I take an exercise class most mornings here at the old folks’ home.. The music is geared to the time the participants were in junior high or high school.

I sing along to a lot of the songs, to the obvious annoyance of those standing near me. I just can’t help myself. Wake up, Little Suzie, wake up.

And most mornings I remember the sweet boys I danced with to a particular song. Fast dancing was fun back then and these days it peps me up to work out a little harder. Slow dancing was the only excuse we had to snuggle in close in those days. Only the lonely, dum dum dum dummy do ah, know the way I feel tonight. Sometimes those ones make me melancholy. I can almost smell the classic Old Spice.

One in particular, Dusty Springfield, Son of a Preacher Man touches me like nothing else. It brings me right back to that first time I was in love. Actually, it was really the only time. He died young. The only one who could ever reach me was the son of a preacher man. The only one who could ever teach me was the son of a preacher man. Yes he was. Yes he
was. Oh, oh, yes he was.

One of my neighbors killed himself last month. I imagine that’s pretty common in my neighborhood. I live in a retirement community, and I like to think that many of us will choose to take charge of our own demises.  

When you don’t take charge, the American way of death is god-awful. All the professionals in charge of that sort of thing seem to think their goal is to force you to linger as long as possible. I often think of having DNR tattooed on my sternum. 

 

I have some pills on hand should I ever choose to hasten my departure. And a scalpel. One of my favorite words is exsanguinate, and I think it would really be very cool for my obituary to read “she exsanguinated.”

 

 But the man who killed himself didn’t use pills or slit his wrists. As I have learned since then, people of his gender tend to use a firearm. Preferably a hand gun. But for some bizarre reason he chose to use a shotgun.  Makes a terrible mess and an awful noise. 

 

I don’t know how you could even kill yourself with a long gun. I mean I suppose you put the barrel in your mouth and pull the trigger with your toe. 

 

Anyhow, since you can Google anything these days I Googled, “How do you kill yourself with a shotgun?” What I immediately got was a dozen replies from suicide prevention folks. Oh my God!  One of those people had actually founded an organization to prevent people from taking charge of their own demises.  He wrote that he himself had attempted suicide eleven times. Naw.  If he had been serious, he’d have gotten it right after three or four tries.  

 

Then this last week, I had occasion to think about death in another context.  Someone asked me how I happened to be Episcopalian, coming from generations of Methodists.  I had to think about that for a minute.  Then I remembered.  I boy I went out with a few times in college took me to visit his church one Sunday morning. This was a common thing.  To take a girl to church on a Sunday morning date and then back to the dorm for Sunday dinner.

 

Anyway, I, a descendant of a great cloud of Methodist witnesses was instantly converted into a romantic Anglican. The liturgy. The kneeling.  The language of the 1928 BCP.  The women all wore hats.  For me, seeing men in three-piece suits was always a spiritual experience anyway.

 

Actually, it turned out, I was not quite that superficial or trite.  I became a devout high churchwoman for many decades.  Church was the center of my community activities, my service, and my social life. I raised  my children in the church and they always got the lovely certificates for never missing Sunday school.

 

 Though I am no longer a person of traditional faith, church-going is a part of my cultural heritage.  I no longer literally believe the Bible stories.  But I believe those stories embody some very real truths.

 

Anyhow, I began to think about how that sweet boy’s invitation to church changed my life and those of my children.  At that time I didn’t think of him as sweet.  He was tall and handsome and took me to fraternity dances. Superficial and trite. 

 

So I decided to find him.  You can Google anything.

 

I Googled everything. I could not find him.  It was crazy.  I knew what year he was born, what year he graduated from college, his hometown, the names of his parents.  Nothing. 

 

I kept after it.  I was diligent.  What I eventually discovered was that he has been dead for over forty years.

 

 

I was imagining him a doting great grandfather, retired after a pleasant career as a popular literature professor. I imagined that I would email him and ask after his grandchildren and tell him thanks for taking me to church one Sunday morning many years ago. 

Buddhist tenet: “Clinging to anything leads to suffering.” Yes. But how do you not?

Today is the very rare coincidence of Valentine’s Day and Ash Wednesday. Our chaplain here had a very lovely, simple service for the imposition of ashes for our motley crew from all traditions.  It warmed my heart.

Since it is the first day of Lent, I am fasting. Only eating heart-shaped things.

I’ve been thinking about my heart a lot this week.  From time to time, I meet my cardiologist at the hospital where he shocks my heart back into an appropriate rhythm.  Simple enough.  Just takes most of a day, but I actually like all the attention.

But while all this was going on, at least for the part that the anesthesiologist didn’t have me under her spell, I suddenly had a feeling of tremendous gratitude for my heart. Maybe it was the drugs.  I don’t know. But  I pressed my hand flat on my sternum and actually   told my heart how faithful and hardworking it has always been. I mentioned what a long time we have been working together.

Mostly it has always been a joyful heart.  It has been broken a time or two, but mended stronger than ever. 

We’ve been together for a very long time, and when the time comes for us to go, you will let me know.  Until then, just  keep on keeping on. Thanks.

So — the “ inclement weather plan”is in place here at the old folks’ home this morning. It’s a bit white out there, about 20º.
What’s happening all day is what’s called freezing rain. I was unclear how that is different from the ice storms I remember in Oklahoma where we called it sleet and it built up on wires bringing them down. But information these days is right at out fingertips:

“Freezing rain develops when the raindrops do not have time to freeze before hitting the ground. The water then freezes once it hits the ground, making a layer of ice. Sleet is when frozen precipitation melts as it falls through warm air and then refreezes before it hits the ground.”  Who knew?