Valentine’s Day

It was not the Valentine’s Day of my dreams…

In the afternoon I attended the memorial service for a man with whom my husband and I used to sing. He was a retired minister with a warm smile, a twinkle in his eye, and a deep love and steadfast devotion for his wife. His son described the love his father had for his mother as a “perfect shelter.” One of his closest friends spoke movingly of the time he spent with him on the many hikes they would take together in the Shenandoah Mountains. He was one of those rare people in this world who simply radiate goodness and light.

I went alone to the service, and my husband stayed home with the kids. As I was leaving the house, I asked my family to think of something fun that we could all do together when I got back. I knew it would be a wrenching occasion, and I wanted to have something to look forward to when I came home.

When I returned, my husband suggested that we go for a hike.

?!

?!?!

Did he not remember that I had asked him to think of something fun to do?

Did he not remember that in all of the almost twenty years that he’s known her, his wife has always, most definitely been an indoorsy kind of person?

Did he not remember that we had just gone on a hike the weekend before, thereby 100%, maybe even 175% fulfilling the annual hike quota for 2015?

Did he not care that it was about 20 degrees outside?

No. The answer is no, he did not.

And so we went.

We went to the Ragged Mountain Natural Area, which at this time of the year looks like this:

I ask you: Is this view worth hypothermia?

As we walked along I kept hearing alarming creaking noises and thought it was only a matter of time before I got beamed on the head with a falling tree.

My fourteen year old had decided not to wear his winter coat, and in keeping with my resolution to let him make his own crazy-ass wardrobe decisions, I kept my mouth shut. He did not look very happy:

My daughter still has two legs. I have no idea where she hid the other one in this photo.

As we hiked, I was quickly outpaced and fell behind. Everyone disappeared from view, and I trudged along by myself, thinking sad thoughts and apprehensively eyeing the groaning tree trunks. Suddenly, I saw this brave little plant right in the middle of the path. It seemed to be miraculously growing out of rocks…

I thought it might be a sign.

When I reached the summit, I found this:

Note that my daughter lost her coat, but found her other leg and also a big, cheesy grin.

It was a beautiful view worth hiking for, and it made me smile for the first time that day.

My Valentine for whom I hiked. Outdoors. In 20 degree weather.

And then, to round off Valentine’s Day, we went to Lowe’s to pick up a part to fix a light fixture that had blown out…

And that’s how we restored a little light and love to Valentine’s Day.

In memory of John, who really did love hiking, and who brought so much light and love to the world.

It’s Called Love

First posted on December 28, 2013.

When we were younger and would gather together with all of our extended family for the holidays, there were a few uncles we would avoid like the plague. One of them, in particular, would freak us out by placing his hands around our faces and lifting us up off the ground. Later, when my sisters complained of this mistreatment, he said, “Hey, I did you a big favor! Look how tall you are now. I didn’t do it to her (he glanced meaningfully in my general direction) and look…”

My sister reminded us of another practice that our own dad would engage in when we were little. He would gently stroke our forehead until we fell into a stupor and then would give it a sudden, smart smack.

We chortled as we fondly reminisced about these and other sadistic Korean practices.

“What was that last one called?” my brother asked as he wiped away tears of laughter.

“Love,” my sister responded without hesitation.

After Christmas breakfast, my siblings and I remained at the table chatting. My brother disappeared and returned again with a piece of paper. He began industriously drawing up a list.

And then it happened. My brother became that uncle:

Noogies=Love

Remember, kids…it’s called love!

Chunky Fingers: A Love Story

Reposting from last Valentine’s Day…

There was an awkward period of time when, for the life of me, I couldn’t define the nature of the relationship between my future husband and me.

We met when we were both graduate students in New York City. We were in a singing group, and soon started spending a lot of time together outside of rehearsal. At first we hung out with a group of singers. Eventually, we started doing things on our own.

“So are you dating?” my sisters would ask me over the phone.

“Ummm…I’m really not sure,” I would reply.

I was getting some seriously mixed signals.

“You have the hands of a pianist,” he remarked one day.

I instantly understood that he was trying to flatter me. I imagined all of the things he was surely thinking…Your hands are so elegant! Your fingers are so long and tapered!

As he was obviously trying to find a pretext for paying me a compliment, I obligingly gave him the opening.

“Really? You think?…What do pianists’ hands look like?”

“Well, they have really chunky fingers,” he replied promptly and earnestly.

It never ends well when my husband and I discuss how the nature of our relationship was eventually clarified, but the resolution once again involved my hand. As I remember it, one day we were walking down Broadway, about to cross 113th St., when he held out his hand for me to hold. I took it, and that was that. From that moment, we both knew that we weren’t just really good friends who happened to take note of each other’s physical traits…We were dating.

My husband remembers it differently. One day he had the nerve to imply that I had made the first move.

“What?!” I protested, “You’re the one who grabbed my hand! Remember?”

“It was icy. I was just holding out my hand to help you down off the sidewalk,” he replied, “And then I was really happy, because you kept holding my hand.”

I had to resist a very strong urge to throw something at him.

That was seventeen winters ago. We were married a year later. We still argue about things. We still walk hand in chunky hand.

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Getting ready for Valentine’s Day

I had the sad thought that this is the second to last year that I’ll have to nag a certain someone to finish making her Valentine’s Day cards for everyone in her classroom…

 

Mint Springs in Winter

One of our favorite spots in Charlottesville is Mint Springs. This lovely little park in Crozet has a small swimming lake and a sandy beach nestled in a valley. Every summer, my children look forward to paddling in the warm, spring-fed waters right alongside the curious sunfish that sometimes like to gently nibble at swimmers’ toes.

This weekend we took advantage of the unseasonably warm weather to visit the park for the first time in the winter. We hiked a well-marked mountain path that loops around for a little less than two miles and has an elevation change of about 370 feet:

A view of Crozet from about halfway up the trail…

This stone fireplace is all that remains of a house perched along the trail. I wonder who lived here?

I loved this rocky outcrop..

with lichen-covered rocks.

Along the way, we passed this brave little tree, which kept right on growing despite an assault by a ruthless vine.

Our favorite spot on the hike was this one, where we paused to listen to the sweet sound of the mountain stream…

Looking back

First posted around this time last year…Remember Lot’s wife, who turns into a pillar of salt as God destroys Sodom and Gomorrah with fire and brimstone in Genesis, Ch. 19? As is typical of so many Old Testament stories, there are some hair-raising and incomprehensible details leading up to the fiery dénouement. Lot invites strangers into his home, not realizing they are angels in disguise. When  townspeople surround his house and demand that he send the strangers out so that they can have sex with them, Lot tries to protect his guests and appease the mob by offering up his own virgin daughters to them instead. Having thus proven his virtue with this highly questionable act, he is rewarded when the strangers reveal themselves to be angels and warn him to save his family and himself by fleeing Sodom before God engulfs the city in flames. As the family runs, Lot’s wife can’t resist turning her head for a moment to look back at her home. For this very human and understandable action, she is punished by being turned into a pillar of salt. There are many “Lot’s Wife” poems including Anna Akhmatova’s, Wislawa Szymborska’s and Gary Whitehead’s. Here’s my attempt:

Looking Back

Lot, that drunken old fool, was always bringing home strangers to feed
“You never know when you might be entertaining angels in need,”
He would simper, while I grumbled and slammed about the kitchen,
Conjuring up a feast out of thin air like some two-bit magician.
On that last day he’d been loafing around Sodom’s gates where he met
A couple of shady drifters…both of them reeking of grime and sweat
He brought them back to our house to spend the night, but seeing my hostile glare
The strangers shuffled their feet and said they’d go sleep out in the square
Lot pushed the door open wide, and loudly insisted they come inside.
I threw my hands up in despair and made our little girls go and hide.
You should have seen the production he made of washing their dirty feet
He plied them with wine and gave them all our unleavened bread to eat
By midnight the men passed out and the house was quiet
Suddenly, we were awakened by the clamor of a riot.
Outside, a menacing mob was shouting, “Send the men out to us!”
And then: Lot’s Grand Finale – a betrayal so despicable, so odious…
“We couldn’t allow our house guests to be molested…
I’ll send our daughters out to them instead,” he suggested
I grabbed a frying pan and tried to bash it over the old man’s head.
I wanted nothing more than to see that sanctimonious jackass dead.
But as I swung, one of the strangers grabbed my wrist
They dragged us out of the house and one of them hissed:
“Whatever you do, don’t look back, not even for a second!”
Sodom was ablaze. We ran as searing flames threatened.
And now? Fire and brimstone are raining down,
Destroying everything in that lousy, godforsaken town
But, oh Lord, it was there I raised my family and buried my kin
It was there where every moment of my life until now had been.
And where the hell are we running to anyway?
Could I even bear to be with Lot for one more day?
So yes, for this moment, I’ll have only myself to blame –
I turn my head back for a glimpse, and see nothing but flame
I stand rooted, transfixed – I’m forced to halt
Oh God! I’m turning into a pillar of salt!
My last words fade as my lip hardens and tingles,
So this is what comes of entertaining angels…

Believe it or not.

This one goes down in the annals of “Things I Never Believed Would Happen in My Lifetime.”

My son started taking piano lessons when he was five years old. Since then, I’ve spent a good portion of the last nine years of my life nagging and brandishing a whip in his general direction to get him to practice. I couldn’t possibly count the number of arguments we’ve had about whether or not he could quit taking lessons.

Last night in the middle of studying for his Spanish test and writing up notes for Biology, he headed to the piano. He’s been doing this lately as a way of relaxing and taking a break from his studies. What an immense joy it is for me to hear him play the piano for his own pleasure! Still, ever in parent mode, I heard this admonishment escape from my lips: “Don’t practice for too long!” (The poor boy can never win)!

It was during a conversation negotiation I had with his nine-year-old sister that I truly appreciated how astonishing that statement was. His sister has been chafing under the constraints of the “boring” songs in her Suzuki violin book and has even hinted that she may be ready to give up playing.

From the other room, my son called out to her: “Don’t stop playing! You’ll regret it. I used to be just like you. I hated practicing, but now I really like it and I’m glad I didn’t quit!” He ambled into the living room to join the conversation.

“Well, I don’t want to play the songs in the Suzuki book. I want to play River Flows in You,” she insisted. This is a song by the Korean composer Yiruma. My son recently discovered his music and has taught himself how to play the song by ear. It’s one of his favorite pieces at the moment, so we have the pleasure of hearing it often.

I shot him a dirty look and jokingly said, “I blame YOU.”

In response, he dispensed this nugget of wisdom to his little sister: “You can do other songs if you want, but you need to keep up with the Suzuki book. The songs are designed to make you a more confident player. They’ll help you hone your skills.”

What the hell?! Am I being punked? Adolescence was no joke, but the cacophanous noise of pointless arguing and grinding gears is starting to fade out, and I could swear I’m beginning to hear the faint strains of sweet music in my ears.