20. An Older Man

Today is my husband Bill's 76th birthday...and I find that it is giving me pause. Bill does not look his age and is unusually fit for a septuagenarian; nonetheless that is his age. I am 54.

When we first met (I was 27) and were in the early stages of our relationship we were both acutely aware of our age difference. We noticed that people stared at us and were confused by our physical displays of affection. But as time went on we grew comfortable with each other and didn't notice those looks so much, and then when Emily was born it just didn't matter. Being worried about what a stranger thought was the last thing on our minds.

For perhaps close to 20 years our age difference was not much of a concern. My employers and our friends never said a word and my family stopped mentioning it. Bill's health was, and continues to be, excellent. But at a recent gathering I introduced myself to a woman and as I turned to introduce Bill she blurted out And this is your father! I've become aware that a change is underway which will affect my life significantly.

I am familiar with the encroachment of old age, watching it in my parents and aunt and in numerous choir members and church friends. It can be a slow diminuendo- some forgetfulness, a bit of confusion, physical ailments large and small, loss of hearing, stiffness and aching joints, disinterest in going out- but over the course of a few years one does notice the changes. I am starting to see these things in Bill, gradually, and I say this not out of fear, blame or dread, but as a way of looking honestly at the future.

While in Ecuador this past summer Bill passed out 3 times due to the inability of his heart to pump enough oxygen thru his body. High in the Andes, there was no modern medical care and we did not really know what was happening. It was frightening enough that we had the what if? conversation. Funeral wishes and the like. Fortunately these episodes were a result of the altitude and not an underlying health problem. But I didn't know that as I struggled to keep my suddenly frail husband from collapsing.

Back to the birthday...of course we had a party. In 26 years of marriage I remember only one year that we didn't invite friends over to celebrate. This year it was a small dinner party and I served an old favorite, Chicken Marbella. And for the first time in several years I made the cake, which was over-the-top scrumptious. So here's the recipe, and for you foodies out there don't prejudge the combination of a cake mix, instant chocolate pudding and chocolate chips. Take this cake to a party and they'll think you slaved for hours.

Death by Chocolate

(from Southwest Flavor by Adele Almador)

12 ounces semi-sweet chocolate chips

1 3/4 cups milk

2 eggs

1 devil's food cake mix

4 ounces instant chocolate pudding

Mix cake mix, milk and eggs for 30 seconds.

Add pudding and mix at medium speed for 2 minutes.

Stir in chips.

Pour into a greased and floured Bundt pan.

Bake at 350 degrees for 55 minutes.

Let cool 5-10 minutes before releasing from pan.

This cake gets better with age, so make a day or 2 ahead of time. I served it with vanilla ice cream and a sauce made from frozen Maine strawberries.

Happy Birthday, Bill.

19. Dinner with the Homeless

Situated at 8335 feet above sea level, the beautiful city of Cuenca, about half-a-million strong, lies in the midst of the Andes in Southern Ecuador. Arriving by air, one peers out the plane window over miles and miles of red tile roofs. The intellectual center of this part of the country, Cuenca has for centuries been the birthplace of writers, artists, poets and philosophers. After being in crowded, polluted Quito it is a relief to breathe clean air and to be free of the heartwrenching child beggars tugging on your sleeve.

The old part of the city oozes charm and history and the cobblestone streets are lined with one small quaint shop after another- hatmaker, silversmith, dentist, grocer. Many of the people still dress in indegenous clothing, including Panama hats and colorful ponchos. I had the feeling that the 21st century had not quite made it in the door. The Tomebamba River winds its way through the city and on sunny days one can watch women and children washing their clothes here and then laying them on the banks to dry.

In the middle of the city is a large, traditional market containing dozens of stalls overflowing with fresh produce, meat and fish. Huge baskets of fresh blackberries, potatoes of every kind, slabs of meat hanging from the ceiling and cattle hooves artfully arranged are just a few of the market's offerings. Of course we gringos were afraid to sample much, but the place was hopping with regular customers on a weekday morning. In the midst of the crowds and hustle bustle I saw a young mother sitting on a staircase cradling her child, around eight years old, in her lap. The boy was handicapped, unable to hold up his head or focus his eyes, and near the mother was a beggar's cup. This scene stopped me dead in my tracks and I was frozen in place, seemingly incapable of either following my group or placing money in her cup. Finally, for fear of getting lost in the crowd, I turned to catch up with the others and to this day I do not understand why I did not give the woman a twenty dollar bill, or more. I regret it deeply.

For me, the high point of the choir tour to Ecuador was the time spent at La Iglesia de San Fransisco in Cuenca. A few years ago our conductor Ray and his partner David befriended the priest at this church, Padre Rigoberto Jara. At that time the church was falling into disrepair and struggling to keep its congregation together. Padre Rigoberto, a young dynamo, has brought the church back to life. The roofs are repaired, work has begun on the interior and there is a large, enthusiastic congregation. And he has begun an important mission for the area, a much-needed homeless shelter.

The day of our concert at La Iglesia, which was to be a benefit for the shelter, Ray, David and I went to the church a couple of hours early to check out the performance situation (specifically the keyboard!). There we met Hugo, a generous and enthusiastic young man, who was loaning us his keyboard for the concert. He had recently graduated from the university in Cuenca, where he studied music. Hugo was eager to demonstrate the possibilities of the keyboard and I asked him to play something for us: to my surprise he launched into a passionate, virtuosic performance of a Chopin etude.

Ray, David and I were then invited by the priest to his private quarters for tea and cookies. The four of us sat around a plain table, struggling to communicate across a significant language barrier. Padre Rigoberto's gratitude was palpable and I was touched at his offering of hospitality, a true example of where two or three are gathered...

And then it was time for dinner. The choir had arrived and I'm not sure if any of us knew that the meal was to be at the homeless shelter, adjacent to the church. We climbed a rickety metal staircase to the dining area, where I witnessed innumerable acts of mercy and kindness. A tiny old man, shuffling up the stairs, was afraid of our presence and tried to turn around and leave. One of the workers gently took his arm and guided him back into the room, refusing to let him go away hungry. The servers and the homeless were often on a first-name basis and there was genuine concern that everyone was getting enough to eat and would have a safe place to sleep that night.

Yes, it was awkward and uncomfortable, sitting in the midst of these homeless men and women. Even if we'd spoken the same language, what does one say in this situation? Some were gregarious and others would not even make eye contact. As the simple but nutritious meal was served Ray rose from his chair and asked the choir to sing a blessing- Peter Lutkin's The Lord Bless You and Keep You, which they had learned in Spanish. This is a beautiful, traditional benediction with a glorious, extended Amen that even under "normal" circumstances can bring listeners to tears. But it was so much more in this setting- a rare and extraordinary bridge between strangers and across borders, an affirmation of the human spirit.

How does one perform after an experience like this? Somehow we did- the church was packed and some of our dinner companions even came to listen. When we performed the songs from Ecuador the audience members joined in, singing at the top of their lungs, swaying, clapping. Padre Rigoberto was ecstatic and even Hugo came up to me afterwards and said Hey! You're not too bad!

This city and these people are thousands of miles from Maine. Many lack the basics of sufficient food, adequate housing and medical care. The choir did raise some much needed cash for the shelter at concerts in Brunswick and Cuenca, and we brought blankets and towels from the US. That is important; it is critical. But there is more: with our music we fed their spirits, their souls, and that is important, too.

18. Homage to Spencer Pond

A couple of weeks ago Bill and I returned from our annual pilgrimage to an old sporting camp on Spencer Pond, a small body of water near the majestic Moosehead Lake in northern Maine. For the eighteen summers we have been going there it has been a great place for me to indulge in my favorite sports of gentle hiking, canoeing and, most of all, reading. There are six cabins, each with its own personality, plus another for the owners who live there from May thru November. Surrounded by paper company-owned land and an hour from the nearest town, one must traverse a dusty, bumpy gravel road for twelve miles to get there, always prepared to dodge lumber trucks driving fully loaded down the middle of the narrow roads.

For all these years Spencer Pond has been my get-away before starting the busy fall schedule. And one of the things that makes it so enticing is that the cabins are primitive: no electricity, no running water, plumbing "out back." They each have two gas lamps (barely OK for reading), oil lamps in the bedrooms, hand pumps at the sink and a woodstove. Somehow the absence of modern amenities takes a huge amount of stress off my shoulders, as do the screened porches overlooking the lake.

We first went to Spencer Pond in 1992, when Emily was seven. We stayed for an entire week and what a luxury that was! Emily was a curious child and loved the adventure of being out in the woods. She spent hours everyday in the swing that hung between two enormous pines, lost in her own world of imagination. As she approached her teenage years a trip to Spencer Pond became less appealing, unfortunately. What? A week alone with Mum and Papa? No friends, no TV, no radio? Occasionally we acquiesced and let her stay with a friend, but I missed her presence desperately. To her chagrin she came down with mono one year right before our scheduled trip and of course she had to go with us. Not only was Spencer Pond the perfect place for her to rest and recuperate, that time away with her was a precious gift to me.

One might think that all those visits would run together and in a way they do, but there have been some stand-out memories. Quite a number of years ago, when my parents were in better physical shape, they and my aunt went with us. We stayed in the largest cabin and immediately discovered that the plumbing situation was going to be a problem. And then there was the issue of Aunt Dot and her purse: here we were, literally in the middle of nowhere, and she wouldn't leave her purse in the cabin because there was no lock on the door. So there goes Dot, traipsing around the woods with her purse in hand. At one point we finally convinced her to leave the purse in the cabin while we took a walk, and upon our return she was just sure someone had taken some of her money!

Our dear west coast friends, Susan and Jay, accompanied us one year. They stayed in their own cabin, but we cooked all our meals together. And they were marvelous! Susan and Jay are two of the best cooks I know and we took camp cuisine to new heights. Jay was very excited about trying his luck fishing and spent a lot of time out on the dock casting a rod and reel. One early morning I was reading on the porch when Jay quietly peered through the screen. Julia, I have a little problem here. He showed me his upper arm and a fishing lure with a large hook was stuck there. Ouch. I quickly proved to be no nurse, so Bill and Jay went to awaken Bob, the owner. He roused himself from sleep and managed to extricate the barb, saving Jay a trip to the ER, at least an hour away.

Showering is a challenge, too, but one I eagerly embrace. The first step is to heat up about 2 1/2 gallons of water on the gas stove and then transfer it to a shower bag. As you bathe you must be judicious with this water, closing the clamp when you don't need it. You cannot stand and enjoy the hot water flowing over your back for minutes and minutes as you might in a modern shower. Bill has been slow to learn this and on at least two occasions I have heard screaming profanities coming from the shower stall and a request for his swimming trunks. Covered in soap and shampoo he's had to make a run for the lake to dive in and rinse off.

Getting away like this every year gives me some perspective not only on my life, but on our collective lives. Coming back to "civilization" I am acutely aware of the waste we indulge in: food, water, energy. I am reminded of the futility and impermanence of our materialistic culture. And most painful of all I witness myself participating in all this, swept along by the influences around me.

I like the simplicity of life at Spencer Pond and I like who I am there. Every year I strive to bring that person back with me: a woman who takes time to watch the birds, have a leisurely cup of tea, write letters, walk in the woods, pray. I return to the "real world" with life on a schedule, bills to pay and a balancing act of commitments every day. I have yet to find a workable balance between the quiet I crave and the work I love.

Our time in the north woods this year was especially poignant as our friends who own and manage the cabins, Bob and Jill, are retiring. A search for a new manager is underway and I hope the right person is found. But something tells me that Bill and I are going to take a year off and explore somewhere new- for some inexplicable reason that just makes sense to me. If that is the case I know it will only be a short suspension from the beauty and peace I find in my pilgrimage to Spencer Pond.

17. Dining Alfresco

Here in Maine we are in the midst of an unusually uncomfortable hot spell. After breaking out in a sweat from a simple walk down the block I try to remember the interminable winter with its endless snowstorms as well as this year's June and July with days and days of rain. And when I voice a complaint about the heat people often say Aren't you from Texas? You should be used to this! But the truth is one usually deals with the heat in Texas by turning on the air-conditioning; in most cases that is not possible here. And after a week of 90-degree plus temperatures and equal humidity everything is hot. Even the pets stretch out under the ceiling fans and move as little as possible.

Finally, though, we can eat outdoors on the balcony without wearing a sweater! Despite the sultry house I look forward to preparing a cool meal and dining alfresco after the sun drops below the maple trees. Here's the perfect menu after practicing all day in a hot church or doing paperwork in my sweltering 2nd floor office, and you never have to turn on the stove or oven:

Mediterranean Tuna Salad

Chilled Canataloupe

Hearty Bread with Real Butter

Sauvignon Blanc

I'll include the recipe for the salad, adapted from the August issue of Eating Well.

1 can beans (make it easy and use whatever you have on the shelf)

2 cans water-packed tuna, drained and flaked (5 to 6 ounces each)

1 red bell pepper, finely diced

1/2 cup finely chopped onion (red or Vidalia is nice)

1/2 cup chopped fresh parsley, divided

4 teaspoons capers

1 1/2 teaspoons finely chopped fresh rosemary

1/2 cup lemon juice, divided

4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, divided

Freshly ground pepper

1/4 teaspoon salt

8 cups mixed salad greens

Combine beans, tuna, bell pepper, onion, parsley, capers, rosemary, 1/4 cup lemon juice, and 2 tablespoons oil. Season with pepper. Combine the remaining lemon juice, oil and salt in a large salad bowl and add the greens, tossing to coat. Divide the greens among 4 plates and top with the tuna salad.

I generally have all these ingredients on hand and am lucky to have these herbs in my garden. Make sure the cantaloupe is perfectly ripe and the wine a little dry, then ENJOY! A scoop of sorbet or a piece of chocolate tops it all off nicely.

Bon appetit!

16. Soldier Boy


What passing bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs-
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing down of blinds.

(Anthem for Doomed Youth by Wilfred Owen, 1917)


On a recent Southwest Airlines flight from Nashville to Baltimore I was one of the last to board the full flight. I took the first middle seat I saw, which happened to be next to a handsome young soldier, one of a couple dozen on the plane. Normally I immediately bury my head in a book in order to skip the chit-chat with the person next to me, but when the flight attendant announced Let’s show our men and women in uniform how much we appreciate them he and I made eye contact. I felt compelled to ask the proverbial Where are you going? and when he answered Afghanistan the conversation began.

Chris, based in Ft. Campbell, Kentucky, is 23 and an Army officer from a military family. He was headed to a helicopter base near the border of Afghanistan and Pakistan where he will be a maintenance supervisor. A recent college graduate, he chose the military both for job security and because it is in his blood.

I asked how his parents were handling his deployment (pretty well, since his father is career military) and what his living conditions would be (a tent, some access to phone and internet services, a softball field). I wondered about the preparation he’d had for the trip, such as language and culture studies. His answer was not reassuring. Perhaps I detected some apprehension in his face, but no real fear.

Truthfully, I’m not clear anymore why we are in Afghanistan. To me it’s just another part of an unjustified, endless war that we cannot win. All of it is very, very far away and removed from my own life. But meeting Chris suddenly made it real to me, with a personal, human dimension. I was taken aback at his young, tender age, and the ages of all those with him. My daughter is 24. How, oh how, can we send our young people into these ambiguous situations? If they are lucky enough to come back alive, there is a good chance they will be seriously injured, either physically or emotionally.


Since this encounter I’ve become aware that Afghanistan is in the news everyday and that troubles there are escalating. In the newspaper I’ve begun reading the weekly summary of our soldiers killed there and in Iraq and I am sadly reminded of the fragile and transient nature of life. I fear that we are in a situation that will only escalate, with tragic results, as we fight an ill-defined enemy seemingly able to outwit our best intelligence.

At my church Chris and his company have been added to the Prayers of the People every Sunday morning. May they return home alive, healthy and whole.

Almighty God, we commend to your gracious care and keeping all the men and women of our armed forces at home and abroad. Defend them day by day with your heavenly grace; strengthen them in their trials and temptations; give them courage to face the perils which beset them; and grant them a sense of your abiding presence wherever they may be; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen. (The Book of Common Prayer)

15. The Contraptionist


In June I spent nearly 2 weeks touring Ecuador as the accompanist for the First Parish Choir of Brunswick, ME. My friend and organ teacher Ray Cornils is the Director of Music there and in 2006 I toured Ireland and Wales with the same group.

Although I consider myself an above-average accompanist, going on these trips is really not about one’s ability to play a lot of notes or one’s sensitivity to balance and nuance. After 4 international choir tours I’ve come to realize that it is all about flexibility. With great anxiety I recall climbing the spiral staircase to one of the five organs at the Salzburg Cathedral and having not even a few seconds to test the instrument before the downbeat from the conductor. All the while I was receiving whispered instructions in German, which I do not speak, about when and what to play. On the trip to Ireland and Wales I was privileged to play a number of fine instruments, both pianos and organs. Although in most of these cases I had adequate rehearsal time, I never knew until I walked into the church what the instrument would be like. In some instances the organ was separated from the choir by the entire length of the church and I had to watch Ray via a video monitor. It all became somewhat of an inside joke between me and the choir, who peppered me with questions such as What’s it going to be today, Julia? Will we even be in the same building as you? How are those eyes in the back of your head?

As the trip to Ecuador became closer I asked Ray about the instruments I’d play. He wryly informed me that they’d be electronic keyboards as Ecuador had few good pipe organs and pianos, and those were usually out-of-tune and in bad repair. I innocently thought Fine. A piece of cake! The keyboards will be in tune and I’ll be able to see the conductor. Although I would never consider playing a concert in the US on an electric keyboard, I realized that I could not be such a perfectionist on this trip.

First stop: a beautiful village church in Cumbaya, a suburb of Quito. We were scheduled to sing for mass, then perform a concert. I marched right up to the side of the altar to discover the less-than-full-size keyboard with no music rack or pedal. Yikes. Not only that, but there was no chance to rehearse in the church because of back-to-back masses and the priest wanted the choir in the back of the church for the service. Ray made a quick decision to sing the mass a cappella, then bring the choir forward for the concert. I sat on a chair at least a foot too low, jerry-rigged my music against a mike stand and constantly reached for notes that were not on the keyboard. I was utterly frustrated! But as the concert went on I looked into the faces of the hundreds in attendance and saw that they loved the music. A deep connection between us gringos and the Ecuadoreans was forming and it did not matter that I was playing a crummy keyboard. They laughed, they cheered, they sang along. We all left that concert on a high note.

With variations, this experience continued at four other venues. At the Iglesia Compañia de Jesus in Quito I endured one of the worst rehearsals of my career, playing with the music in my lap until a wobbly stand arrived and trying to make music out of a contraption. At least it was full-size and there was a pedal (which wanted to walk away from me), but I just could not get an acceptable sound from it. This beautiful church is dripping in gold leaf and the US Ambassador to Ecuador was in attendance. Where was the Steinway grand?

In the city of Cuenca I was faced once again with a short keyboard, but this one had a bona-fide music rack and the pedal was taped to the floor! This instrument sat on a simple table, but that was not enough for the person in charge. She found a white tablecloth trimmed with roses and onto the table it went. Propped up on two thick pillows, I sat in an elegant chair. As this concert ended I found out that the next night I would be playing the same keyboard. Yes! I thought. I’ll know what I’m dealing with. Did I really think it would be so simple? This time the pedal stuck and could not be used, and even after carefully checking the settings the first chord I played sounded like an organ for a 60’s rock band.

At our last concert in Papallacta the keyboard was the best of the bunch: full-sized and with a working pedal. Ray generously gave me the single rickety music stand and gallantly conducted with his score on the floor. This location, though, had an electricity problem, and a few minutes after the program was scheduled to begin several men were still trying to plug me in to a set of bare wires! For the most part it worked, although in the middle of one piece which has a particularly nice piano part the power went out. Ray scowled in my direction and I just gently shrugged: What can I do?

Throughout the trip the choir often wondered how I could get through the concerts on these contraptions. And I even asked myself if perhaps I was compromising my musical integrity. With no exceptions, however, the concerts were packed with an audience eager to hear this American choir. They discovered such joy and meaning in our music- who was I to withhold that because of my distaste for electric keyboards? And selfishly, I, too, would have missed out on many rich, rewarding experiences.

On the bus one night after a program I announced that I was not the accompanist, but the contraptionist. And a kind, male voice replied I think that would be the Immaculate Contraptionist.

On a favorite jacket I wear a button that says Peace Through Music. Before the trip to Ecuador I believed that, intellectually, but now I believe it in my heart. Despite chasms of language, culture, economics and geography, the choir and the people who heard us made a powerful, human connection, thanks to the universal language of music.

14. Piano Recital

Ah, Lily! Your hand position!

That scary, intimidating, yet exciting event called the Spring Piano Recital is now history. And what a rewarding and fun time it was. This year I have had 11 piano students- 8 children and 3 adults. Most of them have had a productive year, but I do admit to wanting to pull my hair out at the end of more than a few teaching days. Grace, you didn’t practice this week EITHER? Emerson, you forgot your books AGAIN? Alden, your fingers STILL look like spaghetti!

All is forgiven, though, when the recital performances are like those I heard on a recent Sunday afternoon. Most of the children have been studying for about 2 years and they are now making music. In addition to the usual Suzuki beginner pieces we were treated to the sounds of Bach, Mozart, Hummel, Kabalevsky and Bartok, and without exception these miniatures contained dynamics, correct articulation, phrasing, and feeling. In short, musicality.

In these days of technical verbosity, why does a child or adult choose to take up an instrument? Thankfully the human desire for creativity and expression cannot be fully met by electronic devices. The piano seems to enjoy a universal attraction and I feel lucky that it is my instrument and the one that I teach.

For about 2 years now I have had an especially challenging high school student that I’ll call Jim. When he first came to play for me I wasn’t sure if I could work with him. He would neither talk to me nor look me in the eye and his playing, at an intermediate level, was troublesome. His hand position was atrocious, his legs were in constant motion and he couldn’t count to save his life. Why, oh why does this kid want to play piano? I must have been up for a challenge since I decided to take him on, and for a long while it was a struggle. In addition to there being little personal connection between us, he had no idea what practicing meant. After a few months I gave him the usual song and dance: this is a waste of my time and your mother’s money.

But slowly something started to change. He learned one of Bach’s minuets and began to play with feeling. He asked to learn more Bach and chose the Musette in D made famous by Bobby McFarren and Yo-Yo Ma. About this time he even began talking to me and laughing at my cryptic jokes. I started to like this boy!

After about a year of study his grandmother came in to tell me how much piano meant to Jim. She took me aside and whispered He has Asperger’s syndrome, you know. Well, I didn’t know much about that and I immediately did some research. Bingo, it all made sense. That Jim could push aside this developmental disorder and communicate through playing the piano is a striking example of the power of music to transcend our human limitations.

I often think back to my own piano study and recitals growing up. For 12 years I studied with Mrs. Harris, a fixture among the local piano teachers. A graduate of the University of Texas, she had a large class of students and was also the organist at my church, First Baptist. She was a wonderful teacher and always had a twinkle in her eye as she conveyed her enthusiasm for the music. Many of her students, including myself, consistently won top prizes in competitions sponsored by the Lubbock Music Teachers Association. And were we ever busy! There was always another hymn festival or sonatina contest or theory exam on the horizon. She had so many students that she had to divide them in half and have 2 separate recitals.

In my teenage years Mrs. Harris and I did have a few run-ins. She was not too pleased when I announced that I wanted to play a medley from The Sound of Music for the recital. And there was a whole string of lessons when I arrived quite late, thanks to spending some time after school in my boyfriend’s car, and was subject to her glower. But through the years she gave me so much more than my parents ever paid for and was thrilled and proud that one of her students went to Baylor as a piano major.

For as long as I can remember music has been my soul food. It is the one thing that has never let me down- in my darkest days it has been a steady and comforting companion and in good times it has allowed me to express boundless joy. How fortunate I am that what sustains me also provides my physical support; sharing my love of music with students, choir members and the congregation in the pews gives my life great meaning.

My students have taught me much about the joy of expression, the need for patience, the possibility of human connectivity through music and the importance of generativity. And so this year I ended the recital with my own performance of Mendelssohn’s Gondola Song in A Major- a gift to them in thanksgiving for their presence in my life.