John

 

John in a fez and with a nail through his head.

 

I don't have enough words to write about my Uncle John.

Ones that come to mind easily are: Funny, generous, smart, joyful, loving, curious, enthusiastic, and kind. 

The only negative words that cross my mind would be: Occasionally inappropriate. Some jokes didn't land. Some attitudes took time to evolve, but they eventually did. Because John was a true lifelong learner who never stopped reading and wanting to know more in order to be better and more compassionate.

My Uncle John was the youngest of his three siblings, and from his earliest days provided some of the all-time most enjoyed family stories. He was often compared to the Eddie Haskall character from TV as always a source for a bit of trouble.

As a baby in an old version of a wheelie saucer, he once got into the kitchen garbage and rubbed coffee grounds into his hair right before Grandma had company arriving and she'd spent all day cleaning everything. She said it was a terrible mess and he just grinned and laughed.

My grandma used to talk about how my mom and Joe would be contentedly playing a game on the floor, only to have John toddle over and sit on the board.

Once as a small child John didn't get his way and his parents heard him yell and stomp loudly up every single stair in protest. At the top there was a pause as he listened for a reaction, and finally said out loud to himself, "Well, that didn't work."

John once got separated from Grandma in a department store, and after a frantic search she located him sitting on the floor of a shop reading a comic book. He looked up and said, "Where have you been?" 

When John was a teenager learning to drive, my grandpa used to describe a harrowing trip around the block where he tried to direct John away from various obstacles such as garbage cans and curbs and parked cars. In Grandma's telling of the story, it always ended with Grandpa simply walking silently into the house afterward and putting himself into a room behind a closed door for a long time. Supposedly John called after him, "How did I do?"

Possibly my favorite story of John as a kid is how he used to ask his dad for an advance on his allowance, and then still collect his full allowance at the end of the week. His siblings were annoyed, but didn't protest until the day Grandpa reached into his pocket and didn't have enough for a full allowance for everyone, and started to reduce equally what each person was given. My mom and Joe cried foul, pointing out John regularly got more than they did due to his frequent advances. My grandfather was an accountant for Sears.

John's college stories always seemed heavily edited for young ears, but we did hear he hung around with a frat-mate named Bubble, and it was implied much beer was consumed and much fun was had. Most famously it was described how little he studied, but how infuriatingly well he did anyway. John used to regale us with how diligently his wife Charlotte studied, and how he decided to crack open a book only the night before exams. He startled everyone by graduating magna cum laude, and then turned to his parents and said if only he'd studied an additional day he "could have been summa cum laude!" 

He was overwhelmingly well-liked in his town of Marysville, despite being an outspoken Democrat in a bright red sea of Republicans. My favorite testament to his abilities as a lawyer came in the form of a condolence message to my cousin Tony a day or so after John's passing. The guy said John was the nicest person who ever prosecuted him, and even though he disagreed with the verdict, he admired John's professionalism. Then he added a P.S. saying, "I was totally guilty. Lol! That man did a professional job."

John's relationship with his mom after my grandpa died was really funny. Grandma was organized and practical and punctual. John less so, much to her exasperation. 

He used to do Grandma's taxes for her (mine too, when I was a student at OSU) and the only payment he charged family was that he got to check the box for a donation to the Presidential Election Campaign Fund. But as a lawyer he did a lot of taxes, and he treated the April 15th deadline for mailing it all in as a holiday. I think Gram went with him once to the post office which had extended hours and a band playing, and she said he celebrated with the postal employees as he turned everything in at the last possible minute. This always made my grandma anxious to have something important happen right up against a deadline, but that was John.

John also used to happily announce if we were all out to dinner that the check should "go to Mom." He paid for many things and made sure she was always comfortable and cared for, so she could certainly manage to pay for dinner, but I think he just liked the look on the waitstaff's faces when they'd start to hand him the bill at the end of the meal and he would loudly make sure we all knew Grandma was paying. She always smiled and shook her head and pulled out her wallet.

He made sure Grandma had a really comfortable chair up at the cottage that she could nap in. He's been the one tending her grave since she died.

I had the opportunity to live in my Uncle John's house for a summer when I was in college. I needed to live somewhere in Ohio before the start of my sophomore year in order to qualify for in-state tuition, and John found me a job with the Department of Transportation in Marysville. I mostly worked as a flagger on a road crew, standing in jeans and boots and a reflective vest and hardhat in hundred degree heat. I think John also intended to make me appreciate the value of a college degree after a summer of lower skilled work. There was a time where there was a produce truck on fire that necessitated all the cargo be discarded, and all the DOT workers got to help ourselves to as many singed vegetables as we could carry. John laughed when I walked in with all that food saying I was finally pulling my weight in the house. The wildest day was when a box fell off a truck (that according to local news was either going to, or coming from, somewhere) and they had to call a hazmat team to investigate. The call went out to any truck in town with lights on it to go to the scene. I was in a truck with a couple of guys, and we chose to park under an overpass where it was shady. It was pointless for us to be there, so we may as well have been pointless in a cooler spot. After a little while, some official stuck his head in our truck to tell us to "EVACUATE MARYSVILLE!" How? To where? John absolutely loved that story.

Living in John's house was really fun. My youngest cousin, Mary, is ten years younger than I am, so she was nine and I was nineteen. We were roommates who somehow shared clothes despite the age difference, and she could sleep through anything so I would play music in our room in the morning as I got dressed. I loved time with cousin Tony and Aunt Char. Nobody was ever on time to anything. Meals were erratic but good. Friends and relatives came and went because everyone was always welcome.

That was always a given. If you showed up at John and Charlotte's house, you were welcome. If they weren't there, they'd tell you where the key was (under the flat rock at the top of the basement steps) and you could help yourself to whatever you needed. They provided a space that was a safety net for many. One of my kids once told me in a fit of worry about her future that she was afraid of failure and ending up homeless. I said to her, "Do you really think John and Charlotte would ever let that happen?" Because of course she knew we would be there for her always, and her grandma, and any number of family and friends who would not hesitate to help if she needed it, but the sheer bedrock of love and stability that was John and Charlotte was the most reassuring foundation I could conjure, and it helped.

John and Charlotte hosted many a Christmas Eve dinner. Possibly the best Christmas event was when we all left John alone to decorate the tree--which he insisted he could do--only to come home to the big reveal of the tree in the stand still bundled tightly in its net, a string of lights wound around it, and a giant bow slapped on the front. We laughed about it the whole night, and enjoyed a Christmas Rockin' Eve exchanging presents as we danced. I've seen many trees, but none as memorable as that one.

They'd have us for Easter if we were around. They held baby showers and birthdays and general cookout events in their home. They hosted the reception for my brother Arno's wedding to Deepanjana. 

John was the judge who married Arno and Deepanjana in the courthouse in Marysville. Arno's not particularly interested in common traditions, and was somewhat unprepared for ceremony details. We'd gone down to High Street in Columbus trying to find rings for them the day of the wedding, and the only things we could find were in this funky shop with incense and tie-dye shirts, and they found silver rings with lizards. Arno's had lizards all around. Deepanjana's was a slender ring with a single lizard on top. When John led them through the ceremony and got to the exchange of rings, we listened as he gently gave instructions to Arno, "Left hand. Next finger. Lizard up."

John loved travel. John loved history. John loved to read and his library was always one of my favorite rooms to spend time in. John loved the Boy Scouts and Detroit Coney Island Hot Dogs and his cats. 

More than anything, John loved his family. He adored his wife in a way no one could question. He used to call her "the Bunny" and he liked to say sweetly, "The Bunny makes my life a living hell" which always made her laugh and say, "Oh, John!" There were many things that made Charlotte say, "Oh, John!"

He loved his son and his daughter and his brother and his sister and his mom and his dad, and if you ever met him you got the sense there was love enough for you, too. He made love feel both special and commonplace. It was in abundant supply. 

He made meaningful contributions to his community without any desire for acknowledgement. He was generous in a way that should put wealthier people to shame, because in all ways that matter he was far richer than any billionaire could hope to be. 

John was a wonderful uncle. He was the kind of uncle who wanted to make you laugh and spoil you with all the stuff he knew parents wouldn't indulge. He gave big bear hugs.

He specialized in a sliding severed finger gag that never failed to amuse. The ultimate time for the finger trick was once in church after the pastor mentioned the many miracles of Jesus, and Tony said his dad caught his eye and flashed the finger slide as if to say "You want to see a miracle?" Tony said it was very hard not to laugh.

He would give us noisy presents like a Mr Microphone (which only a sibling would give another sibling's kids) and was quick to hand out treats. Even in recent years where I was now a middle-aged adult, he would give me cash as we were passing through on our way to New York so I could spend it on something fun there. John helped move heavy furniture into my first apartment in college. He drove me to Toledo several times to transfer me to my mom's car so she could take me home to Detroit on school breaks. All of his nieces and nephews knew he was proud of them. He loved us.

And John loved my kids, so he was not only a great uncle, he was a great Great Uncle. He was delighted to have my kids around, and regularly offered to take them if Ian and I ever wanted to travel alone. I also enjoy my kids, so never found a time where I would want to be apart from them on a trip, but I was always touched by the offer to watch them for us. Maybe I should have done that. I'm sure they would have had a blast. He took us to see Indian Mounds, and the topiary garden downtown, and bookstores. He read to my kids from "My Father's Dragon."

As the baby of his family, I think John had a special affinity for my youngest child. We didn't often have sugared cereal in our home, but when we came to visit in Ohio, John wanted to provide all the treats. He once handed Quinn a box of some sort of sugar bombs and said it was all for her and it wasn't for anyone else to eat. She demurred, because maybe that seemed like too much, but John insisted, and all that cereal was only Quinn's. Every subsequent visit over many years, John always provided Quinn with her own personal bottle of Hershey's chocolate syrup. He knew being the baby meant always getting the hand-me-downs, and always having to share. John made it clear the chocolate syrup was for Quinn alone. 

John proudly displayed art my kids made. (To be fair, they make unusually good art.) He had hoped to visit Aden's college and have her give him a tour. He offered out of the blue to find Mona a job down in Ohio and let her live in one of their spare rooms when she was uncertain about what to do after high school. (She didn't feel that was the right direction for her at the time, but the fact that the option existed was incredibly reassuring at a time of many unknowns.) John was easily one of their favorite people in the world. This loss is hard on them.

Any average day with John was a good day. Aden described how her favorite was a time he was in Milwaukee, and the two of them drove around on errands, stopping for gas (where John chatted with the cashier about how he loved the city), and picking up pastries. The Canfora Bakery near the park had changed ownership, and the new pastries weren't as good as the old ones. The two of them started out excited about their cheese danishes, then slowly agreed the quality had declined. Aden said it felt nice to be included in a more grownup conversation, where her opinion was treated as equally valid. John didn't talk down to people. John was genuinely interested in what children had to say.

John passed away in his sleep after a birthday celebration in a restaurant for his daughter. He got to enjoy time with people he loved and hold court as he did at a table with good food. He was in his home next to his wife with no thought he wouldn't see the morning. In many ways he went exactly as many of us would wish to. Maybe it's better to have some warning. Maybe it's not. John had a wonderful and full life. I think he might have been painfully aware of how much more he wanted to do and how much he was leaving behind if he had known ahead he was about to die, so in John's case it was maybe best to go while content and looking forward to the next day.

News in small towns spreads quickly. Before the sun was up, people were already contacting my cousin saying how sorry they were, and food began arriving. The number of people coming forward to say, "John was my best friend" is moving. I can't believe how many plates of cookies keep coming to the house.

Funerals are strange things. There's grief side by side with joy. There are moments to worry the joy feels disrespectful, and other times when we know it's how we survive. There are people gathered we haven't seen in a long time. Having Domino along was not convenient, but she makes everyone smile, not just me. 

The sheer number of people who wanted to pay respects required a full day of viewings at the funeral home, in addition to the scheduled viewing prior to the funeral the next day. The open casket was hard for me, but it was very John. He was in his scoutmaster uniform, holding a favorite book (The Frontiersman by Allan W. Eckert). The room was filled with flowers and photos and a small shrine to beloved dog Smokey Joe. The music piped in included The Beatles, Paul Simon, and the soundtrack to Hamilton.

The receiving line in the morning was out the door and an hour-long wait. People drove from miles away. I don't know how my aunt and cousins had the strength to continue to greet so many people so graciously for such a stretch. 

The weather has been beautiful. The young cousins are enjoying each other's company. We somehow ended the viewing day feeling good, despite the terrible loss, which is how John would have wanted it. He would have enjoyed this gathering so much. I hope I play well for the funeral service later today.

John was a big personality with one of the biggest hearts I've ever known. John was funny, but when he was with his brother Joe the two of them were next level hilarious. At Joe's funeral only four months ago, John spoke of his brother going ahead of him into the afterlife to scout things out.

I thought we had longer with my Uncle John. I'm trying to remember to be grateful to have had him as long as we did, but it's hard not to be greedy and want more. I loved him dearly. I wish he weren't gone. 


ADDENDUM April 4, 2026:

The funeral was touching and funny. Mary read a poem by John from a book my mom recently made about his library. She finished with a poem John often quoted:

"You can look at a book and better still read it.

A book is a friend when you happen to need it.

And when you are through you can still think about it.

So hooray for books! Don't say it but shout it."

Those of us in attendance who knew the poem recited it along with her. 

Tony then proceeded to give the best eulogy I've ever heard. It was funny and sweet and moving and John would have loved it. The friend's eulogy that followed included the impromptu story of when Charlotte was very pregnant and someone asked if John was excited, and he replied, "I would be if I knew for sure I was the father." (I'm sure that got another "Oh, John!")

I played solo viola for about 45 minutes during the visitation. I used a viola I built for a friend in Ohio rather than the one I built for myself almost twenty years ago because I think the more recent one sounded warmer and more balanced. (I'm glad to see my work has improved over time.) As part of the service I played Simple Gifts. I'm glad I can offer music in a time when it's hard to know what will be meaningful to people as they are grieving. I think John would have enjoyed my playing.

Unfortunately my name was listed in the program as Kolby Klein. The minister apologized several times, and I told him I don't know if I have any programs from any funeral I've played with my name spelled correctly, so not to worry about it. Although "Kolby" is new. I've never met a Kolby, so that seems like an odd name to throw out there. On the plus side, I think he was so embarrassed that he did not do more than cast a sidelong glance at Domino sitting in the front pew. She was much appreciated emotional support for me, nestled by my side when I was seated, and contentedly watching me play when I was working.

The burial this morning was just family. There were military honors. Included in the casket were the ashes of both John's beloved cat Norman, and little dog Smokey Joe.

A representative (and family friend) from the funeral home that ran everything with such care this week read this poem, which I thought was lovely.

...Death is nothing at all. It does not count. I have only slipped away into the next room. Nothing has happened. Everything remains exactly as it was. I am I, and you are you, and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged. Whatever we were to each other, that we are still. Call me by the old familiar name. Speak of me in the easy way which you always used. Put no difference in your tone. Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word it always was. Let it be spoken without effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it. Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was. There is absolute and unbroken continuity. What is this death but a negligible accident? Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just around the corner. All is well.

— Rosamunde Pilcher, September

There were hugs. There was crying. We took turns laying hands on the casket. (I let Domino rest one of her paws on it because I know that would have made John smile.)

We went back to the house for food and a little more time together before we started the long drive home.

I think the image that will stay with me most from the funeral was looking up at one point and seeing all three of my kids comforting each other by the casket. It was just the three of them under the tent, arms around each other, heads bent. I cannot express how much it means to me that my children love each other, and find support in each other in hard times. That is what family should be. That is the thing I love most in this world. 

 

 

Being There

I got the news that my Uncle John died very early in the morning of March 27th. 

That date is my dad's birthday, so I was already expecting to be sad that day. We found out around the time we were preparing to take Domino to doggie daycare before work. My cousin Mary told me her dad had passed away in the night. She was understandably a wreck. It was unexpected. It was unfair.

My first thought was to get to my mom. I've done that emergency drive to Detroit many times. Her other brother, Joe, died late last year. That's been really hard. No one was prepared for John to leave us this soon too. I didn't want my mom to be alone, so I started throwing things in a bag.

One of the things I find annoying about this phase of life as an older person is that I can't pack light. When my dad was dying in 2015, I literally threw a few pieces of clothing that were lying around my room into a backpack, and drove. Now there is the CPAP machine to dismantle and organize in its case or sleep will be impossible. There are blood pressure pills that I need to remember. There is my retainer (because I am apparently 15 again in some ways, but unfortunately none of those ways are my knees). There is lotion for my eyelids because out of nowhere last year that's where I developed eczema. There is my phone and its charging cord. There is my laptop and its cord. Those are now the essentials (assuming I'm wearing a good enough bra).

And if I have the time and the room after packing basic clothes, I need my gym bag which has everything in it from a toothbrush to deodorant to the shampoo and face-wash I like, a blanket that's somewhere between warm and cool (because I no longer operate at a comfortable consistent temperature), my buckwheat husk pillow, an instrument and whatever music I'm supposed to be practicing, a book to read, a book to edit, and if I'm super lucky I try to bring something like a scroll to carve.

I regretted not bringing my viola with me when my dad died. For this trip, in addition to my essentials, I made a point of grabbing my viola and a folder of music. I grabbed performance/funeral clothes, including the right shoes. I did bring my gym bag because it happened to be by the door. I made poor selections when shoving general clothes in a bag and have already had to pick up underwear from CVS since arriving in Michigan. I forgot pajamas. I decided to live on the wild side and not take my blanket and pillow. After a really bad night of sleep, I ordered a new pillow. (It's a weird crunchy thing I decided to try several years ago and now can't live without, and my kids are also addicted to the same type of pillow and bring it when they travel as well.) It arrived promptly and I slept much better last night.

The last thing I had to make a decision about before leaving Milwaukee on short notice, was the dog. The sensible choice would be to leave the dog. I had no idea how long I'd be gone or how inconvenient she would make things. But she looked at me and I looked at her, and I decided to bring her for purely selfish reasons. I was sad. Domino makes me happy. I scooped up the dog. (Which meant also throwing together a bag with food, dishes, toys, treats...)

There was a phone discussion with my brothers about who should tell Mom her brother had died, when to let her know I was on the way, etc. 

The greatest gift to me on this dark day of haphazard planning was that my daughter, Mona, offered to come along. Aden and Quinn are at their respective colleges, and we have a plan to collect them and bring them to Ohio for the upcoming funeral, but Mona lives above the violin store. We stopped there for me to give Ian instructions on the day's appointments, and she came down with a bag packed and ready to go. (She packs light, but she still brought her pillow.)

Mona and I hit the road. The dog curled up in the backseat on her bed. Somehow Domino always knows when it's a short trip or a long haul.

Perfect weather, but there was an inexplicable number of vehicles having problems on the side of the highway. We talked. We answered texts and calls. We listened to music on whatever CDs were in the car. We stopped to empty the dog and fill the tank. I bought gloves at the Indiana Visitor Center because they were only $4 and why not. We arrived by early afternoon and took turns hugging my mom.

In some situations there is not much you can do beyond being there. But being there is important.

I had a discussion about this with my kids not long ago.

We went to my mom's for Christmas, and I said we should also go down to Ohio for New Year's to see our relatives there if John and Charlotte would have us. John and Charlotte always have us. Turns out they were also hosting a giant (20 people?) football watching party with a sit down steak dinner on New Year's Eve that they failed to mention, but they didn't hesitate to fold us into all of that. We had a wonderful visit, and when we left John looked so sad. He thought we would be there an extra full day, but we needed to drive my mom back to Michigan before we could return to Milwaukee. 

Life is busy, travel is long, John understood. But he genuinely wanted all of us to stay longer. I told him we were overdue to spend real time in Ohio and would plan a trip for this summer. We tend to visit Ohio on the way to and from places like New York, but we wanted a dedicated Ohio trip to meet up with old friends and spend unhurried days in Marysville. John loved the idea. I'm glad I got to tell him I loved him and to hug him goodbye. You never know when the last time you'll see someone might be.

In January, my brother Barrett had a trip to Detroit planned with his son. My brother Arno decided to overlap with that visit and bring his daughter. I heard this and realized all five cousins had not been in one place since 2015 when Barrett's son was four months old and we were gathered for the death of my dad. 

We'd just done that whole trip for Christmas, but I told my kids we should go back out to Detroit for a day. I didn't want to impose all of us on their plans, but we had a place to stay downtown through a friend so we'd be out of the way, and we could gather the kids all together with their grandmother for an afternoon and maybe dinner. It was a lot, but it was more than worth it. Mona doesn't like to take time away from her work, so I knew she'd be a hard sell on another trip so soon, but I told her it mattered. I don't ask much, so I was asking this. She didn't argue.

Because it can't be the case that we only see each other at funerals (and possibly weddings). There has to be time to be together that is normal. There has to be space to build connections and get to know each other and have fun in an environment that doesn't require special clothes.

I used to take my kids out to New York for Easters with their cousin, and she would come out to our cottage in the summer. Things changed with the pandemic and as everyone got older, and staying in touch has gotten harder. Getting people together takes work.

A lot of that work used to be carried by my grandmother. She was a center of family activity. We all met in her home and ate at her table. My childhood memories are filled with visits to her house where we saw our aunts and uncles and cousins. That's been more difficult to arrange with her gone. John's house was the closest to that in terms of being a crossroads for lots of family.

I've tried very hard to make visits happen. It doesn't always work. But I want for my kids to have those family connections. I want them to know their relatives, not just hear stories about them, or be saddled with a vague sense of obligation based on family ties instead of love. It's a lot of work, a lot of driving, and a lot of scheduling, but being there makes a difference.

On the drive to my mom's, I was telling random stories about all kinds of people in my life and where I grew up. I needed to talk to keep myself from crying. We talked about what we loved about John.

And then Mona thanked me. She told me she appreciates my making family visits happen. She's grateful we got to see Uncle John one last time at New Year's. She's glad she got to spend time with all her cousins together in Detroit.

She knows it's important to be with one another other than at funerals. It's a rare moment to feel both appreciated as a mom, and also that I did good job being one.

Mona drove herself back to Milwaukee the next day. She had an appointment to make and it helps Ian to have the car available to get him and the kids to Ohio. Mona was here for the parts where she was most needed, and she will be back. She knows the value of being there for those she loves. That makes me proud. 

Solo

I'm preparing solo music for a funeral.

Twenty-some years ago, I was nearly always preparing music for weddings. Most of the time that was with a quartet, but I still had a binder at the ready to play alone if I had to. I played solo violin or viola for my brothers' weddings, and a few of my cousins'. I don't particularly like playing alone, so those performances were purely out of love.

I got out of wedding music work around the same time we opened the violin store, because the scheduling was impossible. Weddings are most often on Saturdays, and that's our busiest shop day, so it didn't work to do both. I miss playing regularly with a quartet. I don't miss playing weddings.

Now I have a funeral binder. I've reached an age where my peer group may be involved in the weddings of their children, but our parents are dying. 

I am grateful music is something I can offer to people I care about. Fresh grief is terrible. You can drift in and out of a kind of shock, and there are decisions to make when you are least interested in making them. But to be able to assure someone I can do the music for a funeral and they don't have to think about that at all feels useful in a way few other things can be at such a time. I'm always honored when people ask.

Music fills a space that relieves people from talking, interacting, or even thinking when they don't want to. People don't need to be rescued from sitting alone and listening to music, because music is company. It alters a space, and curates time.

There is some overlap in the wedding and funeral binders. Often slowing a piece down slightly and playing it more quietly is enough to move it from a celebratory sound to something more contemplative. The theme from Brahm's First Symphony, for instance, works nicely for a unity candle lighting or part of a march, but bring the tempo down a couple of clicks on the metronome and it's pleasant background at a memorial service.

The music I keep on hand for funerals tends to be simpler, primarily because there is not a lot of notice, and therefore less time to prepare. I have arrangements of pieces I used to teach my students, in addition to more advanced repertoire with small cuts over harder spots I might not have time to practice. Each piece has the amount of time it takes marked at the top so I can quickly adapt if I need something longer or shorter. There are places marked to repeat sections if I need to stretch something out.

I try to find a balance of music. There are pieces everyone knows and can name, such as Amazing Grace. There are pieces everyone knows and some can name, like Jesu Joy of Man's Desiring and Ave Maria. There are pieces usually only other musicians can name but sound familiar, including any unaccompanied Bach. And there are also obscure pretty things from the Baroque Era that I barely know what they are as I'm playing them. Those are important because pieces you recognize can catch your attention, and pieces you don't can provide a mental break where you can be comforted without being engaged directly. All the music at a funeral can't be somber, because all of the emotions at a funeral aren't somber. I find things with meaning, and things that are lighter and more animated. I mix all of these things up as feels right in the moment. 

Going through any binder of music stirs memories. 

There is the pair of Bourrees in the middle of the third Bach Cello Suite that always makes me think of my friend Heather. She's the most confident and dedicated violist I've ever known. We were roommates during a youth chamber guild concert series on Mackinac Island one summer when she showed me these Bourrees she had discovered at college and was enamored with. She liked to play the second one with a mute on, and she said she loved to practice them in a hallway at school that had a great echo.

There are pieces I taught to my students where I still hear my own advice to them in my head as I perform, and try to set a good example as I play.

There are pieces I worked on in college, and I still hear my teacher's advice to me as I play them, and try to do him proud.

There is a movement from a concerto that I got to play with an English teacher I adored who was also a pianist. We played for fun at his home and he agreed to play with me for my jury that semester, and it was one of the only performances in college where I was being judged that I wasn't nervous because I was enjoying myself.

There is Amazing Grace, which always makes me remember my grandfather. I was a teenager when he died and I last played that for him. That was forty years ago, and I remember his open casket, and the standing room only crowd that came to pay their respects. How different am I now compared to that child he knew? Would he even know me if he could somehow see me again? I feel like he would. I could use one of his hugs at any age. 

I played Amazing Grace again at my grandmother's funeral. She used to love to hear me practice, even though there are few things more cringe-inducing for a musician. I understand it, because I always liked hearing my own kids practice. It doesn't have to be perfect, it just has to be them. But when you are practicing you need to be free to make mistakes and potentially annoying sounds, and having someone there who actively wants to hear you practice feels akin to having them ask to watch you shower. It's embarrassing. But then, my grandmother used to help bathe me, too, once upon a time. I remember her washing my hair in the bathtub at her house as a child, and hilarity would ensue when their dog, Rusty, would sometimes appear and lick water off the edge of the tub. I miss my grandma every day. I would be thrilled to have her suffer through my practicing now if I could. 

Aside from general competence, the biggest differences I've found between students and professionals is dynamics, and the treatment of silence. 

When I used to have a teaching studio, I gave my students a handout about how to approach sight reading. The list of things musicians worry about when they look at a new piece of music is usually the reverse of what a listener responds to. Players fret about the right notes, then rhythm, bowings... the last thing they worry about is dynamics. But if you ask an audience to tell you what they noticed about a piece they just heard, they will tend to describe whether it was loud or soft first. So I always tried to direct my students to look at the dynamics before anything else. If they had to sightread for a judge, and they remembered to do any dynamics at all, they would stand out among everyone else at an audition. When I play at a funeral, most of my dynamic choices are dictated by the noise of the crowd. When there is a lull, it makes sense to take advantage of the quiet to play gentle pieces. I can play things at increased tempo and volume as the tempo and volume of the room rises.

Experienced musicians also know how to embrace silence. Students are scared of quiet. When I worked in the Music Cognition Lab at Ohio State, I was struck by the most common mistake young players made in our experiments. Almost universally, they could not hold the longest note for its full value in the piece we wrote for them to perform. It was only a half note, but they couldn't do it. They couldn't sit as the note decayed under their finger and let the time play out. They had to act, to interrupt the silence and move on, even though nothing about that would sound right if they were listening instead of doing. I find it's especially important when playing music at a funeral to be able to pause, and wait, and let the moment be. That's a bigger challenge when I'm playing alone, because anxiety is what makes you move too soon, and I find performing solo nerve-wracking.

I'm feeling the weight of loss lately. There are names in my address book that I come across when I do holiday cards that I can't bring myself to remove even though those people are no longer with us. There's nothing to send to my husband's mom anymore, or her aunt that we used to visit down in Illinois. My grandparents are gone. My uncle and aunt on my dad's side aren't with us to send pictures to. Several of my friends have lost parents, and a few have lost siblings. When my uncle passed away recently it was inappropriate for me to attend the funeral, and part of me may never get over that.

My father once told me while we were listening to a performance of And The Sheep May Safely Graze by Bach that he wanted me to play that at his funeral one day. 

But my dad didn't have a funeral. My dad's death in his home in the summer of 2015 was after more than a week of hospice where everyone who wanted to say goodbye did so in person, or wrote letters that we read to him aloud as they arrived. It was intense and complicated. There was anticipation of grief followed by deep sorrow, along with joy and humor and care. It was a profound time, and one that didn't need to be concluded with a traditional memorial gathering.

Except sometimes I am saddened that I didn't get to perform And The Sheep May Safely Graze on my viola in a space where the people who loved my dad could all be together to mourn his loss. It feels good to do something for someone who is gone, even if it's really for ourselves.

I didn't have any of my instruments with me when my dad died, because I literally dropped the tools from my hands at work when I received the call from my mom in the hospital, and I got straight into my car and drove to Michigan. I did play a little music by my dad's bedside on my brother's mandolin, but it didn't feel like what I had promised him years before.

Every funeral I play, I always add And The Sheep May Safely Graze. It reminds me of what the music is for, and helps me share the grief of those gathered whether I knew the person being remembered or not. 

It gives me a moment to play for my dad again.

It's not enough, but it's what I have to give. 

 

 

Dear Dad, 2024

Dear Dad,

This is the ninth Father's Day without you. Did I remember to call you on the last one in 2015? I hope so. I don't remember.

I was just glancing through pictures from back then, and it's odd to see how young Quinn was in particular. She was only eight when you died. There is such a world of difference between eight and seventeen. How much of you does she remember? So many of those memories must include your being sick or needing a walker. That's so unfair. I wish she had more experiences like mine, where you shared information about history and the world at the dinner table, surprised us with poems, dashed around city streets going from one gallery or bookstore to the next, always greeting me with a smile, and tucking a twenty dollar bill in my palm at every visit claiming it was overdue allowance. 

We never really got an allowance growing up, did we. There was a week where I remember I got a dime, and my brothers each got a nickel, and then there was a stretch where you had a stack of comic books you drew from once a week to mostly the boys because after my first couple of copies of Magnus the Robot Fighter, I lost interest. Then randomly in high school you thought twenty a month or a week was deserved for no reason I can think of. We had paper routes, so we didn't need it, but I liked the extra record money. I guess my approach to allowance with my kids has been the same. I'm happy to just get them what they need when they ask, or hand them money if they are going somewhere they might need it, but they seldom ask for anything. They have what they need. They don't feel entitled to more. I feel like my brothers and I grew up with that same sense. When I hear people say if you don't pay kids for chores they won't appreciate the value of money, I never buy it. I think it depends on the kids and the circumstances and the examples they see around them. The example I got was to make good choices, and books and art were among those.

So, let me think what I would update you on if I could call you this year.

I guess first is to let you know that Mom is okay. She had a scary fall down the front steps on her birthday back in October, and that was a mess. She broke her heel and had to be off her foot for months. It still hurts, and she's moving a little slow, but she's healed up remarkably well. Arno and Barrett and I took turns going out to help. She had lots of support from friends. Physical therapy made a difference, and she's back to her regular life as far as I can see. She's making beautiful work, including finishing up the project with the small cabinets to house books based on different trees. You'd be amazed. I know she still misses having you there to help her determine when a piece she's working on is officially done. All the current work is stunning. 

Mom actually told us a really funny story about you recently. We were in Pleasant Ridge for an unplanned evening (after touring U of M we were supposed to go straight to the cottage, but decided to visit Mom and stay there a night and she put together a meal so much more elegant and tasty than anything I could have done if given a week to think about it) and we started telling Dad stories. And she described how the first time she tried to cook for you in your apartment she opened the oven to find the smallest skillet she'd ever seen, and your response was, "Oh! I lost that six months ago!" She also said your cabinets were filled with empty boxes you found attractive, and things like a chipped teapot that couldn't be used but were all aesthetically pleasing. We may have a gathering later this year just to record everyone's stories about you (so they aren't lost like a tiny skillet in an oven).

The U of M tour was fun. We've taken four official college tours with Quinn so far: Beloit, Lawrence, U of I Chicago, and U of M. So that's two small schools in small towns, one small school in a big city, and a very big school. My inclination is to have Quinn not too far away so she still has access to things like home and the doctor she likes etc., and in a small enough environment that she doesn't fall through the cracks if she's not assertive. But big schools have advantages, too, I just worry. I just want her to have a good college experience. She doesn't know what she wants to study, but she's good at all subjects and loves to learn.

Quinn's a lot like you in many ways. She's quiet and serious and smart, but with a really wry sense of humor that takes people by surprise. She's particularly good at Spanish and art and writing, and of course geography still. She joined the debate club and the National Honor Society this past school year, and she also had a paid internship with some sort of sustainability company. She has nice friends, her grades are good.... The only thing I can think of to improve upon would be for her to practice piano regularly. I ask her every semester if she wants to continue lessons, because I know it's frustrating for both her and her teacher that she's not putting in the work, but she insists she wants to keep going. If she wants lessons she can have lessons, I just don't know what's happening from her point of view. Anyway, Quinn is lovely. It's easy to imagine how much you would enjoy going with us on college tours.

Mona's doing great. I wish you could see her art. I know you called her out as a genius many years ago, but her aunt recently said the same thing when we were in New York recently. I'm not entirely sure what's happening in her apprenticeship because she's very private about her life, but I know she loves the things she's learning and appreciates her teacher. There is so much more interesting stuff to know about tattooing than I ever realized, and she loves learning it all. I really think this path is a good fit. Plus she loves having her own apartment above the store, and she regularly pops in on us at home to hang out, especially now that Aden's home for the summer. I love seeing all the siblings together.

Aden's taking the slow path in college, which is fine by me. UW Stout is affordable, and she loves it, and she's still grappling with managing ADHD and anxiety and performing well in her classes. She's very good at what she's doing, and has won several awards so far, but turning in regular assignments, etc., is still a struggle. She's made some beautiful art, some of which I've had framed to hang in the house. Her current obsession is sea monkeys. Aden continues to be a delight, and I'm glad she wants to take advantage of being in  There are lots of classes she still wants to take, and I don't have any timeline she needs to fit into. 

How many years were you in school? Hamilton College, Univ of Geneva, Columbia, Wayne State.... I think I'm missing something. I have it in my head that you were at Teacher's College for a bit, but Mom disagrees. I know I wrote all of it down (your entire school and work history) on my laptop years ago where you gave us a hilarious blow by blow of many things, but that was one of the items lost when my computer crashed. I figure if anyone could see the value of taking your time to enjoy being in a learning environment while you can, it's you. So I tell Aden her grandpa would have approved, and to take whatever classes make her happy.

All three kids are so sweet and funny and kind. I worry about them and love spending time with them and wish you could visit with them. You would find each as fascinating as I do. 

Your other granddaughter loves college (of course) and is studying art history and anthropology. I hope I get to see her this summer, maybe at the cottage if we're lucky. Your grandson is bright, creative, funny, and surprising. He had his first cello lesson the other day, and if it sticks, I may wind up building one more cello after all. I really thought I was in the clear and would never need my cello form and templates again! But we'll see. He's one of the few people on Earth I would actually make a cello for.

Oh, and speaking of building, I was just in New York where a couple of my violins were part of a show of women luthiers! It was the second leg of a touring exhibit of instruments, and the showroom was just down the street from Carnegie Hall. You would have loved this trip SO MUCH. I wish you could have been at the makers' brunch with me and Mom and Arno, and I was on a panel talk that I think you would have enjoyed, and the concert that evening (all woman quartet playing music by women composers on instruments in the show) was amazing and you would have loved everything. It's impossible to walk around that city and not think of you with every step. We even walked all the way to the Cloisters on our last afternoon in town (which on my wonky knee was quite a feat). You made it to the Cloisters finally, didn't you? Wasn't that a running joke for a while that you kept meaning to get there, but somehow never did? The whole trip was wonderful, Arno's new office is great, their renovated apartment is incredible.... You should have been there. I wish you could have been.

Ian's good. He spent part of this Father's Day at the violin store running the rental charges. I've been really happy to see him use more of his retired-from-the-Army time to get involved in projects he's interested in, like his Wisconsin Association of Railroad Passengers group, and more Linux things. The other apartment above the violin store freed up, so we made it an office where he can set up the 3D printer, etc. I still need his help running the business, but I want him doing more of what he wants to as he can. Oh, and we're finally in the process of selling his childhood home. It's been two years since his mom passed away, and he agreed it wasn't good for the house or the neighborhood for it to just be sitting. Emotionally that's all still a lot, so I handled as much of that as I could. Losing a parent is awful, so I understood. I wish I didn't understand so well.

I'm trying to get myself unstuck with my writing projects. It's weird that for me being stuck has nothing to do with actual writing. I don't have any trouble writing and have never suffered with any kind of writer's block, but I have a need to finish a project before committing to the next, and the wedding novel has been stalled for years at this point, simply because I don't know what to do with it. I finally decided to send it to an editor and get professional advice. We'll see. She's had it for a couple weeks, which means in my head I feel like the whole book is garbage. Few things are worse than handing someone a book you wrote and then having to wait for them to read it. But it's a start, I hope! I just want to be unstuck and start playing with more of my projects.

Health wise, this year has been annoying. I feel like I was fine, and then I turned 55 and fell to bits. My right knee got all swollen and I couldn't walk for a few weeks. Physical therapy is helping, but yuck. I was kind of relieved when I found out the mandolin orchestra wasn't going to Spain this summer, because I don't think I could handle airports, etc. I'm on a CPAP machine now, which is stupid looking but I like sleeping through the night. I'm wearing aligners again because something was off with my bite. I had another biopsy, which was uncomfortable to say the least, but the results were benign. I have a thyroid check coming up, I need meds for my blood pressure, and I have another colonoscopy scheduled in about a month. I figure since colon cancer took both you and my grandpa, that's not something I can afford to ignore. That's too many things! I don't like going to the doctor. I have thoughts for when the last child is out of the house for getting both Ian and myself in a better eating and exercise routine, so maybe that will help with some of it.

I'm sure there was more I wanted to say, but I'm getting tired and I have a lot of work waiting for me tomorrow. I do miss our Monday chats. I don't reach for the phone anymore when I think of something to tell you, but I still think of things I would say all the time.

I miss you. I miss you so very much and it still hurts. Is there an age that's too old to just want your dad? If there is, I'm not near it yet.

Ha, the dog just came in to nudge me into petting her, and I make that same funny wgshkk! wgshkk! sound to her that you used to do to our cat and dog. Domino is such a cutie. She'd have let you pet her!

I love you, Dad.

Kory

How We End

Someone I love has been told they only have a matter of months to live. It is unlikely they will see the year 2025. They may not even see summer.

Many of us have played the hypothetical game in our head of what we would do if we were presented with such news. I have a feeling it's one of those scenarios that is not what we imagine. I remember thinking vaguely long ago that if I ever had a miscarriage that I would probably accept it logically and move on. Two miscarriages taught me otherwise. I also remember being in a gut wrenching situation with one of my kids where I pictured myself at one point being a weepy mess over a particularly hard decision, but when the time came I was simply relieved. When my grandmother died, I was incredibly sad, but I was also surprised to discover that I was set free from holding onto the idea of her as someone crippled by dementia. Since all of her lived in memory I could remember her at her best without betraying reality, and there was joy in that. So I have no idea what it really is to be told you have little time left on this earth.

My first thought about what I would do if given only months to live, has always been something like "Stop doing dishes." But maybe not. Maybe in reality I would embrace the ability to do that while I could. 

Would I focus on myself or others?

It seems like the most appropriate time to be selfish because who would judge you negatively for it? And yet the first thing that pops into my head would be to finish projects for my kids while I could. I've made a violin for both of my older girls, but the one for the last daughter is still in pieces on my bench. I think I would feel desperate to get that done. Along with photo projects, and letters, and making sure they knew the stories behind things I want to leave them. But maybe those pursuits are selfish in their own way.

In the past, I would have said the thought of being faced with a terminal diagnosis would inspire me to travel somewhere. To see something I've put off and always wanted to see. I've never been south of the equator. I've never been to Africa. But would I want to use a small amount of time to do something new or something I already know I love? I think I might resent every minute that I'm stuck in a plane on a runway if I could just be home.

I suppose that's a good measure of how well you're living your life, if you'd be happy with an average day as your last.

I love my life. I like the house we live in, even though there are still a million projects to do in it. I'm happy crawling into bed every night between my husband and my dog. I think at this stage in my life, I would be content to spend my last days at home, or maybe at our cottage my grandparents built. I know my grandfather in his final months spent as much of it at the cottage as he could. My grandmother died in a nursing home, but the last time I spoke to her, in her mind we were having that conversation on the cottage porch. It's a peaceful place.

I've often thought that if we won the lottery (somehow without playing) that I would keep my job. I love my job. I think I might stop doing cello work or bow rehairs, though, since those things tend to provide me with more frustration than joy. (Not because I don't enjoy doing them, they just both take up all my bench surface, which I can't stand. If I had a dedicated cello workspace, and a bow bench where I didn't have to put all those supplies away each time I switched back to instrument work, then I wouldn't mind it. So maybe I should be doing that now somehow?) If I were dying, would I keep working? Possibly. Some of my happiest moments have been spent sipping a cup of hot cocoa on a cold morning while sitting alone at my bench, looking out the windows, and deciding which repairs to tackle first. But maybe I wouldn't get that anymore even if I wanted it. I'd have to help figure out how to shut it all down or pass it on.

Part of me thinks I would like to scramble to put out whatever novel I'm working on. But I also know how much that takes me away from time with other people. That would probably be too big a sacrifice, unless I could convince people I love to hang out near me while I do it. I would hate to leave my books unfinished.

I know sometimes when you're sick, it can actually be harder on the people worried about you. No one likes to feel helpless. No one enjoys survivor guilt. How much would I get to selfishly be as angry and in pain as I really feel, and how much would I choose to spend my time and energy comforting my family and friends instead?

I think about how much it would mean to me to see this person one more time, and accept that the situation is complicated enough that such a visit may be too much of an imposition. They are not obligated to accommodate anyone at this time. I just want them to have whatever brings them comfort.

I like to think it's better to be given time to say goodbye and wrap up any loose ends that need tending. An unexpected end seems crueler. I remember when I was in violin making school, and I had a long commute every day, seeing a story about another driver dying on the freeway, his car crushed between two trucks. It really shook me. I kept thinking about how he likely had food in his fridge he had planned to eat, and maybe a book on his nightstand he'd never know the end to. What if you die wearing an outfit you can't stand? Sounds stupid, but I'd rather go in my favorite cozy sweater.

Contemplating death is very different now than it once was for me. There's something alluring about flirting with ideas of death when you're a teenager that doesn't have the same appeal once you have more days behind you than ahead. The list of people I've lost at this point is getting long. There is weight to those losses somehow. There are days I feel that weight, and it's all I can do not to cry at any given moment.

I dread the losses that are still to come. I feel like they haunt me on the periphery of my daily life. 

Because I think often of the days almost nine years ago when my dad was in hospice. There was so much love and laughter and sorrow and grief all tightly woven together, and we all said we would learn from it. I knew better. I wanted it to be true that we would make more time for each other, and not let the days slip by so easily that years could pass without being able to hug the people that matter, but I knew real life wouldn't allow for that. We get distracted. We get busy.

And in some ways that's all right. That's what life is, the day to day bits and pieces. Being able to make your own breakfast and walk the dog and hang out with someone in front of the TV and wearing a favorite shirt and anticipating the comfort of the pillow you like at the end of the day. 

Hug people while you can. Love them while you can. And remember that the little things are actually the greatest things. If tears are how we know we care, at least I know I care a lot.

Dear Dad (2023)

Dear Dad,

So much to tell you about this year!

First, some general updates on the kids, which is the thing I most miss being able to talk to you about. 

I can't believe when you died they were only 13, 11, and 8. That was half Quinn's life ago at this point. There is such a world of difference between those ages, and 21, 19, and 16. I mean, could you have imagined Mona with a driver's license? She's still the only kid who has one, although Quinn is doing a good job in driver's ed and should have no trouble passing her test when she's ready. We need to bug Aden about finally taking her test again, even though she's not keen on driving. Mona seems to like it, and Quinn is getting more comfortable behind the wheel. 

Anyway, Aden loves her college, but she's been struggling. I think we missed catching that she likely had ADHD and anxiety issues when she was growing up, and now there are bigger complications with that at a college level. It's so hard to know sometimes what things are typical kid problems, and what things run deeper. All kids have bouts of laziness and bad time management, but how are you supposed to tell that from something parenting alone can't correct? We're working on some things with a therapist over summer to see if we can get her to a more confident place come fall. Aden is so talented and kind and lovely... It hurts to watch her not be able to do the things she wants to do. Regardless, she's managed to grow up quite a bit in her couple of years away at school. 

I'm glad Aden's home this summer. Although she's living in the downstairs nook, since Mona has kind of taken over their whole room. I know for Aden that home does not feel the same as it used to. That's such an odd transition, isn't it? When I visit Detroit, the house is still home, but there's really nothing there that's mine now. And yet, when I lie in the guest bed in my old space, I still recognize the patterns on the wooden door and the way the light shifts in the room. Somehow that's enough to feel like I belong.

Aden's been doing some nice print work. A lot of art schools have apparently abandoned print making, but not Stout. She does some adorable animation. The best news recently was that apparently one of the big video game design studios is now in Madison, which would be nicer for an eventual job than maybe all the way out in California. (At least for her mom.) She's hoping to spend time with friends up at the cottage before going back to school. Her new housing assignment will include a real kitchen and a private room, and she's looking forward to cooking again, and more privacy. She's playing a lot of a game called Tears of the Kingdom. She still has the bluest eyes you've ever seen.

Things for Mona have begun to turn in a good direction! She's been frustrated with her unfruitful job searches and was feeling stuck, but she's now on track to apprentice with the new tattoo shop opening across the street from the violin store soon. She had a great interview, they loved her work, and she's prepared to put in the hours and effort to learn those new skills. Mona will also be moving into the Airbnb space above the shop, so that will be a short commute. I think it's a good fit. She'll get to create art that's personal to people that they literally carry around with them everywhere, and make a good enough living to still pursue other avenues with her art as she likes. I'm excited for her.

The biggest adjustment to her moving out may be less of not having her around (since I'm sure she'll still come to the house and hang out from time to time), but more of the bird being gone! I can't picture that corner of the dining room without Keiko. He's so loud! And present. And lately he's been hanging out in a tinier cage next to the TV so as we watch things, he watches us. (And tells us that he's an adorable Keiko bird.) You never got to meet Keiko, but you'd have liked him. I wonder if seeing him would have reminded you of stories of your own birds that maybe you hadn't told us before.

Mona's sewing some beautiful things lately. Things far more intricate and professional looking than I ever came up with. We got her a really nice straight stitch machine. Apparently the better the machine, the fewer things it does, and this one does straight stitching really fast and well. I think what sold her on it was the extra arm that you can use to lift the sewing foot with either your elbow or your knee, so you can keep your hands on your work by the needle to spin it, etc. Saves Mona a ton of time. She's got an Etsy shop, and she works diligently to fill orders. You'd be as proud as I am of how hard she works. I'm already looking forward to updating you next year on how it all goes.

Quinn is good! She is SO relaxed and happy compared to a year ago. Remember how reserved she was, even back at 8? Like, not so much shy (which she is), but like she had her guard up a little all the time. Now that she is able to be herself in the world, she still spends a lot of time in her room and she'll never be an extrovert, but she moves differently, with a grace that wasn't there before. It's like she can breathe. I love it.

It's a scary time for trans-people right now, particularly kids, but so far Quinn's had nothing but support. I have friends in states that aren't so lucky. I'm grateful for her school and her doctor, and that even the people at the social security office who helped get her gender marker changed were happy to help.

She's doing well in all her classes (particularly Spanish), she continues with piano in a sluggish way but insists she doesn't want to quit, and she wishes she weren't so tall but otherwise is just quietly being Quinn. She's in charge of having dinner on the table at 6:00 when I get home from work four nights a week (which she does with the aid of a Hello Fresh box).

My favorite thing with Quinn is that during the school year, I get to straighten her hair every Sunday night. She has lovely waves in her hair, so of course she wants them gone. I miss the physical contact you have with smaller children that evaporates when you have teens. Getting to put on a movie and play with Quinn's hair for about 90 minutes while we watch something together is something I look forward to each week.

Speaking of missing smaller children, we got ourselves a baby-sized dog! I needed her. I really craved having something to scoop up who was excited to see me in a way that doesn't happen when your children are bigger. Ian was a holdout on the idea of a new dog after Chipper died, and periodically I'd ask him if I could start looking, and he wasn't ready. But then Quinn said she wanted a dog, and of course Ian relented. Now we have our little Chihuahua-rat terrier mix, Domino. You would love her. Everyone loves Domino. And this dog would have happily let you pet her all you wanted. Mona and I even flew with her to New York where we stayed with Arno and Deepanjana, and by the end of the trip she was doing the subways like a local dog. I got some nice pictures of her by the Nick Cave mosaics in one of the stations. (You'd have liked those, along with the Chuck Close ones.)

Arno and Deepanjana are doing the best I've ever seen them. Their lives are more than I can adequately describe, but they are thriving. And Ellora got into her dream school! She loves Berkeley, and is currently doing work in Madagascar. The newly expanded apartment is honestly the nicest place in New York as far as I'm concerned. Crazy that after Ellora moved away that they finally have extra space and a second bathroom.

Barrett and Dosha are doing great, too. Barrett's soon-to-be-published book is so good! It's filled with Mom's drawings, and he even found a way to include a picture of my viola. I don't know if that's the instrument I would have wanted to represent me in a published book, but that instrument has cochineal in the varnish which is what he needed. (I just remind myself that people interested in cultural entomology are not going to be scrutinizing my lutherie skills the way violin makers would, so it will be fine. But that's the viola I made for myself when Ian was deployed, and the only time I had to carve was after midnight and between newborn feedings so its claim to fame is that it exists at all.)

Rivyn is amazing. It just hit me that he's the age now that Quinn was when you died. That's kind of mind boggling. That little baby you got to hold briefly in those last few days at home has grown up to be imaginative and funny and is such a delight. He cycles among several interests and is better read at this point than most of the adults I know. I wonder how much of Barrett you'd see in him and what elements would be completely new.

Ian is well, but he's still adjusting to the passing of his mom. It's been a year. He's still undecided about what to do with the house out in Portland. I get it. After grandma died, I realized I couldn't drive by her old house without feeling a lot of pain. There's something deeply awful about being severed from a place that was once a close part of you and your story. I don't know if once Ian lets go of his childhood home if that's the last we'll see of it. I don't know if when someday we have to let the house in Pleasant Ridge go if I'll ever see it again, or if that whole neighborhood will just be gone from my life. It's a jarring, unpleasant thought. I don't know if there's a way for Ian to resolve any of that in his situation that doesn't hurt, so in the meantime it just gets postponed. Grief is hard. Grief is persistent. 

Mom's done a lot of traveling this year. She spent a few weeks in India and had an incredibly nice time, then she and I got to travel to Austria! What an amazing trip. She got to hear my mandolin orchestra perform in Graz, and in Salzburg. I made her watch The Sound of Music before we left because we were in some of the places that appeared in the movie. Somehow Mom had gotten to this point in life and not seen it before. I feel like you must have watched that movie, right? I saw it as a kid, so someone must have been there. (I guess this goes on the list of questions that it's too late to ask.) Mom's amazing. Her work is more beautiful than ever, she's busy. She misses you, of course, but is doing okay. Still the best cook ever. Every time she serves us a meal I think about asking you in that book of questions what your favorite food was, and you wrote "anything Karen makes."

I'm doing okay. I'm frustrated (as usual) with my lack of progress on book stuff, but will make time soon (I hope) to sort it out. The store is really busy, and I need to make time to work on the commissioned instruments on my bench. My health is fine, which I don't take for granted, and we have what we need.

I miss calling you on Mondays. I miss curling up with you to try and help with your crossword puzzles. (I know I was never any help, but occasionally there was a Star Trek clue that made me feel useful.)

Hey, I'm not crying this year as I type this. Is that some kind of progress? I don't know. It's probably good that I can think of you in a similar way to how I think of people who are still here, and not focus almost solely on your being gone. But I really really miss you. What I wouldn't give for one more hug from my dad this Father's Day. You gave great hugs.

I love you, Dad.

Kory

Dear Dad, 2022

Dear Dad,

Wow, what a year. We’re in this weird phase of moving out of the pandemic, while the pandemic is also still here. The beauty of being vaccinated, though, is hospitalization and death seem off the table. Long Covid is still a concern (I know too many people suffering with that to take it lightly), but the fear has lifted. Now it’s just an annoyance. I’m tired of masks. I’m tired of takeout rather than eating in restaurants. I’m tired of the social stress of people behaving without care for others and the divisions it causes. (Someone actually stuck a flyer on the door of the violin shop by the sign saying we require masks condemning our “virtue signaling.” That was just cowardly and rude.)

But the exciting thing about life getting back to something closer to normal is we get to do stuff again! There are concerts to play, and people to see.

The event where I thought about you most was when Mom and I went to Venice. Dad, we went back to Venice! But this time I got to play a concert there with my mandolin orchestra. I wish you could have heard us. You’d have loved it. We played against a backdrop of Tintoretto paintings. It was wonderful to have a chance to travel with just Mom for a week in Italy like that, but you would have loved it so much. The food, the canals, the gelato, the art, the endless places to wander. . .  You wouldn’t have kayaked with us, though. Mom and I would have waved to you as we paddled and you stayed in your suit and tie on a nice civilized path alongside the water. But oh, Dad, you would have loved all of it.

The garden back in Detroit is looking amazing. I don’t know how Mom does it. Our yard is such mess! Literally, right now, because we had a new deck put in, and the old pile of deck garbage is still here. The new fence doesn’t go up for another week or so. But it’s so nice to be in the backyard! I’m sitting on the new deck right now in the shade of the beech tree, perfect temperature, nice breeze, no fear of rotting boards giving way underneath me and sending me to my doom. We even strung some lights from the garage to the terrace above the new deck the way I always meant to and never did. We might repaint the mural on the garage wall from a dozen years ago. Quinn in particular feels it's time to paint something much better. Mona has ideas.

I got to do the varnish workshop again, finally. I still had those three instruments in the white I bought to use in 2020 before the pandemic shut everything down. And I had three instruments of my own to varnish, so that was fun. (I don’t think I’ll build three instruments at the same time anymore. Two is plenty. Three gets overwhelming.) I built a violin for Mona that she doesn’t want, but I’m glad I did it anyway. The little bird Aden drew on the back of the scroll came out cute. The violin sounds nice! I still need to make one with simpler wood for mom to paint. That’s one of the many projects that never quite seems to happen, but I do want to make a violin in the white for mom to decorate. That would be cool. I wish I could have done that with you, too! I’m trying to picture how fast you would get that done. It would be funny, because my part, building the instrument would take months, and then you would paint something amazing in under ten minutes and that would be the only thing anyone would comment on or praise. (And that would have been fine.)

Which reminds me, I did an internet search not long ago for your ties. I think often about all those ties you painted in that sweatshop in Brooklyn and there have to be some of those still out there in the world. I feel certain I would recognize your work if I saw one, but who knows? Mona and I went through a portfolio of Mom’s old prints from early in your marriage and before, and it’s fascinating to see what elements of her style have persisted, and what things are hard to recognize as her hand. Maybe those ties of yours don’t resemble what I think of as your work. Maybe I’ve passed one on the street and didn’t know.

Writing is weirdly stalled. I need to buckle down for one more edit on my latest novel, and figure out what I’m doing. I feel if I play the numbers game, I have a shot at a traditional publisher. But maybe I’d like the control better of staying indie and just investing in real marketing for a change. Or maybe creative control but with some support from a hybrid publisher is the way to go. I don’t know. All the non-writing bits of writing gets really discouraging and frustrating. But I like the new book. It’s fun. (And wouldn’t make you weep like the first one did!)

I think the oddest thing at the moment that I wish I had you here to talk about is the transition away from having kids in the house. We spent so many years where everything was centered around the needs of our kids, and scheduling things based on school calendars, or having to base so many meals adjusted to boring palates. . . And now they are essentially all grown up and it’s wonderful in new ways, but very different. Ian and I actually have to figure out what we want to do. We’ve spent a long time tag teaming to get things done, but now we can do things together again. So there are good things which are exciting, but it’s also a bit sad. I’m looking back on all their childhoods and wondering if it was okay. I don’t get a do-over. Maybe it wasn’t enough. I tried, though. I really did try.

I keep thinking there will be some relief at least in not being responsible for all of them in front of me all the time, but then I think about that lunch at your house where Alit was over. She’d just had her first child, and she said she had been experiencing nightmares where she was scared for the baby or didn’t know where she was and was panicked, and you looked at her sadly and said, “That never goes away.” So I’ve thought ever since that I should be prepared for that to be the case.

Luckily, though, at the moment it doesn’t seem to be. Aden finally got to leave for her first year of college, and when I don't hear from her, it means she's happy and busy. At the moment, Aden’s off being a camp counselor to six and seven-year-olds. She loves it. She found the job herself, and she’s teaching little kids art, and seems to be really enjoying everything. She loved her first year of college. There were a couple of complications, but you know what? She handled it all herself and did fine. She loves UW Stout. She’s made good friends. She’s adorable and sweet and making beautiful things. Aden’s even in a print club where they did some giant woodcut pieces that they printed on fabric using a steamroller! How fun is that? Anyway, she’s amazing. She’s still magical. All blue eyes and happy laughs and funny and kind. Just like the tiny girl you remember, only taller. I really miss her. I was supposed to have a week with her between college and camp, but then Ian’s mother died, and she agreed to go with her dad to Portland to help him sort out the house and the estate stuff. I don’t know if she was helpful in a practical sense, but the emotional support she gave Ian was invaluable. With a little luck she’ll be home for a week or two at the end of the summer, but that seems like a long time away. We have lots of Star Trek to binge together whenever she gets back.

Speaking of Ian, he’s doing okay. I think he’s still in a bit of shock after losing his mother so unexpectedly. The stress of managing the house in probate, etc., is a bit much. I’m trying to help where I can. But I know what it’s like to lose a parent, and there’s really only so much anyone can do. That’s just a hole in your life that never gets filled. You learn to walk around the hole or face away from it sometimes, but it’s always there. I feel like the yard that is my life has a few big holes at this point, and maybe when there’s nowhere left to walk that’s how you know it’s time to go.

I wish you were here to talk with Mona. She finished high school a semester early, and graduated 6th in her class! You’d have been so proud, but you wouldn’t have had a ceremony to watch. She tried a semester of college online through UWM, however it was awful and turned her off of college entirely. I keep telling her that that wasn’t college, that was sitting at our dining room table watching assigned YouTube videos, and she should do a real semester of art school somewhere in person before she makes up her mind if that’s of any value or not. I feel like she might have listened to you. She did apply to Pratt based on the idea that you thought she should go there when she was only 11. You loved college so much (14 years of it? Am I remembering that right?) and you would have had lots to tell her about why she should give it a go. She’s not really listening to me, so nothing I say gets through. If you were still around, I would find a way to send the two of you off to Paris for a bit, and you could give her the tour you once gave the St Paul School boys, and you could draw together and see all the museums, and I would be satisfied that that was enough of an education if she still didn’t want to do school. She is focusing in on jobs and putting together a resume. The most enticing plan of the moment is to set her up in Nancy’s house in Portland and let her get a fresh start in a new state, but with housing and transportation covered so there is a cushion while being far from home. We’ll see. I know she will be fine. It’s just hard to see her so anxious while she’s living in a time of unknowns. But damn I wish you could see her work. She’s so good. She won the Racine Art Museum Peep contest this year with her Peepzilla, so her sculpture abilities are as strong as ever, but her ink drawings are mind blowing. I would give anything for you could see.

Quinn came out as trans recently. She surprised us with a cake that was the trans-pride flag inside. Not that the news was a surprise, just the cake. Remember all those conversations we had when she was only two and insisted she was a girl? Changed her name and everything for a couple of years? I know you thought I was being overindulgent and not helping her in the world by going along with it at the time. But now I’m wishing I’d advocated more for her earlier. It’s so hard to know. She needed to come into herself in her own way and her own time, so maybe an official coming out did have to wait until now. I don’t know. But I’m really proud of her for being so courageous. This country is so cruel to trans-people, and the rhetoric is so nasty, that I’m already fearful about places she can’t go and be safe. As if anyone has anything to fear from someone as sweet as Quinn! I wonder how you would have handled her coming out? I suspect it might have taken some adjustment (heck, I will be stumbling over pronouns for a while out of habit), but I also picture you doing some amazing drawing full of rainbows and weird birds to send her in celebration. I know your love would never have wavered. There’s nothing not to love about Quinn. I’m hoping the fact that her entire family is in her corner will help what will likely be a complicated path. I’m going to smooth it as best I’m able.

Well, the lights above the new deck have switched on in the dusk, and the bugs are far too interested in my laptop screen. Time to wrap this up.

I love you, Dad. That never changes. I hate that you didn’t get to go with Ellora on her tour of colleges (I can’t imagine anything that could have made you happier!), or that we can’t really tell you she got into Berkeley. I hate that you don’t get to see how little Rivyn (not so little now at seven!) is a bundle of creative energy like his father and such a pure delight. You would be amazed at the beautiful work Mom is doing lately. She told me she misses how she always counted on you to look at a piece and be able to tell her when it was done. It feels unfair that life goes on and you’re missing some wonderful things. But life isn’t fair.

I love you. Happy Father’s Day. I will try to make you proud even though you can’t see.

Love, Kory

Death Of My Mother-In-Law

My husband's mother recently passed away. We're not exactly sure when. Ian called her on Mother's Day, and she didn't pick up, which wasn't unusual for her. A couple of days later he got a call from her doctor's office saying she didn't appear for a post-surgery followup. He called a neighbor to check on her. The neighbor found Nancy dead in bed.

It was sad breaking the news to the kids. They called her "Oma," which was the name she picked for herself when she became a grandmother as a means of differentiating herself from my mother. Aden and Quinn were at home, so they were told in person. Mona had just left that morning for a summer job in a different county, and we had to tell her over a bad phone connection. They were all somber. But Oma has always been a somewhat remote figure in their lives living all the way on the West Coast, so I don't know if they really knew how to feel. I'm not exactly sure how to feel, because it hasn't really sunk in for me yet that she's gone.

Nancy was many things. She was generous. She was curious. She was adventurous in that she traveled to more places than anyone else I know, but then also led a predictable and simple life at home. She managed to get a good city job in the planning department in an era when I don't imagine that was easy to come by for a single mother. She was a teacher, at one time in a one-room schoolhouse in California, and until recently a tutor in English as a second language. She was thoughtful. I never heard her raise her voice or say anything mean about anyone (short of a few politicians). She was practical, preferring often to eat out of reusable food containers than regular dishes. She liked heating her house with a wood stove when possible. She seemed unconcerned about other people's judgement, wearing what she liked, and was unapologetic about her tastes and interests. She loved colorful things, clever woodworking from the Saturday Market, shiny souvenirs, Hawaiian pizza, dangly earrings, maps, Jeopardy, and skiing. She drove a stick shift most of her life and always named her car. (In the last several years she drove a Prius.) Most importantly to me, she did an excellent job of raising her only son into the man I love. Her example taught him self-reliance, and respect for women as equals.

The thing Nancy prized over all else was her independence. Her childhood home was not pleasant. She didn't associate family with joy, and the responsibilities that family can impose she did her best to see as her choice rather than as an obligation. She was incredibly good to her brother, nieces, and nephew. She was certainly good to us.

However, Nancy seemed most satisfied with doing things apart from family. She had friends, and activities, and routines, but we were only allowed to know about them superficially. She reminded me very much of the way teenagers only give one word answers to their parents so as to keep their private lives private. The kinds of questions I might ask my own family felt more like prying with her. She preferred we didn't intrude, so we had to be content with some things being left unanswered. I don't believe it was anything against us, but a pleasure she took in being owner of her life. 

I did have the opportunity to get to know her a bit better on a road trip she joined me and Ian on back in the late 90s when I needed to deliver a viola I'd made to a player out in New York. When Ian's not driving, he tends to sleep on long car trips, so Nancy and I had many hours together just to talk for a change. I learned a lot that explained why the two of us navigated family events and interactions so differently. I find my family a source of inspiration and peace. Growing up, she found hers something to overcome. She told me once of a pivotal moment when she was 18 and had graduated from high school, and while driving her car came to a literal fork in the road where she could go back to a home she disliked, or pick a new road and create a different life. She picked the new road and never looked back. That was Nancy.

The fact that when she found herself pregnant she was able to make all the sacrifices it took to create a settled life for a baby is impressive to me, since raising a child is the opposite of freedom. But she did it. She kicked out the man whose unreliable behavior could not be tolerated around an impressionable child. Ian's dad died when Ian was only three. Nancy was a single mom in the 1970s and somehow managed everything on her own. No support from family. No resources except what she could find by herself. She raised her son to be capable and independent, as well as ethical and kind. (Although, having enjoyed much of the hippy culture of the 60s, I don't think she ever knew what to make of Ian's decision to join ROTC. Teenage rebellion takes many forms.)

Nancy worked for decades as a city planner in Portland OR. It wasn't a coincidence that when light rail was installed, there was a convenient stop near her house. She was incredibly smart about her finances so that she could provide for her little family of two. To say her home was modest is an understatement. But she provided as many opportunities for her son as she was able, including getting him into an expensive Montessori school with a scholarship.

The only place she splurged when she could was travel. Reading of her adventures in every Christmas letter was always surprising.

We wished more of her travels had led her here while her grandchildren were growing up, but we did manage a family trip out to Portland a summer before the pandemic hit. We'd taken the kids out there once before when they were small, so this was the first time we were able to really show them around. I'm glad we did, since we had no idea it would be our last opportunity for such a visit. Nancy somehow found space for all of us in her tiny home and our kids got a sense of where their dad grew up, and got to know their Oma a little better in person instead of from afar.

Nancy was one of the few people to read all three rough drafts of my novels when I first wrote them long ago. That's a lot to ask of anyone, and I appreciated it more than I think she knew.

I can't think of anyone who lived a life somehow so completely on their own terms and yet unselfishly the way my mother-in-law did. She never neglected a birthday or forgot to send things for the kids to open under the tree every year. She used a lot of her time volunteering at the art museum and the science center after she retired, and I wish I knew just how many adults she helped learn to speak and read English. She lived the life she wanted while also helping many. Not enough of us can say that.

Literally in the end, she went the way she wanted to go. Her health and cognitive function were starting to slip into a state where her independence was threatened. As much as she loved her son (and there's no doubt she loved her son), the last thing she wanted was for him (or anyone) to be involved in her care or decision making. She always intended to die as she lived: On her own terms. Her spiraling health concerns simply brought her down more rapidly than we were expecting, but maybe not earlier than she was ready for.

So as sad as it was to learn that she died in her sleep at home, it also wasn't tragic. The "when" was too soon. The "how" was exactly what she would have preferred.

Nancy was unique. I hope she enjoyed her life. She will be missed.

Dear Dad, 2021

Hi Dad. I miss you.

It's been almost six years. I know because your youngest grandchild is six. I haven't seen him in over a year because of the pandemic, but in pictures he's looking so big compared to that tiny baby you got to hold before you died.

Six years is a long time, but on the upside, I can now talk about you at some length without bursting into tears. I'm able to share stories about you with my kids that make them laugh or smile without it also bringing me down. That doesn't mean your absence isn't still difficult, but grief is strange like that. I've adapted to it. Although that sometimes means it hits me in a wave at an unexpected time.

This year is looking up compared to last year at this time. I'm actually surprised by how quickly we're able to go back to normal in a lot of ways, considering how practiced we got at our socially distanced protocols. Things are opening up instead of closing down. It's amazing what it does for your attitude to know you could go out and do something, even if you stay home anyway.

But this Father's Day we did go do something! Mom is here (after a visit to LaCrosse) and we got tickets for all of us to the Milwaukee Public Museum. We have a membership, but you need timed tickets as part of their Covid protocols. Plus we all wore masks, which is no big deal at this point. We mostly wanted to see all of our old favorite displays before the museum moves in a few years. Things like the giant T-Rex eating a Triceratops in that spooky storm setting probably won't survive because they are out of date with current science, but it's fun to visit while we can and remember how nervous it used to make Aden when she was little. We even had the fun on this trip of introducing a family to the hidden snake button. (No kid should go to the Public Museum without getting to push the snake button.)

Last year when I wrote you, Aden was getting ready for her first year of college. That's where we still are, because she wound up deferring both semesters. Covid not only made us nervous, but it made the college experience look really rather abysmal. But our whole family is now fully vaccinated (YAY!) and things are looking up for fall. I think things will be normal enough at Stout again that it will be worth going. The silver lining in the deferrals is that not only did I get an extra year with Aden at home (which I've really appreciated), but she kind of has the fear of leaving home out of her system now. She's had a LOT of home lately, and is ready to move on. It's nice to see her excited rather than nervous. I think she's going to enjoy college.

Mona finished her virtual Junior year fifth in her class. Virtual school has been a mess for many, but a boon for Mona. She's on track to graduate early, and I'm trying to convince her to go back to in person learning for her last semester. I think she needs friends and socializing and time out of the house, but she wants us to sign her up for the continued virtual option. We'll see. Mona remains complicated in many ways, and it's hard to know sometimes if we actually know what's best for her. Currently she's excited about applying to art schools, both near and far, and she's been using the studio at the violin store to work on pieces for her portfolio. I wish you could see it.

Quinn graduated from Fernwood and will be moving on to Rufus King High School in the fall. He may have to take a city bus there, so that's something we still have to figure out. After a year of virtual schooling, he's ready to be in person. He did get to do the last month or so of eighth grade in person, but it was still odd with masks, and partitions at lunch, etc. The graduation was weird. It was held in the Bay View High auditorium so we could all spread out. The one part of the ceremony I was really looking forward to was the slideshow of the photos. Each kid was supposed to submit a baby picture, a slightly older picture, and a current picture, and they would show them on a big screen to music. It's fun to see how each kid has grown. And I submitted photos for Quinn twice! Both times under the wire--first time by email, second time by text as requested. So I was, um... disappointed when on the screen under his name they had to use a stick figure as a stand in because the pictures somehow didn't go through. Oh well. (It's kind of funny, and I have it on video.) 

Anyway, Quinn is now the tallest person in the house, and definitely has the longest hair. He's still smart and funny and sweet. He'd give you a good run for your money at Scrabble. (Remember when he tried playing with us when he was really really little, and he put down "Japon" and we had to explain that "Japan" wasn't spelled that way, but more importantly you couldn't use proper nouns? He was so embarrassed. We should have just let him play whatever he wanted, but he would have been upset with us later for not making him stick to the rules. He still likes rules.)

Ian likes not being in the Army anymore. I definitely like him not being in the Army anymore. He's doing a great job running the building and keeping the finances in order at the shop. I married a good man, Dad. I remember how you had your doubts twenty-something years ago when I told you we were getting married. That upset me until I talked to Grandma about it, and she just smiled and said, "Do you think there is any man you could pick that your father will believe is good enough for you?" I know you came around eventually, but I thought you'd like to know it's still good, and we're happy we're together.

Business is busy. I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed lately because there is so much to do, and I'm about to lose my assistant. She only came up about twice a month to work, and I know that's not enough to count as really putting a dent in my workload, but it was nice to occasionally not have to do everything. It's hard doing everything. But I am grateful to have a job that survived the pandemic. I just keep hoping at some point I'll catch up on all the work at the store, and have more time for the projects I need to finish on my bench at home. I put in long hours, but never seem to get there.

But there's lots to pay for coming up, so I should just be grateful for the work. Besides college to fund starting this year, our deck out back is falling apart, and we have to replace it this fall. Remember how weird that deck is? At first glance people always think it's great, but it's ridiculous. Too many levels accomplishing too little. And it's just rotting all over and is officially a hazard. The new design should be scaled down, but with more space that's actually usable. We'll see. We really didn't want one more big project right now, but we don't really have a choice. (Short of not stepping outside the back door anymore to be safe.)

Chipper died back in March. That was hard. He was such a weird little thing. I know it made you sad that you couldn't pet him. I wish there had been a way to explain to his little doggie brain that he didn't need to fear all men. Anyway, I think of him most when I'm in the kitchen. I was used to him planted at my feet with that hopeful look on his face as I chopped things. I miss him being underfoot, and I miss his wanting me to scoop him onto the bed in the mornings. Did you have moments when you missed Anna? She was a weird dog, too, and I know you and mom were relieved not to have to factor her into your schedules anymore once she died, but wasn't it kind of nice having a dog? Someday we'll get another one, but not soon. That freedom from one more responsibility is definitely nice, but I miss having something to pet when I sit on the couch.

Writing is sort of stalled. I need to get the last project wrapped up before I can put my brain into the space of the next one, and I'm sort of stuck as I send out queries and wait to hear back from people. I hate waiting for other people to do things when I want to move forward. But I do still need to do a full couple of rounds of editing, so I have to make time for that. I wish you could read the new novel! I miss your proofreading skills, although Barrett (and occasionally Arno) has been wonderful for that.

You know what you would have loved? Visiting college campuses with Ellora. Arno described to me their process of visiting potential schools, which in pandemic times means no tours, just wandering outside of buildings and getting the general vibe of an area. They visited Yale and Amherst and Harvard, etc. It sounded like a lot of fun, and right up your alley. We still haven't seen Aden's college! I'm taking Aden up in August for her orientation, so we'll see it then. It has me thinking back to when you and I visited Oberlin. Remember how the dorm I was supposed to stay it looked too freaky, so I ended up in your hotel room instead? I liked that trip. I feel like we didn't have enough trips together like that, but I don't know when we would have had the chance.

What else would you want to know about this past year. . . Politics improved a bit. Trump is out and Biden is in, and I don't miss the daily weight of panic that the news used to bring. The Middle East is still on the brink of mayhem, racism is still a dire issue, environmental reports and mass shootings usually make me want to cry, but at least there are grownups in charge again, so I don't feel desperate about breaking news every hour. You would find so much to clip in the papers, some of it better.

My orchestra gets to play in the new fancy hall this coming season! I wish you could come! I'm still glad you got to hear me play in that Russian concert back in the Pabst several years ago. That was a good concert. I'm lucky to get to play with such talented people. I discovered during the pandemic that if I don't have something specific to prepare for, I don't take my instrument out of the case. So I guess my idea that my viola should be on my "if stuck alone on a desert island" list isn't a good one. 

Aden and Mona got to take a trip to New York to spend a couple of weeks with Arno! I drove them out there and stayed a few days to help get them acclimated, but then they were on their own to learn to navigate the subway system, etc. It was a good growing experience for both of them. They learned things about themselves and each other that were surprising. Mona even called me one night to say that she hadn't realized how much I usually facilitated certain conversations, and that she was having trouble finding things to talk about with her sister. Without someone there to dictate the plans, etc., they had to negotiate between themselves, and they have very different ways of moving in the world that don't always mesh. I know it upset them both not to be in sync, but it's part of learning to be with others. I think it was good for them, even when it was hard.

My kids are getting so grown up, Dad. I mean, Aden's going to be 20 this year. 20! It's simultaneously really young and really old. I don't know how to process it some days. How did you deal with it when I moved away? I remember my friend Alit saying at lunch at your house after she had her first baby how she was having nightmares about something happening to her child out in the world, and she wondered when that goes away. You said it didn't.

What were your worries? Were there any moments where you felt more reassured that I was doing all right? Knowing my girls made it to and from Central Park on their own made me happy. Aden's actually been using the bus since she returned to Milwaukee, because now that doesn't seem daunting compared to NYC. I hope the world is kind to them so I don't have to worry too much.

Sheesh, I feel there is a lot more I should be telling you, but my mind is sort of blank. The pandemic stuff made everything blurry and flat. It's hard looking back on the past year and to put anything in any order, or see anything as significant. Maybe next year's update will be more exciting! I would say for this year, things are okay. Life is never easy, but I have what I need. You don't need to worry. I hope part of this reality is that your nightmares are over.

I love you.

Happy Father's Day.

Kory