The doorbell rang: a friend of Michelle’s I didn’t recognize and whose name I tried really really hard to get her to say loud enough for me to hear, since I was the only one home just then, offering up a blooming pot of narcissus in condolences. It was very sweet of her. Darned if I know who she was.

I remember the last time I had to be in real weather in winter, I felt very Californian because the only shoes I owned that had a closed heel were sneakers. (Other than the Wookie horsehair shearling-inside mukluks someone once gave me, but never mind.) So there I was in Birkenstock clogs, flipping snow at the backs of my quickly-freezing-wet legs as I walked.

Wookies are great for Halloween night as I hand out candy, funerals, not so much.

Young professional daughter to the rescue, Chan to the rescue by having given me a heads-up about a site to check out, and though they weren’t perfect, a new pair of size 6.5 EE-width leather boots in a price I could fathom right now was actually found. (A good time of year to be looking, too.)  Not flats, which I need, but at an inch and a quarter, close; we’ll see in express-shipping time if they fit, and if they don’t I will actually have to be dragged out shoe shopping, trying to find that one physical store among the millions of people in the Bay Area that has what I want in a size I can wear. Just a plain, classic, comfortable, no-frills pair of black leather boots. Hopefully they’re already coming.

That backup pair in that picture is motivation if nothing else. Family photographs will be taken. Um.

I am told that my father-in-law, who has ever been quick with a witticism, was at the funeral home Friday when he asked the person in feigned seriousness, “Do you offer senior discounts?”

Wait for it…

Dad laughs, letting them know it’s okay to, too.

So with his good example setting the standard, I’m seriously debating making myself a warm hat for when I see him, maybe out of undyed baby alpaca or merino (and maybe not quite so bulky) so that it doesn’t quite compute till you get closer up. Go see what you think.

When the call comes in at that hour, you know.

I quietly turned off the alarm on my side while Richard talked to his brother-in-law. He confirmed to me the news from what would have been his mother’s point of view as she’d struggled through it all rather than ours in our sense of loss, telling me, not, She’s gone, but rather, It’s over. I wondered at how he’d somehow said what felt like the right words for her sake. He then in turn called each of our children, with tears.

Tuesday, after Lynn’s loss, when Richard got home I had told him CALL. YOUR. FOLKS. He felt it too. He is so glad he did.

Wednesday, I was flipping through the CD changer and stopped at an old Carole King album I hadn’t listened to in a goodly while. I don’t know if it even got to this song before I turned the stereo off and walked out the door, but her “Only Love Is Real,” followed by the line, “everything else is illusion” sang in my head all evening yesterday as I went off to Purlescence, all night, and first thing this morning when that phone rang with the news.

I’ve been trying to send a card every week with nature scenes, mostly birds, for some time now as my small part in supporting everybody there from our physical distance. I missed the mailman yesterday, ruefully, and got one ready a few minutes too late and put a Forever stamp…on… and looked at that envelope and that stamp and felt in my bones, she’ll never see this one.

But they had given them encouraging news two days ago that the time was not so imminent, I protested to myself, not wanting it to be true. Her youngest had flown in that afternoon and I wanted my sister-in-law to at long last have more time than that with her mother. Sister-in-law had been recovering from cancer treatments herself and was finally able to make it there.

Goodbye, Mom Hyde. We love you.

Richard added that the brother-in-law who’d called us had already told Dad he had a place to live with them. No need to uproot again. Never to have to be alone. At the timing of his choice.

“Oh, something smells good!” as he climbed in the car.

For a long time, I’ve had good reasons not to sign up.

But the clipboard came around again at church after I’d gotten several days of political-group emails talking about a national volunteer day.  I’ve never been one to run with a crowd so I picked my own day but it just felt like time to step up.

It was for the Ronald McDonald House families by Stanford Hospital. I talked to the coordinator about how to pull this off. Walking with a large full heavy pot of sloshing soup with a cane in one hand and lousy balance while trying not to spend any time in the sun while needing to drop the soup off in not the late but the early part of the afternoon–it was going to be interesting.  She was delighted to have a new volunteer and assured me there was a handicapped spot right by the door; just check in at the desk and surely they’d be glad to help carry.

And so this morning I chopped two heads of celery, some big red and yellow peppers, a couple of onions, a good handful of seedless red grapes cut in half–don’t miss those–a whole lot of chicken broth, I cut up a no-nitrates ham steak, added two pounds of split peas, rinsed first. Simmer. Stir!

My dutch oven was very full. I got up and stirred it every couple of minutes for two and a half hours, partly to make sure it never got up to a big boil–there was just no room. I was supposed to bring enough for 16 people, but given how much there was I  only felt a little guilty for scooping a bit out for Richard and Michelle.

Good thing.

Split pea soup is a favorite around here but it was also on the list of foods I got told to my great regret not to eat anymore post-op. I do, actually, but only a few spoonfuls, watered down with lots of fluids.

I am so glad I saved their part out.

The little boy had just gotten out of the elementary school up the street and was clearly enjoying the speed of his bike. He was alone. He was careening through the pedestrian island where the main road crosses his and it was clear he wasn’t going to be able to stop in time–I slammed hard on the brakes. The guy behind me slammed his.

Nobody hit the kid. Or anyone else, either.

But what was–I glanced down when I felt safely well past him, and there was what turned out to be half of that pot of soup splashed across the floor.

It wasn’t till I got to the Ronald McDonald house that I was able to fully assess the damage: the carpet was just the start. Part of the dash, the center console, my right shoe, the little lever thingy to pull the seat forward and back, behind there–and yet somehow there was still more soup in that pot.

I went to the check-in desk and got a very helpful woman who brought a cart and towels: no need to carry that pot in, and there, put the towels on the bottom tray when you’re done. She hovered, wanting to help, but the passenger side floor of a Prius is a one-woman operation.

I gave it up for the sun exposure of it, not explaining more than, I’ll finish this at home, thank you so much for the towels and the help! The moral support especially is what I really meant.

We walked through what turned out to be a beautiful building, very well designed as a healing place for families of sick children. Into the kitchen. There was a row of crockpots waiting, and I wished for a smaller one but was surprised at how much of my offering still, after all that, went into that big thing. Loaves and fishes!

Back at the car, I smiled wryly. It ain’t easy being green.

I posted something brief on Facebook, and a local friend (thank you Suzi!) mentioned that the car-washing place over thataway will do a carpet shampoo and shopvac in a small area after a spill. Good.  The little boy is okay, that’s what matters most; I can only pray that the little ones of the families staying where I took the soup to will be, too.

I picked Richard up from work and his comment as he got in the car made it instantly clear that this was a dinner he was going to thoroughly enjoy. And somehow that, too, made it all worthwhile.

And even after I dropped half the rest of it on my other foot Michelle got some after she got off work late. Ooh, Mom! Split pea soup!

(With a p.s. for Phyllis: your plates of cookies I delivered sat demurely on the seat the whole time and showed that green stuff down there How It’s Done. They were fine.)

We all saw him this time. Richard grabbed the nearest camera and took the best picture and then handed the Nikon to me, my hand reaching blindly behind me for it–I know how fast Coopernicus can disappear and I didn’t want to miss a thing.

Someone had recently moved a ladder under the eaves near the small birdfeeder in the alcove part of the patio, making a ten-foot-wide space even narrower for a 31″ wingspan to be wheeling around in–I had been wondering if it had been interfering with his hunting and where to move it to. But it was his hunting that had driven a finch into the window and gotten me to look up to see him–and he twirled sideways into wings straight up and down as he whizzed around that tight area, fully aware of the space and of the presence of the glass. And later he did it again! Dazzling.

Barbecue grill to the lawnmower handle, repeating Friday’s pattern. (Note to my childhood friend Karen: that’s your birds suncatcher in the upper edge.) After awhile, Richard and Michelle went back to whatever they were doing wherever, but I was not about to miss out.

Again, the hawk and I spent a long time together watching each other. For about half an hour. Then he lifted off lightly to the neighbor’s post just over the fence, where, his dark gray back to me, he fluffed out his chest feathers against the cold, the late sun illuminating their edges into a brilliantly-lit white-ish halo poofing out at his sides. He watched a flock of finches start to play in the tree in front of him–then one suddenly went zing! in a straight shot to the right.  Hawk! Run! Then another, then the rest of them caught on to him as he watched the show in no particular hurry.

He was very much out in the open. No stealth. This was his home, the neighbor’s yard and mine, and he was proclaiming it to the world.

I checked outside briefly to see if a bird had indeed gone down at impact from that window strike, but no; he noted my doing so and so about two minutes later was when he came back and did that second fly-by that again missed the ladder, leaning into an up-and-down wingtip just so.

He went to the top of the table. He walked through the amaryllis pots. He bowed once, twice to the world beyond my window.

And then, wings wide, he bade me good day, forty-five minutes after I’d first seen him, and was gone.

(With thanks to Kelli, who gave me her old camera when mine died. My Iphone was in my purse somewhere, but Kelli’s Nikon was right in reach.)

Sam’s roommate surprised her with the scarf she’d made while waiting with her at the hospital. She’s just the best.

Sam ended up in the ICU last night.

And Sam was at long last discharged from the hospital tonight after she was able to keep the beginnings of food down and her platelets had gone slightly up–with a long way to go, but it’s a start.

Y’know, it works a whole lot better when the hospital isn’t serving you broth with gluten in it and then wondering why the patient who can’t eat wheat is suddenly a lot worse.

A huge thank you to everybody for your much-needed prayers and good thoughts her way. (Long, long exhale.) Phew.

Note DebbieR’s comment two days ago about the 80-mile drive to Purlescence.

She came with her mom, a kind and gentle soul, and now I know where Debbie gets it from: the kind of people where you walk into their presence and you know you’re among friends. The kind of person who knits fingerless gloves for someone else’s daughter they’ve never met just because they really, really came in handy for Sam, who loves them and all that they convey.

We swapped stories and laughed all afternoon. There was a middle-aged man I didn’t recognize who came in and was quietly knitting away behind their backs, not looking our way, not butting in, but breaking out into a big grin at all the punchlines.  (It’s a big room like that.) I loved it. I did apologize to Nathania at one point for monopolizing the soundwaves and she grinned and waved me away, You’re fine.

Pamela was there, and bless her, came over at one point and told me, You’re not drinking enough.  She grabbed the cute little 7 oz thermos that Michelle had given me as a souvenir from Japan and went and refilled it, taking good care of me when I wasn’t bothering to myself: without a colon I have to drink 8 oz every two hours. Debbie and her mom approved. Go Pamela.

Near the end, Debbie had a thought and asked, And by the way, how are you?

I hesitated but confessed: I had woken up this morning with BAM, instant Crohn’s flare, totally unexpected and out of the blue. It did get a little better as the day went on–and then all this laughing and loving and I’d completely forgotten about it. It’s not gone, I added, but it’s a whole lot better than it was.

Crossing my fingers.

To be more specific: this morning’s angry belly had had me thinking, if I barf I’m in the ER. Do. Not. Barf. I hesitated, but there was just no way I was going to miss out on this afternoon, and certainly not after they’d driven all this way for it.

And then afterwards I found myself feeling like, and look at me now! This works! (If only it were always so easy.)

I ran a quick grocery run, got home, hadn’t quite finished putting things away when the phone rang.

It was our daughter Sam. She *did* barf, and she *did* end up in the ER. Turns out someone had offered her a quinoa salad at a New Year’s Eve party, not realizing that couscous mixed in there means wheat–and Sam’s a celiac. Throw in a lupus flare and an ITP platelet crash and her roommate ended up picking her up and putting her in a wheelchair and getting her to the ER faster, she told us, than the paramedics could have done it.

The roommate brought her knitting and started and finished an entire scarf in the 24 hours it took the doctors to decide to admit my daughter.

Taking deep breaths and saying lots of prayers. And wishing I could send DebbieR and her mom to make Sam laugh like they did me, while grateful to Sam’s roommate who sounds like she’s pretty good at that herself.

Wholly (non-) cow was this good!

Michelle’s friend Jenny came over: they have an annual tradition of baking something scrumptious and unusual together in our kitchen over the holidays. Everybody looks forward to it.

Michelle loves making cream puffs but had had a hard time coming up with a dairy-free version that didn’t make us all wish she could eat cream and butter like the rest of us.

And so. I don’t know what they did differently re the puffs themselves, but they were crisp and perfect and what they had always aspired to be. But the filling! Chestnut puree made into a thick–they called it pudding, but that doesn’t quite do it justice. It did not soggyify the puffs even after a few hours together in the fridge.

“Mom! I thought you didn’t like chestnuts!”

I didn’t even remember that nor know if it had been true– “It’s been so long since I’ve had any,” I answered. But THIS! Wow!

I’d had a little bottle of maple butter long hoarded away, ie, simply, maple syrup cooked further down, and they’d mixed that up to top the things off with. I’m not normally a big icing fan–who needs random straight sugar covering up good-tasting food?–but paired with that chestnut, this was a revelation. I’d never had anything like it.

“Did you use a–is there a written-down rendition of what you guys did?” I asked her. “I want those again!”

“Well, sort of,” she said; Jenny was going to get back to her with it.

I’m waiting….

Meantime, Costco had shelled, peeled, roasted, all-the-work-done chestnuts for $4-something a 20 oz bag and we have a bag. The next stage in the experimentation will be with making our own sweetened puree rather than the tube that Jenny had brought over, and I am running back to that store tomorrow before it’s all gone post-holidays.

And I’m clearly going to be ordering more of that maple butter. (Actually, after typing that, just did, a pound and a half, since the extra half pound wasn’t going to cost any extra shipping charges.)

Remember that weight that doctor wanted me to gain? Well now.

I reached for four plates to set the table with tonight, a fierce tug at my heart, wondering if Sam’s plane had landed yet and missing her already, glad that we got to have her home this past week.

Happy New Year, everybody!

My daughters and I went to Coupa Cafe for their hot chocolate that is melted-dark-chocolate-and-a-little-milk. They don’t serve dairy-free, but going there is so much a part of any coming home for Sam; we went, we chatted over the mega-noise levels, we bought take-out cups for the menfolk.

I had described over the last few days how much I love having my own personal Cooper’s hawk around but I don’t think Sam had ever seen one, certainly not ours nor up close.

On our way home, on the telephone wires right next to the main road, in a neighborhood where I’ve seen one before, I looked up as Michelle drove and right there was, you guessed it, a Cooper’s hawk, chest glowing in the clear sun amidst what has mostly been clouds and rain of late, its feathers and colors highlighted and Right There, absolutely glorious. I exclaimed and Sam turned quickly to catch a glimpse too as the car went by.

Given the several miles from home, it might not have been our Cooper’s, but it may well have fledged from the nest in the tall tree that reaches over our yard and I tell you, it had the most exquisite sense of timing.

Sam got to visit with a high school friend whose difficult recent pregnancy resulted in now-healthy four-month-old twins, beautiful, happy little girls. Tired parents. Old friends. Much love.

Her luggage is here now, thank goodness, with help from her siblings, who drove off to retrieve it.

My phone was indeed in the car from calling her at the airport yesterday. I thought so, but it was hailing last night and I really didn’t want to go out there to see. As close to a white Christmas as we get around here.

A chocolate hazelnut torte got baked: something everybody could safely eat.

Michelle ran errands again, this time to get gluten-free things for her sister and milk for my hot cocoa in the morning–missing out on the ongoing conversation to do so, which struck me as heroic.

And I almost got some knitting done.

Someone died on my first flight, she told us, and we have been diverted… It was someone’s grandma, and the defibrillator and medical personnel were on board and they did all that could be done.  The plane landed at the nearest airport–which wasn’t designed for one that big, so then there was an extra two hour wait for some kind of inspection.

And then her luggage and that of several others went to who knows? We spent an extra hour at the park-and-call, waiting while she waited till they gave up and called off the search.

But Sam is home safe and sound. We had all decided together to wait till she arrived to open gifts, but then instead once she got here we simply sat and talked and caught up and reveled in being in each other’s presence, all the more keenly aware of how fortunate we were that we could. I cannot tell you how good it feels to watch my children loving each other.

Dinner was served–Michelle and John had been working on it while Richard and I were at the airport for so long, and I tell you, it was way better than any Christmas dinner that I’ve put on.

We Skyped: Parker apparently had gotten into this Open Presents! theme really well, with his birthday being five days before Christmas and his delayed (ouch, thanks Amazon) present making it so he got to open one on 12/21 as well as 12/20 so what are we waiting for for the rest of these! Thus 12/24 got in on the act, too, after he figured out there was a truck in there and trucks were Parker territory, right? He jumped for joy, showing off his new treasures, and would have jumped right through that Ipad to show us in person in his excitement if he’d been able to.

There was a stuffed peacock to match the photos of him toddling after one in the park a few months ago.

And then, at long last, the material stuff here, too. The fun and the frankly frivolous. But still fun. Oh, cool, thank you! over and over.

We know how lucky we are.

Part 1. Turns out my daughter has her own Piano Guy friend. He had no insurance and was saving his money to pay for the surgery he knew he needed but the stroke beat him to it. At 30.  Sam blogged a link to the effort to raise money for Jeff’s medical expenses and I’m passing it along.

Any amount is an emotional as well as a financial support and makes a difference. Thank you.

———

(Edited to add.)

Part 2. Later in the day I read that there is a surge of interest and donations to the Brady Campaign, with politicians and others coming through their doors who perhaps would not have been seen there before, asking what can we do to help? On Brady’s site, they decry the official NRA argument of it’s all guns vs no guns, setting forth proposed limits that most NRA members would find very reasonable.That we have had in the past. But to go on with no changes, now, even after Newtown…

Again, out came my credit card. My token amount was a small but present voice among the many.

I hit submit.

It took me very much by surprise how fiercely the feelings came, instantly. I had owned my voice. I had used my voice. I knew then that I will use it again. Our children and grandchildren need our every voice, and when they needed me I too was there for them, is the only way I can put into words how strongly good it felt: more powerful than, as Superman says, a speeding… Yes.

Michelle wanted to make gingersnaps: make the dough, roll thin, refrigerate, wait.

What I didn’t know was, she’d bought a cherry-blossom cookie cutter in Japan and so she just showed me the finished cookie sheet covered in dozens of tiny little cherry blossoms (even if not exactly pink), ready to pop in the oven; a conversation followed of cherry blossom festivals and of my childhood memories of the magnificent trees around the Washington DC tidal basin, a gift from the Japanese.

Meantime, the computer is just not cooperating with the newly-arrived Parker pictures tonight, so I tried trouble-shooting with this old photo–which did work, and then it was just too cute to put back on the shelf when I didn’t have anything else that would show up.

Elmo’s his favorite these days, but Cookie Monster’s right up there.

Oh, and: how a dirty diaper saved Christmas night and my cousin’s house.

(Not sure why I can’t rotate this, but you can at least embiggen it.)

It’s my mom’s birthday, too; I tried to call her but missed her. Tomorrow.

She got the news of Parker’s safe though early delivery into the world on her 80th birthday, and now he’s a bouncy little boy who, as we Skyped tonight, sat down at his daddy’s keyboard, proclaimed with a big grin, “BOOM!” and played Rachmaninoff.

Meaning, both hands spread wide, arms out straight in happy anticipation, and then pouncing on the keys. BOOM! My little boy‘s little boy, following right in his footsteps. And his mom’s, with that smile that melts every heart in a hundred miles.