Change Is Hard

…but change is certain.

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Saturday morning light

Weekend possibilities are endless.

Weekend possibilities are endless.

Saturday morning, early because some short furry member of the household insisted that I get up before 5 a.m., I am puttering around trying not to feel grumpy and tired.  But I am grumpy and tired.  Said furry member of the family has long since gone back to sleep when I notice the sun tipping the tops of the trees out back.

Happy light.

Happy light.

I hurry her awake and we go outside, slipping on the frosty deck and almost falling, but feeling decidedly less grumpy.  I take a few shots of sun on birch.  Katie stands hopefully in her kennel.

Hey mama! Can I stay outside?

Hey mama! Can I stay outside?

And then I notice this:

Imported Photos 00457_edited-1

Two sandhill cranes flying silently across the sky.  Amazing.  And I would have missed it if someone hadn’t insisted I get up.

I forgive her.

Told you mama!

Told you mama!


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Need an adventure

Hey Mama!

Hey Mama!

Katie here.  Mama’s busy working on that truck stuff so I figured I could get a little blog in while she wasn’t looking.  Shouldn’t be hard, she doesn’t pay attention to me much anyway.  She works works works and then she comes home all tired and stuff and doesn’t want to play with my pig or my cow or my elephant.  I bring them to her and she doesn’t even realize until my dad tells her that I want to play.  Good thing he’s around to make sure I get the attention a princess deserves.

I really want to go on an adventure with my mama, but all she will say is not now baby.  Maybe the weekend baby.  It’s almost summer baby and then we’ll go camping.  Sure mama.   Whatever.

So for now I just focus on doing my job.  I let my mama know when it’s 9 at night and time to go to bed.  I start huffing at her at exactly 8:48.  I have to start early because, as I’ve said, she’s not paying much attention to me.  I keep huffing and stomping my feet and if that doesn’t work I poke her really hard.  That usually gets her attention.  Then she checks the time and is usually grateful that I’ve reminded her to go to bed.

Once she gets settled in for the night I vigilantly watch over her for about 4 seconds and then I crash myself.  My mama’s a big girl, she can sleep without me checking on her.  Plus I need to get my beauty sleep you know.

Then sometime between 5 a.m. and 5:02 a.m. I make sure she’s up!  Oh yes, I know her alarm isn’t set to go off until 6, but I’m saving her the stress of having to hurry in the morning.  I can’t remember the last time that silly alarm even had to go off.  She doesn’t need it.  She has me!

As soon as I’m sure she’s wide awake, (sometimes I have to bark at her quite a bit to get her fully awake, and I find a good walk in the rain helps too), I go to my favorite spot, curl up and go to sleep.  That way my mama can get ready for work without any interference from me.  I’m thoughtful like that.

So anyway.  Don’t you think she should reward me for all my hard work and take me somewhere fun?  Soon?  I think it would do us both good.

Yes I do.

Pay attention Mama!

Pay attention Mama!

 


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A message to the Secretary

I woke up this morning thinking about my dad, probably because of an article I read yesterday.  It’s so much like our own story, and the stories of thousands of other families.

Many of you know about my dad, but some of you are new readers.   And as I haven’t had the opportunity to meet the new Secretary of Transportation, Anthony Fox, yet I thought I’d share my story in a letter to him.

Mr. Secretary:

My dad was driving to the Atlanta airport early in the morning of December 23rd, 2004.  He was planning on spending the holiday with my sister in New Jersey because most of us couldn’t get home for Christmas that year.  Mom had died unexpectedly in July and we didn’t want him to be alone.

On Interstate 85, just past the Georgia line, he came upon an accident.  Police and other emergency vehicles were already there, lights flashing.  Traffic slowed.  There was a car behind Dad who saw, in their mirrors, the semi bearing down.  They drove into the median to avoid the crash, but dad didn’t have a chance.  He was driving 14 miles per hour when he was hit and pushed into the semi in front of him by a 80,000 pound vehicle that was on cruise control going 65 miles per hour.

Dad was partially ejected through the back passenger window even though he was wearing his seat belt.  We saw the car, what was left of it, later that week when we went to the junk yard to retrieve his Christmas presents for my sister, still inside his luggage, in the crushed trunk.  There was blood everywhere, but a particularly long wide stain running down the inside of the back seat door held my attention.

The image shocks you doesn’t it.

I don’t mince words any more Mr. Secretary, don’t shield people from the horror, especially not people who can do something constructive.  It’s been ten years and I’ve had plenty of hand holding comfort.  I don’t need more of that.

Four thousand people die in truck related crashes every year.  Not all of them are the fault of the truck driver.  But there are many tired and distracted semi drivers on the roads because the laws let them drive more hours than are safely possible and because many companies push their drivers to do even more.  Most of these people die as individuals, in crashes that don’t gain press.  They die one by one, two by two, across the country and no one pays attention.

Except the families.  Sixty-three year old Walter Manz, who died this week in a crash that sounds just like my dad’s, won’t be remembered by the President or his Governor, or even his local Mayor.  He won’t make the CNN news loop, his family won’t be interviewed by Anderson Cooper.   He’s just one more person lost for no reason.

But his family will be forever changed.

So while we appreciate you meeting with us and listening to our stories here’s what we really need Mr. Secretary.  We need more than warm support and kind words.  We need more than hugs and tears.

We need you to stand up for safety.

Stand up and work with us to make the transportation industry safer for all of us.  Not just the folks in the four wheel vehicles, but for the professional drivers as well.  Because for every family that is devastated by the loss of loved ones there’s a driver that is emotionally devastated as well.

We can make a difference.  We can make the roads safer.  We just need everyone, and especially you Mr. Secretary, to work together toward a mutually satisfying compromise that will save lives.  Make safety your legacy.  Be remembered as the Secretary that put safety first.

Safety over profits.  Has a sort of ring to it doesn’t it.

Thank you for listening.

Sincerely,

Dawn Badger King

Bill Badger’s daughter.

Forever.

Daddy and me

Daddy and me

 


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Waiting

Friends and family south of us are sharing photos of flowers and trees blooming.  It’s a full out celebrations of spring down there.  It snowed again here this morning; not a blizzard but enough for us to realize winter still has us held hostage.

Remnants of last year

Remnants of last year

Katie and I explored the yard today, checking for signs of life.  She sniffed for spring while I pulled some grass from the perennial bed, felt the wet earth between my fingers, plucked a seed head from last year’s bee balm and crumbled it.   The aroma of last summer’s blossoms was faint but distinctive.

Deep beneath the winter debris of leaves and mulch are tucked the beginning of this season’s sedum.  And over by the fence hidden under last year’s ornamental grass is the bright green of poppy foliage.

Hope emerges

Hope emerges

I wondered.  Could it be that back behind the house there might be a surprise waiting?  It’s Easter today, and yes it snowed.  But look at the solitary snowdrop we found hiding behind the house.

 

Proof blooms

Proof blooms

It’s snow of a different kind and proof winter is relinquishing it’s hold.  So much hope manifested in such a tiny blossom. Spring has begun.

Even here.

 

Pre-poppy

Pre-poppy

 

 


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Ephemeral – the one I didn’t use

In the 1980’s I traveled with my folks through the Southwest.  We visited a number of national parks and monuments but at Canyon De Chey my mom purchased a refrigerator magnet, reproduced Indian petroglyphs, painted on a bit of flat brown stone.  It stayed on her fridge  for years as a reminder of our trip together.

After she died unexpectedly in 2004 someone in their church gave my grief stricken dad a small prism which he placed on the windowsill above the kitchen sink.  When the sun shines at a certain angle a rainbow plays across the kitchen.

Now, with both of them gone, we find comfort in that rainbow when it glows in mom’s kitchen.  And sometimes dad’s rainbow falls for a few brief moments on mom’s magnet, reminding us that life itself is ephemeral at best.

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I wrote the above thinking I’d use it for the ephemeral photo challenge.  Then I realized the photo was very much like to original challenge photo and I always like to do something different.  I’m not even sure I took this photo, I think perhaps husband did on one of his trips to Alabama.

So I didn’t use it.  But I like the photograph and the thoughts behind it, so I’m sharing it with you anyway.

Life is ephemeral.  Now go hug someone you love.

 


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Mall walking

I hate to think I’m old enough to enjoy mall walking.  Have you ever tried it?  In the middle of a Michigan winter (or a Michigan spring apparently) I can walk as many miles as I want, inside, with pretty things to look at, carpet and hardwood under my feet, upbeat music playing and no rain or snow falling on my head.  Perfect!

I had pictures all set for this blog, taken on my camera this morning.  But I can’t figure out how to download them so you’ll just have to imagine.  It won’t be that difficult, a mall is a mall, right?  Ours happens to be built in a racetrack oval, so if you walk around the outside edges including the halls out to the exterior doors you’ll do a mile each revolution.  Did I mention how perfect this is?

There’s a regular crowd at the mall early, long before the stores open and the shoppers arrive.  They hang their coats on the long line of rentable strollers and head off.  Some move fast, some move slower.  There’s a man who shuffles, head down, leaning heavily on his cane, but he’s there every single time I’ve been there.  There are women in pairs, talking away as they racewalk, groups of guys talking just as much, moving fast, and lots of individuals as well, arms pumping, shoes slapping the miles away.

And there is one couple I always look for.  They move at a medium steady pace.  He wears a big floppy hat, her hair is pulled back in a pony tail, and their hands are always connected.  I’ve seen them around town too.  In the summer as I drive to work I’ll see them out on the sidewalks of the village, hands clasped, moving out before the summer heat descends.  We even saw them one Sunday afternoon at a play in Detroit years ago.  The man noticed me and nodded hello, I smiled back.

A month or so ago I saw him walking at the mall alone.  He had his hat on, which is what always catches my eye, but his head was down, he wasn’t looking at anyone.  And he was moving fast.  Just a fluke I thought.  But I was worried.

The next weekend there he was again, alone, head down, cruising around the mall.  We were going opposite directions and I almost turned around to catch up and ask him why he was walking alone.  But I decided I didn’t want to intrude.   But now I was really worried.

Then two weeks went by and he wasn’t at the mall at all.  It didn’t feel right, and I felt sad, sure that something terrible had happened.

This morning I was thinking about him and his wife as I started my walk.  Half way around I saw the hat first, then the clasped hands.  They were there.  Together.  I had the biggest grin on my face as we met going in opposite directions.  He raised his other hand in acknowledgement, and I said Good Morning!

The rest of my two loop walk felt really good.  He’ll never know how worried I was, but I bet I’m not the only one that is glad they’re back in the routine.

Funny how a little mall walking makes you feel so good.  Pretty soon it will be warm enough to walk outside and I’ll be glad to be out in the fresh air again.  But I’ll miss seeing and waving to my regulars out at the mall.

I hope they’re all there again next winter; especially the hand holding couple from the village.

They make me believe in happily ever after.


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That moment

Ann Arbor was given another gift last night in their symphony’s performance of “Absolut Russian,” a program filled with formidable Russian composers.  We were treated to Borodin’s “Polovtsian Dances” complete with a 150 member choir, and the lush and romantic “Romeo and Juliet – Fantasy Overture” by Tchaikovsky.  Both pieces were stunningly beautiful in complete different ways.

But what I  really want to share with you is the opening piece, “Symphony No. 10 in E minor” by Dimitry Shostakovich.  Shostakovich (1906 -1975) was composing music in Russia during the reign of Joseph Stalin.  Some of his music was censored but Symphony No. 10,  scored shortly after Stalin’s death in 1953, made it past the censors. Only after it did would he reveal that the four movements represented, in order, the victims of tyranny, Stalin himself, the attempt at suffocating individual spirit, and ultimately liberation.  (Interpretation from program notes written by Edward Yadzinsky.)

Maestro Arie Lipsky gave a talk prior to the concert.  He introduced Symphony No. 10 by saying the first movement was long, and moved from sadness to anger to hopelessness.  I looked at my husband, rolled my eyes, and said “Great” just what I need!  But where there is anger and sadness there must always be hope, and in this piece you just have to wait for it.

My favorite movement, and coincidentally the shortest, is the second movement which represents Joseph Stalin himself.  I imagined a chase scene as I listened, the brass, as Lipsky said, chasing the fleeing strings.  Perhaps the original interpretations was that Stalin was chasing artists.  Listen to the intricacies of the music for yourself; what do you hear?

There are so many interesting and integral parts to No. 10 and they all come together in the fourth movement, building to a breathtaking and triumphant ending.  The clip I found for you of the second half of the 4th  is five minutes of music and then several minutes of applause.  Please watch it, you’ll be transported to the center of the symphony and you’ll feel the energy and the joy.  Then imagine hearing it live.  Breathtaking.  And as the woman behind me said as we were on our feet applauding; “That was exhausting!”

But after all, what I really wanted to tell you about isn’t even in the music.  I wanted to tell you about that moment that happens at the instant something as glorious as this piece ends.  It’s a moment when every musician is transported to the height of emotion, just as the applause begins, when musicians and maestro are still connected, eyes locked, instruments quiet, muscles still tensed.  There is a moment when the baton is lowered but the relationship is extended between musicians and conductor for just a second or two more.   It’s a private moment between people who recognize something beautiful has just been set free.

I witnessed that moment Saturday night, as Maestro Lipsky stood still, then lowered his arms,  nodded his head once in an acknowledgement of exquisite beauty, placed his hand over his heart and bowed slightly to his orchestra.  And they all grinned right back at him.

The music that night didn’t make me cry, didn’t send shivers across my shoulders.  Instead it sucked me in and spit me out — I was grateful to be there.   But that moment, the passing of silent love and respect between the orchestra and their leader, that moment filled my eyes with tears.