Many Doings

Here is an aging horse, bent with weary time, with his blushing young charges.

Dear, dearie me, I say like Papa Panov. Where has the time gone?

This morning Elspeth and I tottered down our rickety steps and began to save the poor potted plants on the deck, pruning geraniums mercilessly in some effort to save them for overwintering in the house. The weather reins warm for October still, soaring happily into the 80's during the day, but a possible freeze shivers in the near future, perhaps Monday.
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As a white candle
In a holy place,
So is the beauty
Of an aged face.
(Joseph Campbell: The Old Woman)

Every time we visit Grandpa and Grandma Irene, I am struck by this feeling: This is the way things were meant to be! With the very old and ill beside the young and slightly wild with energy! Elspeth brings Grandpa to life, a man who sleeps much of the day, medicated for Parkinson's. His life is filled with the gentleness of my Grandma Irene, who cares for him daily with humor and tenderness. Workers from Hospice drop by on a regular basis.

When Merry visits, she plays nurse, bringing Grandpa his medicine and bolting out hymns at his bedside in her powerful child's voice. Elspeth touches his face, waves coyly, and eats beside him at the table. When we drive out the short three hours to Ohio, everyone seems to think that we are doing my Grandpa a favor--but they are mistaken. We receive far more from that house than we could ever give--we come away touched by grace that reaches beyond understanding, grace that is patient and truly kind, and at its very center throbs with love. I feel sorry that this is not part of our dailiness, this sharing, and I chalk it up to the imperfect sort of world we dwell in, where those we love are scattered like autumn leaves across a wide expanse, where those we long to touch daily are out of reach.

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So last weekend we visited with Grandpa, Grandma Irene, and my mother, ate inordinate amounts of cake and pie, and arrived home in time for my class to troop over to our house on Monday evening. While I have certainly enjoyed the students in my class, the responsibility of a mere weekly class weighs on my schedule in a rather heavy way, limiting me from staying over the weekend at my Grandpa's, for instance. How I chafe against responsibility of the scheduled, inflexible sort!

In other news, I am considering knocking holes in the kitchen to let in more sunlight. We have no money to hire adequate help and I am slightly terrified of knocking out 100-year-old plaster walls and masonry, a fear that Martin believes is warranted and present for a purpose. (I will not knock holes in the walls, I will not knock holes in the walls.) But I am very, very tempted, especially as I spend almost all day in the kitchen, and it is practically the darkest room in the whole house. I cannot say whether the midwinter doldrums might not press me to insane measures and the swinging of a sledgehammer. . .

Is it the mellowing weather? The leaves on the ficus tree fading to yellow? The walnut tree dropping its bulbous fruit? The blood-red cardinal craning its neck over a fading sunflower? I'm missing old but lovely friends: Tim and Lindsay, I dreamt about you last night; Kurt Cole, wish we could see your brave face. Why are you all, all of you, so very far away?