Going into a bathroom in New York recently, I saw these notices …
No? Don’t throw toilet paper into the toilet?
NO? DON’T FLUSH ANYTHING DOWN THE TOILET?!
To throw or to flush—that is the question!
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Make me. Make us.
Yesterday morn, Robert and I headed over to a new bistro near us, Alexander’s, for coffee and a little breakfast. I got my usual (whatever drip they were featuring), but HR went all fancy — a latte with mocha.
The orange flower was edible! (He didn’t share.)
My coffee came in a sad brown paper cup. I had to force it to let me take its picture.
After HR’s sausage roll and my Kanelbullar cinnamon roll (with pearled sugar!), we just weren’t ready to leave, so we shared a beautifully delicious Scottish Egg.
Fun, fun morning.
With all that is going on in our world, this statement may be more aspirational than real time.
But I still so agree.
This morning HR and I drove up from Savannah to my tiny north Georgia hometown of Ball Ground. Why? To “decorate” the Saye family plot in the old Ball Ground City Cemetery.
I’m trying to follow in the tradition of my parents and grandparents by regularly visiting family gravesites laden with seasonally appropriate flowers. (The pandemic slowed down that ritual.)
But it’s about so much more than flowers. The soul—and souls—of yesteryear make their presence known in cemeteries. And to me there is such joy in walking and sitting among the graves and remembering the lives of my loved ones. Feeling the peace of the place.
Even sensing the sacredness of the dirt.
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Let me introduce you to a few of the ones I had a little sit-down with.
My father and mother, Harold (“Tub”) and Geneva, married 71 years …
I wished my mother the Happiest of Mother’s Days! And she told me she loves the new flowers.
My brother Jimmy who only lived a week …
I wonder if the fullness of life might perhaps best not be measured by longevity alone.
My great-grandfather J.P.. (Ball Ground’s first doctor) and his wife Angie …
My younger brother Danny, who died the same day as my mother back in 2016 …
My paternal grandparents, Dollie and Maynard …
Then walking through flowers to the other side of the cemetery to reach my maternal grandparents, Dora and Veto …
Veto was actually Granny’s second husband. Her first died in his twenties in a railroad accident.
Veto used to tell the same joke every time we were riding together past a graveyard: “You know how many people are buried in there?” Someone had to answer, “No.” Then he’d give a big belly laugh and reply, “Ever one of ‘em!”
Robert and I threw the old faded flowers away and walked back to the car, pleased with the decorating. I looked back to the plots and smiled when I heard them, all my family in unison, thank me for coming.
What I see/saw walking in my Savannah neighborhood.
Glorious red.
Pink doors!
HR (Husband Robert, come on now, you should know that by now) slowing the walk down with a five-minute photo session starring a fish regurgitating streams of water.
(Notice how he is sort of perched on the ledge, tippy-toeing, worrying me sick that he would topple over any second. And then what would I do?)
A giant snowball bush in Forsyth Park.
Seeing Ukraine, even at Savannah’s Chinatown Market.
Robert, continuing to slow down the walk, taking pictures of leaning walls.
Seeing an angel!
May her wings fly peace to Ukraine.
I love walking in my neighborhood. Thanks for walking with me. Let’s do it again soon. (You know, you could invite me to walk with you in yours.)
NealEnJoy 