Morning Songs

Uncle Larry will turn ninety-three May 10. He and my cousin Lynn spent five days with us and we celebrated his Birthday together Sunday morning, with cake and ice-cream, before they drove back to Los Angeles.

During their stay, my husband and I gave them a tour of Oakland, Berkeley and surrounding areas. They seemed particularly taken with Roberts Redwood Park's hiking trails, and Julia Morgan's iconic architecture, which we saw from the outside-in. It takes some doing to get four folk ready to leave in a timely way from our house. Chapel of the Chimes at the Piedmont Cemetary had just closed by the time we pulled up to the curb Saturday afternoon, so we walked around a bit and looked in windows while I described for them the urns of ashes that look like library books on shelves, with names, birth and death dates on the book's spines. Room after room after naturally lit room, with fountains and lush plantings hold these book-shaped urns as well as more classically shaped Grecian ones. Sunset is a perfect time to be there. All is awash with golden light. The sound resonates in these lovely spaces and Jazz Concerts are a regular Sunday feature at Chapel of the Chimes. Too bad our timing was slightly off.

We piled back in the car and went over to Berkeley City Club, where we could go inside, delight in a a bride and groom posing on the sun-drenched steps for a prenuptial photographic session. We observed diners arriving at the members-only-restaurant, and even found a door accidentally left ajar, so we could peek in on the gorgeous pool - so reminiscent of Ms. Morgan's stunning indoor pool at San Simeon's Hearst Castle.

Friday we went to the Oakland Museum - everyone's first time except for our granddaughter, who has been there many times before. Such fun to see the California History exhibit. In the Hollywood section, we had fun recording sound effects for an old Western Movie in the Foley room, and coloring costume designs over tracings on a light box. The Grandie also liked watching the huge coy and turtles in the outdoor pond.

Sunday morning was my favorite time of the visit. Uncle dines early on the same foods each morning - yogurt, prunes, oatmeal, toast with peanut butter, and coffee. Cousin Lynn lingered longer in bed. Uncle and I sang morning songs alone together in the brightly lit east-facing kitchen. Oklahoma's "Oh, What a Beautiful Morning" was top on his mind. He didn't know about Cat Steven's rendition of "Morning Has Broken", so I pulled out our large print edition of "Rise Up Singing" so he could see the lyrics and chord progressions. He's quite an eclectic musician. Guitar is his most accomplished instrument, but he also plays Ukulele, piano, flüegel horn, and slide trombone. He's in a group called The Geritones that plays gigs at senior centers and nursing homes. 

There's such a fine line between "fine" and "not-so-fine." My mother's brother at ninety-three has all his faculties, shops and cooks for himself, drives himself to folk-dancing, stores, and book club meetings every week, in addition to any gigs where his group is playing.

I'm listening to Atul Gawande's "Being Mortal", which is about frailty, dependence, and aging, Oh, My! I recommended it to my cousin. She lives with her dad and, right now, everything is "fine."  

His sister, my mom, had a catastrophic brain event one day, which ended her independence with a BANG. Bodies have moving parts and they wear-out. I have a great deal of respect for the elders I know who are vibrantly alive even if they live with diminished and diminishing capacities. To greater or lesser extent, we all have capacities that wane. When in the presence of those who are wobbly of foot or of mind, I sometimes have the fear that I'm sharing company with a ticking time-bomb - that may explode at any moment. Perhaps the suddenness of my mother's extreme decline marked me, and I expect something like that will happen to everyone eventually. Here today... gone tomorrow. New Normals are hard on the soul.

Uncle shows no signs of not being fine. I wonder how Frank Weller was that morning at home, before he mistook the gas pedal for the brake in his car and plowed into the Santa Monica Farmer's Market. I worked with a child who was badly hurt by his mistake simply by being innocently in the pathway of his speeding, out-of-control vehicle. Heart-breaking - for all concerned.

Cousin Lynn, my honey and I had a conversation, out of Uncle's earshot, about THAT conversation which must be had at some point with her father. We came up with the phrase, "We'll know it's time to hand over the keys when the joy of independent living, which includes driving yourself around, is outweighed by the risk of possible danger."  We didn't have to have that conversation with my mom. After her stroke, it was a no-brainer. (Pun, sadly appropriate.) With my mother's boyfriend, however, it was a one-sided conversation that fell on his deaf ears. He continued to drive - illegal - even after having caused a bad accident. Fierce independence is admirable as long as it stays out of the driver's seat. 

Meanwhile, morning songs continue to knock around my noggin... "... but she lived on the morning side of the mountain, and he lived on the twilight side of the hill," and "Good morning star-shine, the earth says hello, you twinkle above us, we twinkle below." (From Hair)

I look forward to singing with Uncle Larry again soon. My preference is that we sing only morning, and no mourning songs.