Welcome to NaNoWriMo – the month of November in which writers feverishly write and upload 1,700 words each day in order to push themselves to finish the rough of a novel in 30 days. Just the type of motivation that would set me up for stress and failure. The type of project that goes against the grain with me because I edit and correct as I go rather than roughing out 50,000 words. Besides, I have three novels in print and two in process on the back burner. Nevertheless, strengthened by the success of my daughter who drew 21 works of art during the 31 days of Inktober and was encouraged and polished by it; spurred on by my efforts in a Monthly class of immersive a cappella arranging under the tutelage of Pentatonix during September and October; I will greet November.
I will not sign up. I will answer to no one but myself, yet, I will answer! I will challenge myself to write something each day in November. Why? Because that is what I want to do.
What can I say about the onset of autumn? What words are there to describe such beauty? How can I make you understand the glorious beauty and the way it makes me feel? Will it help if I confess that for eight weeks from the middle of August to the middle of October I rose each morning with happiness and purpose? That’s a record to be proud of. Will it help your understanding when I say I did not feel that sinking feeling in my chest, that hollow sucking down that makes one wonder about the health of her heart, during that entire eight weeks. In addition, I had no qualms, no anxiety regarding all the music activities and performances in which I was involved. Let me repeat; no debilitating, paralyzing anxiety for two months! If autumn be the fount of long life and happiness; linger on oh many colored leaves and sooth my heartstrings!
What a joyous season this has been! It takes me back, oh so many years, to a heartache fraught time in my early 20s. Yes, relational stress was mine in abundance. Nevertheless, fall came on and with it an ebullience so strong a neighbor remarked, “Wow Cherry, you really bloom in the fall, don’t you?” Affirmative. And now, just a few millimeter marks beyond my mid-sixties, I can say the same. It is truly the autumn of my life. It is the now or never season. Time to complete the bucket list and finish strong. May I bloom like never before. May I revel in the season and embrace the beauty of fall in perpetuity. May the glorious colors, the golds and reds and yellows and orange refresh you as well and may the health and glory of fall linger on and on in memory and add warmth and glow to your winter. And if you are in the autumn of your life? – May it be your best season ever!
What does it mean to be the last man standing? The last of eleven siblings? The last of one’s generation? The remaining half of a life-long couple? The rootbound patriarch of off-spring who are prone to wander the wilds of this continent and every other and who too seldom wander in for a visit?
To be alone There is no one else beside you. There is no one else like you. No other companion your age. No sibling who shares the same background and growing up experience as you did. No teammate remaining with whom you struggled against and defeated the foe. You are the last man standing.
To be lonely Rare is the person who has not been lonely. Lonely through the death of a spouse; lonely through divorce; lonely due to an empty nest; lonely through leadership and responsibility when the game is over, the workday done. Yet now, you truly are the last man standing.
To be responsible only to yourself and only for yourself; to be the sovereign ruling authority of your own ship. There is no one left to whom you must answer; no one to break your back for, provide for, cherish or die for. To be the last man standing is to continue to make choices that keep up the spirits of the troops – when there is only one troop left.
To be hospitable and invite others into your life. To relate. To joke with those younger than yourself (rare is the person who is older), strangers and servers and physician assistants – no matter how quaint or awkward your mannerisms and colloquialisms.
To be ethical to persevere even when you feel like throwing in the towel, to find projects for the hands or for the mind to keep you productive when only God knows and nobody else is watching.
To be thankful and keep on taking responsibility for your own happiness by enumerating a lifelong list of blessings.
Because the last man standing – as long as he draws breath – still has a covenant to keep with the Universe.
The bride was beautiful, the groom amiable and attentive. She witnessed the solemn ceremony from a piano bench where she had just played a passel of tunes – some popular, some classic. There were tender moments to bring tears and proud moments for sitting up straighter. There was humor and understanding to bring smiles and laughter. And then, there was a reception. A reception with food and fun and cake and dancing and a live band. This time, she sat on a portable bench at an electronic 88-keys, properly positioned to the left and behind the lead guitarist and two vocalists and within eye-contact and the reach of the drummer and bassist – all seven on a postage stamp the size of an area rug.
The bride was beautiful, surrounded by life-long friends and family and having the time of her life. The groom was gregarious and hospitable. And the band? The band was the best she had ever played with. There were times over the past three weeks of preparation when she felt out of her league. But when the drummer gave the count off and the guests of every generation hit the dance floor, cares of life and inhibition left the courtyard. Life was bliss. Even the servers kept smiling. The venue owner and caterer paused in their hurry to film the band. Her heart was full, sitting there on the collapsible bench. And when it was all over and load-out begun, someone pointed out the band included three generations of the same family. True that! She was indeed a grande dame. Her son the drummer / band leader. Her grandson on synthesizer. Don’t quit on your music! You need it every day of your life.
I swept the floor twice in a row, and then, the backcountry ranger – who is never as burdened by housework as I – swept the floor again when she came in from the wilderness the next day. The sweepings were the result of too much frugality. Yes. There is such a thing as too much. When I worked with the school district, I was overly careful with the music funds allocated to me. Cautious and over-thinking to the point my principal commented – you are being too frugal. I took the hint and loosened my Scrooge strings. It is an inherited trait I have consciously pushed against my entire life. Yet once again I have become penny-wise and pound foolish.
I love to visit hot springs and take in the healthful benefits of vapor caves and a mineral soak, but it is a luxury not frequently afforded. Instead, I fill the Victorian clawfoot tub with hot water, add Epsom salt and soak away my aches and worries. This requires regular purchase of Epsom salt at the grocery and a justification of filling the tub to a much greater extent than was allowed in my childhood. Hence, I imagine I live in the freedom of reckless decadence from my frugal upbringing.
Yesterday, I filled the tub and as it was filling, I attempted to transfer salts from the economy bulk packaging to the decorated little canning jar in which I keep a few daily doses. I have a tiny water closet with no cabinet space so I was executing this process on the closed lid of the toilet seat. You guessed it, the salts escaped over the side spilling a tablespoon worth of crystals on the toilet lid. What a waste, thought I. Quickly and efficiently I sat the jar on the toilet tank. Brushed the spillage into my hand and —- the open jar came crashing down from the tank bouncing from toilet seat to the floor, cracking the jar and spilling the entire contents.
As previously stated, I swept twice. The backcountry ranger swept this morning. I swept again before writing this. As soon as my neighbors are awake I’ll run the vacuum hose.– I may even have to mop twice in the same week to clean up all that frugality.
I know someone who lost kin recently, tragically, and unintentionally. Odds are you know someone too. There were an estimated 173,000 accidental or unintentional deaths in 2019.
One may hear the tragic news. One may have an insatiable curiosity for the details, what happened, who was to blame, what was the single mistake, how could the victim have chosen differently? We say they were too young, so promising, oh their poor parents.
We say they were too successful, too greatly needed, too intelligent: what will their families do without them, what went wrong? We say they were too old, too mature, too sensible to die an accidental death, where was the misstep, the neglect?
The grief is enough. No amount of regret or guilt or shame or accusation or blame or getting to the bottom of it is going to fix it or bring the deceased back or heal everyone. The grief is enough. Cry with them. Sit with them. No need to ferret it out or explain. The grief is enough.
Sometimes, in the midst of our busy-ness, we forget who we are. Or at least we forget a portion of who we are. I can get so busy writing and publishing and marketing that I forget I was once – and always have been – a musician. Recently I have been so wrapped up in music and rehearsal and assignments that I forgot for a moment I am a writer. In 2020 I rereleased a book (The Pancake Cat) and published a women’s novel. In early 2021 I released a memoir- style women’s novel. While it may seem a phenomenal pace to publish a book every 6 months, it must be noted I had been working on The Pancake Cat for more than two decades; The Right Woman for the Job spanned 40 years of rumination; I lived with The Cemetery Wives for about 25 years. Publication of each of these books was an experiment of sorts – a finishing what I had begun, an edit and polish, a meeting of deadlines, a feeling of my way through independent publishing process – the satisfaction of completion. Yes. I still write. And I still do music. In fact, I got so bogged down with gigs and rehearsals and making charts for an upcoming wedding reception and trying to complete assignments for a Pentatonix arranging class I am taking, that I just played hooky last night and went to the local hot springs with my daughter and friends. – – And it reminded me that I have a work in progress. A post-apocalyptic, steampunk perspective on selfcare – full of euphemism and geology and literary reference. Here’s a sample chapter to prove I was not just playing hooky – I was actually confirming research.
A High Desert Oasis and Hot Springs
Up the anticline, down the syncline, Precious trekked on. Finally the path led sharply up and she found herself walking close to the rim of a dark mesa. Basalt, limestone, a smoky valley in the skirt slumping down from the top. Perhaps a blow hole? Steam rising from a hot springs? What a comfort that would be to her tired bones. Precious stepped off trail to the left. She followed a wildlife path toward a ravine. Down she went, ever lower into the canyon until she found coursing water, a small stream not too wide to jump. She bent and felt the water. Warm to the touch. Immediately she turned and followed the stream upwards. Not more than four furlongs later she came to an aperture in the rock – the place the hot spring exited the heart of the mountain. At great temperature, water flowed into a pool about nine feet in diameter. Infrequent passersby had added a small boulder or two, assisting Nature with endeavors to encourage the water – and bathers – to linger before continuing a downward journey. Precious rested her rucksack against a ponderosa pine, doffed her boots, folded her cape and tunic carefully on top her pack and proceeded to disrobe and slip into the water. The dark waters stung her skin. An involuntary shudder and an audible expression of comfort and well-being escaped her lips as the heat permeated to her bones giving stimulation and health, relaxing her muscles, clearing and focusing her thoughts. No wonder the ancient people groups that inhabited this land before the arrival of Europeans had wintered here, used these springs ceremonially. It was definitely a place of healing to Precious. She wanted to stay here forever – to be well always. In actual fact, she stayed only the better part of an hour. She breathed the mineral steam. She absorbed magnesium, calcium, silica, potassium, bicarbonate, sulfides. She soaked muscle and bone to the core. She allowed her mind to relax and cease to churn. She murmured inarticulate tones of gratitude into the mist that cloaked her from time to time. Her mind was an open channel to the Universal Cranium – Peace and quiet descended. She emerged from the water so thoroughly warmed she did not shiver. Precious pulled on clothing layers in leisurely fashion without a chill. She hefted her rucksack and proceeded to climb.
There is not enough food in your pantry or fridge to make you feel better when you are lonely. There is not enough chocolate in the world or wine in the bottle to cover your inherent fear or embarrassment. You will not find, anywhere in your job or relationships, enough sex or affirmation to give you the confidence you need to hold your head up every day and face the world. Ultimately, no amount of success nor excess of work hours will make you feel perfect and secure.
There are four antidotes I know of to assuage your anxiety:
*Take a hike in the out of doors.
*Make some music.
*Write about whatever is troubling you.
*Go work outside, move some rocks around, garden, pull weeds.
Think or pray or meditate while you are administering the antidote.
I have never had one antidote work consistently 100% of the time; nor are they instant. You can augment the effect by drinking liberally from your water bottle and engaging in thoughts of gratitude.
This is the wisdom and acknowledgement that comes with age. These are the gifts and remedies that come from the Earth, or Mother Nature, or Life, or the Universe. Use them well, but use them you must if you wish to live.
Anniversary Waltz I finished Tennessee Waltz with a flourish and segued into Moon River as she turned from the cash register to follow her husband out the door. But instead, she came to the piano and said, “will you play it again, please, that song you just finished?” She stepped out the door and grabbed him, pulling him back into the French bakery lobby and into dance hold. She was radiant in a beribboned straw hat, capris and a pressed blouse. She held him close, her cheek resting on his chest. At the end of the reprised refrain she placed a tip in the jar and thanked me again and again – all smiles, saying it was their 50th anniversary this very day! – And what a wonderful time they were having!
Secular anointing I was raised in church and I was raised to be a camp-meeting pianist. It is still somewhat of a surprise to me how many customs cross over from the church world to the secular performance world. Giving, for example. What child among us didn’t first learn the idea of giving when the offering plate was passed? We held out our hand to mom or dad or grandma or grandpa and received in our hot little palm a tuppence or a quarter or a dime. Immediately we placed the change in the plate, feeling very grownup that we had been allowed to participate in the act of giving. I see it happen weekend after weekend at the French Bakery and it never ceases to warm my heart. Jean-Pierre, the French, French Baker makes the croissants and macarons and exquisite pastries and I play the restored grand piano. Families come in. Their ears perk up the minute they hear the sound of live music. Those who were thinking of checking out a restaurant further down the street are lured inside. I smile and nod. The children start clamoring for something to put in the jar. And parents oblige. They are teaching their children at a young age to give, to share, to tip those who render a service to make our lives better. Some of them are intentionally teaching their children that you can make money in music – that regular practice pays!
There are a couple dozen one dollar bills in my tip jar, a few fives, one ten. Oh, and there are two pennies. There is a story here, I am sure, and I bet it involves a child. Two children put tips in my jar today. I wonder which it was?
When the previous piano man retired and I took on the job at the keyboard, I asked what were the most requested song titles? Requests? Said the retiring piano man. Requests? Said the proprietor with surprise. Probably just Happy Birthday to You. I had six requests in the first four mornings I played. My repertoire has increased accordingly. I made a playlist so I don’t draw a blank and fumble around, but sometimes I play on the inspiration of the moment. Such was the time a Texan sort of woman came in sporting a gold tone Hobby Lobbyesque T-shirt with the first verse of It Is Well With My Soul printed on the front. That’s pretty irresistible to a piano player with my background. Last Saturday I was letting my mind wander for a few moments. My fingers were sort of noodling about some familiar melodies and I ended up playing Waltzing Matilda. The woman at the counter paid for her pastry and turned to me. “I’m from Australia. How did you know? I’m tearing up!”
Veterans and people who just flat out love America stand a little taller when I play an armed forces tribute or America the Beautiful. Tourists love La vie en rose, tenors and vacationers like to try their voices at show tunes prompting my daughter to ask, “what do they think it is, a piano karaoke bar?”
One Sunday a couple saw me head to the restroom at the end of my four-hour set. They waited, waited just to say how much the music meant to them. Actually, that happens frequently. A thumbs up, a mouthed thank you, someone gushing that they haven’t heard that tune for years, someone else mentioning that I have a rather wide repertoire.
I am a glutton for praise. I fear I have long been addicted to affirmation. Praise is often payment in the music world. But man – or woman – cannot live on praise alone. You can’t pay the rent with praise. But just as time is money; tips are praise and affirmation. I’m not going to complain, no siree; I don’t have one complaint about earning my daily bread with music. The people watching is unbeatable. I especially love it when they dance.
When the pandemic was in remission, I went to the local library and got myself a long- anticipated library card. Last week I interrupted my favorite morning walk along the river to go into the library and check out a couple books. As a writer I find it inspirational to read – not only to reread the best classics, but to read something new once in a while, yet I am choosey about what I read. Too much sugar will rot my writing teeth. Too much milk will make me soft. I crave something to make me strong, to make me feel good and to make me think. So, more often than not, I turn to fiction. Yes, fiction. Preferably from an author with whom I am familiar, someone I trust.
Lately I have read some confirmed best sellers as well as some fledgling attempts which turned out to be enjoyable books, but I really did not get into the story until chapter two or three. Not so with Young Jane Young(Zevin, 2017).I thoroughly enjoyed Gabrielle Zevin’s, The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry when it first came out in paperback somewhere around 2014. I enjoyed it so much that it stays on my bedside shelf for frequent rereading. The story is perfectly wrapped up and tied with a bow and leaves one feeling satisfied so it is a great model for writers. Also, it is a story that refers to short stories so it is great for avid short-story readers. So, it follows, on my recent foray to the library, I went intentionally to the “Z” aisle and was not disappointed. I opened the book to chapter one and began to read:
My dear friend Roz Horowitz met her new husband online dating, and Roz is three years older and fifty pounds heavier than I am, and people have said that she is generally not as well preserved, and so I thought I would try it even though I avoid going online too much.
What a culturally relevant beginning! It is not even aimed at women in their 20s. The woman is a baby-boomer. But what really caught my attention was the narrator’s confession:
I don’t particularly want a husband. They’re a lot of work, but I don’t want to spend the rest of my life alone either, and it would be nice to have someone to go to classes with is what I’m saying.
Gabrielle Zevin has written a most enjoyable read about politics and betrayal and lifelong friendship and unconditional mother-love and starting over. I think most of you will like it!
I am also looking forward to reading The Only Woman in the Room which is based on the life of Hedy Lamarr . The third book, which you can barely see in this photo isParadise with an Edge by Walter Dear. Walter Dear is a newspaper publisher who retired in Durango a couple decades ago and has woven himself into Durango culture both through his writing and his piano playing. I leave you to guess how I met him. But it has to do with French pastries and a restored baby-grand piano.
Putting One Foot in Front of the Other, Hiking for Life!
