Snow and Hand Bells

Two years ago

While we were in San Francisco, enjoying the temperate weather and green environs, Matt and David drove to NYC to visit R’el. They had a harrowing trip home in a snowstorm and got very stuck at the bottom of our driveway. The day after our return to snowy New England, my left arm ached so much from snow shoveling that I couldn’t sleep.

My journal entry for 10 February 2015:

…just this morning, as I was lying in bed, trying to get the energy to arise and really start my day, feeling the empty depression I seem often to feel in the morning, I fell prey to fear: the fear of my day rather than the promise of it. The burden of my dreams of the night rather than the hope to accomplish something worthwhile with my waking hours.

Not every day was like that, but it was a feature of my life.

Mid-February 2017

We’ve had 2 snowstorms this week. Thursday, February 9th, we got about 9 inches. Then, Sunday into Monday, we got 10 inches more.

I have fond memories of one particular snowstorm, at least 20 years ago, when I strapped on my heavy brown hiking boots one night and tramped along quiet side streets as the snow fell. So, Thursday afternoon, I laced up my grey hiking boots and headed down Bedford St. and onto the Minuteman bike path to David’s grave. It’s a 2 ¼ mile hike.

One of the two flags I had installed at the headstone was at an angle, causing the flag to hit the ground, but I couldn’t budge it in the frozen earth; all I ended up doing was crack the wooden dowel.

I wasn’t the only one on the bike path; I passed a man walking a dog, a few other intrepid souls, and a bicyclist. The wind was sharp, but bearable; the cemetery quiet. A pick-up truck with a snowplow attached was just clearing the road near David’s grave as I entered the cemetery.

The next day my friend Susanne and I drove to the Minuteman National Park to walk on the unplowed Battle Road. We trudged through nearly a foot of snow for a mile and a half.

When we first started on the path, we met a pair of cross-country skiers. The first, a woman of about 30 years old, smiled brightly and passed us easily. The second woman struggled valiantly to keep up. As I watched her, I realized my fantasy of effortlessly skiing through the woods was just that, fantasy. I’ve only been on skis once in my life, back when R’el was about 2 years old. It was fun, but I was in my twenties. At 60, I’m sure it wouldn’t be so easy.

On Saturday I hosted our second hand bell jam. My new friend, Joe, owns a set of hand bells, passed down from his grandmother, Margaret Nichols Shurcliff, who brought hand bells to America. I offered my home as a place to play and recruited some friends. I also made copies of some simple piano tunes and color-coded them for each pair of bells. We had a great time. Although I’ve had a lifetime of amateur musical experience, playing hand bells requires a skill set I don’t yet have. Split-second timing is required: if I am late with a note, every other player is thrown off. And sounding the bells consistently is more challenging than I had imagined. We won’t be doing this any time soon. (And here's Eui Gon Kim playing a solo. I love how three-dimensional her playing is. Just watch!)