A Storm of Grief

The summer storm we had this afternoon seemed to reflect the emotions we have been feeling since Marilyn's brother Mo disappeared.  We found out late on June 6 that Mo had been missing since June 3.  Then followed twelve agonizing days, days of talking with patient and skilled county detectives, of looking at satellite maps to plan a search of the nearby tree lines, and walking some of the tree lines ourselves with Marilyn's younger brother, John, and sister, Kate, who flew in from Virginia to help.  And not finding Moey.

This afternoon’s storm felt like it arrived suddenly—like Moey’s disappearance.  The wind whipped the lavender and tore through the trees.  And then the rain came.  Heavy, loud rain that temporarily flooded flower beds where the soil had been caking in the dry heat.  It was a relief.  The noise, the strength of it, the disruption of it felt like the news of Mo’s death.   

We received that news, like the news of his disappearance, also after ten at night, also while sitting on the couch, up past our usual bedtime because Marilyn was off from work.  This phone call brought relief and heaving sobs.  The not knowing had ended. 

But so had the hope.  He really was gone now.  The detectives had found his body in the woods--not the woods we'd been searching in--during a training exercise, and he had died by suicide.  He had chosen to leave.  We could no longer imagine him walking up his driveway one day and getting in his truck.  He was gone.

The storm today left the air cool, the plants drenched.  I’m hoping it’s a metaphor for our grief.   Maybe, after this storm we are in, where sometimes the tears are so many, we can’t see, maybe after this, we will find peace like the cool air after the rain today. 

 

 

Comforts of Cooking

This morning, I made blueberry and apple pancakes and then was able to wash the dishes in the kitchen sink--the first time after the kitchen remodel. On tough days, making pancakes grounds me, and making them for Marilyn helps me feel even better. We still have no word of Marilyn's brother, Mo, who has been missing for more than two weeks. I expect I'll be making pancakes often.

Just what I needed

Yesterday around noon, while walking in the prairie, I came across these white flowers along a fence. Their peaceful beauty was just what I needed.

(If you know what these flowers are called, please let me know.)

Transformations

Last Monday evening, I submitted grades for the spring semester. On Tuesday morning, contractors, carpenters, and electricians crowded in our kitchen to begin work on our (partial) remodel.

Such projects used to generate great anxiety in me. All the loud noise suggested our house might break. (It is made of wood, after all, not the brick and mortar I grew up with.) Besides, did we really need all that change? Wasn't it wasteful? Unnecessarily stressful?

Also, I'm not handy, notwithstanding all the stereotypes about lesbians. I can't do much more than hang up a picture. So projects like these require that I trust others with my security, my haven: our home.

We found contractors we trust completely, New Prairie Construction, and last fall we let them gut our downstairs guest bath and replace it with a lovely new one with a toilet that uses less water and a shower with a bench and grab bars; that shower will see us into old age.

I helped coordinate that project and survived it. And now I'm coordinating our kitchen remodel. I have decided where to place new LED lights, have tensed briefly when I've heard the electricians yelling (I relaxed when it was clear no one was electrocuted--our baseboard didn't fare as well, but that will be repaired), and have had the joy of choosing glass light fixtures and patterned ceramic tiles.

Yes, I guess I am enjoying this project. As I head out of town for a few days, I feel like a parent who wants to relish the break but worries she hasn't left quite enough instructions with the babysitter--and will miss the baby.

Below are some photos from the past couple of weeks.

We chose this faucet after I emailed Marilyn photos of several from the plumbing supply store.  How smartphones have changed our lives.

I graded many, many papers at this counter.  I am excited about the new one, which will be quartz but will look like marble.

The blue on the left is the glass of the pendant light that will hang above the kitchen table.  The small, blue ceramic tile will go on the wall under a marble tile backsplash.

Then the countertop was gone.

The tiles for above the stove.

Choosing the grout for the floor.  So many decisions!

Ebertfest 2013

             I learned of Roger’s death from a text I received from my sister-in-law.  I had just arrived at Café Kopi that afternoon to grade a pile of papers.  I went up to the counter and waited until Paul, Kopi’s owner, had served the customer in front of me, and then asked, “Did you hear that Roger Ebert died?”

            “Yeah.”  Someone from the local paper had just told Paul.

            “It’s so strange.  Hard to believe.  Ebertfest is supposed to be on soon,” I gestured in the direction of the newly restored Virginia Theatre two blocks away, where the fifteenth annual Roger Ebert’s Film Festival was to begin in two weeks.  “Well, I’ll be back to place my order in a minute.” 

            “You just wanted to tell someone?” Paul smiled.

            “Yes, so it would feel real.  I know he was sick, but still.”

            Paul nodded.

            When Chaz, Roger’s wife, announced that Ebertfest would go on as planned, my partner, Marilyn, and I were thrilled and relieved—as I’m sure were hundreds of other festival regulars.

            (Chaz.  Roger.  That’s how festival goers refer to these celebrities, even if they have never had a chat with them in person.  Even the festival guests, even the superstars, are drawn into the intimacy.  This year, we had Tilda [Swinton], with her film Julia. 

Chaz Ebert, Tilda Swinton, and festival director Nate Kohn chat after Julia.

            “Did Tilda make it in?” we’d ask, after Jack Black was kept away by weather too stormy for flying.  He was with us by phone though to discuss his role in Bernie).

            At the festival, interesting conversations occur in the line at the restroom.  On Saturday, after the screening of Escape from Tomorrow, a young woman in the restroom doorway said to all who could hear, “Does anyone know what it was we watched for the past ninety minutes?”

            “That was a film made for men by a man,” someone in line replied.

            “There sure were a lot of phallic symbols,” I chimed in, as I headed to one of the marble-walled stalls.

            I returned to the auditorium for the Q & A with the director and cast.  A woman in the balcony received the microphone: “In the ladies room just now, some people were saying yours is a film made by a man for other men.”  Hearing her slight German accent, I looked up and recognized the woman at the restroom sink who had been trying to make the line move efficiently. I chuckled.  Writer and director Randy Moore didn’t seem offended by her question and discussed connections between the film and his relationship with his own father. 

            That conversation coming full circle was quintessentially Ebertfest.  Roger always had a way of getting people talking to each other, and this year was no exception.

            The most welcome words from the festival stage this year came at the very end, when Chaz said, “See you next year!”

 

Chaz had gifts for those who had attended all fifteen festivals.

A detail of the gloriously restored Virginia.

Roger's presence was felt at the festival.

In the upstairs foyer of the Virginia.

A detail of the ceiling in the upstairs foyer.

I took this photo in downtown Champaign as I walked to dinner Saturday night.

Roger, of course, for bringing us the festival.

Poem in Your Pocket

A pocket-size copy of Elizabeth Barrett Browning's collection.

April 18 was Poem in Your Pocket Day,  when the Academy of American Poets encouraged readers to share poems.  I loved the idea of handing out poems to people  I might meet, so I clicked on some of the "pockets" on the website and found the poem I wanted under the one labeled "Walk": Walt Whitman's "Miracles."

That morning, I distributed copies to the students in my poetry course.  One of them volunteered to read the poem to the class.  It was a rainy, April morning, and I said to the students, "Whitman would probably think our rainy morning was a miracle, too."  

Here is Whitman's poem for you to enjoy:

Miracles

    by Walt Whitman

Why, who makes much of a miracle?

As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright,
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;

These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,

The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.

Why, who makes much of a miracle? As to me I know of nothing else but miracles, Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan, Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky, Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of    the water, Or stand under trees in the woods, Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night    with any one I love, Or sit at table at dinner with the rest, Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer    forenoon, Or animals feeding in the fields, Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air, Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so    quiet and bright, Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring; These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles, The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place. To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle, Every cubic inch of space is a miracle, Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with    the same, Every foot of the interior swarms with the same. To me the sea is a continual miracle, The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—    the ships with men in them, What stranger miracles are there? - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20162#sthash.B7QPs2JV.dpuf

Miracles

  by Walt Whitman

Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles, 
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan, 
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky, 
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of
   the water, 
Or stand under trees in the woods, 
Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night
   with any one I love, 
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest, 
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, 
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer
   forenoon, 
Or animals feeding in the fields, 
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air, 
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so
   quiet and bright, 
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring; 
These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles, 
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.

To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with
   the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.

To me the sea is a continual miracle,
The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—
   the ships with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20162#sthash.B7QPs2JV.dpuf

Miracles

  by Walt Whitman

Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles, 
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan, 
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky, 
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of
   the water, 
Or stand under trees in the woods, 
Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night
   with any one I love, 
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest, 
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, 
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer
   forenoon, 
Or animals feeding in the fields, 
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air, 
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so
   quiet and bright, 
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring; 
These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles, 
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.

To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with
   the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.

To me the sea is a continual miracle,
The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—
   the ships with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20162#sthash.B7QPs2JV.dpuf

Miracles

  by Walt Whitman

Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles, 
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan, 
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky, 
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of
   the water, 
Or stand under trees in the woods, 
Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night
   with any one I love, 
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest, 
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, 
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer
   forenoon, 
Or animals feeding in the fields, 
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air, 
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so
   quiet and bright, 
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring; 
These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles, 
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.

To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with
   the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.

To me the sea is a continual miracle,
The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—
   the ships with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20162#sthash.B7QPs2JV.dpuf