"Here's Some Nature"

Earlier today, my friend Andrea shared this poster
from Janis Ian and Dean Jackson.
So true! Many years ago, when my little friend Natasha was about five, she gave me a rock that was special because it had a hole in it. Handing it to me, she said, "Here's some nature." How could I ever forget that? I still have it in my key - chain drawer.

More recently, young Liam gave me a marble as a souvenir of my visit to Bainbridge Island, and I still have it in my counter - top water fountain (that the cats drink from).

Thanks, Little Ones, for these treasures!

Here's Fuqua drinking from the fountain!

And Beaumont, back in May 2013

The Usual Selves That I Have Known

My Nephews, Having Fun with Their Dad

Ron ~ Jerrod ~ Dan

A Memorial Tribute for Ronald Ben Rosenbluth
31 March 1951 - 20 June 2015
given by his son, Daniel J. Rosenbluth
In 1986, when I was eight years old, my father and I were in a car accident that by all rights should have killed us both. The particulars aren't important; what's important is that Dad's only concern was making sure I was safe.

Twenty - nine years later, on a sunny day in late June, I held Dad's hand as he passed away. I couldn't save him; all I could do was try to reassure him that the rest of us would be okay, and watch as the strongest man I've ever known slipped away in front of me.

I'll never forget what Dad told me the day w e found that his illness was terminal. "It's not your fault," he said. "You were there with me every step of the way, and I will continue to fight with whatever tools they give me." And he did. Even to the very end, he tried to carry on. But it wasn't enough; even two liters of my bone marrow did nothing to stop the cancer, and a week later, he was gone. My hero, the man who gave his family more than I will ever be able to repay, was eaten alive by his own body. Shakespeare once wrote:

"Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted color off . . .
Do not forever with thy vailèd lids
Seek for thy noble father in the dust.
Thou know’st ’tis common. All that lives must die,
Passing through nature to eternity."
That didn't make Hamlet feel any better, and it didn't help me either.

Nothing I can say or do will ever make it okay for any of us. Dad loved us, and we loved him. But we an take comfort in the fact that his legacy will on through us. He gave us humor, wisdom, and most importantly, he gave us unconditional love. My father was many things -- solider, engineer, husband, father, student and teacher -- but the most important thing I can think of is simply this: He was Ronald Ben Rosenbluth. He was everything I want to be, and if I can be even half the man that he was, then I hope he'll be proud, wherever he may be.

I love you, Dad.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dan is right, nothing will ever take away the sadness or make it okay, but thankfully we have many shared memories to look back on and to carry forward as we go. However, when my brother Bruce quoted the following poem at Ron's funeral service . . .

Sing Well! ~ by Joyce Grenfell
If I should die before the rest of you,
Break not a flower, nor inscribe a stone,
Nor, when I’m gone, speak in a Sunday voice,
But be the usual selves that I have known,
Weep if you must:
Parting is hell,
But life goes on
So . . . sing as well!
[emphasis added]

. . . the following songs came to mind:

"Those Were The Days" - Mary Hopkin, 1968
"Light a Light" - Janis Ian, 1974
"Seasons In The Sun" - Terry Jacks, 1974

Read more Eulogies for Ron on my current post

~ "We Had Fun, Didn't We? " ~

@ The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker:
A Fortnightly [every 14th & 28th] Literary Blog of
Connection & Coincidence; Custom & Ceremony

Repetition: Perfection or Sorrow

"Liturgical ritual is meant to be repeated. We are not supposed to do it right the first time, and then be done with it. We are not supposed to do it better each year until we get it perfect. This year's Easter does not have to be new and improved, more dramatic and moving than last year's.
The perfection is in the repetition,
the sheer ordinariness,the intimate familiarity of a place known because we have visited it again and again, in so many different moments."

from the essay "The Book of Hours"
by Wayne Muller ~ in his book Sabbath
[p 89, emphasis added]

". . . And how we loved 'til the years were days
How we laughed all our tears away
And now the time begins to fade
Lover, am I coming home again?

There's a wisdom in the teachings of the old familiar songs
And a sorrow in repeating
all the old familiar wrongsAnd a lesson to be learned though I've known all day long
Lover, am I coming home again?"

Light a light, light a light for me
Bring me back home again . . .

from the song "Light a Light"
by Janis Ian ~ American musician
[emphasis added]

Street / Park lamps
above:
Duke University Campus ~ Durham, North Carolina
Astrid Park ~ Bruges, Belgium
Stadtpark ~ Vienna, Austria

below:
Williams Residence Courtyard
New Orleans, Louisiana

[postcard by Jan White Brantley]

Memories Within the Walls

New Post for June on
Kitti's Book List
"Our Island Home"

While reading Julie Myerson's thoroughly researched treasure hunt of a book -- Home: The Story of Everyone Who Ever Lived in Our House -- I was reminded several times of Rumi's description (not sure which poem) of finding the precious streams of gold and red that flow beneath the floorboards of our own inhabited homes; and also of Janis Ian's plaintive song:

Memories
Tomorrow is the birthday of a lady dressed in blue
She don't have much to look forward to and nor do you
We live alone, though we sleep in the same old bed together
This is the home we built before we lost forever
There are memories within the walls and tapestries
There are memories - sitting alone at the station
waiting for a train that never comes
The nights are cold, the days just fade away
Tomorrow never comes
Nothing to say but yesterdays
Do you remember my name?
I don't remember you
We live alone, though we live in the same old home, with the same old truth
There are memories within the walls and tapestries
Memories - sitting alone at the station waiting for a train that never comes
[emphasis added]

Music & lyrics by Janis Ian
from her album, Night Rains

I think it's those "streams of gold and red" and "memories within the walls and tapestries" that Myerson is thinking of when she observes that "There are whole pieces of the past that lie just around the last corner, closer perhaps then we'd like to think. We may choose to forget this, but the house doesn't. The house has seen it, done it, felt it all before" (46). The house has not forgotten!

Myerson's little daughter wonders if perhaps every building we've ever entered can remember our presence, and maybe the buildings that our ancestors have been in draw us back to them: "Maybe all the buildings we ever go in, our ancestors have been in before us and we just don't know it because we never find out those things" (98).

Lillieshall Road Today
[here & above]
More "memories within the walls and tapestries"
from Small Island by Andrea Levy:
"A house had its front sliced off as sure as if it had been opened on a hinge. A doll's house with all the rooms on show. The little staircase zigzagging in the cramped hall. The bedroom with a bed sliding, the sheet dangling. flapping a white flag. A wardrobe open with the clothes tripping out from the inside to flutter away. Empty armchairs siting cosy by the fire. The kettle on in the kitchen with two wellington boots by the stove . . . " (304 - 05).

"Haunted Dollhouse" by Laura Lipton
For more on Small Island and Home,
see these posts on my book blog:
"Our Island Home" & "The Top Layer" & "SSR"

Light A Light

Leg Lamp
So many people made so many kind and funny comments
when I posted this picture of facebook last month,
especially my friend Rebecca who said,
"I want to be in that room,"
and Charlotte, who asked, "Was it a Major Award?" Haha!
Writing about "The Old Lamp-Lighter" yesterday (scroll down) reminded me of another old favorite from my dorm - room days in the 1970s (click on title to hear Janis Ian sing):

Light a Light
I hear your voice in ev'ry corridor
See your face in ev'ry picture frame
I feel your eyes in ev'ry starry sky
Lover, am I coming home again?

Now am I humble, who once was proud
Now am I silent, who once was loud
Now am I waiting for the sound of your saying:
Lover, am I coming home again?

When you're gone the sun don't shine
Light a light, light a light for me
Bring me back home again

And how we loved 'til the years were days
How we laughed all our tears away
And now the time begins to fade
Lover, am I coming home again?

There's a wisdom in the teachings
of the old familiar songs
And a sorrow in repeating
all the old familiar wrongs
And a lesson to be learned,
though I've know all along
Lover, am I coming home again?

Light a light, light a light for me
Light a light, light a light for me
Light a light, light a light for me
Bring me back home again
Bring me back home again

by Janis Ian (b. 1951)
American songwriter, singer, musician

Light a LightOther Janis Ian favs:
"In the Winter"
"At Seventeen"