I’m standing in a bar downtown, having squeezed my Saturn SUV between a BMW and a Mercury Sable.  A cadre of young lawyers shifts their feet back and forth, holding square white china plates and crystal stems.  It’s a post-mortem (slash) thank-you party for the Democratic poll challengers from the mid-term election that cost our party the Senate.

So, I’m telling a newly minted attorney about getting a ballot for my Republican curmudgeon and assisting him in casting his vote for Senator Roberts.  He smiles:  He isn’t bothered by my having aided-and-abetted the enemy because what I did was an act of love for a dying man.  Then he tells me about being the only black person at the poll to which he had been assigned in Eastern Jackson County, and how the election judge referred to him on the telephone as “a handsome young black man”.  It would be almost funny if the judge hadn’t been resisting letting him come into the polling place, which our credentials allowed us to do.

But mostly, we’re talking about the importance of voting — the act of civil involvement, a citizen’s participation in the political process.  We talked about instigating a bi-partisan effort to improve the polling process; the dysfunctional electronic voting machines; the willingness of the Election Board to hear our critique of the process.  I’m the oldest person at the table.  I’ve been working in politics for forty-five years.  I’m tired.  I like the energy but I’m no longer an integral part of it. These people, this dozen lawyers in their twenties and thirties: they represent the future.

In middle-age, I no longer work a ten-hour shift under a blazing sun to get a candidate elected.  But what I’ve seen in this election upsets me.  I worked four polling places and two of them had serious accessibility issues.  Then I went to my own voting place and fell down a flight of stairs.  My new challenge, then? A subcommittee of lawyers with one goal and one goal only:  to make the voting process as seamless for disabled voters as it is for the able-bodied.

I’ll drink to that.

One thing that I’ve learned in the ten-plus months of my year (attempting to go) without complaining is that humans often misconstrue each other’s intents.

I overhear people arguing and realize that each of them has pain which filters how they hear the other and how they choose to respond.  I wait patiently on call after call trying to accomplish the same thing until I am in tears from not understanding why getting what I need and have a right to expect is so difficult.  I listen to someone say that others will not like their work, their gifts, their looks, their offerings.  I bite my tongue at others’ rudeness and shudder when unkindness slips out of my mouth.  I apologize; I forgive; I thank; I request; I soothe; I yearn for comfort.

In the immortal words of Dennis Ray Lisenby, life is not for the squeamish.

But among the angels, one can wander without fear.  And in this year without complaining (this year trying not to complain), I have been blessed to mingle with angels whose presence quiets the anguish in my soul.  The mortal ones know who they are.  They call; they stop by; they cook; they bring posies from their work places; they drop notes in my mailbox.  They offer to send plane tickets so I can escape.  They hover, watching me; they call long distance.  I’m humbled and grateful to walk among the angels.  They have always been there for me; and in many cases, I have tried to be present in times of need for them.  It’s what we do for each other.  In giving, and receiving, I am twice blessed.

Dried flowers from a posy brought by Paula Kenyon-Vogt beside an angel given to me long ago by someone who knew of my collection. The vase came home with my father from Burma.

I’ve discovered that it’s much easier to be close-minded than it is to be open-hearted.

I’ve more or less stopped buying groceries.  I’m living my life from coffee shop to coffee shop, from restaurant to restaurant, from park bench to park bench.  I invite friends to join me; I talk to strangers; I read.  I write.  I’ve recently been accused of being selfish by one person and being generous and loving by another.  Letting one’s emotions show allows for misinterpretation and judgment but it also provides a chance for glorious encounters.

My friend Katrina manages the Meals on Wheels program at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church here in Kansas City.  She now has a long list of people for whom she exceeds the parameters of the program. She grocery-shops, she cooks, she fetches food and makes arrangements with utility companies for a half-dozen people who started as stops on her MOW route.  I aspire to be like her but in reality, if I can just beat back the number of people who see only my faults, and increase the number of people to whom I show my positive attributes, I will feel that I have walked some semblance of her path.

This year of living with an open heart marches slowly to  close.  Tomorrow we will bury the remains of my favorite curmudgeon and I will turn my face to the sky and shed another thousand tears, if only later, in private, in my car or in a Starbucks far from my neighborhood.  The hours of conversation which I enjoyed with my father-in-law linger in my heart.  My time with him enriched my life.  Had I not let his wife into my heart, I do not think he would have followed and embraced me.  But I did; and he did; and though I grieve his passing, I am immeasurably grateful for having him in my life.  Joanna’s smile cracked the iron door behind which I had hidden.  Jay’s kindness threw it wide.

Though opening the door to my heart allows for pain, it also allows for joy.  For grace.  For peace.  I could let it slam shut again to block out the chance for suffering but I will not.  I will leave the door open wide, and my healing will be part of Jay and Joanna’s legacy.

Joanna and Jay.

Grief overcame me on Friday and I sat in the coffee shop area of the public library sobbing.  My father-in-law died on Wednesday and that, combined with other events in my life, weighed so heavily on me that I struggled to rise above the churn of pain within me.  I railed against life, not understanding, not accepting, indulging in the ultimate complaint:  why is this all happening to me?  What have I done to deserve all of this pain?

A man came towards my table and pulled a chair slightly away, settling himself into it.  This occurs from time to time in that place.  The coffee kiosk has a bar but the library also has provided four tables in its lobby.  Coffee-drinkers, mothers with children, cell-phone users, all group at these tables and often share the meager space.

I paid the man little attention, at first.  I noticed he had two suitcases and a flip-phone; I saw that he wore three jackets.  My brain said: Homeless guy, drug dealer or both.  I contemplated offering to buy him a coffee; but then my phone rang and I started a long conversation with someone from one of my doctor’s offices.  Towards the end of the call, I got a little teary and felt the man react:  His face tensed a bit and he leaned forward.  His lips curved into a smile and he turned his head slightly sideways.

After that call, I got another, from a different doctor’s office.  The nurse got the doctor himself and we discussed the next step in my care:  Referral to a specialist who might be able to solve the puzzle of the disconnect between my brain and my eyes.  We spoke about my impending trip to Stanford Medical for yet another evaluation by yet another specialist.  I thought to myself:  Thank God for Health Insurance.  Otherwise, I might just decide to let this damned virus claim me.

After those calls, I answered e-mail between spurts of crying.  None of the folks passing through the lobby to the library or beyond into the office building paid any heed to the sight of a thin woman, sitting with a homeless guy, crying and typing on her laptop.  Perhaps they were New Yorkers, the lot of them, and hard to shock.

The man sat in the chair by my table for three hours.  He never moved beyond occasionally taking out his phone and making a short call, whispering in the barest of voices. I heard nothing of what he said.  As for myself, eventually I recalled a time when my father-in-law and I had gone to the Mixx across the parking lot for lunch, then into the library for what he called “a real cup of coffee”.  We’d sat nearer the window than the table I occupied on Friday.  This lunch occurred a year ago, after my mother-in-law’s death; before my own life spiraled out of control; when my father-in-law strained under the new loss of his beloved Joanna and I found myself yearning to help him find peace.

I am not sure that he ever did; and now he, too, is gone; but I feel certain he is back with his Joanna and the grief now rests on us.

About five o’clock on Friday, I decided I needed to get out of the library.  I packed everything, and glanced over at the man.  I meant to speak but could not think of anything to say.  Homeless guy, drug dealer, or just another library patron:  I did not know.  But somehow, his presence had comforted me.  Though I would find myself dissolving again, not so very later; still, in that moment, exchanging glances with a man whom I did not know and would never again see, I found a little peace of my own.

In the backroom of Mysteryscape!, I sip espresso and gaze around me.  Velvet curtains hang in the doorway and on the wall.  Red brocade shades adorn the brass lamps.  I sit in a leather chair and think, I could live in this room!

On the walls, pictures of Hollywood sirens have been hung.  Above me is Theda Bara, wistful and alluring.  I’ve sat beneath Ms. Bara many times.  She speaks to me.  She says, Live!  Love!  Laugh! and I look into her eyes and see only sorrow.  I wonder about the sound of her voice.  She never appeared in anything but silent films.  I see the appeal in that.  Only communicating with look and gesture — with the grand sweep of a hand, or the slight turn of a cheek.

Perhaps, after all, she whispers these words:  Hush now, you’ve said enough.  Rest.

Or maybe, like the staring angel in the Gillespie Cemetery where my mother’s people sleep, she says nothing at all.

Theda Bara was born Theodosia Burr Goodman, on July 29, 1885. She died on April 7, 1955, three months before I came into this world.

Meet Josh.

He has challenges in his life; the exact nature of which are not mine to disclose.  But his personality shines. He smiles; he shows his pleasure at seeing me; he speaks my name in a kind voice.

And every day, he walks our family’s dog.  I pay him, though not as much as it’s probably worth.  I pay what he has asked me to pay and am grateful that such a kind soul comes to my house each day and takes Little Girl — that’s the dog — on walks so long that she’s lost weight and we’ve been able to decrease her seizure medication.  Now my son’s dog has a faithful friend and her life has been enriched.

Today Josh came to see me.  He brought a note written in his careful print on red paper.  He wrote it for me.  It says:

“Dear Corrine, I’m sorry to hear of your father in laws passing.  I hope you have a great day.  Thank you for letting me take care of Little Girl.  Much love, Josh”

My heart sings.

Josh and Little Girl

I entered the Mixx at 2:35 and stood beneath the sign that said ORDER SOUP AND SANDWICHES HERE.  I’ve done so scores of times.  A lady comes over and takes your order on an iPad and swipes your debit card.  Easy-peasey, puddin’ pie.

But no one came.  I shouldered my computer bag, set it down, stood on one foot then the other, peered around the place and finally spied the usual person, across the way, cleaning tables.  She noticed me seeing her, and turned away, throwing her rag on table top.  Hmm.  I could not help but wonder.  Finally, she came near enough for me to ask her, “Please, may I order?” whereupon a guy in the kitchen hollered at me to come to the register.

I did so, confused but willing.  The woman whom I’d seen came over and said, “You have to order at the register.” I asked if their process had changed — but before I got past the word “process”, she pivoted to leave.  I stood there, waiting for something more to develop since no one was at the register to take  my order.  Finally, the woman returned and said, “Did you need something else?”

I set my bags down and said that I’d like to order.  She advised me that she was not the order-taker.  She gestured to the register as though it might have special powers.  I asked, again if I could order, and I didn’t even let one hint of sarcasm slip into my voice.  She told me — again — that I had to order at the register.   Confusion overwhelmed me but I remained calm, asking — again — if their pro—-  “Would you like to see a manager?”

I told her that if it would help matters, sure.  She bellowed across the kitchen and my, could she bellow for a scrawny kid three inches shorter than I.

By this time my bag refused to return to my shoulder and I felt that any moment I could burst into tears or giddy laughter.  I noticed the time:  3:00 p.m.  Thirty minutes seemed a long time to wait to order and I felt quite virtuous for having done so without screaming at anyone or getting the least bit huffy.  The manager asked what I needed and I said that really, I just wanted to order soup.  And the manager looked at the retreating back of the pivoting server and sighed.  I had the feeling that I was not the first  person to experience the firecracker’s ways.  The manager asked what had happened and I told her, smiling, teasing a little, woman to woman, getting the story out without over-dramatizing or disrespecting anyone.

I placed my order and handed the manager a twenty.  She pushed it back towards me and told me that my food would be right out. She smiled.  She said, “Thank you for your feedback, and for being so nice.”

Nice!  You hear that, Joanna, up in heaven?  Somebody thought I was nice!  Maybe your influence has finally taken root.  And the carrot soup at the Mixx is divine, and well worth the wait.

Carrot soup; not the bowl I had at the Mixx, but it looked just like this. Really, go try it.

Here’s where:  The Mixx

I cannot share my own words with you today, about the death of my favorite curmudgeon. Oh, I have words: but they remain mixed with the salt of a thousand unshed tears.  I hope to sift them down to a page for  my Saturday Musing; because a man so loved and so unique; a man who gave me so much and claimed for himself so little, deserves to be honored only after reflection.

But for today, this day when I ache but at least I feel; when I mourn but at least I have loved, and therefore, have lost something worthy of mourning; on this day, I can only offer someone else’s words, in the hopes that they will hold the place until I can refine my own.

“Away”

I cannot say, and I will not say
That he is dead–. He is just away!

With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand
He has wandered into an unknown land,

And left us dreaming how very fair
It needs must be, since he lingers there.

And you– O you, who the wildest yearn
For the old-time step and the glad return–,

Think of him faring on, as dear
In the love of There as the love of Here;

And loyal still, as he gave the blows
Of his warrior-strength to his country’s foes–.

Mild and gentle, as he was brave–,
When the sweetest love of his life he gave

To simple things–: Where the violets grew
Blue as the eyes they were likened to,

The touches of his hands have strayed
As reverently as his lips have prayed:

When the little brown thrush that harshly chirred
Was dear to him as the mocking-bird;

And he pitied as much as a man in pain
A writhing honey-bee wet with rain–.

Think of him still as the same, I say:
He is not dead– he is just away!

My father-in-law’s cousin Anne Jones dedicated herself for many years to training service dogs.  She currently has a service dog herself, one which she trained.  Her dog’s name is Katie.  Katie is a cocker and Cavelier King Charles Spaniel mix.

Ms. Jones and Katie visit my father-in-law, often when I am also there.  I would not have expected Jabez MacLaughlin to be so fond of this little dog, but he demonstrates that fondness.  We scheduled a visit for today.  I had been to see him earlier in the day, bringing his absentee ballot, which he cast with me as his certified assistant.  And as much as he wanted to cast his vote, he also wanted to know if Anne and Katie would be there to see him.

In fact, he asked that question by phone this morning, right after asking if I had secured his ballot.  I had to tell him “not yet” to the first question, but could respond in the affirmative with respect to the planned visit from the little service dog.

And so they came, and Katie got upon the bed, and lay quietly by my favorite curmudgeon, who reached one hand to pet her sweet head.  I am grateful to that little dog for cheering Jay.  And to Anne Jones, for training her, for bringing her, and for sharing her with a man whom I love and who himself loves his cousin and her dog.

I posted this picture earlier in another blog entry, but I wanted you to see it again.  He is much sicker now, but I don’t think it would be quite fair to post the pictures I took at their visit today, no matter how dear I might find them to be.  We should safeguard the sensitivities of those whom we love, especially when they cannot stand to do so for themselves. I learned this lesson by unfortunate experience, but now that I have learned it, I abide by it.

As I drove home tonight, I thought about the kindness of the people at the election board and of Anne Jones.  I found myself sobbing as I drove, in part because I love my father-in-law so much and dread losing him.  But my tears also flowed from some sense that the world’s goodness overwhelms me.  The people in Olathe bent over backwards during a very busy morning to help me insure that my favorite curmudgeon got to vote.  And Anne Jones stood patiently while her sweet little dog brought him a half-hour of happiness.  With such people in the world, surely there is still hope for humankind.

This photo of Jay and Katie was taken two months ago, but the smile which you see here on his face appeared again today when Katie visited.

And now a word about resting places.

I have a condition known as “fatigue even at rest”.  Because of that, sleep does not refresh me.  This lack of quality sleep tends to make me crabby at times, enhancing what I’m told is a tendency to damage people.  I combat that as much as I can.

I haven’t given much thought to the rest associated with eternal sleep but I imagine all those pesky ailments that interfere with nighttime rejuvenation don’t apply to that state of existence.  Though I’m not sure:  Perhaps the Roman Catholics are right about purgatory and for the first couple of centuries, you have to toil to earn your way to paradise.

I have no plans for burial and don’t expect to have any.  I’ve told my son that if I look puny, to drive me across the Arkansas border where you’re allowed to bury people anywhere you like (or so it used to be).  I’ve said he should dig a hole, give me a bottle of the most  expensive single-malt he can afford, and gently lay me in the ground.  He need not cover me.  Just tell me goodbye and let nature take its course.

But if I were laid to rest in a more stylized way, I’d want to be buried somewhere lovely like my mother-in-law.  I’d rather she had not died and I surely don’t want my father-in-law to join her sooner than absolutely necessary.  But if one has to lie beneath the ground, the place where Joanna’s mortal remains rest would be a superb location.  And if I were in such a lovely spot, I’d haunt the place, strolling amongst the flowers, standing by the lakeside, and sitting under the trees, with my legs spread out and a long flowing dress surrounding me.

Now that, my pretties, would be a restful way for Mama Corinna to spend eternity.

The view from Joanna’s resting place at Mount Moriah.