The rest of the day (at least this is the current plan) will be spent blocking, de-linting and packing up the two quilts for Sacred Threads because those must go out on Monday.

Had a call last night from Dad that Mom had ended up in the ER with a little cardiac event. She’s fine and probably on the way home today but they kept her overnight for observation. (update: she is home and they both sound ready for a good nap!)

Last night I spent some time on the phone with my brother Mike, reminiscing about my Aunt Marie Frezon who died on Friday. We both had interesting and fond memories of her while growing up. Aunt Marie was smart (valedictorian of her high school class), well-read and fond of poetry. I remember her reading parts of long poems (think longfellow and tennyson) aloud. She liked opera and I recall listening to opera with her over the radio in their back yard. She dressed smartly for her job at City Hall, and I have the oddest memory of spending a day with her at her job. There was a really really big safe and of course lots of paper and office stuff. She and her mother went on a trip to Europe but I may only remember the movie footage of that. We had various picnics in the back yards growing up, often for memorial day or July fourth etc. I have memories of some serious pinochle playing and some very dark coffee (which I got to drink too, but with a lot of milk).

She had been in the care of others for many years, due to her schizophrenia and I’m grateful that she was well-cared for and safe in her later years.

And the pleasant water-courses,
You could trace them through the valley,
By the rushing in the Spring-time,
By the alders in the Summer,
By the white fog in the Autumn,
By the black line in the Winter;
And beside them dwelt the singer,
In the vale of Tawasentha,
In the green and silent valley.
“There he sang of Hiawatha,
Sang the Song of Hiawatha,
Sang his wondrous birth and being,
How he prayed and how he fasted,
How he lived, and toiled, and suffered,
That the tribes of men might prosper,
That he might advance his people!”
Ye who love the haunts of Nature,
Love the sunshine of the meadow,
Love the shadow of the forest,
Love the wind among the branches,
And the rain-shower and the snow-storm,
And the rushing of great rivers
Through their palisades of pine-trees,
And the thunder in the mountains,
Whose innumerable echoes
Flap like eagles in their eyries;–
Listen to these wild traditions,
To this Song of Hiawatha!

The Song of Hiawatha — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1855