Tag Archives: mourning

Autumn, Mourning, and Community Chorus

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Autumnal morning mist over Lake Champlain rises and becomes clouds

Dear Reader has probably gotten used to the fact that it is no longer summer. We fought its departure for a good while, having enjoyed such a glorious August here in Vermont. We did not want it to end. But: time marches on.

The low autumnal sun blinding us both outside the post office, an acquaintance mentions how weird it got once both her parents had died. October is weird for me. My parents died a few years apart, a few days apart, in October. I don’t mourn them together, I do it separately.

I mourn not having shown my mother enough gratitude over my lifetime. The woman was not thanked enough. I understand that this is not uncommon, but it’s also not okay. A mother said to me, “Oh, we don’t expect a lot of thanks!” But hell if most don’t deserve it … the diapers alone, which to this day I believe fall mostly into the hands (so to speak) of the mothers. I wish I could sit down with Mommy and thank her for every single thing. It would take hours.

I mourn my father’s loss of eyesight years before his death. He was so brave, walking blind to choir rehearsals at night. Once he told me, regarding my politics, that I was “just not that smart.” Well, Fathah, you were just not that smart walking around blind with no indication that you were blind, in a town with elderly motorists with not-great vision of their own! The man gardened and cleaned gutters on ladders, blind. The neighbors thought we were “letting” him do this. He was unstoppable. I’d find an old family photo to mail him and remember suddenly: Wait, he can’t see. Heartbreaking.

Admittedly, I’ve never been good at dates. I tested terribly in Social Studies when it came to dates of battles or peace accords or presidential terms. My own life is a mystery to me in terms of what years I lived where and did what. Parents have it easier, I say, because they can carbon date events based on their kids. (“Tobias was a toddler, so it must have been the early 2000s…”). I don’t even try to remember my life dates any more. I check my resume for that.

But this year at least, perhaps like Dear Reader, I have my parents’ dates of death (“the other DOD”) down cold. I’m going to honor each in some way, on their days. Maybe I’ll read to Fathah from my humble book, which he was so damn proud of though he couldn’t see it, despite a nuclear orange cover. And I’ll make a long list of Mommy’s many talents, presents, and services she provided for decades — undemanding of accolades and improperly compensated for same. I will thank her. It will take hours.

And then I will move on, knowing that if I’m alive in a year I’ll do it again. I endeavor, generally, to be cheery; I feel it’s our duty not to drag others down. I’ll do things that make me happy, and hopefully others. Sing and dance and laugh and goof off. Poke the stick at the tiger. Be fey and surprising and mischievous. Do pranks. Distract others from global unrest, from the miseries of their own lives. Let others do these things for me. Why not? Life is for the living. Those of us that are still here can and must exchange good energy.

To that end: if you’ve been thinking of joining a community chorus, it’s not too late, even if they’ve had 10 rehearsals. Community choruses are very forgiving; there’s always someone who will help you catch up. No auditions!

What I love about a community chorus is it’s like a train pulling out of the station. You’re not positive you really want to do it, so you’re jogging alongside of the train as it pulls out, just in case you decide you want to get on. It starts picking up speed. You have to trot faster as you ponder the pros and cons. You’ve invested a bit of energy and time now, and you’re leaning more towards Yes – just as it’s gaining real velocity and the pressure is mounting (from the other altos, or the person who collects the money). So you decide, ah hell, I might as well see where this thing is going, and you scramble aboard the moving train. You commit.

You meet experienced travelers, along with hacks like yourself. You realize there is no way you are going to pull off 14 songs, the way rehearsal is going. You dump this metaphor.

Rehearsal gets longer. You attend additional, desperate section rehearsals in an effort to pull it together. The director culls the songs you’re really destroying as a group. There’s still some doozies, in Latin or gibberish or a capella or with crazy-weird notes. At the eleventh hour you’re scrambling to learn your parts, which means rote memorization via some quality time with YouTube. You’re practicing in the car, the bathtub, the emergency room, the Port Authority bus terminal.

On the eve of the performance, chorus members are soiling their finery in abject terror at what might go wrong – it’s show time! Then somehow … your beloved, underdog community chorus … knocks it out of the park. You switch metaphors.

It’s a grand slam. The tenors, by God, they’ve learned their part and they’re belting it out, all six of them! The announcer bellows, FREE HOT DOGS FOR THE ENTIRE STADIUM. Your audience goes berserk over the hardest piece, the one the whole chorus never dreamed it could pull off, wondering why the heck the director wouldn’t cut it. The apple comes out. The fans go wild.*

Aren’t you glad you got on that train, Slugger? Good autumn, good mourning, good music making, and good day.

*Only knowers of Shea Stadium will get this reference.

Ann Aikens hosts a radio show, “Mostly Useless Advice,” on WFVR at royaltonradio.org. Her useful book of advice, A Young Woman’s Guide to Life: A Cautionary Tale, is available online and in Vermont shops, the audiobook on Amazon. She has written her Upper Valley Girl column since 1996. Find more of her writing at uppervalleygirl.com; speaking events at annaikens.com.

Remembering the Things that Matter

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Delivering a eulogy for someone you’ve known for decades isn’t easy. There’s a bottomless treasure trove of memories, so it’s hard to select the right ones. The ones that will matter to most of the funeral attendees — or that might matter the most to one person? Or maybe that matter most to you, as a speaker? Without the eulogy going on for like two hours. I bet someone, somewhere has set a record for the longest eulogy. Maybe in other countries or galaxies they are very long indeed.

Recently we held a service for sacred Aunt Natalie. Natalie was not technically our aunt, she was our cousin once removed, the cousin of our father. She grew up in Vermont, became a teacher, married a state trooper, and had my two cousins—I mean second cousins. They were the reason my family visited Vermont, and came to love Vermont for more than just her natural beauty.

O, her seasons, all distinct! The fifth season called Mud Season. Stick Season, when the leaves have fallen off the trees, revealing magnificent textural backdrops – and awful housepaint jobs. Grit Season (when winter’s road-sand blows around after the snow’s gone) and Manure Season (when the entire state is fertilized, to our vegetably anticipation and olfactory dismay). Surely there are sub-seasons involving flora or fauna that Dear Reader relishes. Not Black Fly Season.

Sometimes I’ll be in the middle of one season and flash forward into another season entirely. Do you do this? It’s mind-blowing because Vermont is like a different planet in each. I time-travel to the alternate season and think, “Wow, winter: white!” Or: “Summer…wow.”

As with the seasons, I flash back to years gone by. Younger versions of us, the now-gone people still alive — all laughing — us kids up to some mischief. Feels like yesterday. It blindsides me when I’m driving. I cry. As friend Lee says, “It always seems to happen in the car.” 

Back to the cousins. We visited Vermont because our Scottish great-great-great grandparents, blacksmiths, had settled there. The introduction of the automobile caused my dad’s father to pursue other work, in Ohio, where he met his bride. Their summer trips back to Vermont got my dad hooked on ‘mont. Once a parent himself, he got us kids hooked. Back then, kids didn’t get to choose family vacations (as if!). Thank God our parents chose Vermont.

You visit a place not just for her physical characteristics, but for her people. Think of places you’ve been (Maine, the south, islands, Italy) and the locals there with qualities different from people at home, lending that place its particular flava. 

When even one person leaves the planet, the flava of Earth changes, no? Most of you have lost someone close to you. In my (second) cousins’ vernacular, it’s wicked hard.

My Aunt Natalie was born with a spark. Neighbors, hairdressers, toll booth operators … she left an impression on each. You know how some relatives were old your entire life? Natalie always looked to be 50 years old, even at 80. She always wore shorts. But mostly I recall her sparkle and humor and a kind of innocence that seemed like it was from another era. Because it was.

Swimming with Natalie by moonlight in Silver Lake! As my sister said, she had a way of making the everyday magical. She was a true lover of children. Whether you were you pounding out Grand Old Flag on the piano or had sketched an inscrutable picture of nothingness, she’d exclaim, “BeaUtiful!” She made children feel valuable, which I think many children did not feel in decades past. 

Ah, cousins: the gift of noisy fun. Those classic Thanksgivings, Memorial and Labor Days, and of course The Fourth. Something called “bull beans.” Treks via inner tubes to the Barnard General Store for penny candy. Making a game of anything at all. The parents sending us to Richardson’s with returnable bottles to get them “supplies.” We got candy. 

Countless holidays over countless years, always with music, always with laughter. Ever effusive, Natalie would tell my mother, “You make the BEST salads!” My dad would howl, because what’s really involved in a salad? When it was time for my family to leave Vermont, I would cry and my brother would hide, so that leaving became – briefly – impossible. 

Natalie passed bit by bit from our lives.  But these memories remain forever indelible, of an energetic and vivacious woman so greatly loved.  As Dear Reader knows, we never forget those we adored. Our pain at our loss is a beautiful pain. An honoring. As sad as it makes us.

Thank you, Aunt Natalie, for years and years of fun and art and music and jubilance and adventures and hilarity … and most of all, most of all, for your smile and voice and laugh. 

If Dear Reader knows what I’m talking about, maybe today at some point: look up! Say Hello to your people gone by. Tell them you remember, you remember all of it. That you just know you’ll see them again. Good remembering, and good day.