Songs of Winter by Liz Flaherty

Friday morning early: It's snowing. My cottonwood is wearing white on her broad and aging shoulders. There is a stillness that only snowfall brings--and then only when the wind isn't buffeting things around. 

I remember snow days when I was in school. My dad was never home, because he worked on the highway department, which lent a different kind of freedom to the days. If the snow was deep, which it often was, my brothers built tunnels. We slid down the hill behind the barn. On wood-cutting days, we slid down the bigger hills where my uncle lived, coming to a crashing stop in a gully at the bottom of the hill. I learned to use a two-person saw with my brother. I didn't get good at it, but I could do it. (Same thing happened with cooking--go figure.)

I read a lot in the mornings, especially when my own writing voice is still croaky and stubborn, and this morning I read Amy Abbott's essay about musical theater. It made me think of songs I've heard sung on stages, plays and concerts I've been privileged to see. 

Music's always been part of our lives, from when I first saw my husband in a band while I was still in high school (he didn't see me --that came later) to watching the Three Old Guys at Legend's on Wednesday night. The kids were in choir and swing choir--our daughter still sings on her church's praise team. The grandkids were in band--the youngest one still is.

It's basketball season, complete with snow and school being called off late this morning. I thought of all the games I'd been to. When our school played in the semi-state my senior year, when we watched our oldest play, and later a grandboy or two. It's funny how your own gym always feels the same, regardless of the changes that have been wrought there, the adulthoods reached for. The tassels turned on mortarboards.  

On my phone this morning was a picture of our youngest standing behind Eamon, his and Laura's youngest, helping him with his tie. That's been a while, Jock texted when I sent him the picture, and I thought of how long ago it was Duane helping him and Chris with double Windsor knots. 

Oh, the memories. 

I titled this Songs of Winter, because the snowy stillness of morning is one of the times so many things seem clear. Even though one of the worst parts of aging is what happens to your memory, when even the reason you went into the kitchen totally escapes you, you still recall how things made you feel. 

Wishing you a week of feeling good things, making memories, and being nice to somebody.

For the time being, Window Over the Sink and Window Over the Desk are both 99 cents for ebooks. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BGJS174L 

Memories and Good Times by Liz Flaherty

It has been a busy, busy, fun, fun week. As I write this, I have a grandboy sleeping on the couch, need to be at church to dispense school supplies at noon, and have my class reunion tonight. My hair's a mess and I don't know what to wear. And I'm a year older--let's not forget that. 

But having a grandkid in the house--that's the best thing.

Friends and neighbors have suffered losses this week. I am so sorry for that, but I keep thinking of the memories that are floating around the community. When Ronnie, Phil, and Matt went to visit someone from the church, how she loved seeing the "three amigos" and how much good they did for her. When Bob teased Teresa at the community garage sale at the fairgrounds and she called, "Security!" and made everyone laugh--Bob harder than anyone else. The loving obituaries written for them that made people laugh in their sorrow.

The corn is soooo tall, isn't it? Tasseled out and with dark silk spurting from the ears. I love the sweet smell in the morning. 

My favorite woodpecker, the one with the dark read head and the markings that look as if they were delineated with a teeny-tiny paintbrush, is hanging on the suet feeder. I love the side yard and the animals that visit it. 

Three Old Guys played at the Lewis Cass Alumni Association Pavilion in Walton on Sunday. The pavilion is so nice and the crowd was even nicer. Sometimes it's fun being a groupie. 

I hope memories gentle the losses of the families who're saying goodbye to their loved ones. Have a great week. Be safe, be well, and be nice to somebody. 

Remember Whens... by Liz Flaherty

Seein' things that I may never see again... - Willie Nelson

We're on the road this week, visiting family. It's a trip we've made a bunch of times, changing routes as family members change places. However, the trip to Florida has been the same route all along, with a few changes like the Kokomo bypass around its bypass--yay!--and the never-ending road construction that makes things less convenient for residents of areas but faster for those coming from Somewhere Else on their way to Somewhere even farther Else, where they can groan because the path they've taken offers "nothing to do" and "nowhere to go."

Oops, got lost in my own agenda for a minute there. Anyway, it's an easy, nice drive to where we go in Florida. We know where crosses sit in fields along the way--serving as a promise to some and a threat to others. We have eaten, we swear, in every Cracker Barrel along the way. Duane points at different places as we go through Louisville, and sometimes we take an exit to renew memories. "Wyandotte's right there. It cost 50 cents and we'd walk all the way there."

Wyandotte Park is still there, but the pool he remembers is not. Like Miller Pool in Peru, it's from another time and it's too bad it's gone. Too bad.

We talk about going to Kingfish to eat and him telling our youngest that his frog legs looked like little people legs. Jock couldn't eat them then, so Duane did. I don't think he did it on purpose, but 40 years later, we're still accusing him of it.

There are points of dread on this trip. Two of them used to be Kokomo's myriad stoplights and the nightmare of merging onto 465 that comes with spending one's life on country roads where my biggest complaint is that people don't stop at stop signs and occasionally drive 22 mph in the middle of the road. Then there's Nashville; it always rains when we drive through--although it was only a sprinkle this time--and it has so much traffic that there aren't enough roads to stuff the cars onto.

But back we go to the things we recognize that we look forward to. The Welcome to... signs are always a pleasure--one more state down! Shortly after the sign comes the welcome center to the new state. We missed Tennessee's this time--which meant we were talking and/or no one had to go to the bathroom--but looked forward to Alabama's rest stop rocket. It had been saying hello to us all the years we've been making the drive.

It's still there, but the welcome center itself had been torn down. The site is a mass of red dirt and myriad excavating equipment. The rocket stands alone. Its welcome seems feeble.

Horrified and feeling betrayed once again by change, I looked it up, finding a notice from radio station WKSR that said, "The NASA rest stop rocket in Alabama that has greeted people arriving from Tennessee on Interstate 65 for more than four decades is rusting and needs to be replaced, and that welcome center has been shut down."

Well. Dang it.

It's always this way in life, isn't it? It must be why we have memories, and it must be why when those memories fail in pieces and parts--as they most certainly do. So that we can remember the rush of pride and recognition that came with seeing the rocket, how we sat in Kingfish that day, those crosses that mean different things to different people. Duane and his friend we visited yesterday remember the walk to the pool at Wyandotte, the fifty cents. Duane saved his lunch money, his friend mowed a yard. They remember who lived where on the streets in their old neighborhood, and what they don't remember a phone call to a sister will clear up for them.

It makes me think of other changes. Of Gilead School with its fire escape from the second floor that was so much fun to go down. Its creaky wood floors and its pictures of graduating classes that hung in the assembly room. Of the days when all country kids rode school buses, singing and shouting and sometimes getting into trouble with the driver. That was a lot of energy to pack onto one bus, wasn't it?

We listened to music at Gallery 15 before we left on Thursday. The Three Old Guys played and I thought how cool it was that I've listened to two of them off-and-on since they and I were all in high school. The music was so great, with the musicians and the audience seeming to be in the same place. Terri and John Bond sang "Sounds of Silence" and gave me long moments of tenderness. A pretty young girl sketched portraits. She did mine, something I can add to my remember whens along with frog legs and welcome rockets and fire escapes.

I've waxed enough nostalgia this morning, haven't I, sitting here in this hotel dining room in a state whose time is an hour behind ours. I've been up since five--or four--depending on how you look at it. Seeing others leaving early with their luggage, going home to Michigan. A man with a beard sits across the room in the semi-darkness of the not-yet-open area, watching the news that is louder than I like.

People-watching, at least, doesn't change. They fill their cups before they leave for their own Somewhere Else and I wonder what their stories are. They look back, thoughtfully, wondering if they remembered everything. That doesn't change, either.

I wonder if they will miss the welcome rocket like I will. Or will they just be glad they remember it?

Have a great week. Remember. Be nice to somebody.

This 'n' That by Liz Flaherty

Every now and then, the "blank page" is more than a challenge and an unrealized pleasure. It's kind of horrifying. The idea that I don't have anything to say (and I admit there are those who would be delighted by this) appalls me. As an identifier, I am "the one who writes."

And I'm afraid of losing that identifier, of becoming "the one who used to write." I don't want to "used to" anything, thank you very much. Other than some muscle- and joint-related things that just aren't happening anymore, I mean.

On the group writing blog I'm part of, we sometimes post about this-and-that, simply because we can't think of anything to say, so here we go. The Window's version of This 'n' That. Thank you for your patience. 

Our class party was last night. It was wonderful. The food was fabulous. In 1993, I wrote "...although not all classmates love each other, either in school or 25 years later, there is still a sense of togetherness developed by memories shared that makes us see each other in a kind light. We delight in each other's glories and mourn each other's losses."

We still do. It was wonderful to see you.

Photo by Becky Shambarger

Thinking of the party and of watching Two-Thirds-of-Three-Old-Guys play music at the Black Dog later last night made me think of the word gathering. It's a favorite, one of those that gives joy and promotes memory. In the field west of the house, round bales clustered for a picture this week. If I were a good enough photographer to name my snapshots, I'd call it "The Gathering." What do you think?

The Gathering

I remember when bales were all the little rectangular ones that came apart in sweet-smelling flakes for cows to munch on. (I call them "little," but those suckers were heavy.) Bales of straw rowed on wagon beds for hayrides. What goes on the wagons now?

I love woodpeckers. 

Can you believe kids are going back to school already? I know vacations are different and that there are longer ones during the school year, but I'd rather have August be part of summer. Of course, no one asked me...

At the party last night, I ate a piece of Merry Gaerte's butterscotch pie. I now know what heaven is like. I weighed a pound more this morning, but I'm not blaming her. Nope, not me. 

I sold a book to The Wild Rose Press this week. Its (working) title is Life's Too Short for White Walls. I really love the title. Because, you know, like Gran says in the book, "The only good place for white walls is on a '57 Chevy."

Have a great week. Be nice to somebody. 

Magic and the Lucky Ones by Liz Flaherty

...the magic's in the music and the music's in me...

I was one of the lucky ones. 

In the 1960s, there was a group called the Lovin' Spoonful. Some of them are still around, still singing--I think they even use the group name...but in the 60s, when they recorded and performed a string of hits that most of my generation can still sing along with, they were...well, magic. Their first hit was "Do You Believe in Magic?" and I think it planted a seed that has grown, so that those of us who were "the lucky ones" still believe. In the magic and the music and in our fellow human beings.

The Magic Room

Last night, in a storefront on Broadway in Peru, there was some magic going on. Dusty baker / author / all round good guy Joe DeRozier threw "a bit of a party," with a gathering of downtown business owners, some writers, and a whole bunch of people who came to laugh, talk, visit with each other, and encourage.

Sarah Luginbill

It was magic, and those of us who participated are so thankful to Joe and to all of you. 

Photo by Sarah Luginbill

Speaking of magic...

It's all around us in the spring, isn't it? It's windblown, of course. Often wet. But it's green and it smells good and little people play baseball and shout "hey, batter, batter..." and adults gather on bleachers and find common ground where they hadn't realized it existed. It does exist, all the time, in the love for the players on the field and the playground and sitting over there somewhere with their eyes and thumbs glued to their phones. 

There's magic in stories you hear. I heard one the other day at DeRozier's that's not mine to share and it's not time to share it anyway, but I'm so much richer for having heard it. I told Kathy Bunker I worked with her mother-in-law at American Stationery and once Juanita relined a coat for me because I couldn't buy a new one. The sharing of the actions of a good heart are always good stories. Kathy was glad to hear it and I was glad to talk about an old friend and a job that was a good memory. 

There's more magic in stories you tell. Hearing about the ones they've lost helps people as they grieve, whether it's at a funeral home viewing, a celebration of life, or years later when you reconnect with someone while pumping gas into your cars. Telling someone when your kid has done good or funny things (thanks, Kim Eaton), thanking them for services they provide or favors they've done, telling them they've helped you make it through a day.

My husband plays music with a couple of other guys, Denny and Gary. They are young in spirit, but they've been playing music for...a while. It was magical when they came together, because Duane was in the first band Denny ever played in before the Three Old Guys came together and Gary was in the last. Kind of serendipitous, don't you think?

Duane Flaherty, Denny See, Gary Gillund

I'm late getting this posted today. Something else magical is your support of this column. Someone last night said, "Sometimes it's good and sometimes it's even better." I think maybe he was giving me too much credit, but he also gave me a truly magic moment. A really lovin' spoonful of good feeling. Thanks to him and to all of you. I hope you're all the lucky ones. 

Have a great week. Support local business when you can. Be nice to somebody.