Autumn is a lovely word

Fall is the familiar word for this season, but autumn sounds more beautiful, more descriptive.

The Latin word autumnus is actually predated by the French word automne. Before autumn became commonly known, the season was referred to as harvest which is also a lovely term that evokes images of farmers hard at work in the fields bringing in their crops.


There are thousands of reasons to love autumn. It is the flashiest month. Its color bursts upon the scene and quickly fades. Nature's fireworks. Not only because of the reds, yellows, golds and oranges, but because of the unpredictability of the season. We never know exactly when the maples will go from faded green to bright orange. Some years the colors are dim - like an aging watercolor. At other times the boldness is breathtaking with the heft of an oil portrait layered with just the right mixture.

The art metaphor extends from the individual trees to the patchwork quilt of the mountains that guard our valley. On those days when the air is clean and the sky is bright, the texture of the mountains is palpable. A feast for the eyes.

Dear autumn, I feel to the pore
The speechless beauty of your 
Stippled canvas.
Your leaves amass 
And add to the deep, rich brew
That accompanies your hue.
I drink you with the sunrise
Each dawn a sweet new surprise.
Dear autumn.

Dad in April at their 50th wedding anniversary party

To see or not to see

I am up way past my bedtime because I keep thinking about what is going to happen tomorrow.

Flash back to mid-September and you would find a very surprised me sitting in the chair at the eye doctor being told that my cataracts are ripe for the picking. Well, he didn't say picking, but he did tell me I have ripe cataracts.

How can this be? That's something grandmothers have done, right? I am not even eligible for AARP (which annoyingly seems to keep lowering its age of acceptance. Pretty soon when you turn 29 they'll start sending you the Aging Gracefully magazine.

I am thinking about eating something. I am not hungry. It's the thought that I will not be able to eat until probably after 3 p.m. tomorrow that makes me want to stuff something in - like a cow packing in cud for winter. Not an attractive metaphor, perhaps, but you know what I mean. 


Eye drops. That's all I can have tomorrow. Not even gum or a mint, the nurse told me. I said, "Wow." And she replied, "That's right! Nothing at all."


I am uncertain how having a mint would affect my surgery. Except that she mentioned that violation of the anti-intake rule would cause automatic default and no surgery for me.


And I know I want this done. I have been really struggling the past six months or so. I figured it had something to do with being on the computer all the time. Or all that crying. If tears can grow cataracts, then my cataracts should have cataracts.


So the doc said that they will use a special tool to cut my eye. crunch up my lens, suck it out and replace it with a prosthetic lens which will enable me to see better than I ever have. I will be Steve Austin. We can rebuild him... The Six Million Dollar Man Steve Austin, by the way, not the wrestler. My brother had that doll when we were kids. I'm sorry - action figure. Boys didn't play with dolls. Anyway, the doll version of the SMDM had a window in the back of his head so that you could see through his super eye which had some kind of magnifying lens in it.


I just re-read that paragraph. I think it is time to go to bed and dream of the day when I will be able to see when I wake up in the morning. I bet I'll feel like six million bucks.

Duke

My husband's birthday was May 1.

I was in a quandary. What should I get him for his birthday. Kenny is not the type to request things and if you ask him what he wants he invariably says "Nothing." And he means it. Whereas if my reply to the same question was "Nothing" that would - in reality - mean "I want you to read my mind and come up with the perfect gift that will prove just how much you love me." With some men this might work. Not with my husband. That is why I bought my birthday present, told him what it was and how much it cost and he bought me flowers and a card.

Back to his birthday. Everything this year has been colored by my Dad's illness and subsequent death. It has become a frame of reference for me - good or bad. When I came up with my plan for Kenny's birthday, I was very much feeling aware of mortality and our limited time on this planet.

Do you remember the humorist columnist Erma Bombeck? She wrote a column asking women why they don't use the good china or allow the kids to sit on the living room furniture. She was an advocate (after many years of doing the opposite) of living each day fully. Don't put off until tomorrow...

In that frame of mind, I decided to buy my husband a 1976 Chevy Nova SS. My uncle bought the car five years ago. It is in mint condition. Only 7300 original miles. It is black with gold trim (perfect for the Pittsburgh fan)! It is two-door and even has an eight-track tape player.

Kenny had talked about getting an old muscle car many times, but it was in the context of "some day." May 1, 2010 turned out to be some day.

There was some risk in doing this. Kenny might decide I lost my mind and have me committed. Uncle E gave me a good deal on the car, actually a great deal on the car - but it still was risky to make this kind of decision without consulting my bank partner.

I had Uncle E deliver the car to Central High School on that Saturday. Kenny had gone out to Marty's to work on the farm in the morning, so I had a brief window of opportunity to get the car to the house  before Kenny came home. The only problem was that it took awhile to get the car off the trailer. So I called him and asked if he could meet me at the high school.

"Why?" he asked. "So I can see my new golf cart?"

Now Kenny is one of those people who always guesses his gifts. I try hard to surprise him and he invariably figures it out. I was so excited that he thought that I was getting him a golf cart for running between the fields at the school. (Actually, that would have been a much cheaper present...had I thought of it.)

So when he pulled up at the high school and I was standing beside the car, he was surprised. Really surprised. I asked him what he said when he saw the car and he said "Holy X#@$!"

The Nova definitely made him the envy of many of his friends who probably took the opportunity to mention to their wives what I did. Sorry, girls.

The story - and the spending - did not stop there, however. We only had a carport. Notice I said "had." Kenny decided that we needed to enclose the carport for the Nova. "What about my car?" I asked. My Cadillac CTS may be four years old, but she deserves a garage too. So we now have a two-car garage.

But before the bucks started flying for that, my husband had to improve upon his sweet ride by adding chrome wheels, new tires and Flowmaster headers. Yeah, you can hear him coming from a mile away.

Dad liked the idea that Kenny got his dream muscle car. He thought the world of my husband and Kenny loved him too. Mom and Dad came up Memorial Day weekend and Kenny took Dad for a ride around town and then they blew a little carbon out on I-81. Dad came back with a grin on his face. Then it was Mom's turn. She came back with a grin too, though her hair was a little messed up.

We named the car Duke. Kenny is a graduate of JMU and the car needed a tough, masculine name to match its muscle car ID.

I asked Kenny to pick me up at the office the other night. I was running a little late and I figured he might be ticked off that he had to sit in the parking lot for a half hour. When I got to the door I realized why he hadn't been calling me and fussing about my tardiness. A small group of men were standing around Kenny and Duke.

I smiled to myself as I got into the car. "Thanks, Duke," I whispered. This birthday present may turn out to be my little ace in the hole.

Anniversary

Our wedding anniversary is next week.

I am trying to think of something special for us to do to commemorate our nine years of wedded bliss.

There are some things we definitely should not do. We should not paint the walls of any room - no matter how small - together. We got the big idea to save money and paint our entire downstairs, including the stairway to the second floor and the hallway up there. Not good. Not only is painting much more painful than you probably remember, we almost killed each other. I was a little afraid that we may have trapped our anger in the paint where it will lurk until just the right moment (probably when we are assembling a piece of furniture.)

Also, I will not be giving Kenny computer lessons for an anniversary present - unless I hire someone else to do it. He is not a fan. As a teacher, he knows how to use his work computer, but take him out of that environment and try to show him some trick or shortcut and his face gets red and he starts to sputter about the evils of Facebook and Twitter (and he doesn't even know what Twitter is).

We also will not go to the woods to "sight" his guns in preparation for hunting season. Hunting was never part of my life until we got married. As I type this blog, two sets of glassy deer eyes are staring at me from across the room. Last year when we took his guns to the woods to sight them, he brought his handgun which he encouraged me to try out.

The gun was heavy. I leaned forward and tried to do everything he was telling me to do and I forgot that the gun might have a kick - because it is a .357 magnum. I pulled the trigger and the gun caught me on the side of my nose. After he stopped laughing and the stars circling my head retreated, I pouted the rest of the way home because he was more worried that something (my cartilage) may have scarred his gun.

So I have been thinking about something romantic and quiet and fun. I have not consulted him yet because I am afraid there will be a volleyball game or cross country meet or other event on Sept. 22. Work has a habit of getting in the way of life these days.

Whatever we do (or don't do) being Mrs. Rinker has been an interesting experience (in a good way, not like the Chinese curse). Having lived alone the majority of my adult life, stepping into the married world was a bit of a shock at first, but I have settled into this role quite nicely.

I'll let you know what happens next week.

Flight of the Falcon

My husband has been a teacher at Central High School in Woodstock for more than 20 years. Maybe more than 25 - I have only been around for the last 10.

And while he still teaches a math class, his primary job this year has changed to Athletic Director. It is a job that suits him perfectly. He loves athletics. He has been a head coach of football, softball and JV girls basketball. He has coached track and helped with baseball. He was a basketball referee when his knees were still fresh and his belly did not resemble a basketball. For eight years, he was an umpire for softball and baseball - even college softball.

His 30+ year career has led to this job. It just makes sense and I am so glad that the school chose him to do this job. Many might have felt a younger person should hold the job, but in this case I think the years of experience have added coal to the fire and created the ideal AD.

I am sure he will make a mistake or two. That comes when you are in a position where decisions must be made. But I know he will make those decisions with the main criterion being what is best for the student athletes.

He told the parents at a special meeting that at this time in his life he could retire and find an easier job. (If I had been there I might have been tempted to laugh out loud at the idea of him taking it easy...) Instead, he has chosen to work those stiff knees and crank out that creaking body and follow his heart which is full of passion for athletics.

He won't read this because he doesn't have time for things like blogs and Facebook and the like. In fact, he is disdainful of all of these things because he is someone who wants to be in the thick of things, not in the thin of things along the sidelines writing about what is going on.

The new job has definitely has had an impact on the time we spend together, but so far it seems that he is making an effort to make that time count a little more. He picked me up at work the other day and took me out to dinner because he knew my day had been a long one.

I am truly proud of him. So many people worry about the children who are growing up today, but I know that my husband and people like him work every day, most evenings and lots of weekends to have a positive impact on our young people.

When I go to games, I listen to parents and friends and students cheer on the athletes, cheerleaders and band members. I may be the only one on the hill cheering for the AD, but he is always #1 in my book.

Family dynamics

Did I mention that my Dad died on July 14?

Tomorrow will be two months since his battle against the evil C was lost.

There is not a day that goes by that I do not think about him. I am very afraid of the day that comes when the whole 24 hours expires without a thought of my Dad. I am afraid that it will signal the end of short-term memories and the beginning of the distant memories that are indistinct and faded.

Recent memories are not all pleasant. In August of last year, Dad had his ticket punched by the doctors at UVa. They gave him a much more immediate departure date, but Dad fooled them. He had a few things he wanted to do first. He wanted to celebrate his 50th anniversary with Mom. He wanted to turn 70. And he wanted to say a few things to the people who mattered to him.

In the face of this awful disease, my Dad was gracious, appreciative of nurses, doctors and staff. He was loving and tried hard to be with us.

It was his decision not to take a second round of chemo. The doctors told him that it might buy him some more time, but he would be sick. And he already knew what sick was. And he didn't want to spend the rest of his life like that. I think he was afraid that Scott and I would think that he was taking the easy way out. We never felt that way. It was not a decision we could make and it is not one that we can second guess.

I went home this weekend for an extended visit with Mom. I need to spend time with her, but I was a little afraid to go home. Since I do not live in the same town as my parents, sometimes I can almost imagine that Dad is in the basement at the house playing poker on the Internet with people from all over the world. Going home meant facing the empty basement. It meant sitting in Dad's chair at the kitchen table and watering the flowers that he and my husband planted on Mother's Day.

Mom has been going to the cemetery almost every day. I figured I would go with her at some point, so I decided to go by there by myself first. Break the ice. I went once at the beginning of August, but had not been back.

I stopped at the area where Mom and Dad and Aunt Ruthie and Uncle Emmett bought plots. It is in a newer section of an old cemetery in Covington. When I was a kid, we would put flags on the graves of soldiers to honor their service to the country. I do not feel uncomfortable in the old part of the cemetery, but the new part feels strange to me. And awful.

As I walked to the grave with the straw on the still raw area, I stopped and felt my body just shake with grief and sobs that were internal, hot like lava under the surface but threatening to break loose at any moment. A swarm of bugs zeroed in on my eyes and ears and as I swatted them, I leaned forward and saw a small marker at the grave. It wasn't there the last time. Looking closer, I could see a name that was distinctly not my Dad's. In fact, it was Rachel someone.

I straightened up and looked over the next row and I saw a grave that was not as recent as the one I was standing in front of. There was a vase of flowers on it that I recognized as something Mom put there to keep the grave from seeming barren until the footstone is installed.

Wiping tears away, I stood over my father's grave and the sobs turned into a broken laugh. My Dad was a trickster. He liked to pull jokes - nothing elaborate. I don't think he pulled  the old switcheroo, but it struck me as being something that might make him laugh. "Over here," I could imagine him saying. "You never were very good with directions. I should have left you a map."

I miss him. I miss him. I miss him. I will always miss him.

Night noises

The temperatures have finally dipped below 80, so the windows have been up and the air conditioned silenced which means the house is full of the noises of night in the Shenandoah Valley.
I guess the chorus comes from crickets. There is a dullish background chorus with several individual soloists who must be closer to my window that chime in on occasion. One bug has been strumming his violin for 30 seconds straight. Stop. Started again.
I remember a science class film that showed how crickets rub their legs together to make their music. I don't remember why they do it. Do they just like the sound? Are they communicating with each other? It sounds like the same word over and over again if that is the case.
This summer has been so hot that we have had the air conditioning running constantly. Some days I just can't stand that sound and that aural irritation overrides the awesomeness of chilled air.
Having the windows open feels so good. The gentle breeze. Even the sound of cars traveling on the interstate is just a pleasant faraway sound - rhythmic like the ocean.
Another critter is rubbing its legs now, but I don't mind. I will choose bucolic bugs over humming machinery every time. As long as the bugs stay on the other side of the window.

The fair is in town

Woodstock will have been my home for 25 years later this month.

In all those years there have been very few times when I opted to not attend the Shenandoah County Fair which takes place at the end of August at the fairgrounds near the interstate exchange in Woodstock.
When I worked at the local newspaper, we spent a lot of time covering the fair before it even started. I have interviewed blue ribbon winners, harness racers, carnies and fair food vendors.
I've swallowed dust, slogged through mud and helped serve hamburgers, hot dogs and bean soup.
For the past seven or so years, I have worked at my company's booth greeting people, watching them scoop up our swag (free stuff) like hungry dogs and kibble. At the start of fair week, I feel like the benevolent business person. By the end of the week I start to get a bit jaded.
"Hey. You got two pens and magnetic clip last night, mister. Put that down!" I don't say that, but that's what I was thinking when I said "Sure, take two pens. Did you get some candy?"
This year's fair weather was hot with a double helping of blazing sun.
One night it was so hot in the exhibit hall that when I left, I felt mummified. I had sweated and it evaporated and if I had the energy to turn to dust, that is exactly what I would have done.
I slipped out to the fair this morning - the last day of the fair - and I grabbed a few pictures of the company booth. Then I visited the poultry house (which also houses rabbits) and took a walk through the vegetables, canned goods and crafts.
There are certain things about the fair which are a little seedy - the midway barkers and creepy prizes - but there is one undeniable fact and that is that the fair is a living breathing piece of Shenandoah County history.
Well into its eighth decade, the fair has hosted generations of Valley families and visitors. Vacations are planned around the fair. Reunions crop up every night to the sound of the tractor pull and demolition derby.
The old folks sitting on the benches by the grandstands used to be the young parents shepherding their children from ride to ride.
I feel that magic. Especially at night when I am staring at the Ferris wheel - probably one of the oldest carnival rides in existence. The music accompanying the spinning spokes has changed, but it's really a time capsule. The father with the daughter under his arm once rode the magical wheel with his dad and his dad's father begged his mother to ride with him.
The stories I have heard about the early days of the Shenandoah County Fair - featuring acrobats walking a high wire and a donkey that plunged from a tower into a tank of water - make me wish that I could jump on the Ferris wheel tonight and visit those early days.
I wonder if it was as hot back then?

It's been awhile

When I told someone today that I had written my first book when I was nine, she said, "Oh, you are published?"

I guess I shouldn't have said "my first book." So it was also my last book. Sixty pages. The working title was "The Butler Did It." It was a Nancy Drewesque novella. At night, I would sit on the floor in the kitchen and read my next chapter to my mother while she was cooking dinner.

I haven't been writing. It is easier to not do something than to not do something perfectly. Procrastination and Perfectionism are evil twins that tag-team my best intentions. Or my best dreams.

My life has had a lot of sadness in it and I have been reluctant to write because if I write the sadness will seep out no matter how hard I try to dress it in ribbons and wryness.

Last August, my Dad was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. The big PC. I feel like it is everywhere. Ruth Bader Ginsberg. Patrick Swayze. It's like when you get a new car and suddenly everywhere you look - there is your car. And you rarely ever saw that car before.

Dad is amazing. He is Superman. At least in his mind, and that is great. He had cancer in 1983 the first time. Melanoma. Doctor told him not to take out a mortgage on a house he and Mom were looking at then. He got the mortgage, went to Duke for some crazy treatment involving the injection of tuberculin germs into his body and he beat it. At least for 26 years.

I've spent a lot of time in hospitals this year. UVa is an amazing hospital, but it is intimidating. Everybody speaks English as a second language. And when you don't understand what is going on in the first place, it is even harder to try to figure things out when you are also trying to decide if the word was a medical word or just an English word with a Korean twist.

The Medical Center is quite a melting pot. Heck, even the hospital in Covington has mostly doctors from beyond our borders. I don't mean to sound xenophobic. I enjoy being around people from different cultures. I am always bugging my Puerto Rican colleague at work to tell me about the island. It's just that no matter how doctors come in like white knights to the rescue, there is still a moat between us and them.

If my Mom feels this way, she doesn't show it. And she doesn't let language barriers or doctorocity intimidate her. I have felt sorry for more than one doc who did not answer questions to her liking. Mom can eviscerate with her sharp tongue and keep a smile on her face at the same time.

Unless she is too tired. And she is too tired. Since August, she has been too tired.

And I am overwhelmed. And scared. And sad. And, did I mention scared?

It's wrong for me not to write. I know this. I just haven't done anything about it lately. And when that lady asked me if I was published, I immediately said no. And then I thought, well I have been published. I wrote stories for 20 years for one newspaper or the other. I have had this blog for a couple of years, even if the first ones were more prolific.

At work, I sometimes get the chance to dance with my writing muse. Most of the time, however, she is off wandering around in the woods behind the office, listening to squirrels chatter and decorating her hair with hydrangea petals.

I have invited her to tea - I don't drink it very often, but I imagine a muse would like tea very much. And crumpets. Or ladyfingers. And if I am more sad than happy, maybe she can help me find a way to write it out. And maybe you will read it and remind me that I need to keep doing this.