Della's Song

Last spring, just after moving to Horn Lake, Mississippi, I met Della on the street. Sometimes she was riding her bicycle.  More often she was walking the dogs:  a sweet, old beagle named Daisy and a pug named Otis that seemed more susine than canine.

Della's hands shook.  She got stuck in the middle of conversations, when the word she was about to speak evaporated, like morning dew. She could never remember my name.

Della and I have much in common:  we were directors of liturgical music; we taught music education in Catholic Schools.  I did so periodically; Della did so for 42 years.  Differences aside, we both love making music.

Last year, Della's son took away her driving license. (Sheriff's deputy's can arrange for that sort of thing, I suppose).  She could no longer attend Mass or sing in her parish choir.  A few people offered to bring her, but you know how that goes.  

Last month Steven and I decided to pick up the slack, switching from our Mississippi parish to Della's beloved St. Paul's in Memphis, Tennessee.  How happy the people of St. Pau's were to see her.  How grateful they were to Steven and me for bringing their Della back to them.  

In a token of thanks, Della gave me a copy of her vocal CD, recorded well before the onset of Parkinson's disease. I cringed. Several people have happily given me their musical CD's over the years. Most are - well - so very average. Della's astonished me. Her voice sounded so much like Olivia Newton John in her prime. 

Della thinks we are doing all the giving in this new relationship. But that's not true. In a world ever in motion, spinning endlessly toward some unseen end, Della moves slowly and patiently through unknown waters with humor and grace.  

Della still can’t remember my name, and she no longer rides her bicycle. Her musical form has changed. She often listens quietly or hums along as the words escape her. But when she does sing, few things on earth compare.

Parkinson's disease:  a chronic and progressive movement disorder
in which symptoms continue and worsen over time.
The cause is unknown; there is presently no cure.

Wine and Facebook

A simple Facebook post started it: continuing comments on how many bottles of wine this writer may or may not have in her wine closet.  Yes, closet.  Cellars are at a premium here on the Mississippi Delta.  The initial FB share had nothing to do with wine.  It was a Grammarly meme that read:

Dear Optimist, Pessimist, and Realist,

While you guys were busy arguing about the glass of water, I drank it!

Sincerely,

The Opportunist

(Don’t you just love how Grammarly always uses the

Oxford comma? But I digress...)

I posted the meme, but the whole how-many-bottles-of-wine-can-she possibly-own thing was started by my very own sister, who commented,”quite frankly, if you know Marianne Gage, it was not water in that glass.”  Patti followed her accusation with the ever ubiquitous “lol.” 

Well...let the FB-comment ruckus begin.

I certainly did not deny that, at the start of the holiday season, 60-some bottles of wine rested peacefully in the closet or that 59 (umm...better make that 57) currently remain.  I did not bother to tell the curious that at one time we had over 120 said bottles.

I do not blame myself for the attraction.  I blame my sister.  Not the one that posted the FB comment, but the other one.  The one in California. In 2009, we took a family trip out from Texas to see her.  That’s when Jacque took me on my first wine-tasting tour.  And I loved it.  Because, let me tell you, Texas is good at many things—mostly big things—but wine-making is not one of them (Italian food is another, but that story will have to wait).

When Steven and I moved to the scenic Finger Lakes region of New York State, it was wine-heaven. Finger Lakes (Wine Country) New York boasts over 100 wineries nestled on the graceful, rolling shorelines of the region’s four main lakes: Cayuga, Seneca, Keuka and Canandaigua. We honed our tasting skills and became amateur collectors. We even bought the Teaching Company’s Everyday Guide to Wine (but boy, if those people think $400 Italian reds are everyday, they are seriously mistaken).  We actually got to very few of the 100 wineries; our favorite was Anyela’s Vineyard just off Skaneateles Lake and a few miles from home.

But, alas, our stay in New York was short-lived and now here we are in the greater Memphis area where we mostly mix a little song in with the wine.

Cheers. 
And always remember: every box of raisins is a tragic story of grapes that could have been wine.