Am I an evil, wicked person to hope that those drinking-crowded-swimming-pool people in the Ozarks reap the whirlwind? I hope they don’t have any at-risk little-ones or elders at home who shouldn’t have to pay he price for these selfish partiers.

It was always a challenge to explain the difference between Memorial Day and Veterans’ Day to my Citizenship students. I used to say something like:

“Memorial Day, which falls on the last Monday in May, honors the men and women who died while serving in the military.”

“Veterans’ Day, observed every November 11, recognizes all who have served in the Armed Forces, living or dead.”

Naming federal holidays is a question on the test.

I remember that my mother-in-law, whose first language was not English, referred to Memorial day as “Decoration Day.” I liked that. She went to the Catholic cemetery in her neighborhood and put plastic flowers on the graves of every family member.

I often asked the class members to talk about their own cultural holidays. Day of the Dead was always in interesting one. I sort of like the idea of having a picnic at the gravesites of beloved family members. I often see something similar to that happening at my neighborhood cemetery where I frequently go for walks.

People have different ways of remembering.

This month, I saw that a beautiful, engraved granite bench had been installed where there was not a grave. Perhaps ashes had been interred. A seventeen-year-old boy. A permanent-looking photograph is prominent on the bench’s back rest.

There’s nearly been someone visiting when I’ve been there. Usually a kid. Leaving something.

I was curious so I checked it out. Butts of joints. Beer and whiskey containers. Some looked full. Notes of sorrow stuck all around. Of course, the ubiquitous whirly-gigs and mylar balloons.

Sorrow takes different expressions.

Today when I went there, there were beautiful, giant flags everywhere

and signs announcing that there would be no ceremony tomorrow.

And, very oddly, that previously mentioned bench and all its memorabilia have vanished. What’s that about?

Joannie always visits Daddy and puts new flowers and makes sure there is a flag.

He is our hero. I suppose, correctly, he should be honored on Veterans’ Day and not Memorial Day. We honor him everyday and share many memories of him.

This week, it was about how he could repair — or try to repair — everything. We never had a plumber or electrician at the house, which we recalled this month because we have both had expenses along those lines.

We agreed that one of the things we always admire in a man is that he be handy. I suppose that is sexist and dated. But it’s the truth. When I first got divorced, bizarrely, somone asked me, most inappropriately, where I would look for a new partner. I said, “Home Depot!”

But I digress.

Time was when the word “deliver” was followed by the word “from” or “of.” It meant to be saved or rescued. As in “Deliver us from Evil.” Or “She was delivered of a son,” which meant she survived childbirth.

Nowadays, we say, “What is your delivery date?” meaning when do you expect to give birth? Or “She delivered a baby boy,” like she worked for Amazon and drove down the block in a van.

I can remember when parcel deliveries were so few and far between that whenever we saw a UPS truck in the neighborhood we would sing out, “W-W- The Wells Fargo Wagon is a comin’ down the street. Oh, please let it be for me,” remembering tiny Ronnie Howard in The Music Man.

These days, so many delivery trucks drive down my block that the dogs don’t even bark at them any more. UPS, USPS, FEDEX, DHS, and now Amazon has its own blue-painted trucks with their big swoosh-arrow on the side. In fact, this evening, Amazon had gotten so far ahead of itself that my delivery was dropped off by a van so new that it was still factory white, yet to be painted. And the delivery warning I received this morning said my order would be delivered between 6:15 p.m. and 10:15 p.m. Jeeze!

The bishop of our diocese published a very loving letter this week, attaching a very comprehensive set of guidelines for churches in Oregon. (https://www.diocese-oregon.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/05/Reengaging_English_20200518.pdf?fbclid=IwAR3LBTyI0GsJxPOjDOdH-Rs9xqXt6N3ob8HrW73zy84wE0G-E3uVPXAOxJc)

Feel free not to click on that link.

The sentence that impacted me the most is:

“Singing provides a sustained, exceptional method of carrying virus particulates in the air. Because of this congregational singing is prohibited.”

Ah. My entire faith-expression has aways been about singing. Beginning with Mother sitting at the piano with me, a tiny child, singing Christmas carols.

Over the years, I have accumulated a large collection of hymnals from a many denominations. The oldest is a tiny 1808 one published by the Diocese of New York. I picture a beautifully-dressed woman of that time walking down the aisle of St. Thomas on Fifth Avenue with it tucked into her reticule.

In recent years, my prayer has been, “Dear God, remember the hymns I have sung.”

When I was a little girl, I had this idea that when I died and stood before God hoping to be admitted to heaven that he would take one look at me and say, “I have forgotten all the things you worried about. I only remember the hymns you sang to me all your life. Come in.”

Also in recent years, I have considered when would be the right time for me to retire from my church choir. I originally thought when I turned 75. That was a couple of years ago and I just kept on keeping on. I don’t add much, musically speaking, but I don’t subtract much either.

When I leave some place, I generally just slip out unnoticed. I have always done that. Parties. Wedding receptions. States. That is how I thought I would leave choir. Just stop showing up. Taking my leave properly would have revealed me to be the sentimental old fool I am.

Now, I think it may already have happened. Right at the beginning of this unexpected hiatus.

If and whenever we can sing again, I just won’t be there. I will need to turn in some music and retrieve my amethyst cross from the pocket of my choir vestments. Otherwise, I will have already slipped out in my usual way of doing things.

A couple of years ago, I sang with a community chorus. One of the pieces we sang was “I Have Had Singing,” by Stephen Sametz. The words were taken from an interview with Fred Mitchell, an 85-year-old horseman from Akenfield, England.

“In 1961, Ronald Bly visited the village (pop. 298) in order to record tales of the lives of English country laborers — farmers, pigmen, grave diggers, fruit pickers and the like — vanishing breeds in the face of progress. He was startled by the harshness and beauty of their lives.”

“The singing.
There was so much singing then,
and this was my pleasure too.
We all sang,
Oh, the chapels were full of singing,
Always singing, singing;
Here I lie.
I have had pleasure enough,
I have had singing.”

Ah. it is enough.

I remember one summer when, before going to work, I drove Mary-Margaret to the barn to spend the day with her horse every morning. Webb Ranch was the best child care that a middle-school equestrian could have. It was a half hour drive on beautiful 280. I always thought as time in the car as quality time.

Usually, I stopped by Happy Doughnuts and picked up breakfast and a copy of USA Today. And usually she would read it to me on the drive. In those days, it was all brief articles. All on one page. Not continued on” page whatever.” Colored pictures.

I really hadn’t read it since those days until I was teaching at the Indian School. My students were from every western state. We would pass the paper around the classroom and students liked to read the blurbs about their home states.

Now, it is included in the online version of my local paper, and I like to read about the states to which I have some connection. Here are some blurbs today, May 20, 2020.

OREGON Portland: The Oregon Supreme Court has kept statewide virus restrictions in place by halting a judge’s order to end them in a lawsuit filed by churches claiming the governor exceeded her authority when she shut down in-person services. (I admire Governor Kate and the grace with which the takes all this guff.)

TEXAS Houston: A Catholic church has closed its doors after five of its leaders tested positive for COVID-19, including two priests who had helped celebrate public Masses, which resumed earlier this month. The positive tests come after a priest from Holy Ghost parish died last week. (What were these people thinking?!)

WYOMING Yellowstone National Park: Tourists entered Yellowstone National Park on Monday for the first time in nearly two months, but they weren’t allowed to camp, and some areas remained off-limits due to coronavirus- related restrictions. ( You can see a lot just driving through Yellowstone. And I’m thinking field techs might be able to get back to work .)