sort. One summer day, she got tired of my tears as she tore through my hair with a harsh pig-bristle hairbrush, or maybe it was the screams of agony as she yanked it into French braids. (Why do they call them French anyway, when they make your eyes look Asian?) So she got out the hedge clippers, and hacked it all away. Actually, I think she might have even shelled out a dollar or two for the local hairdresser to turn those treasured tresses into the fashion of the day, the dreaded pixie cut.

I’ve never understood the name, or the style. It’s one of the ugliest haircuts known to woman, unless you’re Audrey Hepburn. Boring, hideous, unfeminine, androgynous… every adjective for that particular hair arrangement is everything I am not, nor ever have been, even at age 6! 

The crowning insult was when my adored father came home from work, looked over my head, and asked my mother where I was. He didn’t even recognize me!

This was a week of haircuts around our house. After cutting 2 or 3 inches off my long hair last month, this Friday I had Tera cut off another 2 or 3. It isn’t short by any means, but is much lighter and bouncier and fluffier than it was in May.

More dramatic by far were the haircuts inflicted on Sophie and Dickens yesterday. Our two Norwegian Forest Cats get a bit matted up from time to time. When this happens, they can’t move as freely, and yarked up hairballs increase in frequency and yuk factor by the day. Shearing them like sheep solves all problems, and keeps them cooler for the summer as well. To judge from their disgusted expressions however, I’m sure they like the new look as much as I liked the dreaded pixie cut when I was six. But by November, they will be back to their magnificent fluffiness.

For the last few weeks, I’ve been working through the contract process on one of several properties I’m trying to sell. The buyers are, well, difficult, to be kind about it. And in this market, they can get away with it.  It has been a painful and humiliating process, and no one deserves to be treated in this way. I’m that close to calling the whole thing off. But as I noted in an email to my real estate attorney, I’d probably regret that worse than a third margarita.

So on the way up to Bangor to get the cats shorn, what to do next, how to get through the insults, the bullying, the sheer ugliness of the transaction were major topics of conversation.

After a relaxing couple hours at Starbucks waiting for the cats and talking about life and real estate, we headed home feeling relaxed and refreshed. But soon David started a long lament about how undignified the cats looked, and how dreadfully it would hurt their pride to be seen looking like cast off stuffed animals with pumpkin heads. I reminded him of how much he loves to clean up hairball gak, and how much he would miss it. That stopped him cold.

It stopped me, too. For suddenly I realized that, no matter how awful this real estate transaction is, no matter how deeply my self-respect suffers, I will be done with this property. My spirit will grow back, as will my bank account.

The sale is nothing more than a bad summer haircut. 

                

After

Good-byes and Bad-byes

Within a day or so of bringing the huge pile of kittens home from the shelter, we could tell that the little ones, the Fetal Rats, were struggling. Come on, Mother Teresa weighs not even five lbs after a big meal, and she’s trying to feed nine babies! Her own five All Blacks, healthy and strong, easily push the newborns away from the milk bar whenever they like. Plus, they’re eating canned food, so they’re fine.

As frequent foster families do, we keep KMR (instant kitten formula) on hand, so we began supplementing the little ones right away. But one of them never really got the hang of life, and slipped away during the night. So sad, though not unexpected.

Thinking about this poor little soul, I have been thinking about people who have left my life. Some, those who have died, did not choose to go. Others parted ways for mutually accepted or at least understood reasons, their exit incorporated into the colorful tapestry of life.

To put it in quilting terms, a quilt with all light and bright colors is boring – in the best designs, the dark parts make the bright colors shine in contrast, so they are just as valuable. So in my heart quilt, the lost kitten makes me more delighted at the health of the others, the death of a dear father highlights my gratitude for his ongoing influence in my life, a failed romance teaches me what doesn’t fit.

The hardest exits, the most hurtful, are those that happen suddenly, with no explanation, and no clear cause. This has only ever happened to me twice, and the hurt and confusion are nearly unbearable. Efforts to reach out, reconnect or clarify soundly rebuffed, I will always wonder, never know and ever doubt my own value whenever I think of these people. I would love to apologize, make amends, at least understand. Knowing that closure will never happen is a constant ache.

One of these goodbyes was a woman friend to whom I was closer than my own sisters. Another was a man who opened my heart and filled it with light. With both, the endings came suddenly and without warning: I truly have no idea what happened. I miss them, no matter how hard I try to let them go, no matter how many other wonderful friends and loves remain.

Such partings do not provide valuable dark contrast to the design of life, only ragged, gaping holes, and the best stitching in the world can’t ever mend them.

All Blacks, Fetal Rats and Mother Teresa

Last week I got an email from the new foster care coordinator for the animal shelter. She was scraping the bottom of the barrel, she said, desperate for help. Could we please take in a litter of five black and white kittens about two weeks old?

Setting aside my annoyance at being the bottom of the barrel (we’ve fostered a lot, and just sent back this year’s questionnaire having checked the “Call me first!” box as usual) I assured her that we would be happy to, as soon as I got back from Vermont. Two of our own cats are black and white, we call them the soccer balls, and we’ve never had a black and white litter, so it sounded like fun.

While I was away, she sent another email, telling me that someone had brought in a litter of four, one-week-old kittens, found without a mother, and that she had introduced them to “our” foster mama, who had accepted them with her own, and would that be ok with us and see you tomorrow. Ok, this girl is new, and very young. What Ever.

We collected the whole motley family. The black and white litter turned out to be all black with only a small patch or two of white on the occasional belly. In honor of the New Zealand rugby team, they are the All Blacks. The All Blacks are tragically cute as they wobble around and experiment with soft food (all over their little faces), swim in the water dish and learn how to play, with each other, the dogs and us.

The other litter was nowhere near close to a week old. Umbilical cords still attached, they weighed what two-day-old kittens do, according to our records of former litters. Two are white with splotches of gray, two are tigers. They look like rat fetuses. I suspect the white ones will morph into siamese, and simply hope they all survive! The rugged All Blacks easily muscle the Fetal Rats out of the way at the milk bar, so I have to be careful to supplement every few hours.

Mama cat, taking them all in with grace, and loving the ugly and abandoned as well as her own, can have no other name but Teresa.

So there you have it. We’ll have our hands full of kitten care and kitten love for a few weeks, and will love every minute.