Sad berries, beauty berries, always berries

Physical/spiritual: 

life is very strange when we forget or are unable to pry them apart.

I will keep this message from my dear friend, along with the memory of our last visit about elephant jokes and bubble bath toys.  Nancy was very tired, worn out from "this dying gig" that had gone on for so very long.  Still, her quirky sense of humor was intact.  So was her skill at noticing the sublime in the ordinary.  Failing physically, her spiritual center was glowing and inspiring her friends.

Our ice storm began just hours after Nancy posted her email.  All day Tuesday I sent whatever it is I send out to wherever it is I send it requesting that Nancy's spiritual might be pried apart peacefully from her physical.  I tromped through the icy park in the howling wind to take some winter berry photos for her, and had the strangest sensation that she was sending me the berries.

I am grateful to Janie for forming and nurturing our little band of three library junky MOBOs all born in '55.  I am grateful to Steph for suggesting Muriel Barbery's Elegance of the Hedgehog, which prepared me to find "the always within the never".

This is the most true and lovely obituary I have ever read, so I include it almost in its entirety and without any permission whatsoever:

  Rush, Nancy Chandler Passed away peacefully on February 1, 2011, after long illness. Nancy was born on March 17, 1955 in Amarillo, Texas, where she graduated from Tascosa High School. She earned a B.A. in Plan II from the University of Texas at Austin and a law degree from the University of Texas School of Law in 1980. Nancy began her career as an Associate with the Dallas firm, Akin, Gump, Strauss, Hauer and Feld, and was among that first generation of brilliant women to enter prestigious law firms in force. She was admitted to partnership in 1991. Married in 1981, Nancy is survived by her husband David S. White, her children, James D. White, Pfc. Michael J. White, and Pfc. John S. White, her parents ... and a large extended family. Nancy was a devoted member of Greenland Hills United Methodist Church, where she served faithfully in the shared work of worship, education, and mission. She enriched the lives of all she knew. Throughout her illness, Nancy never wavered from knowing in her bones that God is good all the time. Her courage and love for her family and friends inspired us all, especially in her final months. A memorial service celebrating this remarkable spirit will be held on Thursday, 10 am, February 10, 2011...

I Google "tascosa", knowing my ever-curious friend would also want to know if her high school name was related to the Aztec word for "cedar brake", "tascotal".  The Handbook of Texas Online indicates the cowboy town of Tascosa, Texas, was named for Atascosa Creek, and that "atascosa" is Spanish for boggy.  Ground in a cedar brake can become boggy when cedar tree's shaggy bark sheds and covers the ground preventing the growth of other species.  This gives rise to a monoculture, as explained by Dr. Geoffrey Stanford in the Texas Native Plant Society News, Vol. 5, No. 2, March/April 1987 .   

It is easier to Google boggy than to have a good cry celebrating the always within the never of berries.  A coincidence brought me the gift of Nancy's friendship, and I will hold it always in my heart.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Gray, in the nicest way

Thanks to laryngitis and a very overcast weekend, I'm feeling amazingly relaxed. Between attending workshops and substituting at the library this was the first free Saturday I've had since mid-June. My recent Sundays have been busy with the symphony or opera or volunteering, plus the requisite laundry.

Taking a sick day Friday wasn't part of the relaxation plan, but twelve hours of sleep really turned my cold around. The grayness made it easy to repeat with another twelve hours of sleep the next night.

My outings were to the store for Fresca and chicken soup ingredients, and to pick up the new novel by Steph Kallos. The only noise was the ocasional steam escape thump of the crockpot lid.

Today was gray again, and I just assumed it was still chilly. Finally thought to go pick up my mail, and was surprised to find it warmer outside than in.

© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder

Assisted living is completely wasted on the elderly

College provides us with our very best and most appreciated napping opportunities. College students value naps. They tweak their napping performance. They seek out heightened napping experiences. They nap-train for both time and distance. We will not even ponder how they season and spice their nap creations.

Toddlers and preschoolers mostly resent their naps as a conspiracy by exhausted grown-ups. Old folks don't even appreciate that they have been snoring the afternoon away on a major nap they don't remember.

Parents of toddlers, preschoolers, and college students wish it was their turn for rolling up in a Smurf comforter and listening to a Raffi tape. Middlish-aged children of snoring old folks envy the chance to doze off sitting straight up in the wheelchair.

Assisted living: A small apartment with staff to help you put on your socks and change your sheets. Your own tiny kitchen and a dining room where you can order off the menu. Managing your investments online and a Texas line-dancing club. My walker is better than your walker. Someone to drive you to appointments. Time to wonder what driver the pro will use on his tee shot.

Dad doesn't want to move to assisted living. I do. When can I start?

In the next novel by Stephanie Kallos there will be a character partially named after my dad. I don't know if the character will be in assisted living. Being in fictional living is good, too. Now, then, it's time for my nap.

© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder

Who do you read?

Last couple of weeks I've read books by two of my favorite authors, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, age 78, and E. L. Doctorow, now 74. The March.

I guess I go for older guys. George MacDonald Fraser is 79, and his wonderful creation, Sir Harry Flashman was born in 1822. Don DeLillo is about seventy. Just two young pups, Ron Hansen was born in Omaha in 1947, and Carl Hiaasen is only 52. My dad and I share our birthday with Ted Kooser, who is 66.

Bo Diddley is 77.

I walk 47 miles of barbed wire,
I use a cobra-snake for a necktie,
I got a brand new house on the roadside,
Made from rattlesnake hide,
I got a brand new chimney made on top,
Made out of a human skull,
Now come on take a walk with me, Arlene,
And tell me, who do you love?

Who do you love?
Who do you love?
Who do you love?
Who do you love?

Who do you read?

Don't know what it means, but my favorite female authors are close to my age. Louise Erdrich is 51. Barbara Kingsolver and Steph Kallos are fifty, which is a whole lot younger than it used to be.

Edgar Laurence Doctorow is a pretty scary name for a boy born during the Great Depression. The March is interesting, but less memorable than Ragtime, Billy Bathgate, and my favorite World's Fair.

Love In the Time of Cholera is still my favorite by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. I can't imagine his books as plays or movies. I hope they will become compelling, steamy, magical, modern and timeless operas!