Merry Christmas 2019
Thank you for (hopefully) still being our friends even though we haven’t sent out a newsletter since (insert post-Watergate date here). We’ve been going through quarter life crisis, which is rough, but still remember you - or else obviously you wouldn't have gotten this (or be reading it online if happily we've gotten the blog de-bugged by then).
We’re doing pretty good, except for getting targeted advertisements from assisted living facilities and cremation services.
And except for having an obese grey and white cat that confuses the laundry pile for his litter box. “Don’t worry, urine is sterile,” Mark said, with his usual perspicacity. We have a routine: Grab cat, stick his nose in it, and then squirt him with a water bottle while bellowing, NO NO NO NO!!” Does not appear to be working. Suspect cat is of small brain. Love him anyway, mainly because he makes a good foot warmer on cold nights in front of the computer.
Mark is still not retired (from the practice of looking at other peoples’ innards -radiology), and neither are any of our three vehicles – though they (may?) qualify for the automotive equivalent of late stage hospice. Kathy drove a silver Sienna minivan back when it was totally uncool, and she’s still driving it. But it’s probably going to get cool – as most vintage vehicles eventually do. Good thing our sense of self worth is not tied to our transportation (theoretically). Today in the church parking lot, we saw a charcoal grey Lamborghini shaped like a cross between a doorstop wedge and a little fighter jet. “Wonder who that belongs to?” was our first burning thought. (Or better, who belongs to it?) “Can you imagine going to Costco in that thing?” I mused. “First, you’d be freaking out trying to find a parking space where nobody would ding it”. And second, how the heck would you fit in twenty bags of cat food, forty cases of paper towels, and (all the other necessary paraphernalia for said cat.) Not to mention eggs, milk, chocolate almond bark, and the other absolute necessities. Wanda (the name Jonnie gave our old minivan when she was new) is lookin better.
The kids are out of the house now, so we decided to remodel. Couldn’t find/afford a post-wildfire contractor last winter, so we said, ‘how can this be so hard we’ll just do it ourselves’ – hiring guys as needed (and sometimes not hiring them as needed, but that’s beside the point.) The mustard yellow bathtub in the children’s bathroom was popular in the 70’s (can’t think of why). The abused hollow core doors have been replaced with vinyl shower curtains – temporarily (we hope). Re-textured the walls to look like an ancient castle (which they are: ancient, and our castle.) Ripped out the old Reagan era carpeting that used to be the color of shoe scrapings. We're now using broom and dustpan on hardwood floors, instead of a wheezing vacuum on Velcro-like dirt-magnet wall-to-wall, and it’s so exhilarating. Kathy has developed a fetish for sweeping. It’s so psychologically gratifying – to know you’re getting ALL the dirt - a catharsis for the soul. Mark used to complain she never vacuumed, but that’s because we only got maybe 1.3% of the gunk up, and knew we were perpetually living on the rest of it...walking on it, dropping clean towels on it, breathing it all night. Steam cleaning only made the lower level of dredge rise to the surface the next day. Now we are living clean, relatively dust-free (but not cat hair-free) lives. Mark has started telling visitors to remove their shoes. (It’s getting embarrassing.) I just ask them to knock out any sharp rocks, tacks, razor blades, or stray pieces of broken glass they may have picked up in the tread of their soles. (I think they like me better.)
Same week:
This morning we went to our church congregation’s Christmas service project/party and made stuff to take to care facilities, where we then had a “singalong” with the “inmates”. My friend with the amazing voice (Marie- not Osmond) took charge of the singing. I got pushed into the front row, as everyone tried to hide behind me. (Maybe because there’s so much to hide behind? Hope I remember to delete that.) Anyway, I much prefer to hide behind somebody too, but can buck up and (sort of) be a “front row” kinda person if absolutely irrevocably necessary.
Which meant singing with gusto and smiling at all those very sweet residents of the Care Facility, who were all dressed up and expecting high-class entertainment. That always slays me... having to be high class entertainment. I'd rather be really low key and play the wallpaper; but as luck would have it, there's not a whole lotta call for wallpaper impersonators. They say everyone in the world is hungry for leadership; eager to look up at somebody important on stage and be passively, comfortably led- instead of doing the leading. I get that. I feel that. From wall paper to front row is not my comfort zone, but then neither is living in that place for a lot of those people, I bet. So I can do this.
Now, Marie by herself (with several others present) could have improvised something lovely – but after making a quick inventory of the limited ancillary talent available (including me), she had the presence of mind to announce a room-wide “sing a long”, which was a rousing success.
Some scripture says the song of the heart is a prayer unto God, and I definitely felt angels in that room. The older people eagerly raised their hands and requested – practically entirely – religious Christmas carols! (Political (in)correctness "be damned".) Joy to the World – Silent Night – Oh Little Town of Bethlehem – were sung heartfully. Afterward, on a whim, we went around and greeted each of them personally with a smile and a handshake. Again, I felt (what we’ve come to call “the Spirit”) impress upon me that here were very choice and beloved children of God… all with very different life stories, but all susceptible to – and the bearers of – love… probably many, if not all, much better and more giving people than me. I seem to have that experience just about every time I meet someone: I often get an overwhelming impression of their goodness, and of their possibilities. I love meeting new people, and feel that most strangers are just friends I haven’t had a chance to meet yet. Or as we see it in the church, “brothers and sisters” in the universal family of God. Anyway, so often this experience is heightened by singing with people (or in my case, making the attempt.)
The problem with being a member of the "LDS" Church is that if you’re not musical, you’re like the only guy guzzling hotdogs at a vegetarian picnic, or the little old lady driving east on the foggy westbound freeway - in her (dented minivan?) - or the conservative white guy with the Maga hat at Berkeley. In other words, not – de rigueur. Epitome. Paragon. Beau ideal. Because,
The first thing they breathlessly ask you when you move into a new congregation is: “Do you play the piano/organ?” Before they even ask your name. (OK so I exaggerate. Slightly.) But I always have to lower my head and mumble in the negatory before slinking away. Of course, they’re still nice to you, but have a special affinity for the musically inclined. (Or a special desperation for them, considering how few kids get – and stick with - music lessons these days?) Probably because - what’s the first thing people think of when they hear “Mormon”? (besides “Donny and Marie” and cuss-free Vegas shows). “Tabernacle Choir”, of course. Why, a music teacher from the local university once brought his whole class to our church one Sunday, to hear the (expectedly) fantastical, sublime music. (Of course, it was a really off day for our temporarily anemic Ward Choir – limping along with the out-of-town-ed-ness of some major placeholder voices, and maybe minimal practice time due to helping Brother Jones who just had surgery, or whatever. Plus of course they never had any notice they would be on public trial that particular Sunday. It was not their finest moment, bless their struggling - but pure - volunteer hearts.) And of course we all go to church to give glory to God on High, not our vocal performers.
Nevertheless, we’re always asked if we’re going to join the choir. I thought of replying, “why no – I do the ward choir a favor by NOT joining it”. (Not speaking for my husband, of course, who does in fact have some sort of a voice.) But as for me, they should send me a thank you note. Where’s my thank you note? Something like this: “Dear Kathy Mitchell: Thank you so much for staying away from rehearsals. As a result, we have a very high quality singing group. Please continue to exempt yourself. Most sincerely yours, your friendly local church choir.” You see, I warble about two notes: maybe A and B below middle C. A rather truncated range. Nothing with which to shatter crystal or to write home about. And I sound them with the tonality of a mating whale about 30 feet under. Needless to say, my number of ongoing record deals is - well, Taylor Swift is safe.
But today on the front row of the church group singing to the elderly people at the Care Center, I was singing with my heart – and surprisingly, the heart has an infinite range. And is never truly offensive. I like singing with my heart.
New topic: Last week I went to babysit my 6 month granddaughter while her parents went to an office Christmas party. I’d like to know where that term “babysit” came from. First, you don’t SIT on babies. Maybe it means to sit BESIDE them whilst they peacefully sleep? Not with this one. She was awake and wired the whole time, requiring my constant mental and physical engagement. I’d brought a laptop and three- inch thick pile of notes, just in case the kid got a sudden overwhelming wave of somnolence. No dice. Time for milk. Warmed the bottle. Try to cradle her tenderly in my arms and insert nice warm bottle into pink little mouth. But her back deeply arched in sudden fierce protest, mouth clamped tightly shut, head jerked away to the side, and limbs lurched into supportive rigormortis. This was not a neurological seizure; it was attitude.
Here the letter inexplicably ends. Due to an unusually long recovery time? Anyway, in case you're wondering how the baby feeding thing worked out, I got this epiphany and put her in her bouncy swing that was hanging from the kitchen door frame - and while she was madly bouncing up and down, I stuck the bottle in her mouth - then wooolah- the kid starts happily drinking like it's manna and she's starved. Bouncing up and down with each sip. The most rhythmic meal I've ever beheld. To be a successful (grand)parent (and care home singer and practitioner of life,...), ya gotta be really good at improv.