Revelations

Yes, my work. 

There is the garden project to write about (what changes!). There is the 2nd quarter/1st half grocery expenditures to report on (let's just say there are some surprises there). My father had a medical matter arise that has landed him in skilled nursing rehab for the indefinite future (the same one I spent several weeks in last fall, so it is like Old Home Week for me when I go visit).  There is Warren's impending retirement as Executive Director of our local symphony after 3+ decades (he will continue to play, and he has other significant commitments, so don't worry about him not having anything to do). And it is 4th of July week, which means this household is on buzz level (on the 4th itself, Warren and I will put in 18+ hours from waking up to finally going to bed, most likely on the 5th). In short, our hands are full, our calendars are packed, and our time is on short supply.

Despite all of that, I no longer feel as I am running on overload, a word I have used constantly for weeks now. A word I have used so much for the last month that I have often thought of the old Groucho Marx show, "You Bet Your Life," with the classic "Say the secret word," which would cause the duck to drop down with a prize for the contestant. 

That duck was dropping down daily, even hourly. No prize, mind you, but the damn duck kept dropping. 

So what happened? 

Two things.

One happened early in June, when we had our June Justice Bus, a collaboration between our county Law Library, Andrews House (which has hosted legal clinics since October 2003), and the Ohio Access to Justice Foundation. We come together once a month in town for a clinic focused solely on family law. I am the attorney wrangler, but in June I filled in for one of our attorneys who had a last-minute court matter. I met with the clients, we fully explored the issue that brought them there, and they left with gratitude for the directions we had discussed.

I walked home that day deep in thought, resolving to step back into serving our Justice Bus, not just as attorney wrangler but also as a volunteer attorney. I have to finish my Continuing Legal Education for this biennial (yeah, yeah), but I am back in.

Warren smiled and nodded when I told him my decision later that day. He made it clear that he supported me fully. Then he said he was not surprised; he knew where my heart was.

The second revelation caught me totally off guard, albeit in a great way. And it involves my long love, albeit dormant, of photography. 

I have been taking photos with my old  iPhone (a model X, to give you an idea just how old—new to me, but old). It does okay. It captures moments. 

But the bees are back. I sat on the porch and watched them. I knew I wanted something better than my iPhone. So I went back inside and picked up my Canon.

When I shattered my wrist in January, I could not use my Canon. And, to be truthful, I had not been using it much even before the medical mess of the autumn, let alone the wrist. But with my arm in a cast, I could not easily handle the Canon. When the cast came off in early March, I had significant neuropathy in my right thumb and index finger. That improved with exercise, but then another medical problem on the same arm (and the same nerve) set me back and made clear that I will always have neuropathy. Better, mind you, but likely permanent. So I skirted the Canon, not sure what my right hand could do. 

And the iPhone was so convenient. But it could not begin to give me what I wanted. And my Canon could. 

And did.

I texted my lifelong friend Cindy what I had just done, adding "So excited!" Then added "And it feels so great!"

What I realized and shared with Cindy was that this was the reconnection to photography that I had been hoping for, but was not sure I would ever get back, not just in my hands but in my heart and emotions. I knew Cindy would understand as she and I, besides being lifelong friends, also grew up in 4-H photography together.

Of course, Cindy got it immediately. We are that close, that connected. 

And she totally understood when I texted: "I don't want to lose that feeling ever again."

Truly, I felt like a missing part of me—not just since winter, but long before then—was back. 

Every night I sit out on our back deck as dusk comes on and watch the fireflies come out. It is my retreat; it is my time of quiet contemplation. I am writing this in longhand as I sit here. It is chill tonight, so much so that I am in sweats and a hoodie. The fireflies are blinking off and on, sometimes rising in seemingly choreographed waves.  

As I watch them, I reflect on my finding my way back to advising. I think of my finding my way back to photography. I think of Warren and his support and love, and of Cindy and her support and love.

And I savor the little lights flashing in the deepening dusk.

Early June Update

When I posted a garden update in late May, I mentioned the outside stresses on our schedules here. A lot has happened since that May 24th post. 

The Symphony office DID get moved; the very last items left on May 31. There was a great team of volunteers, with Warren spearheading and planning the whole event. Warren, Office Assistant Sharon, and Music Librarian Laura are still settling into the new space (Warren's comment when he came home yesterday: "I just needed a binder clip to hold some papers together. Couldn't find one anywhere.") but with 4th of July up next (a free outdoor concert that some 7000 folks attend), we are all relieved to have the move done. 

On the heels of the move, we headed off to Mayo. It is about 660 miles from door to door, and this was another rocket trip, leaving Monday and arriving back home at 1:05 a.m. Thursday. This is likely our very last rocket trip; I will time the next appointment to be later in the afternoon, spend the night in Rochester, and then drive back during the day. All is well on the cancer front: the myeloma is stable (still!) and the secondary cancer (from earlier treatments) seems to be just sitting there (which is what we want). 

But our travels are not yet over, not by a long shot. This Wednesday, we head to Pittsburgh for the national conference of the League of American Orchestras. Pittsburgh is only four hours away, not 11 or 12, so I am not dreading the driving. There is more travel in July, but I will save that for later. 

I will update the garden in a separate post. The early summer continues to be very, very dry, causing some issues with some of the plantings. 

The physical toll of traveling aside, June has been good. A former colleague from Juvenile Court stopped by on a midafternoon break yesterday and we caught up. (Dana was out walking and called me out of the blue to drop by. It was great.) He is about to retire, and he said quality of life was one of the big factors in his decision. I understood immediately—like me, Dana has enjoyed his job at Juvenile Court immensely, but there are other things he and his wife want to do and he is just looking for the time and peace of mind in which to do them. Some of those things are travel, but some of them are as simple as sitting out on their patio and enjoying a glass of wine. Yep, yep, yep.

And as we sort our way through the weeks and obligations right now, I am reminded daily (heck, sometimes hourly!) of how grateful I am that I am sharing this journey with Warren. Not just the love and the support and the encouragement (and I could go on), but also this perfect response that rolled out of his mouth as we were getting ready to head to Mayo. I needed to make a very quick run to the grocery for something for the trip, and I asked him if we needed anything else. Warren was working in his shop, and after putting down the tool he was using, he looked at me and said, "No. And if it turned out we did, I'm sure we could figure something out with what we have here."

It doesn't get better than that. 

This Year's Gardens: Part 1

It is mid-May and I am just now starting the 2023 gardens. Why so late? Oh, the list goes on forever.

We had a late, cold spring, for starters. There were some days of high temperatures here and there, including in February, but there was also frost later into the spring. Not to mention snow. Yes, snow. So weather played a big role.

The schedule overload in this house, especially on the Symphony front, has been intense and immense for weeks. Although I am not Symphony staff, I am married to the Symphony. We had one guest artist staying with us for the season-ending concert, so there were some preparations there on the home front. And in addition to being the Executive Director and the orchestra's timpanist, Warren also was a guest artist this concert, so there was a lot going on. A. Lot. And that doesn't count the incredible Link Up concert for 4th graders this week (three days after the aforementioned season finale) or the other major Symphony matters that have occupied this household for the last many weeks.  

 And while I kept thinking of gardening, my energy levels were depleted and I. Just. Could. Not. Do. It. 

Several weekends ago, I did a very rough weeding of the kitchen garden. It was full of purple dead nettle and hairy bittercress, and I weeded it by hand, in two two-hour blocks of time. A few weekends ago, I did a very, very rough weeding of the Hej garden, removing the dandelions, thistles, and other large strays that I could see. (The Hej garden has been covered in a deep layer of leaves all winter. I am not sure what is lurking underneath.)

This Tuesday, I finally got to a local (the very best local, in my opinion) garden center where I always buy my starter plants. Before going, I looked in my gardening notebook to see what I had written last season about my purchases and their successes. The one thing that popped up repeatedly was "too many tomatoes." I reined myself in greatly on the tomato front. That took tremendous willpower, but I managed. I also gave a few of my plants (one pepper and two tomatoes) to my dad, who smiled and said that he thought he "might" be able to manage those. (Dad will turn 90 this August and he is slowing down.)

My purchases from Miller's Country Gardens, waiting patiently to be planted.  

In previous years,  I have started some seeds inside, usually by late April. As noted above, it is mid-May. Guess what I spent an hour doing this morning?

Zucchini, mostly

Although the weather has been cool, I am not sure we have enough cool days left to plant lettuce and see any results before it gets too hot. I may seed some of the intended lettuce bed and then hold the rest of the seed for late summer. 

It rained steadily for several hours this morning and it is too wet to head into the gardens today. I want to till the kitchen garden and get the basil sowed soon. We need to buy more fencing for the Hej garden before I plant it so we do not have a repeat of last year's Bunny Buffet back there. There is still a lot (A. Lot.) on the Symphony front through July 4, but I think (or else am wildly blind to my own limitations), I can do most of what I want and need to do without relying on Warren. 

The 2023 gardens are off and running! (Or, more realistically, walking at a slow pace, but hoping to pick up speed as time goes on.) 

Midpoint 2022

 The month of June proved to be challenging on the physical well-being front (How do I feel?), the emotional well-being front (How do I feel?), and the personal well-being front (How do I feel and what do I have to face today?). These are very much the same issues I stirred around a few weeks ago and, as I noted then, have been mucking around with for years. 

The last week of June brought a lot (A. Lot.) of Symphony activity and a lot (A. Lot.) of Legal Clinic activity, taking every bit of energy (physical, emotional, personal) I had, including any reserves, which, even on my best days, barely exist. 

The week was grueling. The week was exhausting. The week was uplifting and exciting and fulfilling and all those other great words. How often do you get a contemporary harpsichord work and a contemporary theremin work on the same program? (Never, that's how often.) We surpassed Client #200 for the Clinic this year, a statistic both heartbreaking and stunning. So add to this jumbled, amazing week too many long, long days, too many late, late nights, and too many early, early mornings. (Note: I am an early riser by nature, but 5:30 risings (not my rising time) coupled with late bedtimes are not a good mix.) Oh, and there was a treatment day in there too.

My exhaustion turned to frustration and, at times, even to tears. It was a very full week.

Halfway through 2022, I seem to be struggling to learn the same lesson: I can't do like I used to, I can't go like I used to, I can't burn my candle at even one end, let alone both ends, without taking into account how long I can let that candle burn.

I need to revamp my expectations of myself. That's the lesson. 

We're definitely at midyear. July includes the big 4th of July concert and the kickoff of the Symphony's small ensemble summer concerts. I just pulled two of the last four quart bags of sliced zucchini out of the freezer in the belief that more will appear in the garden to fill the shelf again. 

In the days to come, I'll be updating the garden report (oh, the rabbit battles continue) as well as looking at where grocery purchases stand at the halfway mark. But for this first day of the second half of 2022, I believe I have done enough. 

 

See the rabbit behind the planter on the left at about the midway point? The rabbits decided the planters were personal salad bars. The lettuce just got burnt out by the heat, so that bonus has ended for them. 

Catching My Breath

June has been a bear on the travel front. We were in Nashville early in the month. Then mid-month, Warren and I flew to Denver for a three-day conference I needed to attend. Traveling alone is difficult for me (nigh well impossible); Warren was indispensable. While I immersed myself in the conference, Warren worked on Symphony matters (the 4th of July, the Symphony's annual free concert for several thousand people, is almost upon us) and spent time with his son David, who moved out to southeastern Colorado back in February.

From Denver, we flew to Minneapolis, spent an afternoon with friends and family, then headed south to Rochester and Mayo. Two days later, we were back in Minneapolis to go, finally, home.

That was last Wednesday. Saturday I took off to Kentucky with my dad, brother, and sister-in-law for a long overdue trip. It was just a day trip, but it was one more trip in a month full of them.

I feel as if I am still catching my breath.

But I'm home. At least for now. And that is enough.

I will be writing more  in the days to come. The Kentucky trip especially demands a post. But in the midst of all the travel, in the midst of 4th of July preparations, and in the midst of catching my breath, I ran into a wall. A small wall. A little wall. An insignificant wall, in the big scheme of things. But a wall all the same.

Someone was coming to our house at 9:00 this morning whom I had to meet with. I had a cream pie I needed to get made and in the refrigerator before then. At 8:05, I went to pour the heavy cream into a bowl to beat to soft peaks to fold into the pie base. I opened the cream container (which I had frozen two weeks earlier as we prepared to leave town but had thawed yesterday), went to pour it out, and...nothing.

Nothing. The cream had the texture of butter. I didn't have time to try it, analyze it, and decide whether I could made it work. The clock was ticking: on the pie, on the upcoming appointment, on the day. So I taped this note to the door and left:

"Baking emergency." Seriously? I have to laugh. But I made it. And it served to remind me that life rolls on, on and off the road.

It's good to be back.

Inch One Hundred Seventy-Eight: Update

Last week I previewed some of July and now I can update what has happened and what will happen.

Aunt Ginger is moved. I have the rest of this month to dismantle her apartment.

4th of July was a huge success. The weather was perfect and the crowd was large and enthusiastic. The link at the end of this paragraph should take you to the 1812 Overture, viewed from the orchestra, when the theater cannons are being set off at the end of the work. You do not need a Facebook account to see it. (Warren is on the timpani at the right of the video, playing timpani.) https://www.facebook.com/centralohiosymphony/videos/10154757183273603/ 

We are under 24 hours and counting for the plane to touch down and everyone to disembark.

And, despite my predictions to the contrary last week, Ramona will be able to pick a tomato.

Inch One Hundred Seventy-Seven: What July Will Bring

It is early morning on the first day of July. We had heavy rains last night; the air is cool and damp. The skies have not yet cleared, but in looking at the radar, that should follow soon.

Brian and Margaret have come and gone. The pie was delicious. The company was even better. We did eat the pesto (it, too, was delicious), Brian took several lengthy bike rides, and Margaret joined me at Poetry Night. (Heck, even Brian and Warren sat in on some of it.)

Much is afoot here. Tuesday is 4th of July, which in this household means the day starts early and runs late. Long after the last firework has faded from the sky, Warren and I and a host of volunteers will still be striking the stage from the annual concert. Looking back at past 4th of July posts, in which I sound similar themes, I would also note that my garden is right on pace (perhaps even a little ahead) and the coneflowers, earthbound mimics of fireworks that they are, are already thrusting their bright colors straight up into the heavens.

Even without the 4th of July thrown into the mix, the first week of July this year starts out with a bang. Later next week I will helping my beloved Aunt Ginger move into assisted living.

Aunt Ginger will be 88 this October. I wrote about her on her 80th birthday, which we all (30 or so of us) celebrated happily and noisily. At 88, my aunt is frail physically and mentally. She is not happy at all about the move (this will only be the 3rd address she has had in almost 88 years), but after shedding a few tears every time we talk about it, she squares her shoulders and tells me she will just have to make the best of it. And knowing Aunt Ginger as well as I do, she will. With bells on.

And right after the Big Move? The contingent from the Pacific Northwest arrives with Ramona, Alise, Mackenzie, and my sons, Ben and Sam, flying into Ohio and into our house for a week of family and cooking and family and laughter and family and love and family.  Oh, and fireflies (lightning bugs) which Alise and, of course, Ramona, have never seen. We have a bumper crop this year and I cannot wait to see their reactions to our nightly light show.

And of course there will be pie. Likely more than one this time.

I started this morning (after typing the first paragraph) with breakfast with Warren followed by my going into the admittedly soggy garden and weeding. The basil is finally showing signs of coming up. There are lots of tomatoes on the bushes, but I doubt any will be ripe enough for Ramona to pick. That's life.

Any day (and month) that starts with breakfast with my beloved husband followed by quiet time in the garden is bound to be a great one. Welcome, July, welcome.

Inch One Hundred Twenty-Five: Another Look at the 4th of July

My last post was written on the threshold of July, looking ahead to the 4th. Well, the 4th has come and gone, both to my relief and sorrow. Relief because the holiday represents a lot of work for this household, sorrow because it will be another year before it comes again.

Following the 4th (which was a late, late night by the time the concert was over, the stage was struck, and at least some of the instruments shepherded home), I exchanged some emails with a close friend about the holiday. In the first, I commented:  I am on alert this morning after a hectic yesterday. The saving grace was that due to weather concerns, I did not have to worry about helping Aunt Ginger navigate uneven terrain or uneven memory. She, my mom, and my dad all passed on last night's concert. Huge worry/burden off my shoulders. Spent the concert with longtime friends--we have celebrated the 4th together since Sam was a baby. They are also dealing with a parent with dementia, so Sally, Chris, and I exchanged war stories. 

My friend commented back somewhat wistfully that her 4th of July lacked definition, because she had never "really figured out" how to celebrate the day. She and her husband have no particular traditions, the large urban area in which they live has multiple fireworks displays on different days, and her nod to the day was spooning blueberries and strawberries over vanilla frozen custard. She concluded that my 4th of July, this one or any of them, sounded more stressful but more interesting.

My friend's words caused me to think about the whole holiday. Eventually, I penned this response:

I enjoy 4th of July, except for the increasing length of it, which is all due to the Symphony. Last night it was about 11:30 before we rolled out out of campus and headed home with full vans/cars to unload. One of the trustees (our backyard neighbor, a good friend of many years, AND the judge I work for) came home with me for the final unloading, then strolled out the back deck door to his home.

 That being said, what I like best about the community concert is just that: community. I know the men and women staffing the Kiwanis food trailer (hot dogs! Klondike bars! popcorn! brats!); I know the fire chief (a friend) and the firefighters setting off the theater cannons for the 1812 Overture, I know lots of faces in the audience. As I already mentioned, I sat with friends for the 23rd or 24th year in a row. Other very close friends were right behind me (and I handed Gerald a small pie and Margo a page torn from the latest Writer's Digest). People calling back and forth, hugs, laughter. Veterans standing during the Armed Forces Salute and the crowd applauding. Cheers for the musicians, everyone on their feet for the Stars and Stripes Forever, clapping in rhythm to the music, seeing the brass rise to their feet for the last repeat. Even striking the stage afterwards is good—people stopping up to exclaim (those who do not rush to the fireworks, which are really good in Delaware), sending Jaime (conductor) and his wife on their way back to Cincinnati with pie (of course) and hugs and kisses, laughing with the other volunteers as we celebrate another 4th over, the quiet of being the very last 4 or 5 people on campus after the sound truck pulls away. 

The 4th of July concert is Delaware at its best, and with the exception of Legal Clinic, the night I feel closest and most connected to this community. 

I continue to have a bumpy relationship with my hometown, even 25+ years after I moved back. I have learned to take it for better or for worse, but there are still many times I put my head in my hands and groan, or run into an unexpected or unpleasant barrier that reminds me why I left so adamantly over four decades ago.

But the last line rings true: the 4th of July is Delaware at its best. The 4th of July is the night I feel closest and most connected to the community.

And that's not a bad way to celebrate Independence Day, by celebrating the interconnectedness of us all.

Inch One Hundred Twenty-Four: July

How can it be July already? The year half over already? Spring long behind and Summer just ripening?

I think July is taking me by such surprise because I was in transit for so much of June. Between the trip out west and then a trip last week to Mayo Clinic, I was only home for one June weekend. And even that was marked by Symphony matters. All days added together, I was home for less than half of June.

No wonder I am disoriented in time and space. Perhaps July will root me once again.

The 4th of July is just a few short days away. The coneflowers and butterfly weed have exploded in fistfuls of color, foreshadowing the fireworks to come Monday night. With a nod to John Adams, my garden is once again heeding his call to celebrate Independence Day by showing "Illuminations from one End of this Continent to the other from this Time forward forever more."

Inch Seventy: The 4th of July

The 4th of July, one of my favorite holidays, is upon us again. Tomorrow afternoon we will be setting the stage for the evening's concert; tomorrow night will be the 30th annual concert by the Central Ohio Symphony, followed by fireworks. Thanks to the U.S. Supreme Court's recent ruling in Obergefell et al. v. Hodges, Director, Ohio Dept. of Health et al., I imagine the Star Spangled Banner will sound all the sweeter this year and the fireworks seem all the brighter. 

In 1776, shortly after the signing of the Declaration of Independence, John Adams wrote to his wife Abigail about the momentous occasion:

I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated, by succeeding Generations, as the great anniversary Festival. It ought to be commemorated, as the Day of Deliverance by solemn Acts of Devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with Pomp and Parade, with Shews, Games, Sports, Guns, Bells, Bonfires and Illuminations from one End of this Continent to the other from this Time forward forever more.

Being married to the Symphony, I tend to see the local fireworks over the tops of buildings as a number of us labor away after the concert to strike the stage. It is fun but it is not the same as sitting out on the road or in the flat practice fields, staring up at the sky.

Never mind. This year I have fireworks close at hand, in the vegetable garden that never became a vegetable garden. They do not pop and boom, but they do hum with bees. And in their colors are the colors that will light the night tomorrow evening.

 

"Bonfires and Illuminations from one End of this Continent to the other from this Time forward forever more." 

And flowers. 

Water and Sky

Saturday night was the second of two holiday concerts for the Symphony, this one up at Put In Bay on South Bass Island in Lake Erie.

It rained on the 4th of July here in Delaware. Yesterday it rained up at the lake as well, forcing the concert inside. We loaded and unloaded equipment and instruments in the rain. But by the time we were on the ferry back to the mainland, the rain was more or less over.

The sky was dramatic, full of low clouds changing colors as the evening faded. I found myself at the side of the ferry watching the waves and the clouds go by. I found deep solace in staring across the lake, scanning the sky, and watching the backwash churn away from the ferry. My thoughts spun away as effortlessly as the waves.

I needed to be alone. In the midst of community, as Symphony volunteers mingled and chatted and laughed, I needed solitude. I wanted the sky and the lake and nothing else. I let my thoughts spin out, no patterns in any of them, all of them scudding away with the clouds.

It is about 30 minutes from dock to dock by ferry. Soon enough the lights of Catawba rose into view. Soon enough I could make out the dock lights. Soon enough we would be back on land and headed home.

The dock lights grew brighter and came into sharp focus. My thoughts wound down into a quiet murmur as the ferry slowed and came into harbor.

It was a quiet drive back to Delaware. The three of us in the truck were tired and ready to end the day. Fireworks from rural communities kept lighting the horizon; we grew too silent to point them out. We all wanted to get home, we all wanted to come into the harbor of our own lives.

Sooner or later, we all need a place to dock.

If This Is the Living Room This Morning, Then...

I went downstairs a few minutes ago to find the living room looking like this:

and this:

and this:

The music started at the northwest and ended in the southeast corner of the room.

Hmmn.

If this is the look of the living room this morning and there are percussion parts papering the living room (while Warren finalizes section assignments), then the next event coming up must be this:

Jaime conducting the Central Ohio Symphony on July 4th

I love living in the percussion section. I love being married to the Symphony. And I love the 4th of July! 

"Tell It GOODBYE!"

Back in the 80s, I lived for several years in California - first in the Bay Area and then in Stockton. I watched and listened to a lot of Oakland A's baseball during those years, having acquired a penchant for the A's back when Catfish Hunter, Sal Bando, and Rollie Fingers, to name a few, put together three consecutive World Series victories.

The early 80s were also golden years for the Athletics. Those were the years of José Canseco (before he self-destructed) and Mark McGwire (before he took steroids). There was Walt Weiss, who followed Canseco and McGwire as the third consecutive AL Rookie of the Year to come from the A's, and Dave Kingman, the team's formidable DH. I saw Rickey Henderson steal bases with aplomb, on his way to the all-time record, and I got to watch Reggie Jackson close out his career.

The A's are on my mind today. Well, really, I am thinking of their iconic broadcast team of Bill King, Lon Simmons, and Ray Fosse. In particular, Lon Simmons is on my mind. He was known for calling a home run as it sailed towards the wall: "Back…back…wayyyyy back…tell it GOODBYE!"

We have just come out of the marathon known as 4th of July concerts: setting up stages, breaking down stages, loading instruments, unloading instruments, rehearsals, sound checks, concerts (two), and everything else in between. Warren did yeoman's duty, like he always does, and many of his board members stepped up as well to set up, break down, load, unload, and run needed errands. I was there too.

Yesterday, after one final group walk of the campus grounds to make sure all was clean and then hauling the bagged trash to the college dumpsters, Warren and I went home and finally, finally stopped moving.

The July 4th marathon was over.

Tell it GOODBYE.

This morning, as I assessed the week and the month ahead, I could not shake Lon Simmons or his call from my head. If I tried to focus on this week's calendar, my mind kept circling back to the weekend we had just finished, and I would hear Lon call "Tell it GOODBYE!" If I tried to focus on the events of last weekend, my mind would jump ahead to the events of this week, and Lon would again broadcast over the roar of the crowd, "Tell it GOODBYE."

You get the picture.

I finally shared my inner soundtrack with Warren, who laughed and said "Not yet!" He was headed off to his office, where the remains of the holiday awaited. With Montana fast approaching, he is trying to finish up any remaining pieces of Season 31 and position the Symphony to launch Season 32 (while planning, you realize, for Seasons 33, 34, and 35). There was no Lon Simmons calling in his head.

Of course there wasn't. Lon is in my head today.

Tell it GOODBYE.

I am taking a slow day. It is hot (again, still, yet) today so I am sticking inside. Tell it GOODBYE. I am still drained from the weekend's events. Tell it GOODBYE. I picked up a virus sometime between here and the lake and back again, and it has taken the edge off my energy for the day. I am trusting it will pass. Tell it GOODBYE.

This summer has passed by all too swiftly so far. Behind us already are Sam's birthday and the holiday concerts. Tell it GOODBYE. The garden has moved swiftly from seedlings to blossoms and beyond, and I have barely kept up with it, let along documented the changes. Tell it GOODBYE.

Ahead lies navigating July, with some tricky runs in it, before launching for Montana. I am afraid if I am not paying attention, all too soon Lon will be calling the game for the entire summer.

Tell it GOODBYE.

Not yet, Lon. Let me catch my breath first. Let me take the time to watch the fireflies rise up at dusk. Let me stop and watch the bees work over the pumpkin blossoms. Let me ride with Warren out to Prospect for ice cream, sitting with our sundaes on the church steps down the block, just like we did 38 years ago. Let me look - really, really look - and listen and take in the trip west and back, on routes I have not traced in three decades.

Let me catch the summer in my hands, let it run out through my fingers slowly.

And only when summer is done and the garden picked and the fair is coming to town, then you can make your call, Lon. But whisper it for me, will you?

"Tell it goodbye…tell it goodbye…tell it goodbye."

Sweet Time

I've been walking around with that clenched feeling in my chest. You know what I'm talking about - the "worrying about this, trying to plan for that, when does this need to be done?" clench.

I know many of the sources of my clench. We have the usual 4th of July concerts, complicated this year by the production manager being out of commission. (Busy? I'll say. Last night, Warren went back to his office for another three hours, while I stayed here and mowed the lawn.) We are squeezing our budget so that Montana happens in under 5 weeks. There was an email from my ex asking about my contribution to Sam's college expenses for next year, and even though he wrote "don't get bent into a pretzel over this," just seeing, let alone reading, an email about money from him causes my chest to contract. I am seeing my oncologist later today - just a "touching base" visit. (No labs this time because until I get the labs from last fall and this spring paid off, I don't want to add to my balance. I'm kind of rolling the dice there because lab tests are one of the best (and almost only) ways to monitor myeloma, but I just this month paid off the last of the economic havoc that Dr. Bully wreaked last July.)

So I've got plenty of reasons to be clenched, let alone over-busy and stretched (again).

Being clenched, though, besides not feeling good, makes for a distracted kind of existence. I have been so busy running through my list of triggers - money, health, schedules, Montana, college, concerts - that I haven't been paying attention to anything going on around me.

I hate being disconnected.

This morning I drove Sam to work, as I do most mornings. He is usually tired in the morning, not his most conversant, and today was no exception. That was a good thing, because had he been chattering away, I don't know if I would have interacted with him beyond a perfunctory "uh huh."

I was that far gone.

After dropping Sam off, I turned the radio on, something I don't often do. I'm glad I did. By sheer serendipity, Tim McGraw's "Live Like You Are Dying" came up on an easy listening station.

That song came out just about the time I was diagnosed with cancer. I listened to it repeatedly that long winter. When I threw a party to announce my illness, it was the "Live Like You Are Dying" party. Even today it resonates with me deeply.

…I was in my early forties, with a lot of life before me
And one moment came that stopped me on a dime
I spent most of the next days, looking at the x-rays
Talking 'bout the options and talking 'bout sweet time.

Sweet time.

When you are clenched, you forget how sweet time is. When you are constantly running through checklists in your head, you forget how sweet time is.

Even in the last handful of days, the moments of sweet time are thick and bountiful. Watching Buster Keaton movies with Warren at the Ohio last Friday night. Making homemade ice cream for a Saturday supper with Margo and Gerald, then talking late into the night around the fire ring. Anything with Warren, even just going to the hardware store together.

Sweet time.

As I finish this post, it is mid- evening. Sam came over after work and had a late birthday dinner with my parents, Warren, and me. Warren is working on 4th of July preparations, this time at the house.

When I saw Tim this afternoon, he asked me how long it has been since my stem cell transplants. It was five years ago this summer. He closed his eyes and shook his head softly, repeating "five years, five years." He then opened his eyes, gave one of his blinding grins, and said "Wow!"

Five years. Now that is sweet time.

Happy 4th of July!

I love the 4th of July. It is my favorite holiday hands down. I love our city parade, I love the concert in the evening, I love the fireworks, I love it all.

Our parade is small by big city standards, but that does not diminish my pleasure in it one whit. You can't watch it without knowing someone in the procession - a Cub Scout, a clarinetist in the high school band, someone driving a decorated tractor. Aunt Ginger lives on the parade route and we will all gather there to wave and laugh as our friends go by.

The evening concert is special for lots of reasons, starting with that it is put on for free by our local symphony, the Central Ohio Symphony. This is the same symphony that my husband Warren is the executive director of and that back in April raised over 2000 pounds of food for our local food pantry with just one benefit concert (a national record).

In short, this is one great symphony before they even begin to play.

On July 4th, the orchestra plays a mixture of patriotic songs and Broadway and movie hits. This year, because it is the 40th anniversary of man landing on the moon, music from "Apollo 13" has made its way into the lineup.

The symphony plays outdoors on the campus of Ohio Wesleyan University, which nestles right up to our downtown. Seating is on the lawn. We bring picnic dinners, sodas, lawn chairs, desserts, blankets, wine, and sparklers; children run up and down the walkways; everyone and everything is decked out in red, white and blue.

This concert draws 5000 or more annually. It is not a noisy crowd but neither is it a performance hall quiet crowd. There is always a low undercurrent of talk, of friends greeting friends, of old neighbors reconnecting. Crowd enthusiasm is obvious from the opening ("Fanfare for the Common Man" and the Star Spangled Banner) and does not diminish the rest of the evening.

During "Armed Forces Salute," veterans and active service personnel stand when their military branch's theme song is played. My dad and brother Mark will be on their feet for the Army; my friend John Smith, a WWII veteran who was at Iwo Jima, will stand up for the Marines. We the audience will applaud enthusiastically.

The last two pieces are always the same: Tschaikovsky's "1812 Overture," followed by Sousa's "Stars and Stripes Forever." Before the last note has faded, concertgoers are up and moving half a block over to see the city fireworks display. The street by the campus is closed off and we all pitch our chairs and blankets right there on the road or the practice fields and look up until the first one explodes.

I'm also a sucker for fireworks. Always have been. There is something about seeing those colors bloom, shimmer, and fade away that thrills me every year. I ooh and aah right along with everyone else, and "everyone else" includes everyone who was at the concert just 10 minutes earlier.

It is a perfect evening.

30 summers ago, when I was 23, I traveled around Europe for six weeks. I was in Hamburg (then West Germany) on July 4 and homesick, not for my apartment but for America. I wanted to be there - anywhere - in the United States that day. I have never missed another one, including even the summer I was being treated for myeloma and in between stem cell transplants when the 4th came around.

I almost always spend the concert with Sally and Chris, who were my across-the-alley neighbors when I first moved back to Delaware. Back then, we would watch the concert and the fireworks together, then come home and let the kids light sparklers and smoke bombs and throw pop drops until late into the evening. Those were magical days for the children and any of them at the mention of the 4th will still say "remember when we used to light all those fireworks in the backyard after we got home?"

Yes, I do.

On July 3, 1776, John Adams wrote his wife Abigail his thoughts about celebrating Independence Day:

I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated, by succeeding Generations, as the great anniversary Festival. It ought to be commemorated, as the Day of Deliverance by solemn Acts of Devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with Pomp and Parade, with Shews, Games, Sports, Guns, Bells, Bonfires and Illuminations from one End of this Continent to the other from this Time forward forever more.

Adams was actually writing about July 2, which was the day the Continental Congress approved the idea of independence. The vote on the Declaration of Independence did not come until the 4th, which is why we have celebrated that day as Independence Day ever since.

No matter. Adams was dead on right when he wrote he believed that succeeding generations would continue to mark the day. The notion that individuals could come together and create a nation founded on principles of justice and equality was a stunning, indeed a revolutionary, idea for its time. It continues to be so today. We the people have not always lived up to those principles, but we the people continue to strive towards realizing them. I am optimistic enough to believe that the ideals that drove Adams and his colleagues to take that giant and dangerous leap into the unknown continue to guide us yet today.

Adams wanted us to mark Independence Day with "Bells, Bonfires and Illuminations from one End of this Continent to the other from this Time forward forever more."

I'm with him.