We have a wonderful friend who calls herself Gypsy. I’ve never asked her about it, but as I’ve come to know her, I suspect it suits her. She has an exotic past with a career as a singer in New York, a ride on an elephant in a California parade, a marriage to a colorful television personality whose zany creativity challenged her, and many years as the resident diva in our small church and in the community. An award-winning archivist for the church, she has vision and a spirit that brightens the lives of her friends. Her enthusiasm for all things creative, and for tennis, has brought her into our daily ventures.

Our Gypsy is a loyal friend whose counsel is discreet and wise. She has “been to the mountaintop” in so many ways, and at ground level she is very secure. Watching her has taught me to treasure the small moments that might otherwise slip by me. If an opportunity doesn’t suit her, she can say no. I haven’t learned to do that gracefully. She has found her voice in a writers’ group, and willingly stretches her creative self in ways that surprise her more than they surprise the rest of us.

I appreciate the time we spend together, seeing things through her eyes. My life is so much richer with her in it.

We loved our theater weekend in NY. Our favorite show was Kinky Boots with a delightful musical score by Cindy Lauper. Some songs were full of energy and dancing; some were tender and poignant. I will admit to being skeptical beforehand because she’s a pop star who lives in the stratosphere, not where real people are. I’m looking forward to the Tony awards to see how the three shows we saw will fare.

Cinderella was fun, full of surprises and clever dialog, not much that was in the movie with Leslie Ann Warren that I saw years ago. The fairy godmother was a bag lady type from the village who magically became dressed in a big flouncy costume. The metamorphosis happened on stage, no puff of smoke, no hiding behind a rock, just a whoosh of her hands [probably to release the velcro and reverse the outer stuff] and there she was in her new look. Same changes for Cinderella who spent time with our group after she got out of her makeup and costume. She just whooshed herself into 3 costume changes during the performance. She called it velcro and costume design magic. Impressive.

The other show we saw was Pippin about the son of Charlemagne during the Middle Ages. The script writer thought it would be interesting to use circus people as part of the cast. That brought the story to a different and amazing new level, with trapezes, acrobats, pole climbers. . .The first half was fantastic.The second half was predictable and a little disappointing. All three have many Tony nominations, with 13 for Kinky Boots.

Fireworks have begun in our neighborhood. We were entertained, startled, then annoyed at the rumblings and booms last night. The noise did seem to end by 10 p.m. to allow a quiet time for sleep. This promises to be a pleasant week with temperatures in the low 80’s and only a small chance of a shower or two.

We stay at home during the week’s celebrations, though one year Bloomington had a parade that passed our way. When my parents were living, we sometimes went to Gaylord where the 4th of July activities included a parade, band concert by the Over 60 Band where Dad played the clarinet, and fireworks in a park a block from my childhood home. That park is now a national historical site, and that pleases me. It has always been a special part of my history.

Mom loved picnics, and we’d pack a lunch, walk a block to picnic tables in an oak woods by the lake. That park, with its trails, wild flowers, and little caves beside the lake, made for adventures only children can design and enjoy. We were explorers, on a scientific treasure hunt, or simply kids looking for a secret place to claim. The lake has a small island where Native American artifacts – shards of pottery, arrowheads, remnants of animal bones – have recently been found. In our long-ago imaginings, we discovered those things.

Memories become more and more significant as I grow older, and they become more tender. I had a Beaver Cleaver or Opie Taylor kind of childhood. I have only good recollections of those early years. Not a bad problem to have.

The loud thunder woke us after midnight. I can’t recall anything that sounded so close without lightning preceding it. For that I should be grateful, because that much noise could have struck close to home. Earlier our daughter called from Minneapolis where the power was out. She and the girls were in a bathroom with beanbags and blankets wondering how long they’d be powerless. One does feel powerless during a natural disaster, however small.

According to some forecasters, we are in for a stormy wet summer. Some are suggesting that the bugs will be more plentiful, and the hardy ones will be the disease-carrying ones. One source predicts that the temperatures will be lower than last summer. The moisture from our unusual spring gets the credit for the bug population. Most of us will survive whatever weather lies ahead of us.

The gardens are appreciating the moisture. Our tomato plants have doubled in size in the last week. While still small, they are more sturdy. Soon I’ll tie them to their posts to keep the fruit off the ground. And life goes on.

A second mallard duck nest is in our front garden. My first thought was that the duck whose 9-egg nest was beside our front door in May was back. My daughter-in-law wondered if ducks had two hatchings in one season. I hadn’t thought of that. Surely that first duck would have spread the word. At the end of our circle is a run-off pond where the first duck family is now residing. At any rate, we will keep an eye on the area to ward off any predators. Presently only 3 eggs are there. She will begin to incubate when she has laid them all.

Natural summer rhythms seem less soothing as I get older. I don’t appreciate noisy, frenetic disruptions. Having grandchildren, ducks, a garden, gives me some balance, but the weather patterns break the rhythm, and I’m unsettled once again. I must remember to be grateful for those little events that keep me grounded.

This week I’ve learned that it is way cool to open windows in our truck, using a crank to do the job. One of my granddaughters had never seen such a thing. The window on the passenger side made several ups and downs as we drove home from church. While my generation has experienced both ways to open car windows, we also recall that open window as the only source of cool air when we were traveling. I wouldn’t want to go back to those hot trips in a car full of people and dogs and open windows.

The other cool thing in this grandma’s house is a dial phone that actually makes phone calls. The girls were calling each other from that phone to a cell phone. I told them stories about 2 and 3 digit phone numbers, operators who were necessary for connections, party lines with a distinctive ring for each family. The stuff of story books, hardly to be imagined by this technically savvy generation whose lives seem to depend on their connections to friends, was part of my childhood.

Somehow I think it’s important to share my memories of growing up in a small town where we were safe, knew almost everyone, and could wander through the day without supervision. We played “Kick the Can” or some other game that kept us outside and on the run. Some days we decorated wagons and bikes to have a parade, or we wrote plays that we performed in our garage.

That dial phone, now a relic of that long-ago time, was in in the kitchen of the home where I was a child. It rings now when the other phones ring in our house. If I’m near it when it rings, I am transported to a happy kitchen, full of wonderful smells and memories.

We expected to have at least six for dinner tonight. I have a “ginormous” roast in the crock pot. and we’re down to three. The roast was thawed, so it’s cooking. Refreezing was not an option, nor was waiting until Wednesday when we will have more people here.

A granddaughter is having three sleepovers with us this week. Her dad is out of town, her older sister is at ballet camp, and her mom works three days. To give her a companion, each of Laura’s girls would spend one night/day here too. A good plan, but Laura has lost her summer nanny, so the girls aren’t here today. 

One other time in recent memory we had a 10-pound ham for an evening we expected Laura and the girls to join us. One of the girls was sick; Laura texted me, but I don’t regularly look for texts, and I missed it. One of the girls called and left a message when we weren’t here; we don’t regularly check for phone messages either. At six I called them and got the news. We ate ham sandwiches, scalloped potatoes with ham, scrambled eggs and ham, bean soup, pea soup, vegetable soup with ham. We ate the last of it a week ago.

Moral of the food story? Accept the fact that I never learn, and enjoy leftovers in their variations. I am learning some creative ways to accommodate these disappointments. The optimist makes them opportunities, and I’m a glass half-full kind of gal.

If you are in the neighborhood this evening, stop in for dinner. 

This is the kind of morning to appreciate living in Minnesota. It’s sunny, comfortable, and it makes me smile inside. I picked a bouquet of iris, and I’m sitting with my coffee planning the day.

My tennis player is doing that, playing tennis. A granddaughter left at 4 a.m. for Washington, D.C. on a school trip. The east coast is not having a good weather day, but most of the planned activities for the kids will be indoors. Having spent many days in the nation’s capital lobbying for education, I have many good memories of that city. If only politicians were making positive, productive decisions instead of undermining one another. . . if only.

I just made a plan for another granddaughter to spend the night here tonight. She’ll go to work with me in the morning, and we’ll enjoy the afternoon as we wait for her mom to pick her up after her work day ends. Having children and grandchildren in the area is such a blessing.

June. The children are out of school, and there are happy little voices in our neighborhood. Tomorrow is my last official work day until mid-August. I have the best of all retirements with a part-time job I enjoy that gives me a summer break. Life is good.

David,
From our first meeting over lunch I knew we could work well together. Among your strengths is a gift for finding the best in people and allowing them to explore their own gifts. I loved writing chalice lighting words to fit your sermon topics.

You always listened to ideas, shared your views on a subject, and allowed a way to be followed to accomplish even the most difficult or awkward tasks.

I watched you become part of the larger faith community participating in political and social causes, always focused on those whose voices are seldom heard and giving them hope.

You brought stability to our community where having a series of ministers in a short time span had left us with uncertainty, an unclear path to our future. As you leave us, I hope you know we are better able to move ahead because you have helped us see the way. We will miss you, and we wish you happiness and fulfillment in your next adventure.

The St Paul Chamber Orchestra’s lockout has come to an end. After a season of classical famine, we were excited to hear a concert at the end of May. The familiar faces and the wonderful performances before intermission gave us genuine pleasure.

We were in our seats prior to the event when a couple came in peering at seat numbers in search of their places which were beside ours. We commented on the old eyes trying to work in dim lights. The woman beside me said, “Janet?” It was someone I hadn’t seen in 30 years. We had been close friends when our children, now in their 40’s, were toddlers. She had moved away, but we had stayed in touch for a few years, getting together to play bridge, visiting on the phone and by letter. Then we had separate lives.

Prior to the concert’s beginning, we reminisced, and the years melted away. Conversation resumed during the intermission. It was fun to be together. My husband and I have often wondered if there was anyone that we knew at an event in the Ordway. This encounter was amazing.

Then came the second part of the concert: new music composed by the evening’s conductor. It was dissonant, strange, outrageously unmusical.
The orchestra’s return was a reunion for us, and seeing two other old friends allowed me to block out the post-intermission nonmusic. It was a delightful evening.