Saturday Musings, 05 May 2012

Good morning,


My old Mac balances on the metal table on our lovely deck. My hair lifts and sways across my face in the gentle morning breeze. I hear birds joyfully greeting the rising spring sun. My gaze falls on the new landscaping next door, and the burst of colorful blooms in the pots on my porch.


I would have to google -- if I may use that as a lower-case verb without incurring a summons -- the history of Cinco de Mayo, but I do know that today will be honored with many celebrations, including Paddy Murphy, a gala event of my son's fraternity (SAE). In downtown Kansas City's Power and Light District, it is Derby Day. At the Holmes House here in Brookside, i am celebrating Clean Out the Closet Day, a semi-annual event that stirs my soul and provides bounty for local thrift stores, in this case, the Hope Chest, which raises money for several causes, including the VALA Gallery. Besides the boon to charity, I derive major satisfaction from an orderly closet.


The seasons change as the world keeps spinning. I dodged another bullet this week, once again receiving undeserved bounty from the Universe, where my stock rises and falls according to my own folly. I took a nasty fall last Sunday but Thursday learned I had not damaged my artificial joint. The bad news? The pain in my knee stems from a bone-on-metal situation which can only be remedied by surgery. I weigh the odds of clotting and the potential of spending two months without income against the inconvenience of sleepless nights and the increasing need for pain medication. A toss up, as far as I can tell.


As Mother's Day draws near, I think of my own mother and feel the pain of her loss as though it had happened just yesterday. I suppose time heals most wounds, but overcoming the loss of one's parent might require as many decades as you had their love. A friend watched her mother fade last week, and I feel the freshness of her agony and wish I could help. But I have found, and she will find, that the only helpful words echo in her own heart spoken in her mother's voice, consisting of the many lessons she imparted, and the many avowals of dedication she whispered over the years.


I learned also, this week, that my son will be in Los Angeles this summer. I had been expecting, even hoping for this news. I got it virtually, by way of a forwarded electronic mail from the company that has chosen him as their summer intern. I've yet to learn whether it will be paid or unpaid but it doesn't matter, because it will provide him both experience and contacts in the world in which he hopes to work after graduation next year. One step closer to independence; one step further from the nest. A friend asked if I am sad that he won't be here, and I can honestly answer, no, because not here provides what he wants and needs. I had him for twenty years. Any pain that I experience in his absence pales next to the brilliance of his accomplishments and his own satisfaction in them.



I hear sirens wailing to the east -- fire trucks, an ambulance, police cars -- their blaring urgency sending motorists skittering to the side of the road. The noise recedes as it grows distant and I find myself making a little sign of the cross on my chest, an old habit that has died hard, one that invites the God of Catholicism to send angels to watch over those at the other end of the ambulance's journey. I glance around the porch, suspicious that I've been caught in this relapse into the symbolism of my childhood religion. Only the old girl cat watches me, and with such disinterest that my sheepishness fades into laughter.

Saturday looms empty and welcoming. My spouse has journeyed north, to Omaha, to the annual Warren Buffet love-fest. My stepson never tarries long on Saturdays, between work, and working out, and hanging out with the friends to whom he will say farewell at summer's end, as they all depart for new adventures in academia, after discarding their caps and gowns. So I will clean out my closet, and take the cast-offs to donate, and then journey south, to the lock-and-pull store located very conveniently near my favorite bookstore. Perhaps I will persuade a friend to join me at Dunn Bros. Coffee but if not, I will sink into one of their large, old chairs with a good European mystery novel, and let the aroma of fresh roasted beans waft me into a hazy state of summer somnolence.


And as the day wanes, I will begin to think about dinner, and my returning husband, and what Sunday holds. For now, though, I will pour another cup of Eight O'clock coffee, and spread open the Kansas City Star, for my daily session of yelling at writers who have forgotten the rules of grammar.


Mugwumpishly tendered,

Corinne Corley