The absolute highlight of our visit to Indianapolis was spending time with Dave’s aunt Barbara. She is funny, insightful, and a joy to be around. She’s also an accomplished musician, and she just let me know she’s got some concert footage on YouTube.
This is my favorite clip from the set: “Tip the Canoe”.
I’ve been noticing the birds. Maybe they’re returning from the woods (robins) or returning from the south (hawks). Or maybe I’m just more tuned into the sky.
Sandhill Crane Sense of Motion, originally uploaded by Fort Photo.
We drove to Indianapolis Friday evening, and then back on Sunday. On Friday evening there were thunderstorms forecast, and the sky was dramatic with towering cloud formations and ominous contrasts.
We went to visit Dave’s grandparents. A quick visit, and I wasn’t sure what we’d find. Things are changing there. Things are changing closer to home as well – loved family are slipping away into forgetfulness. A bittersweet reminder to cherish each moment, because who knows what’s next.
All the way back we were mostly quiet in the car, and I studied the sky again. I noticed hawks, perched on telephone wires and soaring overhead. I glimpsed a blackbird mobbing a hawk, a lone great blue heron passing overhead, a lone sandhill crane, a killdeer in cropped grass.
Work is busy, family is calling, I’ve got chores at home piled up from a weekend away. Today at work a sparrow clung to the ledge of my fifth-floor window, chirping cheerily. It reminds me of another world outside my own head, and of a big, big sky.
My aunt Mercedes is the organizing force behind the Heinrich family reunions. My mom is one of 5 siblings, and her family is spread out across the US, with my sister’s family forming the southern border in Atlanta, my cousin Donie as the northeastern representative in Weymouth, MA, and my cousins Seamus, Anita, and Willow as the western representatives in Seattle, WA.
Many family members traveled from around the country to this weekend’s reunion in Logansport, Indiana.
I got to see my cousin the lovely, fun, and talented actor, dancer, and comedian Jessie Green for the first time in (likely) over a decade, maybe even a score of years! I got to appreciate in person my aunt Mercedes’ beautiful new line of etched dichroic glass jewelry, and best of all I got to hang with the kiddos, my cousin Drake, and my niece and nephew.
Thanks, Mercedes, for hosting a wonderful reunion!
Last night we were looking for a Shakespeare sonnet at dinner, so I pulled down The Globe Illustrated Shakespeare: The Complete Works, Annotated from the shelf and opened it to discover this inscription
“To my darling Deedee, Xmas ’87. The greatest author in the English language! From the greatest Dad.”
I’m Deedee, my dad has been dead for a decade now, and this still makes me laugh out loud. He’s captured perfectly.
I completely got away with something this year. I gave my husband something that will actually improve my own sanity and well being.
Dave and I get along, but we have pretty different leisure pursuits. He likes first person shooter, sports, and car racing computer games. He also watches some movies and TV shows I think are “too violent”. He’s not a bad guy, and you have to appreciate that I am a very sensitive person. The moment when Bambi’s mom dies in the snow is right on the edge for me. I like yoga, reading, writing, and thinking. I do yoga in the room next to the TV. And we have a cat, so closed doors are not tolerated.
So, even when I’m not in the same room, the sounds of his fun disturb me. I realize if I were enlightened, I wouldn’t notice the sniper fire during my savasana, but until I reach nirvana I require quiet to relax. His leisure pursuits give me an unwelcome background soundtrack of revving engines, squealing tires, or, worse, rat-a-tat machine gun fire and endless repetition of stock phrases. It gets to the point where I walk into the study and plead for no more “fire in the hole!”
Every so often I go on a tirade about this, and he responded by asking for some nice wireless surround sound headphones. I should feel bad about giving him something so obviously for me, but he got himself an XBox 360 for Christmas, so there really wasn’t any way I could compete. Today I had the joy of asking him to please put on his fancy new headphones so I didn’t have to partake in whatever loud thing was happening on the game console.
Wow. Silence. Imagine!
“Never tell them where it hurts. Keep your bullet safe inside.” Richard Buckner, Devotion and Doubt.
I’m a physician’s daughter. Any shred of hypochondria was ridiculed out of me. My dad treated even minor injuries with disrespect.
Dad: “You twisted your ankle? Let me see.” (takes ankle and wrenches it)
Me: (whimpers in pain)
Dad: “Not broken!”
I twisted my ankle a lot on the rock-covered beaches along the Georgian Bay shore. I fell for this re-twisted ankle trick way too many times before I learned that if a limb wasn’t half severed, hanging limply, or obviously disfigured, I shouldn’t bother complaining.
For the most part, I’ve been healthy, so this trained disinterest in my own bumps, bruises, and pain hasn’t been much of a hindrance. When I had a tumor, however, that irritated the nerves in my left hip so much I could no longer walk home a bit over a mile from work, I took way too long to complain loudly enough that the doctors figured out I needed surgery to remove a (completely benign) dermoid tumor the size of a grapefruit. Also, I was really ashamed that my husband needed to pick me up and drive me home when I couldn’t walk. Writing that out sounds pretty ridiculous, but that’s the truth of it. So, I’m working at being a bit kinder to myself.
On the cruise, after a soak in a hot tub on the first night, I was walking back to my towel and shoes when I stepped on something. I reached down to brush a pebble off my foot and I pulled a little wedge of broken ceramic out of the sole of my foot. I tried to walk away, then I noticed I was leaving rather large bloody footprints on the tile. It wasn’t painful, nor was the cut wide, but it was deep and the foot bleeds.
I got the attention of the pool attendant to mop up the circle of bloody prints. She asked if I wanted to go to the medical facility. I thought about it. In the room I had no antiseptic and not even a band aid. She gave me some gauze, and I put it on my foot, got my shoe on and walked down 8 flights of stairs to the medical facility. I had blood all over my right hand and wrist, and I curled my hand so as not to frighten anyone. I think I thought that the elevators would be more “public”.
At the medical facility, the nurses clucked over me, placed my foot into a brown-red soaking liquid and gave me forms to fill out. I gave up my social security number, cabin number, and other numbers. I signed in several places. Yes, I would pay the “after hours” surcharge, yes, I would pay for the doctor visit. A soft spoken doctor arrived, pronounced I didn’t need stitches, taped the wound closed (“do not remove the tape until it falls off, don’t get it wet, shower with a plastic bag over your foot”). He gave me some extra wrapping for my foot, and the next day I got the summary of charges, $173 I could submit to my medical insurance.
I felt grateful for the cleaned and taped up wound, grateful for not having to worry than it was worse than it was, or that neglect would have made it worse than it started out. I felt slightly guilty for the cost, for needing the help. There’s something about the shame and guilt associated with seeking help that makes me secretly wish against my own health – that makes me wish things were worse than they are to merit seeking help. I am getting better at this, I can reason out that seeking help isn’t a sign of weakness, but my emotions have yet to catch up.