far too much writing, far too many photos Tuesday, April 01, 2003 I'm scaring myself. Woke up this morning with the song Dear Abby' by John Prine going through my head. Got up, bumbled my way to the bathroom to dump the ballast, bumbled my way back to bed. Somewhere in there the song changed from Dear Abby' to Wild Tyme*,' a Jefferson Airplane tune. What, I ask myself, is happening to me? (So far no answer has been forthcoming.) *Not a bad tune, actually, from, 'After Bathing At Baxter's,' a driving, slightly anarchic kick in the butt. Recorded before their descent into far lamer territory. Not a bad song to have on a repeat loop in one's head (if one has to have a repeat loop going in one's head). On the other hand, as I write this a latin tune I heard on the radio this afternoon has been cycling around my little brain. Better. So. My mother (see the end of yesterday's entry) -- a genuine character. (My working definition of character for purposes of that last sentence: a colorful individual who may be more fun to talk about after the fact than live with.) In their later years, my parents did the Florida thing, tiring of northeastern winters and taking refuge way down south, settling along the state's mid-Atlantic coast, maybe an hour from Canaveral. For a while that meant driving back and forth with the warm and cold seasons, the snowbird routine. As they grew more infirm, it meant being trapped in the house for much of Florida's long hot season due to extreme heat and humidity, or at least getting into a headset where they believed they had to be. They were well on in years when they had me -- I was, I think, an unplanned event (so much for the rhythm method) -- to the point where I never knew my father without white hair. When they finally, each in their turn, plummeted off the twig, they were WELL on in years. As those last years slipped by, my mother grew smaller and smaller, eating so little that she finally became bird-like, a teeny little human, less and less capable of taking care of herself though firmly intent on dominating her living space and as much of her life as she could, determined to finish out her life in her own home, not in a nursing facility. Both my brother and I lived in the northeast, 1200 miles away. Just about far enough. And although I mean that last sentence, I smile as I write it because I came to feel real affection for that character my mother morphed into over time. She developed some fairly extreme ways of thinking and methods of dealing with life, and although it could be a challenge to spend more than a couple of days in her company, watching her deal in the ways she developed and giving her the occasional gentle elbow in the ribs about it (to which she usually responded with laughter) was fun. The family sense of humor was one of its great saving graces, and that impulse to make each other cackle carried us through a lot of passages that might otherwise have become truly suffocating with their heaviness. In late April of 2000, when I'd made the decision to come to Madrid, I flew down to Florida to spend a weekend with my mother, the last time I'd see her before heading off to Europe for who knew how long. I chose not to tell her about Madrid until I was there with her because I knew it would be a major chunk of news for her to digest, meaning as it did that I would be far, far away. A world away, to her, never having crossed the ocean. (Or gone west of the Mississippi, for that matter.) Meaning, in a sense, that what little nuclear family she had left would be whittled down to my brother in New York State. And when I sat down by her customary perch in her living/dining area and told her, it was clearly a major bit of information, a clump of data that made her go silent and stare ahead. She'd gone through some medical emergencies in her last years, including a stroke or two that left the use of one side of her body tremendously diminished. She tired with little exertion, she needed a walker to move around the house, used a cane whenever she ranged about outside, walking at a snail's pace. In fact, she rarely left her last home there on Lake Fairgreen Circle (situated in a community built around a golf course, a game neither of my parents played), life being simpler, less tiring if she simply remained inside the relatively safe confines of her little dominion, comfortably crowded (to her) as it was with memories and the accumulation of material stuff. One of the things I tried to do, therefore, when I was down visiting, was to get her out of the house, drive her places she might enjoy. Restaurants, other towns, locations with lots of sunlight, with views. On my last full day of that April visit, I got her out of the house and into the car, took us out on one of the east-west four-lanes that cross the inland waterway, heading toward the Canaveral National Seashore. A long haul past shopping centers, beach communities, huge blocks of apartments with names like The Beachcomber and Tradewinds East to where buildings disappeared, the road narrowed to two small lanes, the land shrank to a sandy spit of sand, green scrub vegetation, and cactus, water appearing on both sides -- to the east the ocean, to the west an enclosed bay. A spectacular day of breeze and sun, the sky crowded with white clouds that softened the light, giving it a bit of a glow. We drove along, my mother with the back of her seat down so that she reclined, looking small, tired, a bit lost, but game for an outing. She wore a windbreaker, blue leisure pants, sailing sneakers and her habitual white navy cap, its brim pushed down so that the hat resembled a soft, conical helmet, her unruly, thinning white/gray hair showing around the bottom. She didn't talk much. The partial paralysis of her left side affected her ability to speak, turning conversation into work, her often sounding a bit strangled when she did talk. So she lounged, taking in the day and the surroundings, me helping her to raise the back of her seat when we entered the reserve. Now and then I'd make commentary or ask her something, get her talking a little bit. It's a long drive along that stretch of road to where the National Seashore's small two-lane parkway ends. Once we'd rounded the highway's ending turnabout, I steered the car up into a parking area that looked out over the Atlantic, we sat there for a while with the windows open, dune greenery waving restlessly in the wind, cactus all around sporting bright yellow blossoms, the air tangy with salt and a feeling of freshness. At some point, I got out of the car and moved along the boardwalk. The wind had generated impressive surf -- large, insistent waves that rolled rapidly in, breaking in classic manner, producing a constant stream of sound. The murmur of approaching waves built to a roar, punctuated by the deep sound of water hitting the sand, an impact strong enough I could feel it in my body. The hiss of retreating water, changing quickly to the growing sound of further approaching breakers. Deep blue sky, clouds moving quickly along, everything slightly aglow with that day's distinctive light. Two women approached from down the shore, riding large, beautiful white horses. The sand appeared to be hard-packed, angling off at a sharp incline into the water. The waves came in on each other's heels, the drop of the sand creating a fast retreat of water before the next arrivals, not the long, languid outflow of most swimming beaches. Conditions a touch wilder than normal. The women guided the horses down into the water, where the intensity of the surf seemed to spook them a bit, the animals rearing up when confronted with a mass of water surging toward them, streaming in around their legs. The women remained in control, keeping their mounts there in the shallows, whooping with pleasure amid the waves, the wind, the sunlight, the motion of the two horses as they surged around among the rollers. An amazing scene of primal images, primal power, one that had everyone up on the boardwalk motionless, mouths open, electrified. When I returned to the car, I found that my mother had been watching the happening with a look of quiet pleasure on her face the likes of which I hadn't seen in some time. She'd grown up with horses out in the country of upstate New York, north of Oswego, near the lake, loved them and, I suspect, missed them. I don't think she'd seen anything like this scene for quite a while and enjoyed it deeply. She grew quickly tired after that, I drove her back to her house by the golf course. The next day I flew back north and continued getting ready to come to Madrid. Two months later, my brother flew down with my niece and nephew to spend a few days with Mom. Between the four of us, she got to see those individuals she'd wanted most to connect with one more time. And with that (and having achieved her goal of living out her life in her own home), I think she felt ready to leave behind the limited existence her life had gradually morphed into. Shortly before my brother was to return north, she checked out. Her lungs suddenly filled with fluid, she passed quickly away. I'm not sure that I've thought of that scene at the National Seashore since then, until I saw the two horses at la Plaza de España yesterday. Suddenly there it all was -- one more memory waiting to blossom into a recollection so vivid it almost becomes three-dimensional. Life. It's something to savor -- now, instead of waiting until you're about to check out. Know what I mean? rws 11:41 AM [+] BLATHERINGS August 2001 September 2001 October 2001 November 2001 December 2001 January 2002 February 2002 March 2002 April 2002 May 2002 June 2002 July 2002 August 2002 September 2002 October 2002 November 2002 December 2002 January 2003 February 2003 March 2003 April 2003 May 2003 June 2003 July 2003 August 2003 September 2003 October 2003 November 2003 December 2003 January 2004 February 2004 March 2004 April 2004 May 2004 June 2004 July 2004 August 2004 September 2004 October 2004 November 2004 December 2004 January 2005 February 2005 March 2005 April 2005 May 2005 June 2005 July 2005 August 2005 September 2005 October 2005 November 2005 December 2005 January 2006 February 2006 March 2006 April 2006 May 2006 June 2006 July 2006 August 2006 September 2006 October 2006 November 2006 December 2006 January 2007 February 2007 March 2007 April 2007 May 2007 June 2007 July 2007 August 2007 September 2007 October 2007 November 2007 December 2007 January 2008 February 2008 March 2008 April 2008 May 2008 June 2008 July 2008 August 2008 September 2008 October 2008 November 2008 December 2008 January 2009 February 2009 March 2009 April 2009 June 2009 July 2009 .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . MORE FOCUSED BLATHERINGS Travels: London '01 Pamplona Italy '03 U.K. '03 Sevilla Casablanca Stoke-on-Trent Barcelona Québec/Ottawa Boston/Lisbon/Madrid Italy '04 Montréal La Sierra Events: Madrid -- arrival 9/11 Emergency Room I Holidays 2001 Holidays 2002 Holidays 2003 Holidays 2004 Holidays 2005 A neighbor's passing Madrid -- March 11 bombings   and aftermath Emergency Room II Israeli friend/Madrid Marathon Madrid -- Royal Wedding The DELE exam GONE, a novel: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 THE BASTARD CHILDREN OF JOE ROCCO, a novella: -- Part 1 -- Part 2 -- Part 3 BURBANK SHRUGGED, a screenplay: -- Part 1 -- Part 2 -- Part 3 -- Part 4 Short stories: Murphy's Wife Another Autumn La Queja de Una   Hermanastra Muy Conocida Autobiography -- Personal History -- Hormones On Parade -- Accidents, Random Mishaps,     Personal Problems .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . 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