Today is the first Christmas caroling "gig" of the season.  I've been doing this for years, but it still makes me a little nervous the first time out.  Singing for four hours in a row (with the odd break) is a challenge.  Between numbness of fingers and boredom, there are all sorts of other hazards.  On this particular outing I bring in three "character actors"; three good-natured teenagers who dress up as Frosty the Snowman, The Gingerbread Man, and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, and silently interact with dozens of screaming, pawing children who have come to see grandparents and Santa, but not in that order.  What a fun way to get caught up in the season!  I, dressed as a Mary Todd Lincoln look-alike, get to drive my standard shift car while wearing a full hoop petticoat (no small feat, that!) and layered like an onion.  No coats may mar the illusion of "quaintness", so under the costume are long johns, slacks with big pockets to carry money and driver's license, and a thermal shirt that works fine until we have to go inside where the temperature suddenly mimics the Equator.

Although I'm not picking up the cast for another five hours, I woke in a panic, knowing I have to touch up my costume and check for torn hems and obvious mud, find my music, and plug my addresses into the GPS so I can find the place.  Today is the beginning of Advent, and Christmas is officially on its way in my house.  Down come the decorations for fall (tomorrow....I'm busy today).  It's time to look forward with joy.  I throw as many religious carols in there as I can get away with, because that's what I like to sing.  And couldn't we all use some "tidings of comfort and joy"?

My orange leaves and mums are still adorning the house.  There are fake (but convincing) pumpkins in front of the fireplace.  I don't know whether I like the look of fall or if I'm just digging in my heels to avoid dealing with the craziness of Christmas.  Either way, they're not going anywhere until Saturday when Advent begins.  I did not stand in line at midnight on Thanksgiving to get the latest doo-hickey.  I don't need one, nor does anyone else I know.  The pictures of the crowds were scarier than the last three slasher flicks I never got the nerve to see.

The more frenetic the pace for shopping and consuming, the more I find myself retreating to a quiet corner and wondering what on earth happened to Christmas.  The way we approach the holiday is getting downright ugly.  When did it start revolving around triumphing over total strangers, elbows and fists waving, to grab this week's version of some technology which we lived without for most of our lives?

Every year my list gets smaller.  This is not just due to attrition, finances, or meanness of spirit,  but mutual caring.  The friends I love best get the gift of not having to figure out what to get for us, we get the same thing, and the outcome is more time to actually enjoy the season.  The problem with this, of course, is you wind up with the people on your list that you either don't know well enough or don't like well enough to explain all this to, so you keep it going for "one more year" and hope you're braver next time around.

What gifts I will get will be food or clothing related, or at least something that will be useful, and I'll buy them at locally owned businesses where the music is audible and the lighting not so garish, and where my presence will make a difference. In the time and energy I save, I will try to find a moment to stop and remember why we starting celebrating this holiday in the first place. 

There has been a stream of teenagers through my house.  Last night my older son hosted a poker party.  I have no idea what time THAT ended, but judging by the state of the kitchen when I awoke, they had a good time and didn't go away hungry.  My younger son was off to see the newest James Bond movie with his friends after several "mini-trips" to hang with his gang.  It has been wonderful having my boys home for Thanksgiving.  Today they go back to school, but at least I have the consolation that they'll be back in less than a month.  The goodbyes at the airport and bus station will be teary, nevertheless.

I'd almost forgotten how much energy they add to this house.  Since I go to bed long before either of them do, I get to hear the soothing rumble of deep male voices through the floor as they laugh and argue and chat about the state of the universe.  I remember well when the voices were much lighter and we tucked them in with a story and a lullaby every night.  It's good.  This is the way the world is supposed to turn and my heart fills with pride at the kind of men they are becoming.

Since Thanksgiving was here, the house is in better order than usual, thanks to Himself, who worked tirelessly hiding this and shoving that out of sight.  The game now is to find where everything is.  I refuse to decorate for Christmas yet.  I'm enjoying the silk autumn leaves entwined on the railing, the pumpkins by the fireplace, and the vases filled with orange and yellow mums.  Advent doesn't begin until next week.  No shopping in mobs and duking it out over plastic covered technology for me.  Thanksgiving isn't about shopping and Christmas isn't about presents.  I want to give my sons the gift of presence.  Any way you wrap it, that's a winner.

Last post on the death of my mother, at least for a while.  The funeral was as nice as a funeral could be, I suppose.  Mom was laid out in the mint green lace dress she had worn to my wedding twenty-one years ago.  In her hands were her father's rosary beads, around her wrist a charm bracelet with the names and birth dates of all five children, and on her finger the wedding ring Dad gave her in 1941.  The grandchildren participated as pall bearers and lectors, and I actually managed to sing the Communion hymn without falling apart.  The trip to the cemetery was strange.  I hadn't stopped to think that on the other side of the hedge from my mother and father's grave is the grave of my brother and niece.  The last time I was there the hedges were up to my knees and there was space between them to walk through the rows.  Now they are at my waist and dense as a wall.

Stupid thoughts raced through my head all night.  I was aching because she was outside in the cold and the dark, as if that mattered.  I remember having the same silly thoughts years ago when my younger brother died in February.  Today begins the business of learning to live in a world without Diamond Lil.  As the tongue always searches for the hole after a tooth is removed, my mind keeps going to the empty space she has left in my life.  For today the time I spent at the nursing home can be spent writing thank you notes to the many friends who went out of their way to show their love and caring.  Tomorrow will be another story.

Thanksgiving was a bit surrealistic.  The food was fine, but the atmosphere was heavy and forced.  It was hard to pretend that my mother's funeral wasn't today.  That and all the work involved in making the house fit for company put a strain in the air.  But we survived it and here we are, the morning of the funeral.

I'm afraid.  While I'm dreading seeing my mother laid out in the dress she wore to my wedding more than twenty years ago, I know it will be an improvement over the image of her gasping for breath until the struggle stopped.  What's going to make me lose it is the kindness of my friends.  Already I've been embarrassed at the generosity of spirit that has surrounded us in this sad time.  People have sent food, fruit, flowers, and a hundred supporting messages.  Today many of them will give up their chance to sleep late the morning after the holiday to make sure I get through this.  In spite of the blog title, today I have slipped over the edge and straight into "overwhelmed".

I've been quiet lately because I didn't want my sons to read about my mother's passing on my blog site, and they needed to finish their exams before coming home for Thanksgiving.  A week after disconnecting the feeding tube, Mom has finally found peace.  I was by her side on Monday as she drew her last breath.  I don't know if she could hear me or not, but I would have been disappointed if I had missed that part of the journey we've been on together for all this time.  Before the nursing home, we bought her six years of independent living in senior housing, where she had her own apartment and had her hot meals delivered to her door.  "I'm not eating in the dining room with all those old farts!" was the usual reason given for this.  Mom was not particularly soft-spoken or subtle.  If she didn't like you trust me...you knew it in the first three seconds.  After the fall and the broken hip which landed her in the nursing home, she became this sweet, docile, totally unrecognizable little old lady.  The transformation fascinated me.

Thanksgiving is tomorrow, and I'm truly thankful that she is not stuck in that aged, confused, frail body any more.  Still, I'm having my moments.  My friends, who have always amazed me as being God's most generous gift to me, continue to outdo themselves in expressions of love and support.  There have been phone calls and flowers, meals and hugs.  I find that I do better when I'm working, or organizing, or anything.  The moment anyone is sympathetic I fall apart. 

There is Thanksgiving to prepare for, and I'm so not ready.  Then there is the eulogy to write.  I'm not sure how I'm going to manage to deliver that, but I will.  I've got all six living grandchildren as pall bearers, three of them reading, one playing violin, two bringing up the gifts.  It feels like a production. On the desk in my living room is small picture of my mother and me, taken when I was about two, on a picnic somewhere or other.  She was in a stylish two-piece suit, and I was wearing a yellow organdy dress.  She must have told me that, because the picture is in black and white.  She always had style.  I'd never seen the picture before I had to close out her apartment and move her into the nursing home.  I find myself staring at it a lot these days and trying to understand what I'm feeling.  What's it like to be a sixty year-old orphan?

Himself and I stole away last evening to a fun pre-Thanksgiving celebration with my nephew and his friends and family.  This morning we're off to a road race at which there is a possibility of my singing the Irish National Anthem (in English) unless my Irish friends tell me it's Gaelic or nothing.  I don't want to offend, after all.  Tonight we'll cook dinner for his parents and help his mother get into bed.  Tomorrow is a job interview and a wake, and Tuesday is a funeral for the father of a dear friend.  Wednesday the boys come home, Thursday the house (hopefully picked up by then....I've given up on clean) will be the scene of the Thanksgiving stuff-fest.  Friday I'm singing at the memorial service of a friend's husband.  Saturday I am being paid to do a "gig" at a church one town over, and then the caroling season begins in dead earnest.  And woven through all that chaos I will find time to sit by my mother's side and watch her slip away.

It's hard to make plans for the future when you're holding your breath.  "When will it happen?" is a constant thought at the back of my mind.  I'm not sure how to go on with my life with such a momentous Sword of Damocles hanging overhead.  So it's one day at a time.  Yesterday morning I found her bed empty and made up.  My heart stopped.  But there she was, sitting up in her wheel chair and fully dressed, in the common room, with the other characters in her novel.  The afternoon visit was not so cheering.  She was back in bed and almost impossible to understand, except when she told me she loved me.  That I can still decipher.  Or maybe it was my heart and not my ears that heard it.

Like Madame Defarge in "A Tale of Two Cities" I sit with my knitting and wait for death.  OK.  She incorporated family coats of arms into her knitting and  I'm doing a striped scarf, but the concept is almost the same.  Well, and I'm nicer.  On most days.

Mom continues to fade like a vase filled with pale pink roses that you got from a favorite suitor two weeks ago.  They really don't look that great, but you're not ready to toss them out yet.  Her voice grows fainter and she sleeps more.  When she is awake she will occasionally "yell" at me to "go home"!  Today we added soft music via a CD player and my husband's mini-speakers.  That kind of worked, but it was in competition with Drew Carey and "The Price Is Right" which blared from Ana's television.  It didn't matter to Mom, so I didn't care much either.  Then the chaplain from hospice came by.  When we finished discussing the differences between the Catholic and Protestant churches we finally got around to including Mom in a prayer and she did her best to chime in where she could.  I've met him several times before, but I got his name wrong again.  In fact, I'm doing that fairly consistently lately.  It might have something to do with getting up at four o'clock in the morning with my mind whirling like the Tasmanian Devil from the old Warner Brothers cartoons.  There is no comfortable spot for my soul to "perch" these days. 

Flanagan would know what to say to anchor me, but he joined the Advance Team and is there already.  His daughter assures me he will be there to welcome Mom with open arms when she arrives, and I believe that.  I hope he doesn't spill any of my best secrets.  It's nice to think I still have one or two.

I sit, hold her hand and think.  Sometimes I sing softly.  It feels sacramental to be present at the end of a life, especially the life of one's mother.  Mostly I find myself searching the thesaurus of my brain for new words for "exhausted".

My mother has no idea that she shares a room at the nursing home, but she does.  Ana is from Italy, quite large, and confined to a wheelchair.  She has amazing blue eyes and a kind heart.  What she doesn't have is a firm (or much of any) grasp of the English language.  In the past this hasn't been much of a problem since most of my visits with Mom were in the dining room, trying to convince her to eat a mouthful of tri-colored mush, after which she usually fell asleep in her chair and I'd sneak out.  I stopped by the room to hang up clean laundry or pick up dirty laundry, and Ana and I would exchange a few words (I think) but my Italian is largely limited to Puccini operas.

Now that I'm spending hours most days at Mom's bedside, Ana and I are getting to know each other a little better.  On the day when my mother was particularly bad, Ana wheeled herself over and babbled on in Italian for quite a while.  I had no idea what she was saying, but the tears in her eyes as she patted my mother's feet through the blankets told me all I needed to know.  The nurses also tell me that when something goes wrong with Mom, Ana is the one who rings her bell to summon them, something my mother could never manage.

Yesterday the mood was quite a bit lighter as Mom's fever had lifted and when she did wake up she was cheerful, if inaudible.  She even expressed an interest in food (!) so off I went to score a plate of mush from the amazing aides, most of whom come from Haiti and who enjoy making fun of my French.  They deserve a page of their own and they will get it soon.  But when I came back to the room, there was Ana sitting at Mom's bedside table with a plate in front of her filled with cheese and crackers and a banana.  I had nowhere to put the tray in my hand, and I thought she had confused Mom's table for her own and tried to delicately inform her of this in my best Puccini.  But eventually I figured out with hand gestures and head noddings that the plate was for me.  She had prepared a snack for me.  It was my turn to fill up with tears.  What a lovely gesture.  And I learned a new word.  "Formaggio"

I entered Mom's room this morning with some trepidation and a book bag filled with knitting, banana, prayer book, journal, diverting book, and how to jump start your career book.  I was prepared to stay for quite a while, quietly keeping watch by her bedside.  Her head tilted to one side, she was obviously out on the morphine, but when I kissed her on the forehead she opened her eyes, gave a huge toothless smile and whispered in her best Boston accent, "Hi, Dahlin'!"  The nurse came in and told me that she had finished a glass of liquid nourishment a few hours ago and seemed in a fine mood.  My friend Bob came, a Catholic priest, and gave her the Sacrament of the Sick (formerly "Last Rites" for those of you who don't keep up) and she told him she loved him, then insisted on kissing his hand.  Her voice is still soft and raspy from her episode the night before last, and she is too weak to get out of bed and into her wheelchair...yet...but I'm not sure what the odds would be in Vegas on her getting there.

So after a night of too many sherries and hysterical sobbing, tossing and turning, and second-guessing myself I am emotionally and physically exhausted, but Mom looks pretty good.  I have no idea what will happen next.  Does anyone?  The woman is tough as a three dollar steak, and it wouldn't surprise me one bit if she hung on for a month or more.  The only thing I know for certain is that I'm taking a fat nap before going back there later today.  And that I have the most supportive, wonderful, caring friends anyone has ever assembled on one planet.

I don't like being the grownup.  The decisions we are stuck making just aren't fair.  Today I signed the form that stops my mother's feeding tube.  She is in the later stages of Alzheimer's and her body is forgetting how to swallow, so even the pureed mush she's been getting for the past year can't make it down her throat, and last night the food from the tube made her violently ill.  At 89 it's time to throw in the towel.

She spent most of the day sleeping, but when she woke she was cheerful and glad to see us (whoever she thought we were).  I'd like to think she recognized me and my sisters and their families, although I'm not really sure.  But I sat next to her bed for six hours knitting a totally unnecessary and poorly-executed scarf for my son, and as I knitted I had a lot of time to think.  I remembered her sleeping across the foot of my bed when I was seven and had the measles.  I remembered her throwing her fake fur coat over my bed in the winter because we didn't have central heating until I was fourteen.  I remembered her dealing with the deaths of her two sons and her firstborn grandchild and her husband. I watched her cope with legal blindness for the last twenty years.  This is a strong woman.  It was so hard to realize that she's been strong for long enough.  It is selfish for me to wish to prolong her time with us.

Is anyone ready to let go of a mother, regardless of age?  I am lucky to have had her for so long, I know, with all her quirky ways.  Death could come in a day or maybe a week, but it's coming, and I am leaning on all my faith to face it.  And unlike Dylan Thomas with his father, I pray that she will "go gentle into that good night."

Oh dear.  Back in the emotional sludge. The lack of sunshine isn't helping my already dour mood, I'm afraid.  Sometimes it is just all too much.  There's not much to do except lash oneself to the mast and ride out the storm.  The squeeze of being between the generations is one of the hardest challenges facing the Baby Boomers.  Our parents need us desperately, yet so do our children, and somewhere in there we are supposed to take care of ourselves, but that seems to get pushed off to last on the list.  If it makes the list at all.

I'm trying to keep a sense of humor through everything that is going on, but it gets harder and harder.  I feel inadequate to every task.  A patch job is the best that I can manage at the moment, and it feels as if I'm trying to put pantyhose on an octopus.  Just when I think I have things covered, something pops out somewhere else.  Is Thanksgiving REALLY less than two weeks away?  I can't wait to hug my children, but I'm already dreading putting my younger son back on the plane on the Sunday after the holiday.  That's just dumb.  Tonight I get to take care of my mother-in-law for a few hours on my own while Himself and his brother-in-law take Dad out for a Veterans' Day dinner.  It's a lovely idea, but I'm not sure I'm equal to the task.  It involves walking in circles for hours on end.  She never naps, watches television, or sits except to eat.  While feeling very sorry for her, I also wind up feeling sorry for myself and praying that I never get to that point.  Everything feels sad.

The bright side is that I feel a poem forming.  When the hurt gets to the point of bursting it usually comes out in the form of words, and the sharper the pain the brighter the images.  Everyone has his/her bag of rocks to carry.  I'll get through.  Humor, faith, and poetry in no particular order.  What a mighty arsenal!

Everyone is already complaining about how the stores are rushing the season.  Walmart is having their "Black Friday Sale" starting on Thanksgiving night at 8PM (yes, that is heinous).  Decorated trees have been assembled and decorated in Home Depot since before Halloween.  It isn't Veterans' Day yet and I'm getting into a panic because I haven't finished my shopping. I haven't started my shopping.  But some of us have to get ready early, because we are professional carolers.  I know.  You are impressed.  OK, maybe you're not. But it's fun. 
Since I sing along at the mall with the Salvation Army (They aren't allowed to sing anymore.  Did you know that?  I guess it interferes with the endlessly blasting ads on the overhead televisions.  So I ask what their favorite carol is and I belt it out with my shopping bags in hand.  Let Mall Security mess with a paying customer and see what happens, Baby!), I figured I might as well make a buck or two at it as well.  Every year I look like Mary Todd Lincoln as I waddle through various nursing homes, office parties, and "town strolls" and help the locals get into the spirit.  I tell you this now because I've already started receiving assignments so I'm getting excited.

Now under that huge, flowing skirt is a petticoat with a wire hoop sewn in.  I am required to arrive at the scene "in costume" which is a tad challenging since I drive a standard shift car.  You know those "pop up tents" the kids have?  It's a lot like that, except I have to shove fifty yards of fabric out of my way without wrinkling it too badly and so it stays out of the way of my gear shift.  There is a growing suspicion that some people hire us year after year to watch me explode out of my car.  I also can't wear a coat, so the outdoor assignments are an adventure in layer dressing.  All nursing homes are kept at 102 degrees Fahrenheit and all outdoor assignments occur in sub-Arctic weather.  It's a challenge.

Sometimes we have little surprises.  Steven Tyler came to the tree lighting in his town and sang a song with us.  It was the very first time my younger son (that's he in the top hat) had joined me, and he thought this sort of thing happened all the time.  Uh. No.  Older brother was not happy about that one.  Not happy at all.

Anyway, although I'm not ready to go shopping yet and I refuse to do so until after Thanksgiving, I'm starting to get that "nip on the end of your nose" buzz from the weather and the prospect of helping people remember the reason for the season is pleasant.  Plus, I'm still unemployed and let's face it, a buck is a buck.

Whew!  Thank goodness THAT's over!  Whether your candidate won or lost, most people feel it is a relief to have the campaigns and all their ads over with.  It's time for us to get back to being the UNITED States, as President Obama said in his acceptance speech.  There was a lot of bad blood during this election season, and an enormous amount of money spent.  Now let's bury the various hatchets and get back to work.

Meanwhile, as yet another storm hits the eastern seaboard of the country, we brace ourselves for more weather drama.  I find myself asking questions such as: Is it too late to plant my bulbs for spring (I do so look forward to seeing those early flowers), and how late into the season do grubs live?  Or are there zombie grubs that never die?  It was dicey bringing in the potted plants before the first frost.  God only knows what's living in that soil...I had Himself bring them in through the garage so they wouldn't have to come through the living quarters.  Yuck.  Although compared to the centipedes that have taken up residence in the stone foundation grubs are almost cute.  I wouldn't make much of a naturalist, I guess.  At least my foster cats next door are keeping the field mice at bay.

Well, no planting today at any rate!  I'll wait for the gale force winds to air dry the leaves before I rake them and then we'll see what's what.  But for today I think I'll put the kettle on for another cup of tea and hunker down with a book and an afghan (blanket, not dog) and dream of spring.

So last night I wore my bathrobe to bed, along with my fuzzy socks, my flannel nightie, and a fleece hat.  Try not to get too excited at the image, boys!  Today the game is over and we finally turned on the heat...but only to 60 and only because Himself is working from home all day.  It occurs to me that if the boys were home from school we would never get away with this without major complaints.  It's actually been rather fun seeing how long we could go before we buckled.  Last winter was a walk in the park.  This winter we are going to pay for it and then some, which is a concern for a professional Christmas caroler who spends LOTS of time wandering around in the cold, attempting to look cheerful and quaint, while coping with a runny nose and blue fingers.

Thanksgiving is coming up fast, and I am well aware of how much I have for which to be thankful. Lots of people don't have homes, and lots of other people who do have homes are still without power after the storm.  Every day I remind myself of how lucky I am.  That includes living in a country where we can choose a president by ballot rather than by bullet.  So whichever party you favor (and I personally favor a guy who knows his geography), get out there tomorrow and vote.  Then maybe once it's been decided one way or the other, we can get back to being one country, ruled by the majority, with a president who represents 100% of us.  If you don't like the way it turns out, there's always four years from now to try again.  At least the campaign ads will be over.  Now there's something to be thankful for.

Oh I was sooooo tempted to go back to bed this morning.  It's getting chilly out, and we still haven't turned on the heat.  I was supposed to be on my way to my Weight Watchers meeting.  Considering I had just had a week of hurricanes, Halloween candy, and pub runs, I was not expecting good news.  Why not just roll over?  But I went, and although I was up, it was by less than a pound and I'm back on track again.  Which brought me to my current musing.

If I had avoided the scale I would have thought things were far worse than they actually are.  That's symbolic of a lot of other situations in life.  The worst part is facing them.  It was always the weeks leading up to writing the term paper in college that were sheer agony.  By the time I actually sat down to do them, they weren't that big a deal.  The graduation party to which my son "accidentally" invited 150 guests (our house has one bathroom) loomed over my head like a creature from a video game I wouldn't let my boys bring into the house.  And it was 103 degrees that day.  But we lived through it.  They didn't all come at once and we actually had a wonderful time with water balloons and squirt sticks.  Thanksgiving is coming up and I have a house in desperate need of cleaning and fifteen guests coming, and we will be visiting/watching my mother-in-law in one hour shifts all day.  As number two son says, "Meh!"  We'll get through it.  And the aromas will distract the guests from the dust dragons (who ate the bunnies long ago).

The point is, doing is actually easier than anticipating, at least for me.  So this week I will resolve to have a little more faith in myself and my abilities.  I will jump feet first into the long list of obligations that are hanging over my head.  The lawn, the house, the job search, catching up with friends.  And I've decided to set the alarm on my cell phone to go off at noon every day to remind myself to breathe and regroup and remember that "I've got this".

The sun is shining, and that's good, especially after the week we've just had.  This is probably the day when the leaves get raked or blown or whatever I'm going to do with them.  I object to leaf blowers in general.  They are loud and obnoxious.  Unfortunately, they are also effective, and since the construction workers are outside my window in force, the ear protectors can serve a dual function so I don't mind "selling out" quite so much.  This is another one of those time when I miss my boys.  Not only do I like looking out the window and seeing other people do work I should and could be doing, there is something just this side of sinful about sipping hot cocoa and watching others cope with autumn winds.

Still, there is something gratifying about doing something in the way of work around the house that actually shows.  And I must confess that I tend to let things go until the neighbors sigh with relief that I've done anything at all.  I like to make that big impact visually, you know what I mean?  So off I go, rake, ear protectors, and endless paper bags in hand to prove once and for all that I am a responsible citizen. It's either that or go for a run.  Or maybe out to lunch......

Halloween is a different kind of fun from what it used to be.  I was once the costume queen.  Fantastic face makeup combined with bits and pieces of impromptu costuming made my kids the envy of the neighborhood.  And of course, I always dressed as the most alarming witch in town and scared the pumpkin out of anyone who rang the bell.  It was all great fun.  But this year Thing One and Thing Two are off to school and I saw no reason to stay at home and answer the door to strangers.  So I went for a "fun run" with Himself and our running club through the streets of Boston.

Please don't be impressed.  It was a pathetic attempt at best.  The only reason I wasn't all by myself two blocks behind everyone else was that I threatened Himself with grave bodily harm if he left me alone in the dark on the streets of South Boston, dressed like a pumpkin, while he went on ahead.  Since he closes his eyes to sleep (and the rumor is that I don't) he wisely considered to slow his pace.  We ran a bit less than a mile to the first bar where the group had a beer before trotting along to two more bars.  Dinner was a plate of nachos covered in cheese and jalapenos.  I picked off the peppers.  They are a vegetable.

I was easily the oldest person in the group.  There were half a dozen twenty-somethings who looked amazing in their form-fitting running gear.  They talked to one another all the way along the route.  They joked and chatted.  While they were running.  If they hadn't been so nice I would have enjoyed hating them and cursing them with my last breath, which I was convinced was imminent.  Still, somehow I made it and remained as dignified as a pumpkin can be.  And while I was out, my mouse pad must have been visited by a wicked witch, because as I look up I see a pile of empty Butterfinger wrappers sneering at me.  More Halloween magic!  Better lace up those shoes....

It's warm today in the wake of the hurricane.  Windows are open and birdsong is in the air.  I was rather hoping that the storm would serve as a giant leaf blower and clear my yard, but if it did, it must have done the same for a neighbor because I have at least as many as before it started and now they are wet and icky.  I spent a little time wandering around the neighborhood in my red plastic poncho and high boots yesterday calling for my foster kitty, Martin.  I suppose I looked more than a little like an apple and if I had been he I wouldn't have come either.  Eventually he did turn up at his home (I got a text message...from his owner, not from him) and I could relax.

As the stories pour in from New York and New Jersey and all along the East Coast I realize how very lucky we are.  Looking at the pictures of Manhattan I found myself hoping they had been Photoshopped.  Unfortunately, they appear to be the real deal.  The usually bustling metropolis looks like a movie set from a science fiction disaster flick.  Fires in Queens took fifty homes.  At least sixteen people lost their lives yesterday because of the storm.  Even here in Massachusetts there are many still without power, although compared to the mid-Atlantic states we got off easy.

And so we are issued another reminder of how unpredictable life is, how fickle and unfair.  All the toys and fancy cars, the political signs and pedicures, don't really amount to much in the face of life and death.  Be grateful you are safe.  Check on the neighbors. Help those who didn't fare so well.  And open the windows.  The birdsong is beautiful.

Hurricane Sandy is expected to kick the stuffing out of Massachusetts (and most of the East Coast) today.  I don't treat the subject lightly, because these storms are very dangerous and people do lose their lives.  Still, there is some part of many New Englanders that relishes dramatic weather.  Certainly it helps with motivation for house-keeping, since it takes a threat of Armageddon to get the air conditioners out of the windows and the lawn furniture put away.  This is related to how I clean the inside of my house.  If I don't throw the odd party or have a dinner here or there I find it hard to care about the vacuum or a clear path through the clutter.

Luckily I haven't found a job yet, so I don't have to wrestle with my conscience about whether or not to go in and try to convince whomever that I am "essential personnel".  The path of the storm is halfway between the boys' colleges, so they should be spared the worst of it, and Himself is on an all-day conference call from home, so unless the power goes out we're tucked in and cozy for the day.  The wind has already begun howling, but we have another five hours or so before the storm really starts raging, and then we are in for it for a good nine hours.  The temperatures are not frigid, so losing heat won't be a problem, and much of the tempest will occur during daylight hours, so if we do lose power I can amuse myself with the piano or a book.  It might even be time for the semi-annual fake log in the fireplace.  Usually I only remember to do that on Christmas Eve. 

The drama of hurricanes and blizzards always reminds me of how little control we really have in the world, for all our technology.  I watch in utter fascination as the sheer power of nature lets us know who's really the boss.  And I bow in deference to the Maker of the winds, astonished to know that the birds will survive this and so shall we.  Send up a prayer for the emergency responders, the television crews, the power company employees, and all those who will work today to keep us safe and informed.  I will.  And then I'll sit with my cocoa and stare out the window completely entranced.

Nothing has changed.  There are still daily trips to the nursing home to see my mother, and every evening when he comes home from work Himself and I drive eight miles to make dinner for his mother who is also suffering from dementia, and whom his dad insisted on bringing home.  Flanagan remains dead.  I remain unemployed.  The boys' rooms are still empty while they cram their heads and souls with high-priced knowledge.  The air-conditioners are still in the windows as Hurricane Sandy approaches.  I haven't been to Weight Watchers in three weeks. Christmas is less than two months away.  Why, then, did I wake this morning with such a peaceful heart?  The weight which was crushing my spirit just a few days ago has been lightened and I can only think of one explanation.  Somebody out there is praying for me.

In polite society we're not supposed to talk about religion, politics, or sex.  Well everyone seems to be blithely violating the second tabu with a vengeance, so I'm not uncomfortable with shattering the first.  For those of you who don't believe in the power of prayer, I'm sorry.  It happens to be real, however, so for today you will have to cope.  Or skip this blog.  I can tell when someone is praying for me.  And if you get quiet enough, a difficult thing to do in a world like this, you will feel it when someone prays for you.  So whether Romney or Obama wins, we'll be fine.  And something about Dear Flanagan's passing has moved me from "believing" that our spirits don't die to absolutely "knowing" it, although I couldn't tell you why.

I don't believe in fairy tale endings.  Life is probably holding another nasty ace or two up its sleeve, maybe as soon as today, so whoever you are (and I suspect there is more than one) please keep those prayers coming. They make a difference.  I feel them.  And I need them.  We all need them.  I'm sending mine up for you as you read this.  Thank you.

My lawn (and I use the term advisedly) is an interesting place.  There's some real grass, some crabgrass, some dandelions, some clover, a convention center of grubs, several holes from some kind of critter I've never actually met, and a bunch of crunchy leaves.  I mow it when it gets embarrassingly high, and my theory is when you squint it looks green and that's good enough.  I have mandevillas climbing up the wrought iron supports on my front porch from May through October.  They are very low maintenance plants and quite dazzling.  The pink trumpet flowers are still throwing out blossoms this close to Halloween, and as in dressing, once a woman reaches a certain age, it's all about distraction.  People walk by and all they ever talk about are the pink flowers which are so pretty they look artificial.  They live in pots on the porch and the stairs, and when the frost comes I cut them back, bring them into the cellar where I occasionally remember to water them over the winter.  But this year I have a surprise.

Next to my front stairs a "green thing" has popped up.  I didn't plant it, so it is probably a weed, but there it is, around the corner from the hydrangeas my father-in-law planted this summer in ninety-degree heat.  It's not a giant dandelion.  I have lots of experience with those.  It has enormous green leaves and almost looks like a cabbage.  Perhaps a passing squirrel planted it, or one of the mysterious and unseen critters from my lawn.  It has become an object of fascination to me.  I mow around it.  I clear the leaves away.  I want to see where this thing goes.  There may be a flower someday before the first frost.  Mostly it is a reminder for me to keep looking at the world for new things.  So many days I am the prisoner of my chattering "monkey mind" that I don't see what's in front of me.  Driving down the street, I sometimes ask myself how I got here, where the heck I am and where I am going. But until it blooms, dies, or takes over the city, my little green friend reminds me that there is still an awful lot about the planet I don't know, and I'm not through learning yet.

Some days it takes a Herculean act of courage just to put one foot in front of the other.  The forces of the universe just seem to conspire and almost everything that can go wrong does go wrong.  Notice I said "almost" because I don't like to challenge God.  S/He can have a quirky sense of humor when challenged.  I know it can always get worse, but could a girl catch a break here?

You know the days.  You're paralyzed with how much there is to do, so you get nothing done.  You try to hold your feet to the flame to tackle the one project against which your soul shrieks and find yourself gasping for air.  The Stress Monkey sneaks up behind you and gets you in the dreaded choke-hold until you run for the front door, car keys in hand, on the way to anywhere.  Just OUT.  I'm having one of those.

The sun is shining.  The meeting at the nursing home this morning about my mother's condition was predictable and pleasant enough.  I know what I'm cooking tonight for my in-laws.  I have a piano lesson at one.  Why do I want to scream?  Panic is setting in about finding a job at my advanced age.  I'm missing my sons with a white hot fury.  I'm surrounded by well-loved but utterly depressing women nearing the end of their lives and well past the end of their trolley tracks.  The clutter in my house is an accurate symbol of the clutter in my soul.  And I'm missing many too many friends.

It's sad not to know what you want to be when you grow up when you're over 60.  I feel all this potential and I'm terrified that if I pick the wrong thing I will blow my last chance at  finding out what I can really do and who I really am.  Writer?  Administrator?  Singer?  Speaker?  All of those and more, but how does that translate into a position someone would pay for?  So while I ponder these very serious and scary questions, and before the Stress Monkey chases me out the door again, I guess I'd better start the vacuum.  Because on days like this it's important to see that you've accomplished something.

For a country so set on security, I find it confusing and slightly hilarious that one night a year out of 365 we open our doors in the dark to anybody wearing a mask.  Welcome, Halloween!  Still, it is fun.  I've always loved dressing up, which for me is infinitely preferable to Jolly Ranchers and Tootsie Rolls (what ARE those things, anyway?), so today I will share with you some of my favorite costumes. 

First, I'm all about comfortable.  The gum ball machine, with the giant clear trash bag filled with balloons is adorable...until you have to drive a car or use the rest room.  Anything involving a leotard is usually strategically awkward, as well.  However, I once wore a full length white slip over a black turtleneck and black leggings and I wrote "FREUD" all over it in magic marker.  Ta da!  A "Freudian slip" and still wearable under a dark dress!  Of course good luck finding a slip these days.  In this economy a "pink slip" works, too.  That's pretty scary!

I used to own an opera cape which belonged to a Monsignor in the 1930's.  It was a gorgeous (and warm) circle of black broadcloth, lined with satin and with brass crosses and a chain to keep it closed at the neck.  I wore it to winter dances and over maxi-dresses in the 70's, but mostly it was for my witch at Halloween.  It, in combination with my graduation robes from college (a present from a member of the class of 1924 and replete with moth holes) made a scary costume.  I am very good at face painting.  The neighborhood children lived in terror.  But I gave it to a young priest a couple of years ago who wears it over his robes at funerals.  The Monsignor has finally stopped spinning in his grave.

One year I wore a sheet stitched up the sides with a place for my head to poke out of the top and my arms to poke out the sides.  On it was carefully painted a replica of a tube of Crest toothpaste, front and back.  On my head was an inverted white paper paint bucket and I carried a car brush which looked like a toothbrush.  Face paint did the rest.  It was so comfortable that I couldn't understand why no one stopped for me when my car broke down on the side of the road.  Hmmm.

I made my kids a Bionic Bunny costume with a sweatsuit, felt squares, a glue gun, a propeller hat, a bunny headband, and an Exacto knife.  The cape came from the skirt of my favorite red dress, which no longer fit me after childbirth.  That same cape, painstakingly hand sewn, has gone to college to be part of a Super PAC Man costume.  My son is a political science major.  I don't think anyone will get it, but he insists his friends are brilliant and it will be a big hit.  Yuh.

But my favorite costume of all time is the Franciscan habit I borrowed from a friend.  I wore an old man's mask with it, and pulled the hood over my head.  I drank my beer through a straw all night.  I pinned empty potato chip bags all over the front of the habit.  That's right.  I was a "chip monk".

Now for the really scary part of Halloween; living in the house with a bag of miniature peanut butter cups and Hershey's Kisses for a week!

After a week's break at home, Number One Son is back to college today and I am actually going to miss having him around.  Disrupting though it may be to my schedule (such as it is) it's been fun to drive him to see his friends and have him around for breakfast.  He even spent an evening at his grandparents' house making endless circles with his grandmother's wheelchair since she must be in constant motion or she gets up and "wanders".  I heard him telling her about his political philosophy courses, a gentle drone so she could hear the sound of his voice, which seemed to quiet her ever-present anxiety.  Himself and I had a dinner to attend and couldn't do our usual preparation of meal and helping Papa get her dressed and ready for bed, and in steps our big-hearted 19 year old son to save the day.

I am finding it very interesting getting used to dealing with my sons as adults.  One of the best parts is I can go back to swearing while I'm driving (I know, I know, but as Mark Twain said, "There is a relief in profanity that is denied even to prayer!"), and we get the same jokes.  OK.  Sometimes he has to explain them to me, but you know what I mean.  Nothing gives me a greater understanding of the passage of time or the natural flow of life than watching my sons turn into the kind of people the planet needs.  I have decided that caring hearts are more important than large bankrolls.  There is so little that we actually need, especially in this country.  But to teach compassion to the next generation is critical to the survival of all the good things we cherish.  All the fancy gadgets in the universe don't give joy.  That only comes from feeling that we really matter to someone else. 

I can't wait until Thanksgiving when both boys are home.  My heart is full at the thought of it.