The Green Cathedral

When I was a kid - junior high, to be exact, I had the (dubious) pleasure of of singing in our school's chorus under the tutelage of Mrs. Clark. A real character. If the boys (always the boys) acted up, she threatened to "put on her red-checked apron", emblematic for giving them a spanking. Actually, corporal punishment was widely used in those days, so it wasn't by any means an idle threat.

But she was an outstanding music teacher. Most of what I know about music theory was taught to me then. I went on to "major" in music throughout high school, taking 3 classes a day (theory, voice, and chorus) but I owe Mrs. Clark for the basics she taught as well as the love of singing which she inspired.

One of her gifts to me was a love of the "art" form of music - poetry set to a non-linear music pattern. A challenge to the voice and a lift to the spirit. I always loved a song called, "The Green Cathedral" because I thought it depicted an idealized, romantic view of a green forest. Actually, I'd never seen such a place, but I wanted it to be. Now I live in a part of the country where such a site is rather commonplace.

This week Wally and I joined Chris and Marty (and Ian and Sophie, of course) on a camping trip into Southwest Washington in the Gifford-Pinchot National Forest. We camped among tall Doug Firs and old Cedars. Wow! At one spot Marty discovered a "cathedral" setting of trees, leaning into one another. As I snapped this picture, I was singing this old song:

The Green Cathedral
I know a green cathedral, a shadowed forest shrine, Where leaves in love join hands above and arch your prayer and mine. Within its cool depths sacred, the priestly cedar sighs, And the fir and pine lift arms divine unto the pure blue skies. In my dear green cathedral there is a sheltered seat, And choir loft in branched croft, where songs of bird hymns sweet; And I like to dream at evening, when the stars its arches light, That my Lord and God treads its hallowed sod, In the cool calm peace of night.

Am I My Father?

Know how you always hear the warning, “You’ll know you’re getting old when you look in the mirror and see your mother!”?? Well now, that all depends on how old your mother is – or how old she got to be before she gave up the ghost. My own mother lived until about the same age I am now, so as far as appearance is concerned, from here on out it’s virgin territory, so to speak. My mother aged quickly – no doubt raising eleven children had something to do with that. My life has been much easier than hers was, so it’s not surprising that I don’t have the requisite mother-wrinkles or the totally white hair she proudly flaunted. Vanity being all, I was determined to hold onto some semblance of youth as long as I could.

Then, this morning, tragedy struck! I looked in the mirror and saw - - - my FATHER!! What? What was that? Wait! Maybe it’s just allergies causing my eyelids to swell and hang over their sockets, blocking my vision! Let’s try some eye drops and start swilling the Claritin. There’s gotta be a cure for this – and nobody better mention my age - the cure for that is terminal! OK, calm down. This is just a temporary setback. Let’s see . . let’s try wet tea bags and Wally’s Preparation H on the eyelids. No salt for the rest of my life. In fact, stop eating right now! That way, I’m sure to eliminate salt and/or any other toxic ingredient. Drink lots of water. There! That’s the ticket. Wear sunglasses when I go out so no one will notice my bulging eyes; keep them on inside, too – so what if I can’t read the labels in Fred Meyer? In fact, try not to look directly at anyone – one-on-one eye contact is highly over-rated anyway. Breathe. Breathe again. Deep breaths. Hold on, don’t panic.

You think it’s funny? You think Old Crones don’t fret about aging because we’re so wise and self-assured and, well, generally “above all that”? Well, you can just think again! A woman is a woman is a woman. The one thing we all have in common, for sure, is a desire to be pretty. It doesn’t matter if we are a flirty four year old, a sweet sixteen, an engaging adult, or a post-menopausal personality. Every last one of us hopes to exude an appealing appearance. And it has less to do with what someone else sees in us and more about how we see ourselves. A loving husband can swear we are still beautiful and it doesn’t hold nearly as much weight in our judgment as an attractive image in the mirror. Fie on us, fickle, vain creatures! I’m certain there are some deep, analytical anthropological reasons for our foolishness and if we understood why we feel like this we could begin to appreciate how wonderful we are and how truly lovely and valuable we are intrinsically.

But today I just don’t care about that! Today I want to be pretty again. And thin. And winsome. And desirable. And yes, young.

Tomorrow I’ll be wise and strong and mature and capable and wonderful. Tomorrow I’ll understand this is just a momentary insanity; I’ll appreciate, once again, who I am and how much I’m loved by the people I love. Tomorrow I’ll be a much better person. For after all, as our heroine, Scarlett O’Hara, would say, “tomorrow is another day”.

My Best Friend

Little girls always have a best friend. Mine was a girl named Lorraine. She and I told each other secrets, laughed at ourselves, shared her bicycle, talked about our new baby brother (hers) and sister (mine), and thought we were on top of the world. When we entered 6^th grade Lorraine moved to Kansas and we pretty much lost contact until renewing our friendship on the internet a few years ago. Memories of us together are a warm part of my childhood.

Time went by, and I didn’t find a friend who was “really, truly, my best friend” again until I met Libby. Or, rather, Libby kind of met me. Actually, she crashed my wedding! That’s my story, anyway, and I’m sticking to it! Libby was a newly-wed herself, having just moved to California, and was living with her new in-laws. My prospective in-laws and Libby’s were good friends, so she and her new husband were encouraged to “come along” and attend my wedding. The first time I ever spoke to Libby was at my wedding reception, held in the home of my new parents-in-law. I don’t even remember meeting her – it was kind of a busy, frenetic moment for me, so how could I be expected to take notice of anyone but my adorable new husband? Libby likes to tell the story a little differently: she says she never wanted to come to the wedding anyway – “I had just been to one – why did I have to go to another?” – but when we met she quickly decided that she wanted to get to know “that little blonde person”. I like her story better.

I always liked Libby’s stories better. Nobody ever told stories like Libby. Nobody ever made me laugh like Libby. A born clown and mimic, she found humor and absurdity in every moment and every event! Whether mocking a German accent or butchering an impossible joke, Libby knew how to keep her audience alternatively shocked or in stitches. She didn’t care how you responded to her; the important thing was that you responded! Libby liked attention and she got plenty of it! After a morning spent with her I couldn’t wait to share her jokes and stories with Wally; of course, I never could convey successfully the hilarity and silliness – you just had to be there.

As with all those so gifted, Libby had an Achilles Heel. Often she was fodder for those emotional “bulls in the china shop” creatures who must take a shot at someone else in order to feel good about themselves. And there she was, larger than life, the loudest person in the room, a convenient target. But she could get hurt, bravado notwithstanding. She never developed the radar to detect deceit in others – or to know how to protect herself against it. Like Nathanael in the Bible, Libby was genuinely “without guile”.

Libby was my friend. I never knew why she loved me or why she chose me as her confidante; I’ve always been proud that Libby called me her friend. We used to talk about what we’d do when we finally got old. Definitely we would not be red hat ladies – ugh! We’d do wonderful, creative things – go exciting places and behave any way we liked. It didn’t happen. Libby got sick; then she moved away to be with her daughters, so we don’t see each other anymore. Ill health is her constant companion now and she can’t remember everything she knows. Rats!

Whoever designed this getting-old thing is going to have to answer to me someday – toe-to-toe! I know it’s God and He knows what I’m talking about; I’m getting too old to pull my punches anymore. There ought to be some sort of reward for having survived, endured, conquered, mastered, and succeeded at a job as big as Life! Instead, we’re not-so-honored with aches and pains and disorders and ailing loved ones. What? A little payback for the human condition?

Here’s what I want. A little more time with my best friend: another camping trip out on a windy mountain, listening to her tall tales and deafening guffaws; to watch her paint another still-life while she explains about colors and shadows; to share one more cup of tea as we rehearse again the qualities – good and not-so-good – of each others children; for good measure, to dream again of what incredible things we must still accomplish!

Old ladies are just like little girls – they still need a best friend to remind them of who they are and to validate their spot on this planet. Libby and I can’t share a bicycle – heck, we can’t even share a cup of tea. So I’ll call her tomorrow and we’ll reminisce. She’ll laugh too loud and I’ll be too silly. She won’t remember what we talked about; and I’ll never forget.

Wednesday Wanderings

Wally has Wednesdays off. Although we have each weekend of leisure time to enjoy, Wednesday is very special to Wally and me. He walks away from his busy job at the grocery store on Tuesday afternoon, knowing he can do anything he wants for the next 36 hours. A good time to catch up on errands, effect small repairs around the house, or work on some continuing project? You'd think.

Instead, we usually take off. This is our time to wander. Rarely do we have an actual game plan; usually it's just "get in the car and see where it takes us". Yesterday was a case in point. We knew we wanted to drive down to Duck Pond Winery in Dundee to pick up our (my!) quarterly wine club shipment, so that was our starting point. We like to drive to wine country by way of the "205" to the "5" to the Donald off-ramp, then through farm country, across the Willamette, into the woods, and, finally, meet up with the busy 99w right in Newburg. Most of the trip is through rural scenery, away from traffic - just to our liking. Yesterday, mesmerized by a north-bound, traffic jam on the "5" freeway (opposite side), we missed our offramp and had to continue to Woodburn before we could head east. No prob: when we're wandering we don't really look at the clock or worry about "wrong" turns. There are no wrong turns - just some place we haven't seen before.

The sky was low - thick, bulbous clouds hung over our heads like a false ceiling in a Disney ride; all we needed was to pass a pirate ship loading it's cannon toward our vessel! We drove on through new, but not unfamiliar rural territory. Wally remarked, "Well, here we are, on another Oregon country road. But then, most of Oregon is country roads". He's right, of course. You have to be in Portland itself to have any real sense of civilization in Oregon. Everywhere else is open fields or dense forest or wild coast. Oh, there are a few towns thrown in - just to help you keep your perspective. But none of them amounts to a city - mostly just rambling, loosely connected settlements between the wildness and intense natural beauty of this incredible state.

We found our way to the winery - purchased the wine - and consulted the map to see where we might continue our peripatetic path. Hum-m-m... We really wanted to head west, through the coast range, but we'd followed most of those roads already. Wally suggested heading down to Willamenia (site of his favorite sweet roll place!), then up the "22", through the mountains to Tillamook. That way we could follow the "6" (one of our all-time favorite roads), back to the "26", just in time to run into commuter traffic home. Of course. Why not? A little bumper-to-bumper beating is a small price to pay for an afternoon of soul-filling splendor.

Thus we discovered highway "22" - magnificent, mind-boggling, picturesque, untamed corridor through the coastal mountains. It's one of those twisty-turning drives where each turn brings new and fresh scenery - and elicts "ahhhhs" at every bend in the road. We could stop and just bathe in the lovely coolness of the dense forest, but then, just ahead, lies a similarly lovely, yet strangely unique, turn in our path - we have to stop there also! One could never get anywhere this way!!! And it's totally impossible to become jaded by the surreal, almost fantasy-like panorama. Once in a while we came upon evidence of human habitation - a house that we "almost" saw buried among the trees, a few cattle or sheep grazing in a distant, silvan meadow. That's about it. A road sign indicated a town up ahead - it turned out to be a wayside market, probably with a post office which merrited zipcode designation. The landscape was littered with unabashedly blooming foxglove and some enormous bush covered with thousands of red berries - not recognizable to us. Delicate Coastal firs, heavy disiduous trees vying for room among the hugh Douglas Firs, the forest understory choking with dozens of fern varieties; everywhere evidence of vigorous woodland life. Heaven.

Each time we venture into the wildness of this planet we are refreshed and satisfied - convinced that if such beauty exists for our enrichment, there must be a Creator who loves us, and this world, enough to care for us and keep us in harmony. I guess our part is to preserve that harmony with whatever skills and knowledge - and heart - we possess. So we arrived home, exhausted and happy. Another beautiful day spent in the clear air of our lush, green homeland.