We’ll Meet Again: A pandemic story in three acts

Act I - The Before Times

March 16th, 2020 was the last day of the Before Times for me. It was the last day I thought I was going to have an ordinary day working in NOAA’s offices before going home to my beloved Greenwood neighborhood. We got the word late in the day to pack up and take our laptops home and prepare to work remotely for at least two weeks. I hated this idea. I didn’t want to lose the enjoyment of working across from my best friend all day, or going out to lunch, or having casual hallway conversations. I didn’t like the idea of being alone all the time.

I’ll complain and moan for a while when work compels me to do something I don’t want to, but ultimately I know which side of the bread the butter is on, so I soldier up and do what needs to be done. I, my bestie, and his housemate at the time packed up our laptops at the usual time and made our standard goodbye stroll to the parking lot. They walked slow to smoke cigarettes before starting their brutal hour + commute northward. I just enjoyed the chat.

They finished their smokes and it was time to part. Some place of deep knowing inside me opened up and I would have said then that I feared, but really I knew that it was going to be much longer than two weeks before I saw them again.

I started singing. It didn’t feel voluntary.

We’ll meet again. Don’t know where; don’t know when

but I know we’ll meet again some sunny day.

Keep smiling through just like you always do

‘til the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away.

Memories of our mom flooded me. She was a WWII veteran born and raised in England. She often told us that one of the things that got her through the war was Very Lynn’s recording of We’ll Meet Again written by Ross Parker and Hughie Charles. Mom and I would sing it together when I was a teenager while we danced in the living room. She showed me then the power that music has to reach us when nothing else can.

My best friend and his housemate stared at me as I came back from wherever I had gone and started crying.

“Y’ OK?”

“Yeah. Mom used to sing that. It’s from the War.”

I drove home and as I passed through the little business district I think of as ‘downtown Greenwood’ past the restaurants and bars where I spend some of the happiest hours. As I did, the song came out of me again and I felt certain that there would be a shutdown and these places would be dark and silent for an unknown amount of time. It felt like the end of the world.

You can listen to a wonderful rendition of this song by a choral group from England called the D-Day Darlings here:

The second thing that Mom said got her through the war was knowing that then Princess Elizabeth was serving in the military just like she was.

On April 5th, 2020, Queen Elizabeth II made an unprecedented speech about the pandemic. The whole video is worth watching, especially if you are an American who doesn’t understand the value that Her Majesty brings to her people. If you are short on time, though, you can jump ahead to minute four. She makes reference to We’ll Meet Again in encouraging everyone listening to remember that better days are ahead and that we will overcome this problem.

It felt like she was speaking directly to me; or that someone was.

Act II - Sunset Harping and Fae Wiedenhoeft

Inspired by viral videos of musicians in Rome under severe lockdown orders singing and playing instruments from their balconies (sometimes collaboratively with other balconies!) I decided that one small thing I could do was play harp from my own balcony. No one would hear, of course, because it overlooks noisy Greenwood Avenue. My favourite time of day to be here at my condo is sunset. I have a pretty good view of the Olympic mountains to the west and there are times when the sky is breathtaking. I decided that would be the time of day I would play music. It would give me an anchor, and by following the sunset later and later in the day I would keep myself oriented toward the world beyond my four walls.

I had the idea of doing a Facebook live broadcast of these sunset shows, so on March 21st, 2020 the first episode of Sunset Harping happened. I continued to produce half-hour episodes about four times a week and gathered a surprisingly large and loyal following. The show did what I intended. It gave me a relief from feeling alone and it gave all of us an anchor in each day to stop, breathe, and assess.

By early July, there were some temporary reductions in Covid restrictions, which allowed me to invite guests to be on the show with me. One of them was my friend Fae Weidenhoeft. She is a fabulous singer songwriter who I met when she started taking Gaelic classes in the Zero to Gaelic program and singing in the choir. Fae is a blazing talent and a fabulous human and I was delighted to have her with me on the balcony. Over dinner we discussed what we would do on the show and she brought up We’ll Meet Again. It was one of the songs she wanted to perform on the show and she knew it was special to me, but not why, so I told her.

We started the show off with that number with her on ukulele and singing lead. I had worked out a harmony for some parts, but the song has far too many sudden changes of sharps and flats for a lever harp, so I didn’t play. It was an absolutely magical moment. You can see it here:

Act III - A new instrument and a neglected set of skills

My music career has been thoroughly and happily devoted to the music of the Gaelic-speaking people of Scotland, Ireland, and Nova Scotia. My original education, however, was in classical music at Cornish College of the Arts. It took a while before I really found my feet and started to excel, but I managed it. By the time I graduated, I put together a program for my senior recital that included a very respectable collection of mainstream, challenging pedal harp pieces.

Traditional music by and large, doesn’t call for huge range and full chromatic capability of a classical harp, but is better served by the smaller, portable, more resonant, and less expensive lever harp. I have two artist quality lever harps. One was made for me in Scotland, and the other right here in Seattle. They are wonderful, fulfilling instruments that are perfectly suited for what I have done with them. No complaints there.

Although I had completed my degree in classical music, I never owned my own classical harp. I rented a small one from my teacher and regretfully returned it shortly after finishing my degree. I was soon off and running into the world of traditional music, and my investments belonged in instruments that would serve me there.

In 2011, the World Harp Congress was held in Vancouver BC, and my friend Alys Howe with whom I preformed in a harp duo, got us booked to do a concert of music from Scotland and Cape Breton. It was great fun. While I was there, I also spent a bit of time in the vendors hall looking at all the instruments including the classical harps. A spark of interest grew in me.

It took a decade for that spark to grow into action, but in February of 2021, when I was due to receive my inheritance from my parents, I placed an order for a new Lyon and Healy pedal harp. It arrived near the end of June and it was time for me to dust off a stack of music I hadn’t played in 30 years or more. Although my hands could play all the right strings, on a classical harp you have to move seven pedals at the base of the instrument, each of which has three positions, to get all the sharps and flats. That skill was a bit rusty. Like really rusty.

I had the idea to use We’ll Meet Again as a kind of study piece. I pulled out the sheet music that Fae had given me a copy of and spent an evening working out what all the pedal changes would be to get all the right sharps and flats at the right times. It turns out there were quite a lot, so it has been a great exercise.

It has also given me a way to take ownership of the importance of the song in my life. Mom taught me how to find hope in dark times through her love of that song. Queen Elizabeth told me that things would get better again, and I believed her because she touched the place that song holds in my heart. Fae wanted to know why that song mattered to me, because I mattered to her.

Now I can play We’ll Meet Again whenever I need to remember those things.

Mother Knows Best

The view from Betty’s front window

I am a medium. I haven’t always known this about myself, but as I have gotten older it has become more and more apparent. When I was about 27, near my first Saturn return, through a complicated and very interesting series of events I met a man named Mischa Duvan, who was at the time the senior and only shaman of the Ulchi Tribe in Siberia. He told me that I would work with the dying and the dead later in life, but that I should not attempt to at my age.

That was nearly half a lifetime ago, so as I approach my second Saturn return, I can’t be surprised that I see and get messages from dead folks more often. It usually happens when I’m doing something else, like giving a Tarot reading or having a deep magical counseling session. It’s not something I initiate, but once it starts, it tortures me until I understand and pass on the message I’m being given. That torture takes the form of a crushing and unexplainable sadness that I must assume is the easiest of my buttons for someone on the other side of the Veil to push.

The last time it happened was on the 19th anniversary of our mother’s death on October 26, 2019. I had been feeling that nagging, causeless sorrow for a few weeks, but it had not risen to the point where I would notice it above the general noise of my fear-prone mind. I and my fiancé were very busy assisting his mother with the sale of her home of 45 years and her transition into a retirement community so I was quite distracted. The winning offer came in on that anniversary day, so the three of us went out to dinner to celebrate. It was such a great load off all our minds and erased so much uncertainty that we were all feeing good. Future mum-in-law has some mobility issues, so I dropped her and her son off at the front door and went to park the car. The instant I was alone, the weight of sadness that descended was absolutely crippling. I remembered that it was our mother’s death anniversary and the penny dropped. She wanted me to know something. I made it into the restaurant and back with other people, I could hold it at bay for a while.

After dinner and returning to her soon-to-no-longer-be home, I excused myself and retired to the basement semi-suite that we use when visiting. I made it to the bottom of the stairs before collapsing in sobs. My man put his mum to bed and came downstairs to find me there. He was of course tremendously concerned and asked what he could do. I told him to stay with me, since his presence is like a control rod in the reactor of my stability-challenged spirit. He logged on to his computer and I curled up on the couch and started playing solitaire on my phone. A few minutes later, a seemingly random thought crossed my mind: ‘I wish I could go home.’ In my idiolect, ‘home’ means our mother’s hometown of Cleethorpes, England. We spent summers there growing up, and I always feel closest to her when I visit.

I had no sooner thought the thought when a surge of energy when through me from head to foot like a bolt of lightning and I saw a picture of my aunt Betty in her home in Cleethorpes. I gasped, dropped the phone, and clamped my hands over my face and started to shake violently.

My man asked if he should phone an ambulance. As soon as I could speak again, I said no. I told him that Mom wants me to go to Cleethorpes. He answered “tell everyone I said hi.” That’s someone you marry.

Mom has never come through to me in all the years since she died, so I took it seriously. I had gotten the message, so within a few minutes the cloud of sorrow was gone without a trace and I went back to as normal as I get and started looking for ways to make a trip back home.

The right opportunity arose and I was able to tack on a short trip to the UK to the end of a business trip to the East coast. I saw most of the family, met a new cousin, and looked in on our eldest god daughter and her partner in Glasgow. I headed home, feeling a little bit foolish, honestly. No huge drama. No big revelations. No spectral appearances. Just a lot of great fish and chips and some much needed family time.

Then COVID-19 happened. Borders started to close. Our wedding plans are thrown into uncertainty. My late-eighties aunt is in lockdown, and like me, many of my closest relations are old enough to be in the at-risk category. I got an e-mail from Betty’s eldest daughter this morning sharing that she is fine, though quite bored being in lockdown, since she has run out of tasks to do around the house.

When the severity of the consequences of the situation became clear, I got on my knees in front of my ancestor altar and prayed to our mother and thanked her for telling me to go while I had the chance. Mother knows best.

Welsh Rarebit

Once upon a time there was a very nice woman from Sussex who with her equally nice and Sussex-y husband ran a tea shop in a small seaside town. The very strange thing about this teashop was that it was not in England. It was, in fact, in Poulsbo, Washington, where I was raised. My English mother was so enamored of this place and the couple who ran it that she and I would go there at least once a week. For their part, I'm sure that the proprietors were entirely delighted to have a local ex-pat as such an enthusiastic patron and promoter.

Pronunciation tip: In many if not most English accents the letter 'r' is only pronounced at the beginning of a word. In the middle and end, it is silent, but changes the quality of the vowel before it. So, Americans usually hear "rabbit" when someone says "rarebit." If you're lucky like me and have someone who can read International Phonetic Alphabet it's /ˌwelʃ ˈreəbɪt/

Learn more about it here: Welsh Rarebit

Her menu was a straight-forward one. High tea, scones with Devonshire cream, ploughman's lunch, etc. My personal favourite was the Welsh rarebit. It's a kind of cheese sauce made with... well, you'll see what it's made with in the recipe below. I hadn't had it for perhaps thirty years when for some reason weekend before last I decided to try to make it for Doug and me.

It took a few experiments, but at last I have a recipe that closely matches the one I enjoyed so often with my dear mother in Mrs. Sussex's tea room. No, that wasn't really her name; play along, OK?

Welsh Rarebit

• 2 tablespoons butter
• 2 tablespoons flour
• 2 tablespoon mustard powder
• 2 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce
• 1/3 teaspoon salt
• 1/3 teaspoon pepper
• 1/8 – 1 teaspoon cayenne pepper to taste
• 1/2 cup whipping cream
• 1/2 cup India pale ale
• 2 cups shredded cheddar cheese
• 8 slices of bread for serving

Melt the butter in a sauce pan over medium-low heat. Add the flour and cook until the mixture starts to brown.

Remove from heat and whisk in the cream and beer. Add the mustard powder, Worcestershire sauce, cayenne pepper, salt, and pepper.

Return the pan to the burner and turn up to medium-high. Whisk the sauce continuously until fully thickened.

Add the shredded cheese in small handfuls, adding more as it melts into the sauce. Toast the bread and pour the rarebit over top. For an extra bit of fun, put the plates under a broiler for a few minutes to slightly brown the sauce.

Serves four generously as a side dish.

Ding! Level 50

Pearrygin Lake

Another year over and it's time to answer the Birthday Questions again. I spent an extended long weekend with Doug, Lance, Deena, Suzanne and their parters and kids camping out at Pearrygin Lake State Park near Winthrop, Washington so this is a little late.

What was the most difficult thing you faced while 49?

Without a doubt, it was the realization in early 2016 that I had slipped back into a depression and that it was manifesting very differently than before; as anger. After I got back from my wonderful Christmas trip back to Cleethorpes and no longer had that out in the future to distract me I started to find myself getting into pointless, unnecessary conflicts with people. Some of them very important and beloved people. After the third or fourth incident I started to feel like something was wrong with me, since I was the only common factor in all the scenarios. I'm happy to report that just naming the problem has given me the power to at least control myself when the anger arises. I'm working on more durable solutions, but that's a story for another time.

What was the best thing that happened while you were 49?

Aunt Betty, and two daughters, one granddaughter,
and four great granddaughters of my Uncle Eric.

The moment that I became a UK citizen in my Mum's hometown with my aunt Betty and cousins Karen and Dave there. I became aware in 2014 that the UK had changed their citizenship laws so that the foreign-born children of British mothers could apply to be recognized as citizens. The foreign-born children of British fathers have always been citizens from birth. Apparently citizenship flows more easily through a penis than a vagina, or something like that. Anyway, I began the application process and one of the requirements was that within 90 days of being approved you have to attend a citizenship ceremony in the UK. I used the magic of Google to find out how long the application process usually takes and counted on my fingers and toes. If all went well, I could combine the trip for the citizenship ceremony with my long-wished for trip back to Cleethorpes to spend Christmas with the English side of the family. There were a huge number of variables, of course, and my approval didn't come through until a week before I got on the plane, but the kind folks at the Northeast Lincolnshire Council accommodated me. Since Doug has been a UK citizen from birth through his father, we now have a shared citizenship and the possibility of living and working in Scotland someday.

Aunt Betty and Uncle Tom, cousins Karen and Dave Suthern,
and their daughter Kelly.

What do you hope to achieve while you're 50?

When I retired from the Board of Slighe nan Gaidheal last October, I decided that I would not accept any new projects until my Three Great Quests were achieved. Firstly, finish Mum's estate. Secondly, finish my second CD, and lastly get married. Will I achieve all three this year? Who knows?
I'm going to close this post with a quote from the birthday card that my loving, patient future husband wrote to me.

Just a reminder… 

Cousins Lynn and David and their grandson, Corben

Welcome to 50, Love – it's way cooler than it looks. You get to be you. You give up a few things that it turns out you weren't going to be, and then you find out they were blocking your view of who you are.

And you're fabulous.

My younger cousin, Mark 

Project 48: Union Jack Shirt

 The third and final of my flag-themed shirts, the Union Jack. I really got excited about this design when Google revealed to me that I could order fabric from the Union Jack Shop with the Union Jack printed on it for the pocket. Making the DIY maple leaf was challenging enough, thanks!

I've executed this pattern enough times that I don't usually encounter any construction issues anymore. Mishaps, however, still happen. I rarely work with white fabric, so didn't really think about it when I pricked my finger with a pin and drew blood. Oops. I suppose a blood stain is appropriate for any imperial power's flag.

Being color-blocked, it was inevitable that some of the top stitching would be contrasting to the fabric, so I decided to use up some of my left over blue thread that was slightly lighter than the blue fabric. I like the fact that all of the top stitching is visible, rather than just where it crosses a white area.

I also completed the project from cutting to buttons in two evenings, down from a typical three for a shirt like this one.

Taking Doug Home

Growing up in Poulsbo, I knew that when my Mother used the term "home" she didn't mean the farm where we lived. She meant the town she was born and raised in, Cleethorpes, England.

The Promenade in Cleethorpes at the mouth of the river Humber

Mom took us back there several times while we were growing up, but the first time I was old enough to really remember it was when I was 13. My cousin Karen, the daughter of my Mom's youngest sister Betty was getting married, so Mom took me and my brother Tom with her back to Cleethorpes for the summer of 1978. I got to know Cleethorpes a little, and formed relationships with my Mom's father, her brother and sisters, and their kids that have stood the test of time. My grandad, aunts and uncle and their spouses also made trips over to visit us and sometimes brought their kids with them, so we really did know each other pretty well.

From my 2001 visit: Left to right: Eric,
his wife Lois, Karen, Betty, Me, My aunt May's
widower, Les, and Betty's husband Tom.

As time went on, we drifted apart a bit, though we've never been completely out of touch. When my Mom died my cousin Lynn wrote us a condolence poem that couldn't have been more perfect if Mom had written it herself. I decided then that I needed to make a trip back to Cleethorpes. I went in October of 2001 and had a great visit with my two aunts and uncle and most of their kids. At that time, Doug and I had been dating less than a year, but my cousins all wanted to know when I was going to bring him over to meet them. "Soon" I said. Irony. Anyway, I wasn't sure how receptive my Mom's generation would be to meeting the gay nephew's Canadian boyfriend, so I let sleeping dogs lie.

The years got away from us, and the next trip to Britain was in 2010. Doug and I signed ourselves up for a one week Gaelic immersion course in South Uist, and we didn't plan a trip to see my family. I will regret that decision for the rest of my life. Since then I've lost my last uncle and one of my two aunts.

And now it's 2014. Doug and I were invited to travel to the Royal National Mòd with the Victoria Gaelic Choir to compete this year and we accepted without hesitation. I insisted this time, however, that we spend enough time to make crossing the Atlantic worth the expense and the effort. Three weeks, and not a day less, and visiting family was non-negotiable. No argument. Doug had seen my face when I learned that my uncle Eric had died, and when I found my aunt Gladys' obituary online accidentally. No argument.

From my 2001 visit: My cousin Lynn, Her son Matthew
and his newborn son, Corben. Corben is in the
double-digits now!

We flew in to Heathrow on Monday and spent the first few days in London doing tourist and harp-related things. Thursday we hopped a train North headed for Ramsey to visit my cousins Lynn and David. I had asked them to arrange a birthday cake, since Doug was turning 50 while we were there. My cousins were just as warm and welcoming as I had remembered from my childhood, and they made it clear that under no circumstances were we to get married without giving them enough notice to come. Message received, cousins.

So, my aunt Betty, my Mom's youngest sister, is the last of her generation, and still lives in Cleethorpes, just around the corner from the house where they were all born and raised. She's in her eighties, and I had learned that she is on dialysis, so I was prepared to find her and her husband Tom in tough shape, and didn't want to be a burden in any way, so I only planned for us to spend a half day with them. Just enough time to see a couple sites, maybe have lunch and a good visit before heading off to Glasgow.

#19 Edwards Street where Mom
was born and raised

David volunteered to drive us to Cleethorpes, which meant that we would also get to make a stop at Lynn's mother's house. That's my Uncle Eric's widow Lois for those of you keeping score at home. We had a short but robust visit there, then back on the road.

When we arrived in Cleethorpes we got quite a surprise. Far from frail, Betty and Tom met us at the door looking like the picture of health and style. Tom took our suitcases and said he would bring them down to the train station for us so we didn't have to wrestle with them. My cousin Karen was there, now a woman in her 50s, with her grown daughter Kelly. We hadn't even sat down before Betty asked if we had eaten. No? Within thirty seconds we had a table reserved at their favourite restaurant down at the front (that's the waterfront for you Yanks) and we were in Kelly's car. Memories from the summer of 1978 started flooding back. Mary Lawless' house! The family home at #19 Edward Street! Saint Peter's Church! Ross Castle!

Over lunch, Betty shared news of the family. She talked about her brother Eric who had died in 2013; about what happened when her last sister Gladys passed away earlier this year. She told me about her and her Tom's illnesses. They had come close to death, but were both now doing very well. She also wanted to know about us and our lives together. She talked about having gone to a same-sex wedding recently and made it clear that she had no issues with it. Then she got quiet.

"I told her. I told her that Summer when you were here for Karen's wedding. I told her she needed to help you cope." she said.

And my understanding of my life changed. Someone in my family was advocating for me when I was 13, and she was still alive and sitting across the table from us, right there in Cleethorpes. Then she took an envelope out of her purse and handed it to me.

"Something for you and Doug."

Pounds sterling. Lots of pounds sterling. There's only one time in your life when relatives hand you envelopes of cash in England. This was a wedding present.

It was time for us to leave to make our train to Glasgow, so Betty walked us the two blocks to the station. Tom was waiting there with our cases. I put my hands on her shoulders and said the truest words I ever have.

"I don't want to go. I don't want to leave you." I said.

"I know. Don't be too long." she said with a smile that was at once happy and sad.

We got on the train and as it pulled away, my heart ripped out of my chest. I was leaving home again. When we reached Glasgow, we stopped at the first news stand and got some postcards. I wrote the first one to Betty and Tom, thanking them for the present and promising a longer letter when we got home. I included it in a Christmas card I put in the mail last Thursday. This is what it said in part:

Mom died on October 26th, 2000, as I’m sure you remember. I met Doug on April 7th of the next year - barely five months later. Within a few weeks, I realized that I had met the person with whom I intended to spend the rest of my life. It wasn’t too much later, on a Summer weekend when we were hanging new curtains in his house that it truly dawned on me that I would never be able to take Doug home to meet Mom. They would never laugh together; never make fun of my quirks together. I would never see them hug. She would never be there to accept him as a part of our family the way his mother and father have accepted me.

Thirteen years have come and gone since then. Doug and I have been through a lot and seen the days when first his country, and then mine, and now yours accept our little family as real and worthy. My heart is so full and I’m so grateful for my life that I didn’t think I had any wounds left to heal until you opened the door of your beautiful home and welcomed us in.

During our lunch at Steel’s, the things you shared about your conversation with my Mom that Summer when we were over for Karen's wedding, and about your own positive relationships with same-sex couples were a great comfort to me. That old sorrow that I had been carrying for thirteen years melted away. No, my Mother wasn’t there to accept Doug, but through you, my Mother’s family was. It meant so much to me, Betty. I feel more at peace than I have in a dozen years.

Getting on that train and leaving Cleethorpes was the hardest goodbye I’ve experienced in a very long time. I will return as soon as I can and we’ll have a proper visit if the fates allow.

I got to take Doug home with me where we were welcomed with open arms. Even here at the shaggy winding-up end of our stories, there are still miracles of grace to be found if you look. If the fates allow…

Project 41: Flying Clothes

Lingoman and I are headed out on our longest vacation yet this coming Sunday. Three weeks in England and Scotland and we're both very excited. It will also be the greatest number of consecutive days together in more than thirteen years.

We were invited to go with the Victoria Gaelic Choir to compete in the Royal National Mòd in Inverness, Scotland. They needed more fluent speakers and more male voices, and with us they got two of each for the price of just one hotel room.

We decided early on to make a big trip out of it since our last Scottish trip was only nine days and it felt like a waste of money to cross the damn Atlantic only to turn around and come back right away. We're spending three nights in London first, then heading up to my cousins' in Ramsey, Cambridgeshire with a side trip to my Mom's hometown of Cleethorpes to see my last living aunt. Then it's up to Glasgow for the weekend before the final push to reach Inverness. Six days there at the biggest Gaelic festival in the world is going to be spectacular. Inverness is where the Mòd was held in 1997 when I won the harp competition. When that's all done, we think we'll be heading out the Isle of Skye for a few days at our friend Alec's self-catering croft house.

Anyway, what does that have to do with clothes? I decided I wanted some nicer-than-t-shirts but still easy to travel with clothing for the trip. I picked up some polycotton interlock at Fabricana last weekend and made these colour-blocked raglan sleeve shirts in a single evening. The one with the black body and grey sleeves is the most successful v-neck so-far. The contrast stitching on the hems was a last minute experiment. Not quite sure I like it yet.

There are two more shirts on the cutting table so with any luck I'll get them done in plenty of time.