Marilyn Foley Jodoin

Last night Marilyn Foley Jodoin died. I was privileged to be her friend for nearly thirty years.

 

Before the local church boundaries changed a dozen years ago, Marilyn and I were in the Arlington Ward together. A few years before my mighty cross-country trip, I was the president of the children’s organization (Primary) and she was my counselor. She was always high energy and enthusiastic. She loved the children.

 

For a summertime activity, Marilyn organized a water fun afternoon for our Primary. A contractor-friend of hers lent us two (40-50 feet, maybe?) pieces of clear plastic sheeting to erect a giant slip-and-slide outside of the chapel. We laid them on a long, grassy hill and installed garden hoses at the top. Then we all lined up and slid down, over and over again. The day was warm and sunny. Of all the kids there, Marilyn enjoyed it most. She had a blast.

 

Marilyn had many hard things in her life, but she chose the joy.

 

How can I express my sorrow to her husband and her children and her grandchildren? Her daughter’s posts have been loved and commented on by hundreds. As many have said, Christmas just won’t be the same without Marilyn’s low husky voice singing, "Mary Did You Know?" while strumming her guitar. 

Bird nests

 A few weeks ago, Jim and I were having a ‘homework party,’ where we share his office together, each working on their own projects. I saw a flash of orange and brown outside and realized that a robin had just flown to the second-story window ledge. I had seen a nest a few days earlier, from the driveway, but I couldn’t see inside.

When the mother bird flew away, we went to the window and saw four ‘robin’s-egg-blue’ eggs nestled in the grass and twig nest. It brought back sweet childhood memories of my dad lifting me up with his strong arms so I could peer into a nest and marvel at the tiny blue eggs.

Jim was concerned we would frighten the mother, so he put a packing box on the floor and later closed the blinds. We worried that she would abandon the nest, but next day I saw her again. Some days later Jim peeked around the blinds and found an empty nest. We can only guess that something attacked the nest.

A few days later I was looking out my bedroom window at the three-story evergreen tree next to the house. I saw a blue jay nesting. I was shocked: I’d never seen a blue jay’s nest. It gave me a warm feeling about blue jays.

I haven’t always had a warm feeling about them. I’ve always enjoyed their bright-blue plumage. But I had an encounter, probably 25 years ago or more, that left a bitter taste in my mouth.

A friend of ours from church had ‘rescued’ a nest of  three baby sparrows which had dropped out of a tree in her yard. She didn’t have a safe place to put it, so she asked me to foster the birds. I put them in our enclosed front porch and we watched them. As they grew feathers I knew it was time to let them fly. I took the nest out to our yard and watched. One of the fledglings jumped out of the nest and soared away. A second followed suit. But one sat on the ground.

“Go on!” I urged, to no avail. It sat in the driveway, inert.

Then a blue jay swooped down and caught the tiny baby. Shocked, I shouted and shooed it away, but the damage was done: the little sparrow lay dead on the asphalt.

Determined not to reward the jay for its cold-blooded greed, I got a garden spade and dug a hole near a tree where grass doesn’t grow.  I cried bitterly as I dug the grave and gently lowered the bird down. The blue jay had been so cruel, so heartless.

But here, outside my bedroom window, I saw a blue jay lavishing maternal care on her three babies. The day that it rained all day I saw her on the nest, keeping the nestlings dry.

Watching the babies grow has been delightful. A few days ago I looked out and saw a flash of wing, with the distinctive white and black markings on grey instead of blue. The baby nearest my window was stretching halfway out of the nest and spreading its grey and white wings. His nestmate followed suit. I wondered if they would fly away, but it was just a test run. They soon settled back into the nest.

Yesterday morning the heads and chests were well above the top of the nest. They were growing fast. I could see that soon flight will be imperative: they wouldn’t fit in the nest. Just two days ago only their heads were visible. They sat perfectly still, each looking out in a different direction.

This morning the nest was empty. I checked during the day, but they are gone.

Having a tiny blue jay family outside my bedroom window heals my heart of bitterness. It is part of nature, of the environment we cherish, to have predators and prey. If every songbird baby survived, the earth would soon be filled to overflowing and the food supply would run out. Birds by the thousands would die of starvation. Nature has built in restraints: food for the sparrow, blue jay, hawk, owl, and eagle.

Nelly Elizabeth Fernandez Johnston (1955-2020)

 Nelly Elizabeth Fernandez Johnston died early in the morning on Friday, November 28. Her daughter, Carla, wrote a tender tribute on Facebook:

After a nearly two-year battle with lung cancer my mother, Nelly Fernandez Johnston, passed away early this morning. She was a vibrant, generous woman, always seeking to better not only her life, but the lives of all those she touched. She made so many courageous leaps throughout her life, including immigrating to Venezuela and later the US, joining the LDS Church, and living the fullest life she could with her friends and family these past two years. She peacefully leapt into Heaven, ready to meet her Savior and start her celestial work. I love you Mom.

The news was not unexpected; stage-four lung cancer is always fatal. But the finality still comes as a shock. She was sixty-five years old, the same age as Jim, a year and a half older than me.

    One day, when I was about fourteen, I lay sprawling on the blue-shag carpet in our living room, reading the local Westfield Leader. For some reason, an obituary caught my eye. How old was he? Mom asked. Old, I said, 62. That’s not old, stated Mom.

My mom was a wise woman, so I made a note, “62 is young to die,” although I didn’t believe it or understand her. As I’ve aged, however, ‘old’ has receeded. Now 62 is quite young to die. Not as young as 5, or 13, or 27, but young.

I think of David, of course. It’s been over five years since his death, August 12, 2015. He was buried exactly a month afterwards, since he had donated his body to the University of Massachusetts Medical School. They used his body to test a lung device. The head researcher told us that the team was very reverent and appreciative. Some of them were around David’s age and seeing his body was sobering.

At the cemetery on September 12, 2015, a small flock of wild turkeys ambled through the morning fog. A few of Jim’s business associates stood a little apart from our family and friends, reverently marking the event with us. An Army bugler played taps.

Incongruously, I was grateful for the large American flag covering the wooden coffin. We had picked the cheapest coffin the funeral home offered. It had always seemed a waste of good money and material to bury a fine piece of furniture in the ground. David didn’t care, did he?

But, suddenly I was intensely ashamed of my frugality. I’m sure no one at the service, all of whom loved us, judged us. But there it was, irrational and potent.

Peter and Xiomara and Andrew had driven up from the Bronx, one-month-old Victoria wrapped in a white blanket. I held her, just like my dad had held little four-month-old Andrew at Mom’s funeral two years before. Her warm little body comforted me, as did the basket of purple flowers our friends brought to the gravesite.

After the burial service, we piled into cars and headed for the Belmont Chapel. There we met the Massachusetts General Hospital bloodmobile for our first annual blood drive in David’s memory.

This year the blood drive attendance was the lowest ever. Because of the pandemic, MGH sent two bloodmobiles to maintain physical distancing. Everyone’s body temperature was taken and the standard covid questions were asked. Fortunately, it didn’t rain, so we were able to meet outside and chat with our friends.

Five years ago, Matt gifted us a photo of David, printed directly on glass. We lay it on the registration table. Our friend, Jen, touched it with her fingers and I realized that she was thinking of David, the little boy she watched grow up. Many young families in our ward come for schooling or first jobs and then move away. David hadn’t lived at home for a long time, before he got sick, so few church members knew him. It touched my heart to see Jen’s simple gesture.

Nelly will be sorely missed, by her husband, Jeff, and children, J.F., Carla, and Paul. She was outgoing, fun-loving, and compassionate and had more good friends than I have acquaintances.

She’s the second of our generation to die. My brother Mike, severely intellectually disabled, never married, so Jeff is the first widower. Is it morbid or just realistic to wonder who is next? That could come tomorrow or in twenty years. But it will come. Am I making the most of the time I’ve been given?