The last time I played Moon River for Mom had been at her wake at Valhalla. Most of my Moon River renditions of recent years, had been played for Mom and Dad on Monsieur Winkelmann over the telephone from Cadrieu.
Once my childhood piano (now christened "Violette") arrived on Columbus Street, I managed to play one more rendition of Moon River for Mom and Dad over the phone with her before the Christmas holidays.
The one time I played Moon River on Columbus Street since, I expected to be sad. I expected to shed a few tears. What I didn't expect was remembering every time I'd ever played Moon River for Mom in all these years. The choke came when my memories returned to Monsieur Winkelmann and the Chatette.
Next time I call to play Moon River across the 5000 miles and an ocean between us, Mom won't be with us on the other end of that telephone line.
But you know, I bet she'll be sitting right there on those stone porch steps watching: the buddleia blooming; the Lot River roll by; and, be able to hear Dad and I chatting away after I play Moon River from my very own Moon River. She'll turn around and say: "Oh, that's so beautiful sug." And I'll know: it is now "our" very own Moon River.
I thought I'd surrendered getting a clear shot of these beautiful flowers from my orchid tree. Every one was blurry.
It began with each of these beauties blooming on the very tips of my orchid tree out in the back yard. This season was the first blooms, and such a treat.
I confess to soldiering on because I wanted to get a photo to share with Steward. You see, Steward and Eric gave me this tree for my garden (along with a lot of other garden goodies) when I first returned to New Orleans in 2013. Here we are-three years later and it's blooming.
What started as one bloom, became a clump of these beauties when you leave them alone long enough to bloom together!
I've said that home on Columbus Street was built by my family and friends, and so is the garden. Everywhere I look, I see flowers, plants, cuttings and bulbs that have grown into the amazing beauty that is now our garden on Columbus Street.
Beautiful flowers-roots of frienship-what a treat!
Trying to get things done before the rain that never came (at least not yet in New Orleans), I'd hit my major spots: bank; post-office; and, Canseco's to be sure I was stocked up on milk for my coffee through the weekend. I usually park my bike on the light pole closest to the corner, so I can whip around-go the wrong way down Maurepas to be able to go the "right" way over Lopez and on home down Ponce de Leon. That route takes me past this Little Free Library on the corner of Maurepas and Lopez.
I was very close to finishing my latest stash with The Artist's Wife, by Max Phillips. My glasses were tucked away in my backpack and my gallon of milk was in my right hand, so I debated about stopping. It would be nice to find something that caught my interest and could carry me over until I could make another trip to see Eric and my very special "Marion the Librarian" for more books.
I stopped. I put my milk down and laid caution to the reading wind...one of the books jumped out at me. The cover reminded me of my lastest sepia- colored pressed flower project, so I held it at arms length and read the first couple of lines on the back cover:
"When her children's school is set ablaze, Grace runs into the burning building to rescue her teenage daughter, Jenny. In the aftermath, badly injured, Grace learns the police have identified the arsonist, but they have blamed the wrong person."
I threw Afterwards, by Rosamund Lupton into my newly repaired bike basket and headed out thinking: "I enjoy a good cop story. This should tide me over."
I got that, and so much more.
I've been telling my friends that during times of loss the boundaries are blurred to the point that those we've lost who have crossed over move so much easier between the heres and theres. It's a time when the "everywheres" blend. I glory in the visitors and synchronicity of these times. Mom's passing has opened those portals even further for me. The messages from Afterwards came through loud and clear, even if it takes a hammer to my head to see what is right before my eyes.
I'd moved right past the "mother-daughter" connection, to loving a good cop story. Without giving the whole story and its ending away, Gracie and her daughter Jenny who are both severely injured and in comas leave their bodies. They are able to be present, but unseen to their family, loved ones, and other characters. You can imagine where this can go. Lupton, through her characters, is profound; and touched my heart and soul with:
p. 376-"I hold his hand. I walk into his dreams and I tell him how special he is;"
p. 380-"You told me once that the last of the senses to go is hearing. But, you're wrong. The last of the senses to go is love;" and,
p. 383-...My soul is being born. I am a sliver thin light, diamond sharp that can slip through gaps in the world we know. I will come into your dreams and speak soft words when you think of me. There is no happy ever after-but there is an afterwards. This isn't our ending."
A special thanks to my Mom and all of my gang who have crossed over for the push you made to Afterwards. And...
Sitting out in the sunshine at 411 with John and Theresa turned out to be full of surprises for me. It's always wonderful when friends like your friends. Between nibbles and wine, the conversation turned to a bit of information that John wanted to share with me. Both couples; Mike and John, and Theresa and John, are the proud owners of my coffee table book: Putting Pen to Paper in France-Photos-Fun-Stories.
John told me how one evening he was looking for a Children's Book to read to Liam, their second grandchild. John had a selection of books for Liam, but instead the little darling went and got my coffee table book and insisted that they look at it together. Talk about warming my heart...John observed that the beautiful photos prompted conversation and stories with Liam. They looked at every page together...honey bees, trees and magic! I love that Liam is a fan. I can now think about Putting Pen to Paper from France as just a bit of a Childlren's Book too. Hmmm, the wheels are turning.
Special thanks to Liam for his love
and John for sharing such a wonderful story with me.
Sometimes the life surprises are better than anything we could have planned. I think it can work the same way for crafty "experiments".
I'd only made two of these sepia colored flower photos. Maybe it was just because they were "different" that I liked them so much. But, it seemed to be the case when I shared them with others as well.
So, I have adjusted a number of the flower photos to sepia, and have chosen a few more to add a little flavor and fun to this project.
Even though I'd already gathered a bevy of beautiful Thank You Cards from the Dollar Tree to get out after Mom's services; I still felt that there was something a little more special that I wanted to do for my family and some of the very special people who stood with us and truly went above and beyond anything any one human being could have expected.
It began with photos and pressed flowers from Mom's arrangement to be sent to my friends in France along with their thank you. I found myself expanding that process to include other photo cards with pressed flowers from our arrangement. The colors were stunning in the photos and the pressed flowers added a sweet, poignant, and gentle touch. As beautiful as that first batch was; I discovered something that turned out even more beautiful in the midst of the process and experimentation. I'd only made two of these beauties as an experiment, but I found that I wanted to share these more.
Of course, Sammie Cat joined in the fun and we were off and running. I found myself holding back from sending any other cards than the ones to France. These beautiful color ones have ended up in the hands of supervisees who had already enjoyed some of the live flowers, but now had a little something more substantial to hang in their office or keep in their calendars to brighten stressful days.
For me, it's back to the printer and the laminator. I still have many of Mom's flower petals pressing in (of all places) my DSM-IV-R with the DSM-5 on top. The photo below gives you a sampling of the merci petals on colored photos. I'll be back to working with my photos and petals again soon. Can you guess what I'm doing to project us into grandeur?
When lots is swirling in my world, it's important for me to do something that I feel I might have some iota of control over. One of those things is getting my house in order. I look around. I pitch. I sort. I straighten. I rearrange and, sometimes add. Looking around from my big red chair, I spied Nannie's blue suitcase. I have her blue suitcase and Papa's brown leather one. Both have been wonderful storage over these years when there is not a closet to be had in my space on Columbus Street.
Nannie's suitcase holds some special treasures. There was a series of fancy dolls that Mom had purchased with cloth bodies and china legs, hands and faces. Each was a famous woman or character, but I have no idea who is who now. Mom sewed the outfits for each one with great love and detail. Three of them live at the Chatette. The rest have been living in Nannie's suitcase here on Columbus Street...that was until this past weekend.
I decided it was time that they all came up for air. I too, struggle with too much stuff, but these ladies are so special that they needed to be seen. Each found a perfect spot that matched the decor in my much reduced space. I marveled at the detail: reversible jackets; necklaces; special jewels; ties; bows; pantaloons; and, lots of lace. They each have a different expression, but one thing they all have in common at the moment is that they are all smiling now.
They are happy to be out. They are another reminder of Mom and her loves and talents. Some of their outfits are made out of material from my own dresses that I had made for myself long ago.
As if playing Moon River isn't enough of a Mom Reminder for me...I now have one of her dolls sitting on the piano too. I tease that it takes at least three years to really feel home in any place. We are there on Columbus Street.