30. PANDEMIC MEMORIES II - MY CHRISTMAS CONCERT

This past weekend, at the funeral luncheon for the Palmer family, I was standing at the serving table when I looked up and saw my old friend, Greg Bell. It was a wonderful surprise. Greg served as Mayor of Farmington before my husband. He mentored Dave, and so many others. Its one of his many gifts. He also served as State Senator and Leiutenant Governor for Utah as well.

"Thank you!" He said.

"For?" I asked.

"Thank you for televising your Christmas concert a few months ago. We were afraid we were going to have to miss it with this Covid madness. But we just loved watching it in our own home."

He and JoLynn have been wonderful and encouraging fans for a long time. I always enjoy seeing them and the varied grandchildren they bring year after year, as a holiday date. 

I realized I have not recorded the joy and labor my Christmas concerts are for me, because I'm always busy doing it at the time, and I forget about it later. So, for the sake of memory, and perhaps posterity (who may or may not ever be interested), here's a simple recollection of doing my Christmas concert during a worldwide pandemic.

What I designed for my postcards this year.
(Well, I guess it was last year, now)

Last September I received a call from my friends at Farmington Parks and Rec to come visit with them. I’ve taught guitar and ukulele through them for a dozen years, and they have hosted my Christmas concerts for I can’t even remember how long. I know them pretty well, and they have always been good and gracious to work with. Truth is, they are beyond good and gracious, they are pretty darn fun to work with. So when I drove down and walked in, all masked up and sanitized cuz that was the mode of most of 2020, it was pretty exciting to sit with Neil Miller and Tia Uzelac and discuss the possibility of doing a holiday concert. Because of the pandemic all public performances were cancelled, and no new ones planned. We were in an instant cultural drought. The plague was not just a threat to our bodies, it froze the dimensions of our souls as well. 

I had resigned myself to breaking the tradition of my Christmas concert. No one else was doing any. All the venues has shut their doors, by order of the Health Department. But early autumn brought a crack in the window, and the powers-that-be allowed for up to 100 people to gather in the large open space of the Community Arts Center, as long as people were masked and kept 6 feet social distance. We could cluster families that had been spending time together already and separate them from other groups.

The problem was that in order to afford the production of our show, at the level we were accustomed to providing, 100 people in the audience could not cover costs at any reasonable ticket price. Neil and Tia had that figured out. The city would take less than usual, because they wanted to provide some tiny portion of normalcy in this crazy time. And they would offer the option of a virtual concert for people who could not, should not, or would not come into public space because of the pandemic. With a small grant they had purchased a quality video camera, and Tia had studied out formats for offering the concert online.

So, starting later than normal, we moved forward. I called my musical cohorts, Mark Robinette and Kelly DeHaan. We set the date, and I set to work.

My computer files for prior concerts.

I don’t know if I have ever recorded my personal process in creating my annual concerts, but here’s a rough outline. 

I begin by pondering a theme for the concert. The last year had been “Love Letters from Home”. I based the advertising, décor, stage design, song selection and song introductions on that theme, sharing a “letter” as an introduction for each song. My concerts are a cross between music and storytelling, and whatever theme and format I choose facilitates combining the two in a fluid manner. I have to plan this early on, usually in early summer normally, so I can create the advertising and marketing materials to be printed and mailed out in advance.

I decided to play off the theme of social distancing in our safe little villages. “From my village to Yours… a Troubadour’s Journey”. 

Like any storyteller who is conscious of pacing and production,
I write out my set lists and introductions. I don't always follow them exactly,
but a plan always helps. This year, for the second set, we "winged it" with requests.

I designed and ordered 1500 postcards, ordered them, and stamped and labeled each one. It takes educated guesswork to know when to mail them.

I wrote personal letters to people who in the past had bought tickets in groups of 10 or more. I have some of the most warm-hearted faithful followers who buy dozens of seats and bring their families and friends to my concerts. I kind of feels like a family reunion to me, and I love it because I love the feeling of “family”, even if that family is made up of friends. I mailed out something like 20 or thirty of these letters, inviting people to purchase “villages” for their groups to attend the live concert under safe covid conditions. We arranged for three nights. We were only allowed 100 in the audience each night, so the three nights sold out pretty quickly.

Rehearsing with wonderfully talented friends is half the fun.
"My Boys" had covid beards in rehearsal, but shaved them for the concert.

Then we opened it to the public virtually. Turns out one camera would not do it for us. It felt just too sterile and stiff. So between the city and Mark we ended up with various cameras and Tia learned how to produce the show from various cameras. Doug Wayment actually bought his own awesome cameras and ran them each night for us. Tery Binkered produced the lighting. Eric and Bryce Robinette produced the audio, and we Zoomed the show around the world for the first time ever. 

I invited the audience to text me some requests during intermission and we performed some of their requests in the second set, so each night was different. We had requests from Africa, Tokyo, New England, Arizona, California, New York, Pennsylvania, Texas and multiple other places. It was stunning, and very moving for me. There were so many texts coming in I could not read all of them during intermission backstage, but every one of them were precious to me in the end. They felt like little kisses being blown from all different directions.

These darlings in Tokyo sent this text requesting
Heavenly Choirs, so their girls could sing along.

Part of every concert includes raising funds for two non-profits that are dear to our hearts. I often alternate raising funds for these two organizations. Because of increased needs in the orphanage in Africa, I focused the fund raiser on the Gardner Granny Orphanage and school this year. They are located in Kenya, Africa. We have two particular siblings that we raise funds to educate every Christmas. Ezekiel and Rose. They are beautiful, radiant, intelligent brother and sister orphans who love school, and who would not be able to attend without our help paying for their tuition. The orphanage needed additional supplies, as their population is growing, and the pandemic is making it difficult in many ways. So, we put on our aprons and set to work. We decided to offer Orphan Care Packages to raise funds. For $50 donation you could get a loaf of fresh baked home-made bread, a jar of fresh raspberry freezer jam, a large can of Stephens hot cocoa, marshmallows and candy canes and one of my CD’s. We ended up selling nearly 100 of these, which was a LOT of baking for my sister Ann Marie. I had been working at making jam but had to go buy more raspberries and make 12 more batches of jam after rehearsal. It was so moving to see so many people willing to help our orphans. 

The Crew, aka my family, assembling
orphan care packages.

Set up for the stage involves creative thinking on a budget. That's the nature of Folk music, generally. Sometimes it shows. I hope it’s more charming than it is hokey.  I wanted the stage this year to feel warm and cozy, like we were bringing the audience into our living room, since most of them were watching in their own homes. I found these cool large window inserts in an online classified and drove up to Park City to get them. I found photographers fabric scene backdrops of a winter landscape and ordered those. I stretched and stapled them to the backs, so it looked like a lovely snowy day outside our warm cozy stage room. I had purchased a large fireplace mantle that I donated to the city a few years ago. In truth, it is the top of a very large hutch, but it makes for a deep and inviting fireplace on stage. We put fake bricks going up to the top of the stage on top of the fireplace. I used foam insulation over orange Halloween light, painted with fluorescent orange and gray spray paint, to make a nice warm cindery fire in that fireplace. We dragged chairs and pillows and tables from our own family room, and it felt just dandy up there on stage.

Instant outdoors. What a great illusion.

I had also found 20 little side tables at a thrift store. People who had purchased villages for the live audience (we sold those seats in groups of 4,6,8 and 12) were seated in little clusters with a table that held a name sign, a candle, an order form for CD’s and refreshments during intermission (all for the orphanage), water and licorice. I really quite loved the cozy feeling in the hall this Christmas. I wish we could afford to do it that way every year.

These were the signs we put on each village table.
Family name was added.

As usual, while we are up there making music on stage, my family is behind the scenes making everything else work. Included in that “family” are a few friends who have been faithfully helping for years. Dave is forced to sing Joseph and Mary with me every year. Libby oversees all the product sales. Ann Marie and Mike organize and facilitate everything. My kids bake and package like crazy. Then sell concessions. All that they earn goes to our orphans, or to Families Helping Families, the other non-profit we support. They facilitate Mexican families taking ownership in building their own houses in Mexico. They understand that requiring a family to participate in building their own home gives them more pride in ownership, so American families go help Mexican families build from the ground up. It feels absolutely eternally sound and is beautiful to see unfold. Donations help fund supplies for those homes. American families donate their time, energy and travel.

This year was the first year I can recall when we did not have a Heavenly Choir - little angels with tinsel halos and flickering candles singing along with us on stage. Stupid pandemic.

A past Heavenly Choir.
We missed the joy of pure children's voices this year.

I think back on all the years we have been doing these concerts, decades now. It is a highlight of my year. I see people I would not otherwise see. I feel their kindness and their tender hearts and see them embracing the people they love who attend with them. There truly is not audience to compare with these holiday music gatherings. I was afraid I would not have that energy exchange this year. I was certain the pandemic would take away our live audience. Do you know how hard it is to share your heart when there are no eyes looking back in yours? I am grateful that, even though the audience was small this year, we were actually able to have immediate feedback with a live audience at our Christmas concert.

I don’t know for sure how many more Christmas concerts are in my future. I am on the short end of my career, I fear. So, I cherish each one, with a grateful heart. But even more, I celebrate the relationships that enrich and define my life because of the magic of music.

Team work, 2021.
Left to right: Doug Wayment, Eric Robinette, Tia Uzelac,
Tery Binkerd, Dave Connors, me, Mark Robinette, Kelly DeHaan

29. WOMEN SPEAK

Inside every older person is a younger person -- wondering what the hell 

happened.

-Cora Harvey Armstrong

Inside me lives a skinny woman crying to get out. But I can usually shut 

her up with chocolate.

-Wellknown

The hardest years in life are those between ten and seventy.

-Helen Hayes (at 73)

I refuse to think of them as chin hairs. I think of them as stray eyebrows.

-Janette Barber

Laugh and the world laughs with you. Cry and you cry with your girlfriends.

-Laurie Kuslansky

My second favorite household chore is ironing. My first being, hitting 

my head on the top bunk bed until I faint.

-Erma Bombeck

The phrase "working mother" is redundant.

-Jane Sellman

Thirty-five is when you finally get your head together and your body 

starts falling apart.

-Caryn Leschen

I try to take one day at a time -- but sometimes several days attack me 

at once.

-Jennifer Unlimited

I'm not offended by all the dumb blonde jokes because I know I'm not 

dumb -- and I'm also not blonde.

-Dolly Parton

When women are depressed they either eat or go shopping. Men invade 

another country.

-Elayne Boosler

In politics, if you want anything said, ask a man. If you want anything 

done, ask a woman.

-Margaret Thatcher

I have yet to hear a man ask for advice on how to combine marriage and a 

career.

-Gloria Steinem

Nobody can make you feel inferior without your permission.

-Eleanor Roosevelt

28. A MOTHER SONG

Who told you, who told you that you could grow up

Who told you that you could start walking

One day you mumbled your first little word

And suddenly now you are talking

I have to admit when the night comes around

I’m grateful you’ve learned how to sleep through

I’m rested, and blessed, but I stop now and then

And wonder where my baby went to

 

Oh my, we mothers all

All of our hearts  rearranging

Weep when the season begins

And weep once again when its changing

 

Who gave you permission to just walk away

And spend all your days with another

Who  teaches, and reaches, and stretches the world

That once was just you and your mother’s

I barely dozed off for an afternoon nap

Grateful for your education

And woke up with memories flooding my eyes

Cheering at your graduation

 

Oh my, we mothers all

All of our hearts  rearranging

Weep when the season begins

And weep once again when its changing

 

I blew you a kiss on the day that you left

Praying the Lord would protect you

Its what we had planned, I know, but I swear

If I could have, I would have kept you

Now look how you’ve grown to a beautiful soul

So bright I could never conceive it

Grateful that you were brought into my world

Knowing that soon you would leave it

 

Oh my, we mothers all

All of our hearts  rearranging

Weep when the season begins

And weep once again when its changing

27. WHEN MY BED WAS A BOAT

Tonight my heart feels almost as heavy as my neuropathetic feet. My whole self is a big old chunk of heavy. But I'm not alone. So many people I love feel it, too. We buried a dear friend today. 

Those who share religious commitment with me spent the day helping nourish those who loved her. Afterwards I visited church sisters who are ill. Took dinner to multiple people. Then birthday love tokens to other neighbors, and finished off the night with a trip over to our Grandson Walter's house to give him his birthday gift. We watched him balance himself on his brand new longboard with its light up wheels. They shine nicely in the dark. He's seven years old now, our Walter Connors. Watching him slip down the sidewalk in the dark, little sparkly circles shooting down the trail on this moonless eve of Spring Equinox, lifted my heavy heart. A little sliver of memory wedged its way into my thoughts and I had a vague recollection of the lightness of childhood. I let my aged mind slip back in time to how it felt to be 7.

Where I went, in my weary old wrinkly head, was back to the top of my twin bed, upstairs in our bedroom in our house on Old Clairton Road. I'm on my bed, with an upside down trash can on one end, and a pale blue Madame Alexander box on the other, my Pussy Cat baby doll swadled in a dishtowel cradled inside. My  sister, Libby, one year younger, is on her bed, right beside mine. Barbie and Ken are riding along with her. sitting all tan and stiff legged against the shallow side of the drawer of our wooden nightstand. Libby can't resist imagining there is a major storm at sea. She jumps against the squeaky metal springs of our old twin beds. The jumping causes her feather pillow to slip overboard into the wild ocean waters. I lay prone on deck, stretching my arm down to the water, hoping for a wave to push the pillow in my direction. After a successful rescue, I toss the pillow over to her. She lays down on it, panting. It takes three minutes of deep pretend sleep to recover from the effort. It's exhausting work, trying to stay afloat in the wake of a tumultuous storm.  For one full afternoon, all the way up to dinnertime, we sail along, never touching our wooden floors, jumping from stern to bow, and from boat to boat. The memory eases the heavy mind, and lightens the weighted heart.

Never were there better, more faithful friends, than the sisters who share my history. Whether it is pretending our beds are boats, or grilling chicken for 120 people in a funeral luncheon. Five diverse individuals, with the common thread of a mother. I am grateful and comforted by our shared history, and grateful in advance, for our shared future.

And now, because the memory has eased my mind, I think I will go lay my weary bones on by bed and pretend the water is rocking me to sleep.

Thankful for sisters.

26. THE MAGIC OF DEE PALMER

She was delight personified. The picture perfect hippie-era California girl: long blonde hair, golden tan, with a smile so bright it would make the sun blush. I imagine she left many a young man swooning in her wake as she walked along the Southern CA beach. But an old friend laughed when she commented that Dee walked right past them and planted herself on a blanket, placing an opened book in her lap. The book, her friend said, was the dictionary. Dee wanted to learn new words. That thirst for inner beauty was one of her trademarks.

When Dee was very young her mother tragically lost her life in auto-train accident. The sorrow of that profound loss was a central thread in her life. Joy swirled around that thin thread, and a stranger would not know about it. But those of us who knew her understood the yearning she felt to know the mother she loved from the start.

Dee's mom.

Dee came into my life a dozen years ago when she and Brad moved into our neighborhood. Because they were so loved in their previous church ward, I imagine it was a hard transition. I was Young Women’s President at the time and felt a strong impression to ask for Dee to serve with us as an advisor. She accepted that calling, and that’s where my life pivoted. When certain people enter our worlds, we tend to shift our course slightly, because the hand-in-hand walking opens new pathways in our journeys. Dee brought to me an increased appreciation for preserving precious moments, especially with our families. She knew I loved seeing what she was up to, so regularly she would bring a sample of the latest project she was focused on. There was always something fabulous in her sites. Her camera was always warm. Her words insightfully chosen. The photos and words documented the lives of her many loved ones in a spectacular manner, so that now anyone who wanted to know exactly what her life looked like would have it at their fingertips. 

And that life? It had a very broad sweep. We all knew she loved us. She had a way of always letting us know that. In her younger years she called the crowds to their feet as a cheerleader. She never stopped being a cheerleader. Seriously, she became the head cheerleader for all of us, making us feel good about the good we do. Lifting our spirits constantly. 

I keep texts on my phone, because I like to reminisce. I’ve spent the last hour reading through old texts between us. It has me weeping.

Tomorrow morning we who love her will encircle her, ring upon ring of people whose lives she touched, radiating farther than a pandemic will allow to assemble. We will symbolically embrace Brad and their treasures as they lower her flesh into the rich brown earth of Farmington Cemetery.

A short time ago, after Dee received her Covid vaccine, there were a few complications that made her uncomfortable, and were frankly worrisome. She thought it might be from the vaccine. But it wasn't. Eventually, in her annual visit to her doctor, they discovered blood clots and sent her for a scan. The scans revealed more than clots, and that is where the heartache pierced the hearts of all who love her.

Because of Covid, Dee's family
could not visit her inside the hospital

Just days ago, less than one month after the diagnosis of pancreatic cancer, with her beloved husband and children gathered around her, Dee took flight. I imagine the hand of her young mother reaching down, just as it had when Dee was three years old. I imagine that vaguely familiar hand taking hers and saying, “Let’s go now Dear, we have lots to talk about.” 

The medicine of laughter. Up to the very end.
Love is all the feels.

I’ve been pondering the fragility of life lately. How could such a vibrant, brilliant light be gone so quickly? And yet, for Dee as a child, her mother’s death was much more sudden. And she was small, and unaware, and likely confused. It strikes me as beautiful that the tragedy of her mother’s death would turn to an equal measure of joy, knowing how much Dee had yearned for her mother. How beautiful that reunion must be. Our greatest sorrows eventually swing, like the pendulum on my grandfather clock, in balanced proportion… over into joy.

Years ago, when Dee and I were serving together, she showed me a wonderful thick binder of scrapbook pages. In it were evidence of service her children and grandchildren had given each year. “We told our kids that all we wanted from them for Christmas was to do service as families. Each year they tell us what they did and I put it in this book." It was so thick she had to start a new one. That very Christmas Dave and I followed Dee and Brad’s awesome lead and told our own grown children that we no longer wanted any “thing” for Christmas. “Instead, we want you to give purposeful service. Record it, and share it with us.” Every year, at our Family Nativity gathering, each of our children and their respective clusters share the gift of service they have offered. It is always beautiful, and touching, and counterbalances the chaotic joy of our grandkids dress-up Nativity. Now we have a lovely thick book of our own, with photos and stories of our children and their children helping other earth travelers along their way. It is such a joy to me, and every time I see that book I think of Dee, and I offer a little prayer of thanks for her inspired idea.

The cover of our family Service Book.
The Giving Hands sketch is by our daughter Sarah.

The book is filled with treasured memories.

Dee was the ultimate party girl! Everything she did was over-the-top fabulous, down to the very finest detail. The aesthetics were palpable…sparkle and shine and flavors divine! 

Dee's Daughter-In-Love, ShawnaLyn taught
some of us how to make one of Dee's famous
desserts so we can serve it at the funeral luncheon.

She has a whole massive collection of treasures from a lifetime of hosting. It all represents who she was. And who she was, was a brilliant collection of who she loved. 

Dee Ann's new love...

... became her true love...

... and this is what came of it.

If Dee Palmer knew you, she loved you.

That’s how she was.

And not doubt whatsoever, that’s how she remains.

Until we meet again.

In an attempt to channel Dee, our Relief Society Presidency 
filled the lovely pathways in the Palmer's yard with luminaria tonight.

25. BREAKING BREAD (navigting the path of faith in a worldwide pandemic)

One of roughly 200 little sacrament sets
we made when the pandemic
closed the doors of our churches.

(One year ago this week, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints cancelled all scheduled church gatherings, including our Sunday Sacrament meetings. The following was written a few months after we had begun the year of hunkering down.)

BREAKING BREAD (navigating the path of faith in a worldwide pandemic)

Her voice shook when she said Hello. 

I asked what was wrong.

"I think maybe I need to come home."

My daughter Kate had called from New York, where she has been living in isolation for, what, five thousand years now? She lives in upstate New York while she is earning her PhD. Kate is a quiet, passionate soul who feels deeply and speaks softly, and for whom social distancing was not really a problem because too much human interaction can generally sap her energy. But she is, nonetheless, a human, with much love to give. By the time the media overloaded all of us with information and opinions, and people started acting like caged animals set free, and George Floyd stopped breathing, Kate hit the proverbial wall.

“I think I need a hug.” 

A few days later, despite the worries of travel during a pandemic, she was on a plane headed home.

We have been practicing hug therapy since she arrived. Truth be known, it was I who needed her arms around me.

Therapeutic hugging.

It is an interesting exercise to pause, during a worldwide pandemic, and look over your own little world, and actually make an effort to note what is happening. My instinct is to do one of two things: 1. keep myself busy, or 2. sleep.  I’m pretty good at both.

I found myself creating projects. Mind you, none of them are in the category of cleaning or organizing. For a while I taught guitar online. And since every single gig went away, Mark and Kelly and I did a little cul-de-sac concert for our neighbors once. But that’s it, as far as my “professional career” goes. I have basically lost the calluses on my left-hand fingertips. I can’t even stay focused long enough to want to write a song. Even making myself write this right now is taxing. I keep wanting to stop and go find something to eat.

The little garage project that has kept me focused for a couple months now has been a literal God-send. The first week church was cancelled, because of the pandemic, we were invited to prepare and present the Sacrament in our own homes, if we had the ordained priesthood available to bless it. It was a profoundly moving experience here in our home. My sisters Libby and Sherry were with us. We poured water into little Dixie cups, and set a little chunk of bread on a plate. Dave knelt at our antique altar, the one that has been sitting in our family room for decades, waiting for an opportunity to fill the measure of its creation. He bowed his head, then realized he only knew, by rote, how to say the Sacrament prayers in Italian. It was the language of his mission. Since he returned home he has always repeated the words in his mind in Italian when the Sacrament was being blessed in English. It’s how he remains connected to that holy moment in his life. So, my sisters and I asked him to say it in Italian, which he did, but then he felt like he should say it in English, too, and found the book of scripture and repeated the prayers in English. It was super sweet, and deeply moving. I was struck with how profoundly personal the sacrament is.

Easter was coming up, and I had this notion to create something more divine than Dixie cups and salad plates for what looked to be a new way of renewing our covenants weekly. Dave bought a drill bit that would pierce large holes in wood, I scoured Etsy and eBay for antique glass communion cups, and eventually, though they have been through various iterations, we came up with Sacrament Service sets that not only made the Sacrament feel more “set apart”, they serve to remind us of this peculiar time in our history. The talented Ben Behunin made wonderful little plates that we use for the bread, and the glass cups evoke a reminiscence of times gone by, when our ancestors partook before plastic was even a thing. We gave a set to each of our kids on Easter Sunday. We have all used them every week since.

By the end of summer we had made Sacrament
sets for every member of our ward and many family and friends.

The way things evolve at our house, we thought we should expand to siblings. Then nieces and nephews, then in-laws, and close friends who had birthdays. And, so it went. We soon ran out of antique glasses. But I found plastic ones online. I spent hours on hours in the garage, drilling, sanding, painting, lacquering. My sisters and brother-in-law Michael pitched in and it became a “thing”. Within a month, we had delivered sets to most everyone in our ward who we thought might be able to use them. Hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars and limitless love. It has been the most rewarding project I could have ever imagined.

This past Sunday, for the first time since the state was shut down and we were asked to keep our distance, we called our family together at our house. It has been tradition to gather every other Sunday for dinner at our house, but it’s not happened since early March. We finally felt like we could have a bar-b-que outside, and seat people in their own families. So that’s what we did. I close my eyes and inhale slowly, reliving that gathering. I wondered if that’s what death might feel like; reuniting with loved ones long missed? 

Before dinner we filled 25 tiny glass communion cups with water from the Farmington well. We sang As I Have Loved You as the bread was broken. It’s our Covid Sacrament Song, because it speaks the truth so concisely and it is one short verse, just right for breaking such a tiny portion of bread. There in our front yard, in crisply lined shadow of our home, our oldest grandchild knelt on the footstool that has been used, upside down, in our family nativity since he played Baby Jesus. He knelt with reverence and blessed the bread. Parker and Dave walked the bread around the yard, offering it to the people I love most in this world. Then Gumpa blessed the water. One by one tiny fingers and old wrinkled fingers delicately lifted those old glass cups to their lips. We committed, once again, to keep His commandments and follow Him. But first we promised to remember Him. Remembering is the first step.

Friend and potter Ben Behunin created
wonderful small plates from which we
serve the Sacrament bread.

Kate shared with us a talk she had given, via Zoom, in her ward in New York last month. It was on trusting the arm of the Lord. We wept as she spoke.

I am reminded that it takes effort to preserve certain things. Fruit, for instance, must be ripe, but not over ripe, if you want to preserve it. It takes preparation, and patience, and concerted effort to set them in a position to remain for later use. Otherwise, it goes the way of the world and is forgotten. Moments become memories, sometimes by accident. But more often they are preserved on purpose, in images, in words, in conversation repeated often enough to seal them in our histories. If I want to preserve that evening in June 2020, when our family gathered for the first time since the pandemic hit the US, then I knew it required effort. So here it is. Words to give you the picture I forgot to take with my camera: 

The leaves on the scrub oaks and the Japanese maple are in full green-dom. The petunias in the flower beds have taken root and are multiplying. And so are the weeds, I’m sorry to say. The grass is trim and neatly edged. We have placed six tables throughout the front yard, and two bar-b-que grills are on the sidewalk by the red porch. The pink tablecloths I sewed in Margaret’s sewing class cover the tables. We have cut watermelon, and made Gramma Connors salad, and a tossed salad, and Ann Marie has steamed a large pot of lime rice. The brats are ready to put on the grill, with the marinated chicken. The laughter of small cousins rediscovering each other floats through the breeze, which rocks the small birdhouse hanging from the flowering pear tree. The younger generation sits on the upper level, separated from the vulnerable elders. I sit with the elders, but without apology snag little Tessa and hold her on my lap. Hug therapy. 

We have gathered once again. 

We have gathered to feast, yes. 

But first, we break bread.

Our home made Sacrament set has a permanent spot
on our family room sofa table.

24. MASKED MUSIC

Gracie

Joe

Gracie sat on my lap, her little booted feet resting on my shins, my arms encircling her waist. Joe sat beside us, laying his eight-year-old head on my shoulder. We watched and listened in the dark auditorium as their sister Anna performed in the Fort Herriman Middle School Concert Choir. In the last five years that we have been coming to concerts in that auditorium, it’s always been a challenge to find seats. This time we had our pick. We sat with a few dozen other families who were there to watch their kids perform. Each of the school choirs had a 20 minute concert, then they all left the auditorium and the next audience and choir came in and did their short show, and then the last choir came with their small audience. It was short and super sweet. I miss my kids and grands so much that I almost hyperventilate from inhaling so much when I am with them. This is the first concert these kids have performed for a year. One year ago this week their schools shut down with the pandemic. I love watching my beautiful Anna perform. I know her voice well enough that, even though she is doing her part to blend in the choir, my spirit hears her song. I just love her so much!

Anna, far left front., and the masked singers.

Tonight the music was muffled, like a horn section with mutes in all the horn bells. Nonetheless, it was lovely. Each person in the room, including the choir members, wore a mask. It’s the norm everywhere we go these days. I sat there, with my own breath steaming up my glasses as it was forced upwards from my mask. Gracie and Joe wore theirs as naturally as Joe wears his glasses. Gracie, in kindergarten this year, sometimes in person sometimes virtual, has never been to school without wearing a mask. We are missing a full grade level of toothless grins this year at Butterfield Elementary School. Still, she delights in going to school and is just so sad when it has to be closed down because of high Covid numbers.

Singing with a mask on is like
playing trombone with a mute.

As I watched those glorious middle schoolers trying to force the music through their cotton masks, I was struck with an idea that all of life feels kind of like we are wearing masks. Our souls are wearing masks, muting our full voiced spirits for a while. I’m in a death-pondering mood of late, due to the loss of a dear friend. I’m thinking of her being able to let her full delightful voice echo through the heavens now. Only we can’t hear it.

The thought of death being a release, like we get to rip the masks off our spirits, makes the dying part of life less frightening. Imagine the songs we will sing, all clear and harmonious, like the Salt Lake Valley after a spring storm. Clear, and crisp and fresh.

But the thing that really stirs me tonight is the tenacity and grit that compels a choir full of kids, and their determined director, to go ahead and give it their all, in spite of the pieces of fabric they are required to wear. 

 

23. AS MY BROTHER WEEPS

Lately my brother finds
solace in music

AS MY BROTHER WEEPS 

                                                            Cori Connors

 

The tree at the end of O’Clarion Road

Is bent with the weight of a late autumn frost

And heavy my heart, the days they grow shorter

The light from my window is lost

            Oh sorrowful tune, but sweet in its sadness

            What mother earth loses and keeps

            And sorrow I’ve known, but none be so tender

            As watching while my brother weeps

 

If you knew my brother, then you’d know his laughter

And you’d know his love of the world as a whole

And he would embrace you and show you the majesty

Held in the depth of his soul

            So, strangely they fall, these tears on my brother

            Weaving their way down his cheeks

            Sealing our hearts in a covalent manner

            As tenderly my brother weeps

 

As my brother weeps his eyes become clearer

Because I so love him, I see clearer too

The side of the hill is deeper and greener

The sky a more heavenly blue

            The child of his heart took part of the darkness

            When we laid his body to sleep

            Leaving his father a sacred awareness

            As reverently my brother weeps

 

This evening, as Dave and I were driving home from Salt Lake City, I was startled by the rising roaring pitch of a rocket bike doubling the speed limit, weaving in and out of traffic. I felt an immediate pit opening in my stomach, and the memory of my beautiful nephew who lost his life after an accident on a rocket bike. Something about the positioning of the body on that style of motorcycle compels young people to want to push it faster and further. Don’t go there, people. Just don’t.

Since then, I’ve been remembering little snippets involving the passing of Clayton Hansen. He was a beautiful soul, and a gorgeous human. He died in a perfectly formed 18-year-old body. Parts of that body still live on in a number of people who received his last great gift, via his parents decision to let him be a donor. I adore them for that decision, made in a most painful moment. You know a lot about them by that singular act.

My nephew, Clayton Hansen

Just weeks after Clayton died my brother George and his wife Cyndy came to my Christmas concert at the First Presbyterian Church in SLC. They sat with our family, near the front. I could vaguely see their faces in the reflective stage lights. 

I had recently written a new song, and we debuted it that night. It was a tune I had written that past sumer for my son, John, who would be leaving soon to take the Gospel of Christ to the people of England and Wales. It’s called Across the Wooded Hill, and it speaks the feelings of a mother watching her son go across the hill into the unknown, praying he would be well in his journey. I introduced the song to the audience, dedicating it to two beautiful young men on two different journeys. Cousins, the same age, one leaving for a foreign land, and the other on the journey to Heaven. I was feeling the ache of loss, for my brother and his wife, and for myself.

Our first-born sons, Clayton and John
at Sarah's baby blessing.

That particular performance of Across the Wooded Hill remains one of those very few magical moments, when the music, the lyric, the musicians and the audience became completely aligned. I have experienced this only once, that I can vividly recall, and it was this song on this night at this venue with this audience. I will sing the rest of my life trying to achieve that one more time.

The song ends acapella with three of us singing “ across the wooded hill” in harmony. The final note rang in silence, the sweet silence that hovers when everyone wants to inhale the moment just a little longer. Then the applause. As I looked up, I saw my brothers face, with his hands silent in his lap. The dim light reflected like a moonlit river, revealing a stream of tears making its way down his cheek. The image remains vivid in my memory, even all these years later, a whole lifetime doubled for our boys.

That picture of the brother I love, weeping at the loss of his boy, became lyrics to a song. I don’t think I’ve ever sung it for him, or frankly for anyone. I’m not sure it’s complete as a song. But I thought I would preserve it here, because lately I am feeling the fragility of life, and I am hesitant to hold onto things I am waiting to make perfect.

My brother George is known for many things. He’s earned all of it. But most prominent in my mind is his beautiful affinity for tenderness.

Clayton's obituary

22. IT'S SUPPOSED TO HURT

I stopped in the middle of my lesson, as if my music angel knocked me on the shoulder and told me to pay attention. I looked out at my class of students, down on the main floor of the art center, ten feet apart from each other and wearing masks. I was up on the stage, being socially distant.  My old lady eyes were too far away to really look into theirs. 

“OK everybody, I said, take a break and shake out your hands.” They all instantly let go of the necks of their guitars.  There was a collective sigh of relief, muffled under those masks.  We shook our wrists and stretched our fingers against each other in the fashion of prayer.

“Do your fingertips hurt?” I asked. 

They nodded, a few of them attempting to blow on the tips of their left hands through their masks.

“Good!”

I held up my hand and looked at the tips of my own fingers.

“If you are just learning to play guitar, and you are playing it the way you should, then your fingers should hurt. If they don’t hurt, you’re not playing it in the right position, with the right amount or pressure, to achieve the sound you want. The thing is, if you are consistent, then eventually you will build up calluses, and it won’t hurt so much anymore.”

I suggested there are a couple ways to build those calluses. 

One: you can go out to the sidewalk and scrape the tops of your fingers back and forth across the rough cement.

Or, two: you can play your guitar.

Last spring, when the gigs disappeared in one fell swoop because of the pandemic, my guitars ended up sitting silent for quite a while. Sad, I know. One thing I have discovered about myself, through this crazy year, is that I use music as a form of communication. Many of my musician friends and family, perhaps most of them, use music as a form of therapy. They’ll pick up a guitar and start playing any moment of any day. I feel a strange sort of shame in the fact that I don’t find much pleasure in that. My guitar is a song facilitator. If I’m not writing a song, or preparing for a gig or preparing to teach a lesson, then I leave those beauties hanging on the wall or sitting in their cases. 

Our front stairway.

So, when many months later I decided to try teaching again, using the large hall in the Farmington Arts Center, I was brought to a painful realization. By the time my fourth classful of students came in, my fingertips were throbbing. It was a sensation I have not experienced in decades. I told that last class that I was feeling their pain and it was probably good for me. 

I’ve since rebuilt my calloused fingertips.

This pandemic has been an effective teacher in many ways. It offered me a good reminder to keep the engine oiled, so to speak, even if you’re not driving all that much. And I also realized that it helps, sometimes, to acknowledge that some things are supposed to hurt.

Knowing something is supposed to be hard, that it is normal to hurt, makes it a little easier to get through. It’s confirming. It doesn’t take away the hard, or the hurt, but somehow it helps.