putting up the tree . . .

I could have written about so many things tonight but, in the spirit of simple pleasures, putting up the Christmas tree bubbled up to the top of the list.

This is no small feat, having the tree up and decorated the Saturday after Thanksgiving.  After two consecutive years of two-week-long, if that, wonders (AKA having the tree up and decorated), it's almost a minor miracle!  Of course there were reasons for both years' late arrivals and early departures, difficult reasons that demanded that Christmas this year be easier somehow. Putting up the tree is a beginning . . .

As I struggled with where did I pack the stand and the rug and the angel topper?--sensible packing decisions once I retraced my mental steps--I had an idea!  Why not photograph this solitary ritual of mine, tell through pictures the story of how this tree came to be?

The first solitary ritual tree--a Norfolk Island pine that long-ago Christmas of 1994--had nine foil paper cranes (one lost her way four Christmases ago . . .), a rocking horse, a ceramic snowflake studded with flowers, a pair of miniature bears (Hallmark's "Friends need a Hug") . . .  Only one of this year's ornaments predates that most difficult and loneliest of Christmases . . .  The silver ball with the pink rose first hung on a family Christmas tree when I was two . . . 

Each ornament has a story, a meaning.  The collection has evolved over time, mostly through gifts from others . . . 

May Christmas this year be a time of joy and wonder, a maker of treasured memories . . .

remembering a king and an earl . . .

1976
"The Treasures of Tutankhamun" exhibition opens in Washington, D.C., to a record-breaking crowd of five million, before moving to Chicago, New Orleans, Los Angeles, Seattle, and New York.
http://www.neh.gov/whoweare/timeline.html
National Endowment for the Humanities

It was January, one of those Virginia wintry days when the trees from the Parker Mountain farmhouse to Washington’s Smithsonian were treacherous:wondrous ice-clad marvels, the stuff of which fairy-tale illustrations are made. For me, that day was to be a fairy-tale dream come true.

My fascination with mythology paralleled my fascination with outer space in my adolescent and teen years. The names of those other-world gods and of those other-world planets and moon and stars and months and days that bore their names . . . I knew them all. I discovered the pyramids of Egypt—and the tomb of its boy-pharaoh—at about the time that I discovered academic writing. My first ever research “paper” was about King Tut. And now, on that coldest day of a new year, I would place myself in the presence of Tutankhamen’s earthly treasures, those which believers in other gods had once set aside for their boy-king's journey into the afterlife.

How strange then that—among the throughtheyears ghostly memories of my baby boy in his stroller as we waited in the long-lines cold, of ice skaters twirling on a frozen outdoor rink, of either the remnants or the preparation for someone’s inauguration, of Tutankhamen’s awe-inspiring treasures—the one memory from that day that is yet crystal clear is that of a cup of tea!

I think it was in the cafeteria of the National Gallery of Art, though I have no memory of art that day other than the contents of that cup of tea. I could not tell you of bergamot other than its magic . . . that day, and so, so, so  many wintry (and not so wintry) days since.

Earl Grey tea and King Tutankhamen’s treasures . . . what a day full of simple pleasures that was . . . at a time in my life when simple pleasures meant the world . . .

Almost time to brew a second mug of tea. I was “out”—not of tea (I have become quite the collector over the years) but of Earl Grey—until this afternoon . . . This afternoon, I also placed an Amazon.com order for White Chocolate Kisses, Cherry Vanilla, Vanilla Caramel, and something with eggnog in its name? Yes, tea. Six-pack boxes of tea bags—some for Christmas bags and stockings but, yes, many for me.

But none, much as I enjoy each of them and will enjoy those yet to be discovered, will ever displace the memory of that magical moment, that first sip, Earl Grey . . .

on "having the courage of [my] convictions" . . .

Of all the advice that my mother has given me over the years, this is the one I most associate with her, the one that I have truly made my own. I remember thinking as a child, adolescent, teen, young adult that what she really meant was that I should have the courage of her convictions. She probably did . . . But, from the time I first stood up for what I deeply believed (I was five), I have drawn strength from my own.

My father always took time from work to vote on election day. He always voted--with the exception of DDE (Daddy couldn't find it in himself to vote for a divorced man)--Democrat . . . straight party ticket, or at least that is what I've always believed. My mother's example shaped me more. She did not become an American citizen until I was in college--and we still agree on almost nothing political in nature--but I was moved, even as a child, with her voting--absentee ballot and always making sure we saw her example--in the French elections. Charles de Gaulle was her hero . . . as John F. Kennedy would be, ever so briefly, mine.

Which brings me, I guess, to the topic of this commentary--election politics. An unseemly topic for a blog devoted to simple pleasures . . . but I've always managed somehow to salvage a moment of simple pleasure in knowing that I have had, in the privacy of that voting booth, the courage of my convictions. Courage to vote according to my beliefs--not those of, usually, the vocal majority. Courage to vote for the welfare of us all, born and unborn--not just for my own.

Which is why I need to write this today, two days before yet another election . . .

I often choose to define myself through quoting what respected others have said. The quotes below reflect my thinking as I choose--no straight party tickets for me, though my choice of quotes will surely lead to predictable labels for my thinking--the candidates I believe best equipped, in terms of their beliefs and values, to shape the best world possible for us all.

The words are theirs. The bold is mine . . .

Ebenezer: But it was only that you were an honest man of business!
Jacob Marley: BUSINESS? Mankind was my business! Their common welfare was my business!

We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.

I rarely talk politics. I do talk often and passionately about the beliefs on which my voting decisions are grounded. I rarely talk religion. I do talk often and passionately about the values on which my spiritual life is grounded.

I am rarely judgmental--unless in the presence of those who judge others--but I was deeply offended yesterday. I rarely watch mainstream TV but there was a football game I wanted to see so . . . a predictable clash of basic needs. The trade-off for watching two teams with their hearts in the game work their way through four quarters was to endure the negative political ads that filled every break.

I found myself wondering if not being out there touting my candidates of choice is akin to not having the courage of my convictions . . . if I should do and say more than I do in my quiet private voting booth moment in time. So here it is . . .

My ideal candidate is the unassuming visionary, a man (or woman) of the people.

The final piece of the this year's gubernatorial puzzle fell into place for me at a local festival this summer. The candidates cast themselves for the event as beauty queen (sitting high in a convertible, waving at her fans and surrounded by her entourage of propaganda distributors) and man of the people (walking the parade path alone [he had to have an entourage somewhere but they blended in too well to be noticed], shaking hands). Vincent Sheheen held me in the palm of his hand that day. He has my vote.

The final piece of this year's superintendent of education puzzle fell into place long before the primaries. Holleman's is the vision too many have lost in their quest to quantify academic excellence, in their efforts to equate results with standardized test performance. He also understands that putting public education first is essential to the common welfare of our children. (NOTE: I am, with the exception of my last three years of high school, a product of private schools. As a young adult, I chose--not just for financial reasons though that reality cannot be discounted--to enroll my three children in public schools [two attended state universities in other states] and to further my own education at a state university. I chose to devote my professional life to public education. I chose this path because I believe it is everyone's responsibility, mine included, to ensure that all children have access to a quality education. In today's challenging world, it will take all of us--our combined vision and resources--to make that assurance possible.)

There! I've done it! Gone on public record two days before an election to say, in indelible internet ink, how I will vote in the privacy of Tuesday's polling booth. Is this anything like having the courage of [my] convictions?

One last comment on convictions and courage . . .

I have the conviction that ours is government of the people, by the people, and for the people. I have the courage to accept the choice of the people on Tuesday and to do my best to make a difference in whatever world those leaders shape. And I will find some sense of satisfaction--simple pleasures--in continuing to live my life in just this way . . .

Pristine . . .

I was sim-ply trying to add this im-age as my G-mail signa ture, hon-est! And, as it so often does,
my building frustration morphed itself into creative solution-making attempts and somehow landed here in the shape of yet another blog post . . .

I suppose I should tell the rest of the story--at least the public version--while I'm here . . .

That this photo exists is nothing sort of miraculous, in my opinion.  Years and years and a lifetime ago, when I was without a home (a rented condo, even one with a lake view, is not a home in my opinion), I bought three roses.  These were to be my front-steps-planters garden, faithful greeters of my weary soul after too-long, too-weary days of trying to sort out who I was and how to make my way to someday. . .

The first of these was Peace.  And Peace was the first to succumb to the overabundance of shade and tree roots in her new garden home in the haven I now call home.  I've replaced her . . . maybe three times?  The only Peace rose that has survived me, though, is the lovely cross-stitched blossom my mother gifted me with one Christmas.  A beautifully symbolic gift, given its history and hers and ours . . .So Peace now graces one wall of my dining room, blooming eternally where family comes together in those blessedly peaceful days between Christmas and New Years . . .

The second rose was Brigadoon.  I must admit that the name entranced me, bringing back fond memories of a movie of that name and of the friend I shared it with that long-ago college evening . . .  But I have since come to admire Brigadoon most for her courage to survive, to gift me with a single bloom each spring, each bloom more glorious than the last, as if she knows it will be her last.  For most of her life she has been a single stem, significantly eaten away at its base the last several of those years. Brigadoon bloomed for me this spring . . . as the trees above her were leafing out.

But Pristine, the third of these long-ago roses, did not . . .  And I thought, in the throes of midsummer's challenges, that she had moved on before I could let go of that elusive . . . hope? . . . that her survival represented.  So I let go, drifted, moved on, moved on again, lived as I was meant to live . . . I thought.

One bearably warm late August afternoon, I retreated with mountains of schoolwork to the back porch hammock swing.  Not sure how long I rocked and read before . . . I saw . . . her perennial, her pristinely beautiful gift to me . . .

?

things to be happy about: a Yuletide addendum

76. having seven vehicles parked in the drive and on the lawn
77. not being the only heart beating under your roof at night
78. having your granddaughter ask to borrow your clothes
79. having more mouths to feed than settings of silverware or china
80. spending all day in the kitchen and not even minding
81. spending days cleaning the house in preparation for utter chaos (and is it ever!)
82. losing everything except your mind!
83. relearning that Goo-Gone gets butter and bacon splatters out of the clothes you knew you shouldn't have worn to cook in

84. walking the dam with your granddaughter on a wintry afternoon
85. simple gifts--your daughter's PhotoStory video of shared summer memories or your no wrapping paper needed goody boxes or your mother's four pineapple upsidedown cakes--bringing simple pleasures to all

are u ready for Santa???

I guess not many of us would choose to take a cool and cloudy Christmas Eve walk across a dam . . . One of the zillion and one white-headed old guys who walk that dam, thinking, I've always assumed, that this will make a meaningful difference in their lives, stopped in front of me today.

The conversation (if you can call it a conversation) went like this:
He: Are you ready for Santa?
Me: Yes, are you?
He: Christmas is a day just like any other . . .

I didn't miss a step . . . kept right on walking . . .

Don't mess with Christmas, not with me!

The "Yes, Virginia" letter speaks to and from my soul, as it always has.

Santa is the worldly embodiment of unconditional love, of hope beyond reason--and of these offerings of self being returned in kind.

Christmas is synonymous with "believe".

Christmas is the time of year I can be myself and not seem a fool.

For those who are unable to recognize or embrace unconditional love, who feel compelled to question hope beyond reason--for those who are slow to belive what they cannot know or see . . . this is my wish. May each of your days be Christmas Day. . .

goody boxes . . . or simple pleasures reprise

When we were struggling to provide our young family with the basics, my mother would often gift us with "goody boxes"--school supplies, candy, the simple frills of everyday life. They meant a lot, those gifts of hers . . .





This Christmas, in an effort (in vain, but an effort nonetheless) to return to the simpler Christmases of yore, I announced that I would be giving family members "goody boxes" this year in lieu of big ticket items. And I am . . .




I especially have enjoyed finding just the right box, or bag--most with uses beyond the temporary holding of a gift--for each recipient. No wrapping paper or bows or even tags needed . . . just the occasional sheet of tissue to shield contents from inquisitive young eyes or to pad empty spaces, buffer fragile items . . . The contents? Not all that different from other years except that thinking in terms of many just right simple items rather than one impressive one was more like the Christmas in my memory--my childhood, those of my children . . .




goody boxes . . . I'm smiling . . .

once upon a time . . . or not?

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly

All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see

All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to be free
Blackbird fly, blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night

Blackbird fly, blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly

All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
You were only waiting for this moment to arise

of healing . . .

It's been 40 years since I lost my father to cancer . . . six years since my child embarked on a cancer survivor's journey . . . I've bought and displayed the showy purple ribbon, donated to cancer research, worn the t-shirt, decorated a luminary or two. What I could never bring myself to do, until this year, was to join, with others like me, others whose lives have been changed by that "C' word, to remember and to honor those who have fought the good fight for living and dying well . . .

I did not purchase or decorate a luminary this year. But, for the first time (forgive me, Daddy), I chose to celebrate my survivor child by joining a Relay for Life Team. The experience was a healing one in many ways--rediscovering old friends whose lives had also been touched in this way, walking and walking and walking and walking some more, sending prayers up to heaven on purple balloon ribbons . . . But, most of all, in the quiet dark of night, reflecting in the flickering candlelight presence of those gone before us and those still with us . . .

Elysium . . .

From first memory, I have been enchanted by the bittersweet love story of Orpheus and Eurydice. The twists and turns of Orpheus' journey to the Underworld in search of his lost-to-this-life love--finding her at last only to lose her once again--have blurred over the years . . . I have often wondered where, in this story of love lost, found, and lost again, Gluck's haunting "Minuet and Dance of the Blessed Spirits" belonged.

Today I went in search of that answer: Elysium. When Orpheus is at last granted passage into the Underworld, he is taken to Elysium, where the blessed spirits of the good and the heroic spend their eternity. It is there, as he searches for Eurydice, who must eventually be found and brought to him, that a solo flute speaks of love and pain, hope and loss, joy and grief . . .

I was reminded of the importance of faith--unconditional faith, trust, hope, love--in rereading their story. If they had only believed--each in the other's love, in their collective ability to survive the test of separation, of parallel journeys--they would have once again been together this side of Elysium . . .

If only . . .

The Age of Innocence

I'm wondering why I listed this under favorite books in my profile when it must have been the movie I remembered . . .

I have a copy of the book, somewhere, and have just ordered the movie DVD--but, without my Kindle and the scattered free hours of this last week, I doubt I would have (re)read this American classic beginning to end.

All I had remembered was the end--his walking away from her--not the why. How could he walk away from what might yet be, choosing instead a solitary retreat to his imagined world of what might have been?

I have lived on the fringes of that age of innocence, imagined worlds, known people who don't want to know, and more.

Too much the risk-taker to live comfortably in the age of innocence, I suppose . . .

Footnote: The movie was no more comfortable than the book. I have removed both from my list of favorites . . .

Simple Pleasures: a story

Every blog has a story. This is the story of how Simple Pleasures came to be and still is . . .

Three years ago, I might not have been able to tell you what a blog is. I’d heard of them, I know, because, when Jamie suggested I create a blog, I had some idea of what he meant.

Christie was on call that Saturday morning in June 2006, Cassie arrival was several weeks in our future, and I was spending quality time with Jamie, who was probably in the middle of one of his forever home improvement projects, and with Michael, who was two. Whatever the catalyst, our talk drifted from how to keep our out-of-state relatives current with photos of children who seem to grow up overnight to why didn’t I create a blog and post pictures there. Jamie helped me set up a blog on what was then blogger.com.

The first two photos—Michael on the slide (his not-yet-arrived sister was to master the “big” slide first, before she was two) and Michael in the box (they were both “box children” two Fridays ago)—were Jamie’s, not mine. The first photo of Michael with Cassie—their first meeting a month late—wasn’t mine either. I’m the hand keeping him from tumbling off the hospital bed :-) But I’ve taken and posted and sometimes blogged about more than my share of family photos since.

The blog’s name came with its repurposing the next February. I was enrolled in a writing class—required training for my work—where the assignment was to create a multigenre memoir. At the time, I also took several days’ leave to stay with my mother who was recovering from back surgery. On daffodil-cheered and contrail-inspired neighborhood walks in the small southern town where I grew up, I tugged on memories and, one day, remembered my dormant blog. And decided I would write my memories of simple pleasures there . . .

Simple Pleasures soon assumed a life all its own. I've used the blog, when teaching graduate courses in writing and in technology, as an example of how we may meld both in order to capture, to pass on to others what matters most in our lives. I've used it to process, as writers do, my innermost self. I've used it to hold time fast, to make sense of the world around me. I've used it to play with language, to prove to myself that others’ faith in my writing gift has some merit. And always, because I know that to be a writer I must be able to face and to tell the truth, I write who and where I am at each published moment in time.

The blog came full circle last week when I/we used it to craft the stories that would be compiled into Kimberly’s First 20 Years scrapbook. At some point a couple of years ago, we decided to make Simple Pleasures a family venture. Somehow Jamie, whose brainchild this blog was in its beginning, has yet to find, and accept, his emailed invitations to join us on the contributors’ list. But the door is forever open.

Simple Pleasures has spin-offs—one a spoof of sorts on my ongoing love affair with technology and the other (only one entry anyone but me is allowed to read . . . yet) is my thinking about why I am not a writer.

Many read but few comment, at least not here. I’ve been told that some of you don’t know what to say in response to my entries. Oooooh, does that mean I may be a writer after all?

Come back often. Read. Enjoy. And, if so moved, let me know your thinking about my thinking . . .

Jamie's tribute to Kimberly :-)

Subject:
Re: Kimberly's tribute
Date:
4/18/2009 10:36:54 P.M. Eastern Daylight Time
Mommy,

I logged in and looked everywhere to see where to post an entry to the blog. I see Christie is a contributor, but I do not appear in the list. I may just be too tired to figure it out. Anyway, here is the bat story, too late to include but told for posterity:

We moved to Jessamine Road when Kimberly was 8, Michelle 6, and I was 2. It was a three bedroom house, so of course Kimberly as the oldest got her own room and I shared a room with Michelle. We all lived there for 10 years (16 actually :-), so I lived there longer than I have lived anywhere, and I have fond memories of my time growing up there playing/fighting/bothering my sisters.

I have three stories from that time that for some reason really stuck with me:

1. Initially, whenever our parents went out by themselves we had a babysitter stay with us (no grandparents just minutes away). Eventually however, Kimberly was deemed old enough and responsible enough to allow her to stay home with Michelle and I without a babysitter. It was during this time that I remember coming home from school and being forced to watch General Hospital instead of cartoons because Kimberly and Michelle were bigger and stronger than I was. However, we were not supposed to watch TV at all without an adult in the house, so invariably Daddy would come home, feel the TV, and pronounce that we had broken the rules because the TV (a big picture tube) was still hot! I think Kimberly and Michelle probably shared the corners on opposite sides of the front door in the foyer for that one--I had already been punished by being forced to watch that silly stuff to begin with!

2. As siblings, we all fought each other from time to time. However, one day in particular I remember Kimberly and Michelle were fighting in Michelle's room really badly and I was upset and wanted them to stop so they would not hurt each other. I had the fabulous idea of throwing a snow globe at them to make them stop. I succeeded in taking a chunk out of the back of Michelle's head (I think it was her) and did in fact stop the fight. I know it was wrong, but I never remember them fighting like that again!

3. Finally, at some point in time I grew to the point that sharing a room with Michelle did not make a lot of sense. So Kimberly moved into a MFROG (Mostly Finished Room Over Garage). She had a white four poster bed, a linoleum floor, and lots of closets under the eaves of the house. However, since she was upstairs, one wall of her room was next to the attic door and the attic fan. Unfortunately for her, at one point bats managed to work their way into our attic through a whole in a screen in an attic vent. This led to the following inevitable story. One night we were all sleeping soundly when Kimberly woke up screaming. We all ran to her room and were informed that there was a bat flying around in her room that had woken her up. We (well not me--bats are scary for kids) went upstairs and looked all over for the bat, which was nowhere to be found. After checking everywhere and making sure the attic was closed up tight, we all headed back to bed. Kimberly went to get into bed and screamed again, as the bat flew out from under her covers where it had been stuck after she had flung her covers back to run out of her room the first time. I was still at the bottom of the stairs and probably screamed myself as the bat proceeded to swoop down the stairs toward me. Needless to say, it was difficult for all of us to go to sleep again that night!

Ultimately, I looked up to both of my sisters and saw them both aspire to do great things. This encouraged me to try things myself and not give up just because things were not easy. I now know that this aspiration is a key ingredient that separates leaders from followers, and as a manager of a team of people, I know how important it is to always try harder, always try to improve, never wait for someone else to tell you what to do next!!!

Love,
Jamie

Christmas at Mama's: 1976

For Jamie and Michelle, this would be their one Christmas Day at Mama's house--that last winter we lived in the Virginia mountains outside Charlottesville. But for Kimberly, who spent her first two Christmases here healing Mama's heart after Granddaddy Owens died, this Christmas was about coming home . . .

Like the angel on her white Christmas stocking, Kimberly was our hope on the darkest of days, in the darkest of times . . .


Above the mantle in this picture hung a portrait of her grandfather. There are no pictures of Kimberly with Granddaddy Owens--except the one in my memory.

It's a July afternoon in 1969. Daddy's sitting on one of those folding lawn chairs on the brick patio just outside the room pictured here, holding his first grandchild in his lap . . . I so want to snap that picture, for her, but I know he would want, in her created memory, to be the man in that portrait above the mantle. So I put the camera, and the wish, away--but never, ever, the memory of that July afternoon in 1969.

a home song

I find it interesting that this evening, for the second time in as many springs, I'm relieved to learn that I have not been "selected" for a professional opportunity. Both might have offered additional financial security--a position more immune from budget cuts or a second income to bolster rainy day accounts. But, even in this unsettling economy and with retirement on the not-too-distant horizon, I'm loving where I am. Maybe I reach out for those other possibilities just to ensure that I don't become complacent, lose my edge? Or maybe this is my Everest: I reach out because the opportunity is there?

Whatever the reason, both rejections gifted me back precious summer weeks I would have lost to work. And today, after two glorious afternoon hours puttering in my wilderness but wannabe well-groomed yard, I was especially grateful that I had not traded my summer for financial security before realizing, once again, how much this annual tussle with nature is an inherent part of who I am.

64. Happy 11th anniversary, home of mine! Looks like we'll be spending much of our sweet slow summer days together again after all :-)

I'm smiling. Are you?

third wall . . .

We as adults have too many walls. I know they are often meant to protect us, but I am finding letting them fall can leave you vulnerable to the occasional attack, and I’m sure will lead to some pain. But I also find that without walls, the radiance of the world around us can finally reach us – as the warmth of the sun can only do when you are outside.

I have this thing about walls . . . so this piece in today's email from a family member touched quite a chord . . . Walls--inside and outside of me. Walls I touch. Walls I build. Walls I let down, only to rebuild, piece by broken piece, to wall out the pain, to shelter the memories I want to hold close . . .

Almost two generations ago, when poetry was my release, my healer, I penned these concluding thoughts . . .

End?
Not end.
Third wall awaits,
But where?
I did not know--
Two walls suffice for weary eyes;
Four walls is house and home.
Third wall is deciding.
When?
Tomorrow.

I could not have better predicted my life . . .

of Yo-Yo Ma and Robert Frost . . .

I wasn't prepared for the emotion. The parallels between our new President and my childhood hero, JFK, were evident, even without media input. While I might only vicariously understand what it means to have an African-American inaugurated President of our great land, I could, those long years ago, appreciate firsthand, as I watched Kennedy's inauguration with my Catholic boarding school classmates, what it meant to have a Catholic inaugurated President of our great land. I am still that true child of the '60's who welcomes change, bites her tongue (but not as often as she should), eschews to-do lists, boundaries, routines . . . And who is moved by the music of language, the language of music.

Robert Frost and I share a birthday, but he was part of me long before I knew that. Today, as I watched Obama's inauguration, my woods were filling up with snow. I live the litany of miles to go before I sleep, of promises to keep. My roads, too, diverged in a yellow wood. Like Frost, I have almost always taken the one less travelled by, choices that have, indeed, made all the difference . . .

My clearest firsthand memory (the others have been multiply revised by time and media replays) of Kennedy's inauguration is of Frost reading his poem. I forget, until reminded by a Google search or other prompt, that the poem he read--that he recited from memory, actually--was not the one he wrote for that occasion. That the sun on the snow that January 20th morning forty-eight years ago was too much for his frail vision .

[Robert Frost Reads Poem at JFK's Inauguration: January 20, 1961
http://www.americaslibrary.gov/cgi-bin/page.cgi/jb/modern/frost_1 ]

It wasn't the poetry who touched me today. It was the music. Just a few short months ago, I discovered (and blogged here about) Yo-Yo Ma's version of Simple Gifts. Yo-Yo Ma was/is my new favorite musician, courtesy of his rendition of Gabriel's Oboe which seriously challenges Galway's version as one of my all-time musical selections . . . As with Frost all those long winters ago, I was, today, witness to a performance that is sure to ring crystal clear in memory long after the sights and rhetoric of the day are overwritten by time and media replays.

'Tis a gift to be simple,
'Tis a gift to be free,
'Tis a gift to come down where we ought to be,
And when we find ourselves in the place just right,
It will be in the valley of love and delight.

the faces of me . . .

or what family and colleagues saw in me this Christmas . . .

created in Wordle, btw . . .

remember . . .

I have lived long enough to have my own memories of November 22, 1963.

This year, on that anniversary day and hour, I was absorbed in the memories of those gone before me, memories of other lost heroes . . .

listen!