I woke up alone this morning.
I went to bed alone last night, but until I was actually in bed, I didn’t feel alone. I guess John & I are in such an established habit of doing our own separate things in the evenings, I just kind of “felt like” he was still home, typing on the computer, or already in bed.
The Mundane Details of My Life
I slept fine. Got up at 7. It was dark when I got up, both in the bedroom and somewhat outside (where it was very foggy this morning). Cold, too– if I keep wearing skirts this winter, I’ll need to get some heavier skirts and buy non-open-toed shoes.
I want to program the X10 lights in our bedroom to fade on starting at about 6:45. The alarm goes off at 7, so if the room already has some light in it, I’ll feel more like I’m waking up during daylight hours.
I had my mocha and bagel this morning in the car. I didn’t want to sit at the coffee shop alone, and I was running a bit late anyway, so it was car-food today. I did fine– didn’t even spill anything, I’m so proud.
Tonight is band practice. Tomorrow is elections training. John comes home Thursday at midnight. My party is this weekend, Saturday night (I’ve set the date now– there was only one “It’s OK” for Sat. evening, and the rest of the times were all bad for at least 2 people).
Trip the Washington, D.C.
My trip to Washington was interesting. I took exactly 1 photograph– of releasing a Bookcrossing book into the wild. Ironically, the book I left was Being Digital, and I left it in the bathroom at the Salt Lake City Airport. I’ll bet it gets thrown away. . . .
I did, however, draw sketches of things and places, and jotted down some thoughts. I drew a sketch sitting on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial at 8:30 AM, before I’d had coffee and while the Alzheimer’s walk-a-thoners were setting up. The prominent feature of the sketch is the construction crane, the dark black beam of which is more visually arresting than the Washington Monument which it parallels, both in the sky and in the reflecting pool. I drew a sketch of the theater in the Folger Shakespeare Library, which I was very glad to visit, even though I had to leave before deciding on a purchase at the gift shop. And I drew a sketch inside the Metro, and jotted down my thoughts about the smell of the Metro and how I feel in general when getting around a large city.
Gordon and Linda took me out to dinner Saturday night. I totally stuffed myself and really over-indulged, but it was quite nice, even though Gordon has a completely different view of our family than I do. I won’t say it’s distorted, because I know that our family members were different people to him and to me. But I will say that it’s very different from what his other siblings say about those particular members of the family.
Linda did, however, jump in and chastise him when he told me that all the relatives on my grandmother’s side (to whom he is not related) were jailbirds, and that they operated a flophouse. The story I heard, of course, is that they’re all drunks, and that they operated a hotel. The truth is probably somewhere in between– there were surely criminals in the past– nearly every family that has fallen on hard times has a few. And I’m 100% certain that half of my grandmother’s relatives were drunks. But the flophouse/hotel thing: I don’t know. The Library Hotel had some really beautiful pieces of furniture in it– I doubt they would have been that nice if it had been a transient’s locale.
The Memorial Service
The service was quiet and small, the attendees mostly elder family members of Rebecca’s who should never have had to outlive someone from the younger generation. Words were spoken– my best friend gave a very touching and completely appropriate tribute to her mother and how they connected in literature and reading. What made her words so special was that she’s not a public speaker– she’s typically shy and relates better to speaking to a classroom of kids than to adults. She spoke after her aunt had started things with a rambling and somewhat repetitive speech about Rebecca– a speech which was clearly unrehearsed, and not unlike something I would say at a service (because I just SUCK at memorials, I have found). Also, her aunt’s speech was mainly about Rebecca’s last days– something that I, at least, did not wish to know about, except in the sense that she was peaceful and chose her moment very deliberately.
Her father had spoken, and there was great sadness and loss in his words, with a reserve that, I knew, told of holding back, just enough, so he would not break down sobbing in the middle of friends and family.
But Holly really shone. She started off with typical humilty, commenting that she is no public speaker and dislikes crowds. Normally, this is a mark of a poor speaker, as one should not apologize for one’s speech, especially before one has spoken.
But then something amazing happened. She started talking about her mother and about their relationship through books, and some of the things she said. . . they were funny. We chuckled. We all shared a little chuckle or a smile– and not because we were enjoying a fond, but now melancholy memory. But because there was humor in her story, genuine human humor that we could all relate to, but in a living, un-sad way.
I didn’t get a chance to tell her at the service, but her speech was what broke the pain in the room. It blended joy with her loss, and it was a genuine tribute to someone who had been one of the most important relationships in her life. Following that, many were able to speak of happier times with Rebecca, and happier memories, something that I know her mother would have wanted.