Paula - Meanderings

Channeling Jessye Norman

On hearing the news of Jessye Norman’s death I experienced a soft waft of regret similar to other such news of the passing of great women and men whom I admired.

But there was something a little more for this passing.

I love music, all kinds of music and among my fondest memories is my grandmother and the 78 recording of Marian Anderson singing Ave Maria. Her voice came from a gramophone record player with the name His Master’s Voice written on the case. Here was my introduction to classical operatic singing.

Since my grandmother was a highly religious woman and a church organist to boot I thought His Master’s Voice was coming straight from the Master himself, God; that if I could somehow get my voice onto the black disk turning on the gramophone I would begin to sound just like that.

I first met Jessie Norman through a televised BBC performance. Just one look was all it took for me to fall in love. The majesty, the presence, the grandeur, and then THAT VOICE!

Fast forward many years later and Bert and I had the privilege of attending a Jessie Norman concert with friends in Philadelphia. There was thunderous applause at the dramatic entrance. At the end there was a moment of complete silence before the audience stood giving repeated ovations. We had been transported and needed that moment to regroup.

Later still I was to work with a colleague who was actually a friend of Jessye Norman. He was a gentle soul who gave me the ultimate compliment. He told me I resembled Jessye Norman whenever I wore my hair up. The ‘librarian’s bun’ became my ‘Jessye Norman do’.

As soon as I walked in he would exclaim: “Here comes Jessye Norman.” I would laugh but I was immensely flattered too.

Then the ultimate Jessie Norman life experience occurred far from home. My Bert and I were visiting his brother and a favourite niece and her family in Sweden.

Alcohol is very expensive in Sweden but cheap in Denmark. It is normal to see many Swedes crossing from Helsingborg, Sweden to Helsingor (Elsinore), Denmark a 20 minute ferry ride to pick up a supply of alcohol.

We decided to do the alcohol run accompanied by our niece and her husband. It was a simple plan. We would leave early, take the ferry over to Helsingor/Elsinore, have lunch there, go buy booze and get a ferry back.

Of course, I had to make the trip just a little bit more complicated.

Although we had been to Sweden and taken this ferry ride many times we had never visited Kronborg Castle, a major tourist attraction in Helsingor. This literature student was going to correct that. Kronborg Castle in Helsingor is Elsinore Castle. Elsinore is the anglicized version of Helsingor and the home of Shakespeare’s Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. Here was my chance to walk in Hamlet’s footsteps. Who knows, perhaps I would find a secluded rampart to quietly recite Hamlet’s soliloquy: “To be or not to be…” NOT!

Everyone agreed we would add a visit to Kronborg Castle.

We were standing on the ramparts looking over the moat on three sides of the castle when we noticed a Danish family in close but animated conversation looking over to our small group. There was a mother and father, two children and two more adults all talking with an air of excitement, all looking over at us.

Finally, they approached and the man said: “Excuse me. We are wondering if you are Jessye Norman.” I was flabbergasted. For a moment I had no words. I am sure I stuttered as I explained I was not but was immensely flattered and considered it a special compliment. I think I babbled.

The girl said she thought I was Ms. Norman as I resembled her. Then she told me they had gone to her concert that weekend in Copenhagen.

I told them I was a fan and we had a brief conversation before parting. I walked on air the rest of the day.

That incident came immediately to mind when I heard of Jessye Norman’s passing.

I have been listening to her and have been grateful to an email buddy who sent me a playlist of her recordings and the BBC’s Hard Talk interview.

I have been overdosing on all things Jessie Norman and decided to share my Bert’s favourite song Ave Maria with him. So with the help of You Tube we listened together. He leaned forward to make the image clearer.

As Jessie Norman breathed the last notes, my Bert looked up, smiled at me and said: “She looks like you.”

Well, case closed.

Here was another moment of joy. My heart soared.

The meander: I have just played the CD Spirituals in Concert with Jessye Norman and Kathleen Battle. I looked at the cover photo and with a bit of ego I thought well, maybe a little. Then, as I listened to the singing, my soul was lifted. I breathed. Music will do that to you.

RIP Jessie Norman. Your voice was indeed a heavenly gift.

A Precious Gift

It was almost two weeks after my Bert and I had been apart that I got a call reminding me of an appointment. It came from someone I consider to be a friend though I met her only because my Bert has Alzheimer disease. As we confirmed the appointment she ended by saying: “I will also be bringing a special gift for you.”

“Oh? What is it?

“I cannot tell you. It’s a surprise.”

I was curious. I like getting gifts. Who doesn’t?

The day arrived. My friend came in with a big smile.

I had waited in anticipation so after the hugs and the greetings I said: “OK, what is it?”

“This is a gift from your friends at the Adult Day Programme. It is a CD of Bert and the music therapist singing Paula’s Song. They worked together and Bert helped her with the words. He insisted on some of them and with a bit of coaching and patience they made up this song for you. They recorded it. You can hear Bert singing on it to you. It truly is from him to you.”

She handed me a CD case. On the cover there is a wedding picture of Bert and myself. There is a white column on the left that says “DEAR PAULA”. On opening the case there is the CD with the title “Paula’s Song”. On the left hand side behind the photograph are the words of the song. It is a familiar tune.

Chorus

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,

You make me happy when skies are grey.

You’ll never know dear how much I love you,

Please don’t take my sunshine away.

She’s always happy, my beauty lady

We stick together like a lock

You make me happy, oh dear Paula

I do love you oh so much

Chorus

You’re always with me my favorite person

We have travelled all the world

You’re always smiling, and you are happy

You bring joy to all of my world.

Chorus

Sometimes, love, the world ain’t easy

Please take care and watch your step

Don’t go out late, love, and please be careful

I want you safe and here with me.

I read the words. Tears trembled on my cheeks but did not fall. Through my blurred vision a voice heard in my heart told me this was from my Bert to me. These were his words made coherent by a music therapist who concentrated on his love and with patience got him to articulate it in this, my song, Paula’s song.

It was almost three weeks before I listened to the CD. As expected, it left me in tears. I heard my Bert with my senses. I saw him, I felt him. In my mind I could see how patiently he worked with the therapist to put this all together. I heard the hesitant voice on the verses except for a few words here and there. The vocals are stronger and clearer as he sang the well known tune and words of the chorus. I heard him in my heart.

I miss the goodbye ritual we did as I left him with that amazing staff at the Adult Day Programme with his final words always being:” See you soon, my Paula. Drive carefully.”

He took care of me. He still takes care of me in the limited but so precious ways he can. Now he has given me the number one song of the century that for me will never go off the charts. I see myself playing this when I am lonely, when I miss my Bert, when I think of my loss and I will smile through the tears. My Bert is the one that can always make me happy.

How can I thank the staff for this gift? I cannot, but I will always be grateful for this most precious gift of my Bert’s voice singing his song for me and to me.

The Meander: I have learned throughout this journey that some of the best caregivers are the staff and workers who care for our loved ones. The staff of our Adult Day Programme is among the best caregivers I know. My Bert and I thank you for this tangible and most precious gift of your tender loving care.

It’s Little things

I still put too much water in the kettle for just one cup of tea.

Yikes! The 403 highway is heavy for this time of day. I better go over into the High Occupancy Vehicle (HOV) lane. That one is really moving. Stop! You need two people in the car to do that.

I am setting two places at the table, but there is only one eating.

I wake up between 1:30 a.m. and 2 a.m. every night expecting to hear the new language I call Bertish. But I am met with silence. I turn around and I fall asleep again. Ah! That’s a difference and that is good. I need to sleep.

The book is engrossing but a glance at the clock tells me it is 7:10 a.m. I better put it down and get cracking as the personal support worker (PSW) is coming at 8 and it takes a while to get myself prepared for the day and my Bert ready for his daily routine. No, no, my Bert is not with me. There is no PSW on the way. You can read another chapter I tell myself but I don’t. Instead I get out of bed. I have not gotten used to indulging myself as yet.

I go into the laundry room. I want to separate the wash. I don’t have to as there is so little there in the hamper. They are all mine. I can wait another day or three before I have a full load.

One whole hour has passed and I have not heard: “I love you. You don’t know how much I love you. I love you from here and around the world 15 million times.” I do not utter a sigh nor think here we go again. I miss it now. Oh, how I miss that now.

The waitress brings the bill. I look at it and I wonder if she brought me the wrong one. I pause too long and she says: “Is something wrong?” I shake my head. “No, it is fine,” I answer. How do I explain that I am eating alone in a restaurant for the first time in a very long time? A bill for one seems so small. I want to see an amount for two. I give her a large tip. She smiles as she says thank you.

The yogurt my Bert loves is on special at our local grocery store. I begin to pick up a package of 12 small cartons. That is the size he has every morning at breakfast. I stop. I move along and pick up the one I like. I hurry from the store. My list is not complete. I have to sit in the car a while. I breathe. I drive the short distance home. Tomorrow I will finish the shopping.

I wonder when it will stop becoming ‘his side of the bed and his place at the table.’

I open the hall closet and his long metal shoehorn hangs there. There is a hitch in my breathing but I will not move it. I will not put it away. I cannot put anything else away. I have already put my heart away.

I need to get something from an accessibility outlet that will pull up the long zipper at the back of my favourite dress. My Bert took such pleasure in doing that simple task for me. He was my helper.

I wash one dinner plate, one fork, one spoon, one knife, one cup, one saucer, one glass, one bowl – one is such a lonely number.

The sunset is magnificent this evening. This was a ‘together thing’. Today I drew in the light and colours of the sunset, alone.

The Meander: Yes, I now recognize the sound, the many sounds of silence. Silence is loudest in lonesomeness. It is eloquent in emptiness.

Thank You, My Bert

I awake to the mumbling and an incomprehensible rant that is Bertish, the newly invented language of my Bert.

For a minute I lay still hoping that it will end soon. I am so tired I cannot see. One gesticulating hand hits me on the shoulder and coming out of the half sleep-half awake state, I realize that I cannot see because it is 2:15 a.m. therefore it is dark. Duh! Einstein.

A thought insinuates: If I could have known the future, if I could have seen this part of the journey would I still have married my Bert?

I was mortified that my immediate answer was not a resounding yes. Then being me I mentally started a pros and cons list and needless to say the pros far outweighed the cons.

I thought of our life together so far and marvelled at the adventure. I knew when tragedy struck I would not have wanted anyone else beside me. We weathered the storms together and climbed the highest peaks together. We laughed, we cried, always together.

My Bert knew before I did how to transform “I” and “Me” to “We” and “Us”. It is a transformation I cherish. We did not become one but as a team we were as one. That is the glory of love.

I realized that whatever is in our future my Bert was and will be always my Bert.

Yet thoughts do not come and go in an instant, they tend to linger with me and the question lingered. It bothered me that I actually let that thought in. I made a conscious effort to look dispassionately at my late night musing.

First I forgave myself. I am only human.

Secondly I realized that being tired and at the point of caregiver burnout such a lapse was inevitable. I am not Job. My patience is limited.

Thirdly I faced the futility of the thought. No-one knows the future so the question is moot.

Then the conclusion: How wonderful that the future is hidden. The worst thing about the future is that we do not know what it will bring. The best thing about the future is that we do not know what it will bring so we can look forward to it with hope. We can dream of a brighter day.

Then, as if the universe felt my troubled state and wanted to mitigate my self- flagellation it smiled on me.

In my mailbox there was a large envelope. It contained among congratulatory messages a notification of the Heroes in the Home Caregiver Recognition Award presented by the Local Health Integration Network.

It was the right time, coming at my hour of greatest need. What a lift and how serendipitous.

All caregivers deserve an award such as this because we are all heroes in the home. We give care fueled by love to those near and dear to us, sometimes at enormous cost to ourselves.

We never asked for this particular job. It is one challenge we would gladly forgo. We just do what we must do. We have no choice. It is part of the package. It is one leg of the journey. We accept it and hope the future will be less dramatic and traumatic.

The Meander: I have been honoured because my Bert first honoured me. My nominator Ana, and the people who surround us see beyond my Bert’s dependency. They see the love. Thank you, Ana. Thank you, HNHB-LHIN. Thank you, my Bert. “YES! I would do it all over again.”

The Dorians

Among the pleasures of travelling are meeting new people, seeing new sites, speaking in a different language or trying to do so, eating new and interesting delicacies, daring to do.

My Bert and I have made some wonderful friends from our years of travelling and we have mingled with some very interesting characters.

Dorians refer to two such fascinating persons. It is not their real name but the characteristics they show put them in this exclusive category.

My first Dorian I met on The QEII, that venerable former flagship of the Cunard Line. It is now sitting at a dock in Dubai awaiting a retrofit into a new seven star hotel. A rebirth I may not live to see as plans are on hold as the owners are either stressed for cash and/or courting investors for the project.

On a cruise ship, or any ship for that matter, the Captain is the boss, the head honcho, a veritable god of all he surveys. We passengers may be paying his salary but on board his or her vessel we are mere peons that must obey all orders of the great master.

We were on a world tour. We would be spending 115 days on board the QEII. We would experience two such exalted personnel, as we knew from experience that the Captain we meet on boarding the ship in New York would change places with another Captain in Sydney, Australia.

It was the Captain’s Welcome party. We were in line for the official introduction to the Master of the ship. The hostesses went down the line, asked your name(s), then you would be presented by name to his majestic awesomeness.

Remember this is the QEII. Pomp and circumstance is a hallmark. The British are champions at this.

It is our turn. I look into this minor god and I try not to do a double take as I see before me a compact man, of medium height. He had dark hair, blue eyes, was polished and adorned with so many medals and gold braid that there was a luminescent halo surrounding his entire frame.

All well and good but what distracted me was that he looked as if he could be my son. How could one so young be Captain of this great ship?

He extended his hand said: “Welcome on board.” I could not help it I looked right into his eyes and said: “Where do you keep your picture.” He raised one eyebrow and with a calm insouciance and a devilish smile said: “It will be up to you to find it, but I assure you it will look the same.” We laughed.

For the rest of his time on board it was our running joke. There were plenty of opportunities to carry it on because as world cruisers the cocktail parties, dinners and opportunities to mingle with the Captain and ship’s officers were twice as many as for those who were doing cruise segments only.

When he had his farewell dinner we greeted each with slight regret that our inside joke was over. In addition to the usual pat phrases of farewell he said: “You will have to ask Oscar where I keep the portrait.” My answer: “I will keep on looking. Oscar is too Wilde for me.” There were quite a few in hearing distance who wondered what the heck we were talking about.

My next Dorian was again the boss of the luxury sailing yacht the Wind Surf. This luxury cruiser was tiny compared to the QEll but no less grand with an intimate, relaxed, and marvelous ambiance.

Prior to the official formal affair we were invited to a meet and greet hosted by the cruise director. It would be an introduction to Windstar Cruises and this particular yacht.

He was telling us about the sails being raised or lowered accompanied by music when a young man dressed in casual sailor’s whites came by. Immediately the cruise director stopped his spiel, went over to the young man and said something to him. He came back to the microphone and said:

“Ladies and gentlemen may I present the Master, Captain of our vessel.” Well knock me down with a feather. Master? Captain? The fellow behind me said: “They are hiring babies now.”

The Master took the microphone and his first words were: “First let me answer the question you all have in mind. Yes, I am old enough to Captain this yacht.” Everyone laughed. You could see some of us including Bert trying to see the stripes to confirm he really was the Captain. Another Dorian!

That night at the formal Captain’s welcome dinner the young fellow was resplendent in his dress uniform, medals flashing, epaulettes set just so. I looked at him and sighed. Despite his assurance he still looked too young to be our Captain. Should I go looking for another hidden picture that was aging sight unseen?

I think all 295 passengers were on deck as our Captain docked at Santorini. He had to parallel park our vessel in between two much larger vessels. We were holding our breaths in trepidation when we saw where he had to go. We wondered if we should go for our life jackets.

He made it in one maneuver. He lined up the yacht perfectly in the middle. He erased any doubts that were left of his capabilities. A spontaneous cheer went up.

The Meander: My Bert and I have been to all corners of the world. We have seen the touristy sites and wandered along paths less travelled. We have been blessed. I have so many travel stories but the ones that stay uppermost are the ones about the people we have met. The Dorians are etched on the canvass of my mind.

Kaleidoscopes

It was my birthday. There was a party. I got presents. The best and the most wonderful present was a kaleidoscope.

How magical. Every colour of the rainbow and every hue imaginable, jumbled, tumbled, scattered, reformed then rearranging themselves into fantastical patterns, symmetrical, ordered, pleasing. Awesome!

Disorder tamed and changed into order. A chaotic profusion of wild, disparate colours gathered and sequenced into beauty, a moving spectacle that you controlled simple by a turn, a little shake, the merest tremor and new patterns emerged.

Every different settling was new, surprising, and magical. There were enumerable moments of discovery filled with joy.

I have a new kaleidoscope. I am desperately twisting, turning, and shaking seeking its order. I want the chaos of my life in this kaleidoscope to fall seamlessly into place, into an order I can understand. My new kaleidoscope is faulty. No matter how I turn and shake and try to encourage it to form Tiffany glass creations of beauty and unity, I fail.

I can see bits and pieces scattering as they fall but they refuse to coalesce and, if a few do by chance, the result is disordered. It is a fusion of confusion. A hodgepodge of the past familiar intermingled with hiccups and blanks of the present. What is created is strange to me though the pieces are familiar. I have failed the course of making sense out of nonsense.

My Bert is my new kaleidoscope. The beautiful patterns we used to make together are now no more. He is a mirror that has lost its ability to reflect; a dancer without coordination.

As a child I wanted to go into the kaleidoscope to see how it worked. I wish I could go into my Bert’s brain to see how it is, see how it works and to see if there is anything I can do to fix it. Then again: “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.”

The Meander: I kept my childhood kaleidoscope for a long time. It delighted and entertained. Then I lost it. My Bert and I have known each other for 52 years and have been married for 50 years and counting. I suppose that is a long time. He still tries to delight and entertain. It is an effort. I have not lost him. Not yet.

Deck Encounter

We sat on deck, looking out on a calm sea that shimmered in the moonlight.

We were six, two couples plus a mother and adult son. We had met on a cruise eight years before and we had been travelling together ever since.

We were a compatible lot and conversation never lagged.

This night was the Captain’s welcome reception and dinner. We had all dressed up, joined the line to meet the Captain, drank the champagne and had a very nice dinner.

We sighed in contentment.

We were rehashing the jokes of the entertainer, a comedian, who was quite good when a young man came in sight. Wow!

He was tall, dark, and handsome with full sensuous lips, deep blue eyes, a high forehead from which his hair fell in soft waves to his shoulders. Yes, all the clichéd descriptions of the hero one could find in Mills and Boon and Harlequin romance novels were rolled into one eye-popping package and walking towards us. He was the epitome of male pulchritude.

“Oooh! I would never say no to any request from this one!” Pat remarked sotto voce.

“MOTHER!” exclaimed Francis in such a shocked voice we all burst into laughter.

The young man turned and said: “That must have been a good one.” With uncharacteristic boldness I said: “Come over and join us and we will share it with you.”

“Thanks, I will.” He pulled out a chair came over and said: “Hi, I am Sean.”

We introduced ourselves. Gary, the only smoker in our group had noticed the cigarette case Sean had pocketed before he accepted our invitation. He suggested they have a smoke.

Sean accepted and he and Gary moved closer to the rail and ashtrays. We surmised Sean had come out for air and a smoke before returning to his date/fiancée/wife/partner.

Cigarette done, Penny, Gary’s wife told Sean about our plans to go listen to the Jazz trio in the Piano Bar. She invited him to join us.

There was a slight hesitation before Sean confirmed he was waiting for someone but maybe they would accompany us to the Piano bar also, if we did not mind.

Pat, our master of sotto voce whispered to Penny: “I should have known that someone who looks like that would be not alone.” It was said with such a mixture of regret, desire and a hint of peevishness that Francis uttered a groan.

The conversation flowed and then Sean told us he was waiting for his parents. He explained that they all had early dinner together but his parents liked to go to relax with a cocktail before catching the later show. He was quite happy with that arrangement because then his mother could pretend he did not smoke and he could have a cigarette without her telling him what a nasty habit it was.

“I am with your mother. Gary is the only smoker in our group and he gets the ‘nasty habit’ lecture on a daily basis even from the former smokers here.”

He smiled and said: “Well, then if you tell me not to smoke, I won’t.”

Before I could reply, a door opened and the first people coming from the late show drifted towards our corner. Sean got up, went towards the door and said:”They’re coming.”

He looked downwards, we looked up.

Coming towards us was the most striking couple.

Little people. Very Little People.

Both were resplendent in their formal wear. Both had the biggest smile when they saw Sean. Sean bent down, hugged both and said: “Mum and Dad, I want to introduce you to some people.” They came forward hands held out.

“Hello, I am Mary and this is Hector, my husband. You have met our son Sean. I bet he was out here grabbing a smoke. Nasty habit that.”

How gracious and how adroitly she had put us at ease. Yet, we could not help it; we gaped even as we smiled. I looked up at Sean and looked down at his parents in wonder. I knelt, opened my arms and hugged them. I was immediately embarrassed. I thought I had committed a faux pas that I should not have done that. As usual my Bert came to my rescue as he said: ‘”Don’t mind her. She is a hugger.”

“That she is,” said Penny.

“So are we,” said Hector. He and Mary were so gracious. They hugged back.

The moment passed. We moved to the Piano Bar.

The Meander: I have often said that our travel experiences have been so varied that should I write them all out I would need to create a number of books. One would be about the people we have met. Sean was 6ft 4 inches tall. His Mom was 3ft 8 inches and his dad 3ft 11 inches. They taught us so much!

I will not forget the sight of Sean dancing with his Mum.

We were shipboard companions only and after that just ships that passed in the night. It is often like that, but for a moment in time the stars aligned to hand us a remarkable travel story.

Chatterbox

I have been called many things over my lifetime but chatterbox is not one of them. Yet lately that is what I call myself, to myself. Why would I do that?

I am Canadian so I will blame the weather. This has been a particularly harsh winter. There has been much wailing and gnashing of teeth (mine) as my Bert, whose only contribution to our travel adventures was: “Where are we going next?” uttered before we had unpacked the bags from our last trip, is no longer allowed to travel. I had no idea that I would miss our travels, our winters away in some warm place or on a ship so very much. So here we were stuck in winter in our wonderful but COLD country.

My Bert would often say that Canada is the best country in the world except for the weather. I agreed, but would temper my enthusiasm with the thought that if Canada had perfect weather it would be perfect and there is no such thing.

Here is another observation that my Bert would voice often: “Paula is always telling me that I talk too much but she talks too.” “Yes, I talk but not anywhere as much as you and in any case you are such a talker, someone has to be the listener” I would answer. Then with a laugh he would say: ‘That is why we have the best marriage. I talk and you listen.” That was said with a tone to make it unbelievable. Yet, all that was true.

My Bert is really an open book and loves to talk. Many a time we have been to a restaurant and before dinner is completed the entire wait staff knew more than they should about us, from how we met right up to our present situation. I would be kicking him under the table to tell him to be quiet to no avail. I would be ignored. I would then have to become the interpreter, rephrasing or correcting or echoing my Bert’s pronouncements and also becoming a listener.

Oh, how we talked together. My Bert had such stories to tell! We are both curious about our world, our country, people, places and things. My Bert devoured news and current affairs. I read and we talked about everything. Our conversations encompassed silly things, weighty things, family things and couple things. We agreed, we disagreed and agreed to disagree and we laughed.

Oh, how I miss that talking together. Now, trying to have a conversation is a Herculean task. I give up any thought of having a sustained conversation. In the absence of that verbal communion I have become the chatterbox. The sentences are made up of the basic noun and verb. Heck, it could be just one word. I get back one word in return and sometimes the word returned is completely out of context. When my Bert attempts to express a thought it ends abruptly halfway and I try to finish it. Sometimes I succeed but that is becoming more difficult as time passes. It is difficult to enter Alzheimer world when a thought is unfinished.

The inanity is mind numbing. When does speaking become just noise? When does it lose its main function of communicating? It tests my patience and it saddens me to see him struggle to find the words. I think he knows what he would like to say but it takes a valiant effort to get it out. Sometimes he just gives up. The frustration is apparent. He begins to pick at his fingernails and mumbles.

How can I relieve the anxiety? I say: “Don’t worry. Tell me tomorrow.” Then I will rub noses or give a hug. These now are the best communication tools. There is no need for words then.

The Meander: Should anyone be looking for ‘tomorrow’, ‘soon’, ‘later’ please check with a caregiver for a loved one with dementia. We have usurped them. We are wearing them out completely. “When do we go to Breda?” That is Bert’s birth city in The Netherlands. “Tomorrow.” “When are the kids coming?” They left maybe ten minutes prior. “Soon.” “Are we going to bed now?” We have just finished lunch. “Later.” A loving touch, a smile, a hug and holding hands are enough to relieve his anxiety. We still ‘talk’.

Monuments

A friend sent me a message: “Go to news. Notre Dame is on fire.” I leapt up from the computer and for the next two hours or so I was riveted to the T.V screen as I watched the Cathedral, the heart of Paris burning. I was saddened.

My Bert and I have had the privilege of visiting famous monuments and landmarks around the world. They remain in my memory, in my psyche, and yes in my heart.

On separate occasions I have cried, laughed, cried and laughed at the Berlin Wall. I even own a small piece of it from when it was torn down. My Bert and I raced from Amsterdam to Berlin to witness the ‘unzipping’ of the refurbished Brandenburg Gate by President Bill Clinton.

I got goose bumps the first time I saw Westminster Abbey, The Blue Mosque, The Great Pyramid of Giza, Notre Dame de Paris, The Taj Mahal and so many more. There are entire cities that I consider to be monuments. Jerusalem, London, Paris, Athens, Rome, The Vatican, Amsterdam all come to mind.

Whenever I think of Denmark the small sculpture of The Little Mermaid brings a smile as do the Manneken Pis in Brussels which dates from 1388. They are beloved symbols that give a unique identity to a particular place. They are more than interesting sculptures.

The Christ the Redeemer statue on Corcovado means we are in Rio de Janeiro. Going to the opera at the Sydney Opera house is one bragging right I hold dear. And you know you are in Australia.

As I looked at Notre Dame I was grateful that we had toured it as a couple, as a family, and with travel companions. I wondered if we would live to see the ‘after’ even if only virtually.

As the fire burned my thoughts were turbulent. I was filled with dismay and sadness. I am not Roman Catholic. That did not matter. I am neither a Parisian nor French. That did not matter. I was looking at an iconic symbol. That is what a monument is. A symbol that is universal that can appeal to anyone.

Great literature, art, music, dance, drama, architecture are ways in which we showcase our creativity, share our talents and demonstrate the human need for beauty that transcends the mundane. They speak to the soul. Monumental works like Notre Dame validate that need and give credence to Keats’: “Beauty is truth, truth beauty.”

When we toured Notre Dame the fact that it was the keeper of the Crown of Thorns was awe inspiring. I enjoyed seeing the art, the craftsmanship that went into the building but uppermost in my mind was the history. The same words I said then came back to me as I uttered them again: “If only these walls and stones could talk.” Notre Dame burned at the beginning of Holy Week. Ironic, isn’t it?

I wondered if the egotistical Napoleon was turning in his grave recalling his glory when he crowned himself Emperor of France in Notre Dame. He had no great love for either the Pontiff or religiosity so he may have some ambivalence about this destruction. As the spire fell I wondered if all those nobles who travelled past its doors in tumbrels to be guillotined found some macabre similarity to their own fate. They lost their heads and now Notre Dame was losing its own.

As I mourned the passing I wondered if some were cheering that this was a symbol belonging to ‘the other’ not to them. History, literature, religious fervour, art, music, wars, and love are all part of Notre Dame and they were fighting for space in my thoughts as I watched. That is a monument. It means everything to some and something to everyone else. You may be indifferent to it but it cannot be ignored.

The Meander: Over one billion Euros were donated within forty eight hours for the restoration of Notre Dame. Extraordinary! I cannot remember any human disaster that raised so much in so short a time. Hmm…

Experts estimate that it will take up to fifteen years to rebuild Notre Dame. With utter conceit I looked over at my monument, my Bert, and wonder if it will take up to fifteen years for his spire to topple.

Howsoever long it takes, if I am still alive, I will rejoice for one and mourn the other. The Light and dark together as ever.

Time for Sale

I am dreaming. I am in a hurry. There are others also scurrying here and there. I look at my wrist but there is no watch there. I call out that I need to get a watch but they should carry on. I am in a car driving fast down a hill. I pass a large crowd and shout: “I have to buy a watch and time!” I wake up.

The remnant of the dream remains and disturbs. I take a few deep breaths and think how wonderful it would be if one could buy time. Every caregiver would want to be first in line.

The dream has dredged up the watch seller we met in Gibraltar. What a character he was!

His stand was in a prime location. Going or coming you had to walk by that stand. There were all kinds of watches for the amazing sum of ‘$10 dollars each or three for $30!’ he would holler.

It was a bargain and a smile in one short sentence. However, that was not all.

What drew and held a crowd entranced was the non-stop patter of the seller. He had an English accent which I thought was Cockney. I asked him if he was born within the sound of the Bow Bells to which he answered:

“The sound of the bow Bells? Darling, mi pregnant mum was at church and when the darn thing rang she jumped so high that out I popped. I tell you, love you canna get more Cock(pause)ney (wink, wink) than that.” Groans and laughter ensued. It seemed he had an endless number of jokes, sly remarks, double entendres to keep us entertained and buying his watches. Purchasing a cheap watch in Gibraltar suddenly became de rigueur

I bought three watches. My rationale was that as frequent travellers it was good to wear these cheap versions for sightseeing.

The next year we happened to be back in Gibraltar. Our watch seller was at his post. His patter was loud, persuasive and entertaining as usual. He looked out, saw us and shouted: “Aye, there’s mi customer, come back from –where you from mi darling? ‘Canada’ all the way from Canada to buy mi watches. Want another three mi love?”

We walked the main street for a bit and returned just as he was turning over the stand to his son to take a break.

“Good line you use about a returning customer,” I say. He looked at me and said:

“I do remember you. Your husband got in on my act and actually persuaded people to buy the watches telling them the spiel alone was worth the money. Then you bought three watches I am sure you really did not need and for Chrissakes, it is sorta hard for you to disguise yourselves. Stuck in my head is the fun loving, happy, odd couple. Come, have a cuppa and a beer for you my friend?” We comply. Bert won the paying the bill battle.

We are back in Gibraltar. This time I am on a mission to get a good watch. Gibraltar is a duty free port so prices are better here. I am happy with my purchase.

We stop at our favourite cheap watch seller. He hails us again, he tells people to ask us about the fabulous bargains we have made and how we come specifically to Gibraltar to buy his watches. The patter is non-stop as usual and entertaining. He beckons us over and says: “OK, which of these are you getting this year?” “This year, I am not getting any. I just bought a lovely one just down the road.” I point in the direction of the shops. He laughs, tut-tuts, shakes his head, and in a loud voice says:

“Oh, you did, did you? Let me tell you something, darling, you got snookered. I bet you paid more than ten times what my beautiful watches cost! Come here mi luv; let me tell you a little secret. That expensive watch you bought tells exactly the same time as mine.”

Amid the laughter I hear ‘true’, ‘that’s fer sure’. I think Bert and I are laughing the hardest.

It is about five years when we get back to Gibraltar. We make a beeline to our cheap watch vendor. No, I do not need a watch. We just want to say ‘hello’ and listen to the patter. His son is at the stand. Bert asks after his father. He has died. We offer our condolences. We are sad. An errant thought: He ran out of time. He would appreciate it. I bought a watch in his memory and walk on under a suddenly dimmed sky.

The Meander: A thief snatched my watch as we were walking back to our hotel in Santiago, Chile. After the anger, feeling violated and acknowledging with thanks the care of the good Samaritans who came to our aid, I turned to Bert and said: “He will be so disappointed that the ‘gold’ watch is a ten dollar Gibraltar special.” We begin to laugh hysterically.

Our good Samaritans slowly leave and I think they are still debating whether we were happy to be unharmed or that the incident had been so traumatic as to leave us unhinged.

By the way, those Gibraltar specials lasted from 18 months to over five years and kept the same time!