13. Running Interference


How does one face the indignity of old age gracefully?

I recently spent a week in the Dallas area visiting my parents and aunt in their new retirement facility. It is a lovely place with beautiful grounds, spacious living accommodations, decent food and many activities from which to choose. As the trip approached I began to feel a sense of dread- I was anxious about seeing my mother and dad there and not in the family home in Lubbock. But that particular fear did not materialize: their apartment is full of familiar things and feels like them. And most of all they are where they need to be.

But the sense of dread was not misplaced. First of all, I was unprepared for the realities of staying in a retirement place for a week. But more importantly I was dismayed by my dad’s deterioration. Even though my sister had warned me that he could barely walk, I felt that something very significant was slipping through my hands.

There are so many different types of people at the Remington and most would probably prefer to be somewhere else. Walkers, electric wheelchairs and oxygen tanks are common. Cliques form in the dining hall whereas others are left to eat alone. When entering the lobby you are forced to walk the gauntlet, through the folks sitting around chatting. It is always the same group and as you walk past you hear the not-so-whispered comments: Who’s that? Who’s she visiting? Emily was nearly assaulted by an old codger wanting to take her out to dinner.

Most amusing, yet also sad, was a couple trying to have some sort of romantic relationship. She was insanely jealous of anytime her man friend spoke to another woman and I could hear them yelling at each other as they watched wrestling matches in front of the big screen television down the hall.

For several years my dad has had congestive heart failure and spinal stenosis and has been in a slow decrescendo. In fact in 2005 the doctor gave him a year to live. But I am not surprised that he has hung on- that side of my family tree just doesn’t know how to die. They wring out every last drop of life and, unfortunately, usually wear out the caregivers in the process. As downcast as I am at seeing Dad’s demise, it is equally sad to see what’s happening to my mother.

Coming to terms with Dad’s illness has been a slow process for Mother and there have been times when I believe she has single-handedly kept him alive. They have an extraordinary marriage, but she is now a caretaker more than a wife. The strain of taking care of Dad, as well as her own aging, has led her to lean more and more on my sister and me as she struggles with decisions. Gone is the confident, optimistic woman I grew up with. And Amy and I are weary, too, after the endless persuasions, encouragements and even arguments necessary to get them out of their home in Lubbock.

It is hard for me to imagine what it feels like to be unable to take care of one’s own most basic needs or to lose control of bodily functions. I looked into the faces of the Remington residents, knowing full well that many are at this stage of life. Some are able to cover this up and perhaps even deny it, but what does it feel like on the inside, when it’s just you acknowledging it to yourself? How are some able to maintain their dignity while others slip into despair? And how many only put on a happy face, pretending to accept the situation, while actually living in a personal hell, wanting this life to end?

As I watched my mother give herself completely over to caring for my dad, sometimes sympathetically and sometimes resentfully, I could not help but wonder if I was seeing myself in the not-so-distant future. My husband is 21 years older than me, and although we have had a fairly normal married life together I see some things starting to change. Hearing loss, forgetfulness, occasional cognitive confusion- these seem inevitable signs of aging which are becoming more noticeable and problematic. Bill has often said, only half-jokingly, that he doesn’t need long-term care insurance because he has his younger wife to take care of him.

As a wife I know that I will, in fact, take care of Bill in any way necessary as he grows older. But selfishly, I don’t want to turn into my mother. I have years left of energy and interest in my career as a musician: many organ works to learn and perform and many choral works to conduct. There are thousands of miles I want to cover and so many friends to spend time with… I pray that fate will not ask me to spend these peak years mainly as a caregiver.

I have an indelible memory of my trip: of being in Target with my mother as she begged the pharmacist to fill a prescription which the doctor had forgotten to authorize, all the while holding a bag of adult diapers. Every bit of grief, worry and pain that she’s endured the past few years were etched on her face… and in my heart as well. I returned to Maine feeling bruised and battered, as if I’d been running interference between my parents and the blows of life.

12. Music for the Weekend

A few years ago CD’s for certain occasions or times of the day were quite popular. Titles such as Mozart For Your Morning or A Baroque Breakfast were ubiquitous at gift shops and bookstores. The local classical music station here in Maine even has special programming for Sunday brunches, weeknight dinners and the evening commute. I suppose these ideas have been good marketing tools and have at times encouraged the neophyte to purchase a recording.

My fingers seem to have been running a marathon lately, playing a lot of music which would never turn up on these commercial lists. I am the accompanist for the Acadia Choral Society, a community choir of around 60 voices, and our spring concerts were May 2 and 3. On these programs I played piano, organ and harpsichord- a challenge, to be sure. We did Handel’s youthful Dixit Dominus, four songs by Stephen Paulus, and three anthems by John Ireland in which I got to “pull out all the stops” on the organ. The concerts are in my church, so I am accustomed to the piano and organ as well as the acoustics.

The harpsichord is another story. It is not my favorite sound and I am often reminded of the esteemed conductor Sir Thomas Beecham’s comment that it sounds not unlike two skeletons copulating. I haven’t played one since graduate school, so I was a bit worried about it. Yes, the keyboards are laid out the same as a piano, but the touch is stiff and finicky, to say the least. There is no damper pedal and the sound evaporates immediately. And then there are the many early music “experts” who are very particular about style and ornamentation. Would any be in the audience? Luckily I’ve played enough Baroque music on a tracker organ to have a good idea of what to do.

The Handel was accompanied by eleven strings plus harpsichord and many times I’m sure I wasn’t even heard. But there were a couple of movements for solo voice and continuo where my part was exposed and prominent. All in all it was fun and I think I did fairly well (I haven’t heard the recording yet). That is, until I reached the last four pages of the piece in the second performance. I began to notice an odd clanking sound and something looked amiss when I glanced at the inside of the instrument. Some keys would not rebound after playing them, so I shifted to the upper manual. Then those keys began to malfunction and within seconds all the notes remained down and I could not play the instrument! What to do? If I were to just sit there with my hands in my lap it would surely draw attention to the problem. Fortunately the entire orchestra was playing forte at this point and my part would not be missed. I decided to fake it by keeping my fingers moving without actually touching the keys, and nobody was the wiser.

I still don’t understand what happened; something must have gone out of adjustment. When the harpsichord technician came to move it back to the library the day after the concert, he was not alarmed. However, if I end up playing this instrument again I am going to know more about its mechanics!

The Ireland pieces were fun to play and the local critic even commented on the spine-tingling organ accompaniment in one. But his Te Deum quickly became known as the
Tedium among the choir because at twenty pages it is just too long. Stephen Paulus, a Pulitzer- prize winning composer, has a beautiful way of setting text, but I was disappointed that the choir was unable to sing the appointed ones a cappella. They would have been much more effective without the piano quietly plunking out the notes.

The program was long and demanding and the chorale sounded a little tired by the end of the second concert. Still, the comraderie among the singers was strong and there is always some post-concert euphoria surrounding a successful performance. I chose to bypass the party afterwards, opting to have dinner with friends.

The following is a Celtic invocation, used as the text in one of the Paulus songs. It is a beautiful prayer of reverence and thanksgiving which gave me pause every time we rehearsed it. I’ve decided to recite it every morning for awhile in hopes that it will inspire me to each day look beyond the problems, hassles and struggles of life; to find the beauty, hope and peace that exist in my world.


May I speak each day according to Thy justice,
Each day may I show thy chastening, O God;
May I speak each day according to Thy wisdom,
Each day and night may I be at peace with Thee.

Each day may I count the causes of Thy mercy,
May I each day give heed to Thy laws;
Each day may I compose to Thee a song,
May I harp each day Thy praise, O God.

May I each day give love to Thee, Jesu,
Each night may I do the same;
Each day and night, dark and light,
May I laud Thy goodness to me, O God.

11. Friday Night Lights

I freely admit it: I am obsessed with the television show Friday Night Lights. Please don’t invite me to do something on that evening, the answer will be no; I will be at home faithfully watching at 9 pm.

When I announce my enthusiasm for this show the response is invariably something along these lines: WHAT??? You like a football show??? (I do like football, but that is a different story). FNL is not about football. It is about people whose lives have football as a common denominator. Football is just the back drop, serving as a binding to hold the story together. Yes, I’m sure it can be classified as a “soap opera.” But it is a damn good one, with believable characters that are always fully human.

In almost every episode there is for me an “ah-ha” moment, where I think they got that right: Coach’s grabbing Smash at his college try-out and saying to his face God has placed you HERE to do what you’re best at. Julie’s looking expectantly in the mirror after her first sexual experience to see if she notices a difference. Tyra’s Yes, ma’am. Matt’s grandmother relying on a member of her Sunday school class to take her to a doctor’s appointment. Sexy, smart Tami’s talk with her daughter about sex, a mixture of sadness and relief.

And then there’s Buddy. Dear, dear Buddy. I know him; he is familiar to me. A middle-age man carrying too much weight, his youthful good lucks still apparent. Always wanting to do what’s best for his family, his friends, his business, but sometimes getting waylaid by his passions. A car dealer and head of the team boosters, he would cut off his right hand to save someone or something he loves.

When the movie version of Friday Night Lights came out I said to two teenage boys in my youth choir, That was my life in high school. And indeed that is true. The original story took place in Odessa, Texas, a place even grimmer and drier than Lubbock. Life in both places was governed by sports schedules and church. My family had season tickets on the 50 yard line to the Texas Tech football games and even occasionally traveled out of town to watch the Red Raiders play. And equally important was high school football. I wouldn’t have missed a Friday night under the lights for anything. My brother played as did my high school sweetheart.

Since I had a boyfriend on the team Friday nights were really all about after the game. And there was quite a build-up to that, beginning with a pep rally at school in an auditorium filled with screaming, hormone-laced teenagers, led by the cheerleaders (in my day the popular, and yes, loose, girls), all for the benefit of the incredibly handsome young men dressed up in coat and tie, sitting on the stage.

The football game itself produced a comraderie among the fans that I’ve rarely experienced since. Homecoming meant that the girls were weighed down by huge mum corsages laden with floor length ribbons, cowbells and miniature footballs. A feeling of being on top of the world was in the air when we won, tears and despondency when we lost. A loyal group of fans would cheer the team as they returned to the bus, no matter what the outcome of the game.

I would separate from my girlfriends at this point and wait for my boyfriend Tommy to come by my house. A win would often mean a trip out for a burger and a loss would usually keep us at my house. We did not go to the wild parties depicted in the show; we wanted to be alone. With eyes and ears out for my mother, passion was the name of this game, whether it was in Tommy’s car or on the couch in the living room. The game results dictated that passion, too: enthusiastic and celebratory if we won; quiet and ardent if we lost.

Perhaps watching Friday Night lights is just my middle-aged sentimentalism. Yet perhaps it is more, for it brings up that nagging question of leaving Texas, leaving a husband, leaving family. Leaving a familiar, comfortable, yes good way of life for something new in this state of Maine.

10. Rx for the Winter Blahs


Winter seems especially long this year. Here it is early March and in the past 10 days there have been 3 snow days in which schools were closed and I could not safely get to work. This is on top of several snow days earlier in December and January. The first one of the year is always a welcomed gift; the second is still nice; but by now I am just weary of rescheduling lessons and canceling rehearsals and plans.

Beginning in early January I decided to tackle winter head-on. Many people in Maine do this by getting outside for skiing or snowmobiling, but not me- I tried that when we first moved here and it didn’t work. Why does one choose to be outside in the cold??? My solution- entertaining- is ever so much better.

Almost every weekend we have had friends both old and new over for dinner. And of course this doesn’t only involve the few hours spent at the dinner party itself, but the cleaning, planning, cooking and clean-up. It has been a marvelous way to keep the winter doldrums at bay for both the hosts and guests. And despite having four new cookbooks, this year I have tended toward the tried-and-true: chili, black bean burritos, chicken curry, and an all-time favorite from Silver Palate, Chicken Marbella.

Last evening four intrepid friends braved the snowstorm and traveled about 20 miles to our house: Dick and Diana, musician friends; and Ian and Brian, a retired Episcopal priest and an organist, respectively. Diana brought a yummy hot cheese dip and the rest of the menu was as follows:

Crudités with Hummus and Kalamata Olives
Fricasse of Chicken with Winter Vegetables
Michael’s Salad
Crusty Bread with Roasted Garlic
Southern Pecan Pie with Whipped Cream

There were cocktails by the fire, wine with dinner, and strong coffee with dessert. A jovial evening with good food, good wine, and good conversation- my no-fail Rx for the winter blahs.

In case the above menu whets your appetite, here are some of the recipes. My apologies to the author of the chicken stew: I cut it out of a magazine a number of years ago without notating the source. It is a perfect cold weather dish.

Fricasse of Chicken with Winter Vegetables
6 servings

6 large skinless boneless chicken thighs
3 tablespoons olive oil
3 cups sliced leeks (white and pale green parts only)
3 cups chopped peeled parsnips
2 cups thinly sliced peeled carrots
2 tablespoons coarsely chopped garlic
3 cups low-salt chicken broth
1 cup dry white wine
2 teaspoons dried oregano
1 teaspoon fennel seed
1/8 teaspoon dried crushed red pepper

Chopped fresh parsley
Grated lemon peel

Sprinkle chicken with salt and pepper. Heat 2 tablespoons oil in heavy large pot over medium heat. Add chicken; brown on all sides, about 8 minutes. Transfer to plate. Discard drippings from pot.

Heat 1 tablespoon oil in same pot over medium heat. Add leeks, parsnips, carrots and garlic. Sauté until vegetables are tender and beginning to brown, about 6 minutes. Add broth, wine, oregano, fennel seed and red pepper. Bring to simmer. Add chicken. Cover; simmer until chicken is cooked through, about 10 minutes.

Transfer stew to bowls and garnish with parsley and lemon peel.

Michael’s Salad

Michael is my hairdresser and a superb cook-I always come away from my haircuts hungry!

Put the following in a large bowl:

Romaine lettuce
Mandarin oranges
Smokehouse almonds
Red onion, sliced
Gorgonzola crumbles

Toss with oil, vinegar, salt and pepper. Even confirmed salad-haters like this one.

Southern Pecan Pie

This is from the Houston Junior League Cookbook, 1968. It is unusual in that it doesn’t use disgusting, cloying Karo syrup. Every time I serve this pie someone tells me it is absolutely the best pecan pie they’ve ever tasted.

1 unbaked pastry shell
1 cup light brown sugar, firmly packed
½ cup white sugar
1 tablespoon flour
2 eggs
2 tablespoons milk
1 teaspoon vanilla
½ cup butter, melted (don’t substitute!)
1 generous cup pecans, chopped

Mix brown sugar, white sugar and flour. Add eggs, milk, vanilla and melted butter; beat well. Fold in pecans. Pour into unbaked pastry shell and bake in 375 degree oven for 40-50 minutes. Serve with whipped cream.

The top of this pie burns easily, so keep an eye on it.

9. Nuala

One day last spring as I was perusing my weekly New York Times (Friday edition, for the movie reviews and concert listings) an obituary caught my eye. It was for the Irish writer Nuala O’Faolain. Although I had never heard of her I was intrigued by her life and her stature as the “female Frank McCourt.” A few days later my friend Christie mentioned her to me and said how moved she had been years ago when listening to her first memoir on tape.

Since traveling to Ireland in 2006 and seeing several ancestral names everywhere I turned, I have been interested in learning more about this enigmatic country and its people. So within a week of reading Nuala’s obituary I made my way over to the library across the street from where I work and discovered they had both her first memoir, Are You Somebody? and her first novel, My Dream of You. After Christie’s recommendation I was most interested in the memoir, but it was missing from the shelf. The librarian promised to find it for me and I reluctantly checked out the novel, thinking guiltily of the large stack of fiction by my bedside waiting to be read.

I had a few minutes to spare, so I took the book and walked down the street for a cup of tea at my favorite café. I opened the book to begin reading and that was the end of any thought of the stack beside the bed.

The main character in the novel, Kathleen, is about my age, and although her circumstances are entirely different than my own, I immediately sensed that she was someone I knew. Her deep longing for something more, something out of the ordinary, was familiar. Her love/hate relationship with her home, Ireland, and subsequent return there resonated with me. I admired her unsentimental look at her own life and her unflinching desire for passion, despite her struggles to find it.

My favorite scene occurs early on in the novel: Kathleen has returned to Ireland to do research for a book and is staying at a remote cottage. One evening she brings home a man that she only just met at a bar and the tenderness and intimacy that these two strangers share is almost heartbreaking. The next morning she awakes alone, to a cold cottage. Upon realizing that she has been left she performs the usual mind games that people in this situation do, until she finds a note from her married lover saying: “If I did not go then I could never go at all. I could never leave you if I stayed. You are Everything a man could desire. Youre a Queen in any bodys world. You will always be in my memory.”[sic]


At about this point in the book I also began reading the memoir Are You Somebody? And the separation between fact and fiction became very blurred. The novel, as many are, is greatly inspired by the author’s own life. Growing up in a large, poor family, with an alcoholic mother and philandering father, Nuala managed to survive her childhood thru her love of books. She kept pushing and struggling against her inherited lot in life, finally becoming one of Ireland’s best known columnists. Yet work, as for most of us, was not enough; she longed for a soulmate with whom she could share her life. For a number of years she found this with Nell. Nuala’s survival of their devastating break-up is enough to give anyone courage and strength in the darkest times.

I read these books slowly, savoring every page and not wanting them to end. I felt both emotionally drained and invigorated at the end of each chapter. And then to my delight I discovered there was yet another memoir, Almost There, which picks up after Are You Somebody?

Despite being a seemingly private person, Nuala is universally recognized for her penetrating honesty and straightforwardness. Yet as difficult as it must have been for her to bare her soul in these books, I am most amazed at her honesty with herself. For to show herself to the world in such an open manner she had to first look deeply inside and acknowledge the sometimes uncomfortable truth of who she was. .

In looking through Almost There as I was preparing to write this, all my margin notes and underlinings pointed to a general idea that I had missed upon first reading. In the late 90’s Nuala moved part time to New York City to begin work on My Dream of You. She writes extensively of her sadness at leaving Ireland coupled with the excitement of a new life in a city with no boundaries. And it is in New York that she finally fulfills her destiny, both personally and professionally. She had been given the freedom to become herself.

In these postings you have heard me lament leaving Texas and I’m sure that will come up again (and again). It is my true home and I yearn for my family, my friends and the big open sky on a regular basis. But I see now that moving to Maine enabled me to become the musician I was meant to be. Here is where I’ve been given opportunities to create my own type of church music program, reach hundreds of people through my performing, travel internationally as an accompanist, play magnificent instruments, and teach piano in a non-competitive way. Had I stayed in Texas I would always be the pianist who tried to play organ, trying to meet goals and fulfill expectations that were not my own.

As much as I question living in this cold, occasional barren land, I am deeply grateful to this generous state for allowing me to fulfill my musical destiny.

8. The Psalm

The Psalm last Sunday caught my attention.

One of the things I like about the Episcopal church is its orderly use of scripture. Four readings every week: Old Testament, New Testament, Gospel, and a Psalm. We follow a three-year cycle called the Revised Common Lectionary and as a musician it is most helpful. I know far in advance what the lessons will be and if I were so inclined I could plan the music today for the 8th Sunday after Pentecost, 2025. The lectionary does not skip over difficult passages and it binds the readings together in a meaningful and relevant way. Best of all the preacher of the day can’t prepare a sermon and then go looking for scripture to back it up.

At my church we sing the Psalm on most Sundays when the choir is present. We do this in various ways, from plainchant to Anglican chant to hymntunes. Often the music allows the text to be understood on a deeper level than just words alone. The choir rehearses the Psalm several times and gets to know it well. This week we used a beautiful Simplified Anglican Chant which particularly highlighted the words of the Psalm.

Psalm 139 is about God’s loving creation of all human beings and the complete knowledge God has of each of us. The Psalmist sits in wonder and amazement that God “created my inmost parts; knit me together in my mother’s womb”. And he goes on to thank God, because “I am wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, and I know it well.” Please understand that I don’t take this literally; in fact I’m not sure I can begin to explain what it means to me. But the idea of a Creator taking the time to know every part of me is humbling.

I have been wondering why this Psalm struck such a chord with me; why I have not been able to get both the music and text out of my head for several days now. Maybe this is at least part of the answer: for some time I have been quite busy as a caretaker; of my parents, my husband, some friends. I do this willingly and freely, even perhaps naturally. But the balance between caring for others and myself can get skewed and this past week was one of those times. Singing that Psalm eased my weariness and filled my depleted spirit. And for that I am truly grateful.

Psalm 139: 1-5, 12-17

Lord, you have searched me out and known me;
you know my sitting down and my rising up;
you discern my thoughts from afar.
You trace my journeys and my resting places
and are acquainted with all my ways.

Indeed, there is not a word on my lips,
but you, O Lord, know it altogether.
You press upon me behind and before
and lay your hand upon me.
Such knowledge is too wonderful for me;
it is so high that I cannot attain to it.

For you yourself created my inmost parts;
you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
I will thank you because I am marvelously made;
your works are wonderful, and I know it well.

My body was not hidden from you,
while I was being made in secret
and woven in the depths of the earth.
Your eyes beheld my limbs, yet unfinished in the womb;
all of them were written in your book;
they were fashioned day by day,
when as yet there was none of them.

How deep I find your thoughts, O God!
how great is the sum of them!
If I were to count them, they would be more in number than the sand;
to count them all, my life span would need to be like yours.

8. Thanksgiving and Hope