Small Stones

Underwater stones, Lake Champlain, Vermont

Today it’s my pleasure to welcome Fiona Robyn, who is traveling the internet in July on a virtual blog tour for her new book, Small Stones: A Year of Moments. I’ve come to know Fiona and enjoy her writing both through her daily blog and at qarrtsiluni, where she has been a frequently-published contributor and a guest editor (of the Jan/Feb 2007 issue "Come Outside.")

I’m delighted to have this chance to share our recent conversation with you, and perhaps introduce some new readers to Fiona’s precious, often surprising "small stones."

—

Fiona, I’ve really enjoyed your book. Your practice of attentiveness and writing about at least one particular, memorable thing in your day has, of course, a lot of resonance here at The Cassandra Pages! To begin, I wondered if you could say a few words about your dedication to Shunryu Suzuki, because his teaching was also very important to me.

Thank you. A friend recommended ‘Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind’ a few years ago when I told them I was getting interested in Zen thought, and I don’t know about you, Beth, but I didn’t understand much of it on my first read through!  Something about the spirit of the writing stuck with me, though, and several years later I read it again and went on to read his autobiography, ‘Crooked Cucumber’, which somehow moved me profoundly. I love the simplicity of Suzuki’s message – ‘just sit’, ‘nothing extra’, ‘when the bell rings, get up’, but most of all I felt like I’d ’spent time with him’ by the end of the book, and that it had been a great honour and learning opportunity.  What do you get from his writing?

My experience was almost the same – on the first reading I just didn’t connect with the book, but about ten years later, it was a totally different experience, and each time I’ve  picked it up since, I’ve gotten more out of it. "When the student is ready, the teacher appears." I think what appealed to me especially was the gentleness of his teaching and writing. He’s firm but kind, and the sort of perseverance and attention he speaks about made sense to me and have helped and changed me over time. But his prose also touched me deeply and particular passages, like the one about why we should polish the tile, or clever students having the most trouble, or Nirvana and the waterfall, made a huge difference to me. I’m profoundly grateful to him.

One thing I noticed and liked in particular about your "small stones" is that they’re not all pleasant or beautiful. Could you say something about that, in light of what we’ve been talking about here?

I think praise as a practice is much neglected, and I much admire the work of bloggers like Clare Grant at Three Beautiful Things who help us to remember how much we have to be thankful for.  But as a writer I am interested in the whole truth, ‘things as it is (sic)’ as Suzuki might say!  Rather than looking away from road-kill or homeless people, I’ve found it more helpful to look more closely.  These things are a part of our everyday reality.  We all contain these dark places, and only we can start to acknowledge them, struggle with them, start bringing them out into the daylight.  I think Pema Chodron speaks well about these messy parts of us.  It’s also an ongoing dilemma for me as a writer – will people keep reading if I describe the innards of this dead animal?  How much darkness (how much of my darkness) can people take?  I wonder if this is something that ever crosses your mind, Beth, when you are writing about your father-in-law?

Oh, definitely. And blogs are different from books, they aren’t one-off; people visit a place regularly because they like what they find there. I know some readers come to the Cassandra Pages because they receive a feeling of solace and calm, and I worry sometimes about scaring them off!  But I’m totally with you, Fiona, in being more interested in truth than beauty, in its usual sense. We can learn to find the beauty in everything, even decay and death, even struggle and suffering. For a long time I thought the Buddhist idea about duality was that we couldn’t see one side of the coin clearly unless we also saw the other: "for the moon there is the cloud," — so suffering exists to make us appreciate non-suffering. But I’ve come to see that’s not really it: the point is to face and even welcome difficulty, ugliness, pain because they have a great deal to teach us, and avoidance doesn’t work: misfortune comes to all of us eventually so we’re better off to learn how to deal with it. I like it that your small stones acknowledge reality. It made your book much more meaningful — and beautiful — to me!

On the other hand, I thought some of the most lyrical moments in the book came in your writings about the moon:

"the moon is so transparent you could slip a thumb-nail under the edge and peel it from the sky"

or

"(eclipse)
the pale moon turns illm slips under a sheet of shadow"

or

"the translucent moon pinned on egg-shell blue, above the pink and billowing skirts of sky."

Like the Chinese poets, you’ve managed to come up with creative, original ways to speak about the most ordinary things we see everyday, things which are easy to ignore or often get written about it a hackneyed way. But they’re still beautiful; they’ve spoken to human beings forever. It’s a challenge, isn’t it?

Thank you.  And yes – it is a challenge – and that reminds me of the process of editing the book.  I had three years worth of ’stones’ to choose from, and a lot of them just didn’t do it for me on re-reading.  It’s as if I hadn’t quite managed to translate the feeling of ‘ooh!’ or ‘look at that!’ into words.  Or maybe it was a combination of a failure of SEEING freshly enough with not being able to find the right fresh words.  I’m thinking of Suzuki again as I use the word ‘fresh’…

"Even though you read much Zen literature, you must read each sentence with a fresh mind."

Even thought we often see the moon, you must look at the moon each time with a fresh mind!  Or try to, at least…  I’m glad the suffering made the book more meaningful to you, Beth – it feels heartening to me – that at least you are willing to hear about the poor fox on the roadside, or the troubled boy in the coffee shop.  I suppose, going back to Zen again, we also contain the fox and the boy, and so it is also as if you are able to hear about those dark places in me.  Having said that, light and fluffy is also good sometimes!

That’s so true! And I want to stress that this isn’t a "dark" book at all; I get the sense that you’re a lot like me in trying to see the beauty in everyday life, and that as we practice this kind of noticing, it starts to color our whole life – and become something that we want to share with other people.

Fiona, I’m so glad we had this chance to talk, and I hope some of the readers of this blog will order your book and enjoy it themselves or give it as a gift. I feel so strongly about the merits of independent publishing that I’ve made a personal commitment to buy most of my book-gifts this way, and to try to support the many writer-friends I’ve found online.

I also want to tell you that I admire the calm, determined, professional way you’re promoting Small Stones — you’re an example to all of us who are exploring this new world of publishing. Congratulations, and I wish you the best of luck with it!

That’s very kind, Beth – it’s been so heartening to receive support from my colleagues, especially blogging colleagues.  And I agree – I’ve gained such a lot over the years from ‘pay-more-attention’ practice that I’d love to spread the word!  It’s been a pleasure to have this ‘conversation’ with you – not quite as good as coffee and cake in a local cafe but it’ll have to do for now.  I’d be very happy to hear from any of your readers who have any comments/questions, and thank you for having me.

 

Beyond and Before

Phone conversations have become almost impossible, and in person, they are at best happy but disjointed. Last week there was a crisis: a narcotic pain medication to try to help him sleep better threw him for a complete loop, resulting in several days of agitated disorientation. He shouted in frustrated Arabic a lot of the time, which we could only decipher with difficulty. And then, gradually, the medication wore off and was cleansed from his system, and he returned to the state he’s been in for a while now: part here, part in the past; fatigued and weak but still able to eat, get up for a few hours of sitting, still appreciative of brief visits even if the memory of them vanishes quickly. It goes like this:

The caregiver helps him into the living room, sometimes using his walker, more and more often the wheelchair. His eyes are nearly closed, and he groans with each step. Finally he lands in his chair, a controlled collapse with helping arms around him, and rests, eyes tightly shut now, while she brings his food, cut into small bites, and sets it on a tray in front of him. At length he opens his eyes and slowly, slowly, reaches for the fork, spears a bite of meat, maneuvers it toward his mouth, opens the mouth, places the morsel on his tongue, begins to chew with his few remaining teeth. This man whose great pleasure was eating, who I’ve seen wolfing down unbelievable portions of food and talking about the abundance and joy of eating for days after a wedding banquet or party – “the shrimp were enormous, and they had a great platter of them! The beef was so succulent, so tasty!” – is exhausted after four or five bites. On a good night, when there is something he especially likes – stuffed grape leaves, for instance – he’ll sit up and go on eating, with long intervals between, for an hour. But more and more it is like this. He’s not drinking enough either, and so the caregiver puts a small bowls of cut-up watermelon in front of him, and he picks at it for a long while.

After the meal he rests and then opens his eyes and looks at us. “I can’t make out who has died, or who died first,” he says, suddenly, sounded remarkably like himself. “I’m not sure if my uncles are still alive. Do you know?”

“Your uncles in Damascus? Is that who you mean?”

“Of course!”

“I think they are probably dead.” (They died forty years ago.)

“I think they may be too. But did my mother die too?”

“Yes.”

“I think she died before Uncle A, because I remember what he said when he heard the news. I can see him coming into the house. But of the rest I am not sure at the moment.”

“Do you remember going to the cemetery in Damascus with your sons?” I put my hand on J.’s shoulder to remind him this was one of them.

He thinks for a minute. “Yes. I remember reading the inscriptions.”

“And those were your parents’ graves…”

He looks unsure. “They may have been,” he says, finally. “How is your father?”

“He’s fine. He’s playing a lot of golf.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Really! So he can still take aim.”

“Yep!”

“Alhamdullilah!” ("All praise belongs to Allah.") At this the J. and I burst out laughing, and he joins us, his shoulders shaking and his face in a big grin. It’s the last thing we expect him to say in that context. The caregiver, sitting at her book in the corner, looks up with a surprised smile on her face.

“I brought you the Arabic papers from Montreal, Dad,” says J., when the laughter has passed.

“Oh.” I go over to the table and unfold the papers. “Do you think you can see the headline?” I ask. He shakes his head no. “Here,” I hold it up and show him the big red Arabic letters at the top.

He peers at the writing and sounds some of it out. “You’re close — this one is ‘Phoenicia’: it’s a Lebanese paper,” I tell him. “Look, here’s an ad for travel to Lebanon.” We look at the picture of an airplane in clouds together; I can’t tell if he can see it or not. The caregiver peeks at us, fascinated; she is new and doesn’t know much about him yet. “And look, here’s your old friend Bill Clinton, and Hillary and Obama.” He smiles wanly. “And here’s a priest – actually I think it’s a patriarch.”

At that he brightens up. “Which patriarch?” he asks.

“I don’t know. He’s all dressed up, though.”

“They all do that.”

“Maybe he’s Greek,” I say. “I’m not sure and I can’t read any of this!”

He laughs. “Which one is the top now?”

“Which patriarch?”

“Yes, which one do they all defer to?”

“I don’t know but it seems like the Greek patriarch gets the most attention.” We look at an Egyptian paper after that, but he’s losing interest, or perhaps it just depresses him to not be able to read any of it. It’s hard to tell. I fold the papers and put them away.

“Is this spinach?” he asks, looking at an untouched pile of green on his plate.

“Yes. Do you want to try some?” He shakes his head no, and when the caregiver asks if he’s finished he says yes, and she takes the tray away. But he doesn’t seem tired enough yet to want us to leave.

“Guess what I’m reading?” I ask, taking a chance.

“What?”

“Plato.”

“Good for you. Which one?”

“The Republic. I read it forty years ago but it’s better this time around.”

He nods but I’m not sure if he’s remembering, or connecting.

“I didn’t remember how lively the dialogues were. He can be very funny too. He was a very smart man, your friend Socrates.”

“Not always,” he says, shaking his head. “The smartest one of my uncles was your father, the one I always met coming back down the hill.”

It’s hard to make these quick adjustments, but we’re getting better at it. Who did he think I was now? A cousin, obviously…“In Damascus?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“The one with the orchard in Bludan?”

“They both had orchards.” His eyes roll up toward the ceiling; it’s easier to follow the memory than make an explanation. “Oh, the figs we used to eat from those trees!”

 

African Joy Closes Montreal Festival

(A huge thank you to J., for all the photos in this post.)

There are days when I feel like the most fortunate person in the world just because I live in this unique city, and yesterday was certainly one.

The day started with a quiet bike ride through deserted city streets to the Anglican cathedral, where, in honor of the jazz fest, there was a jazz mass. The musicians were the cathedral choir plus a four-person combo of excellent instrumentalists on sax,  piano, drums and bass, led by a priest from Toronto who preached and is also a gifted jazz pianist. Everything was informal and upbeat: there were improvs on all the
hymns, the mass setting was a jazz improvisation on the William Byrd
Mass for Four Voices, and at communion we heard Duke Ellington’s "Come
Sunday." I was the lector and got to read the great Genesis story of
Isaac’s servant finding Rebecca at the well and bringing her home to "slip off her camel" at the sight of her future husband. In the introduction to the reading I quipped that maybe I should sing the lesson as a ballad, since it’s one of the great love stories of all time. Everybody laughed, but afterward the director said, hey, next year we should definitely accompany all the readings with music — and get the jazz mass included in the festival programme.

In the evening, we joined a crowd of 100,000 people last evening for the free blow-out concert culmination of the jazz festival, by the legendary Guinean singer Mory Kanté and his 15-piece band. As before, we met friends a couple of hours early in order to stake out a good place, and snacked – in Montreal style – on the treats they’d brought: fresh figs, still-warm French bread, and Quebec camembert. 

The concert was beyond fantastic. Not only was Kanté energetic, warm, happy, consummately musical, and accompanied by a wonderful band – the flute, marimba players and African drummer were especially fine – but the show was also colorful and varied, from the female backup chorus to the two male African dancers who wowed all of us with their moves toward the end of the show. Kanté, who was sent to Mali at the age of 15 to be schooled in the griot tradition,  also has an acoustic band and highlights of the show, for me, were two quieter songs he performed in that tradition, playing the kora that was given to him by the Malian
music and spiritual master Batrou Sekou Kouyate. But don’t get me wrong: I was dancing the whole time, along with my Latin-dance-loving friend D., from Colombia, who must have gotten a work-out equivalent to a ten-mile run.

Next year will be the 30th anniversary of the festival.

I can’t praise the organizers enough for their ability to provide a seamless experience for those who attend – the festival runs beautifully, shows are on time, and the atmosphere is about as non-commercial, non-obnoxious, and listener-centric as you could possibly imagine. But a big chunk of that credit has to go to this remarkable city where diversity is seen as a gift, and people pride themselves on living together harmoniously. The crowd was truly tout le monde. Even the pretty-much-wasted group of teenagers in front of us were polite about trying not to obscure our view or fall on top of us as they exuberantly danced and celebrated together, and when was the last time an adult asked you – outdoors – if you minded if she smoked just one cigarette?

That kind of consciousness of being fortunate individuals, sharing a space and time, within a greater community is what animates Montreal, and the jazz fest – when we celebrate the long-awaited summer and throw open the city to a huge number of visitors each year – is probably what embodies it the best.

For those who’d like to see and hear more, here are some multimedia links , all in English, from the Montreal Gazette’s jazz fest website. One of the coolest links is a panorama of the tribute to Leonard Cohen; not only can you fly over the crowd and turn the view 360 degrees, there are clickable links that add sound clips. Better yet — come on up next year!

 

A Brief Shudder in the Garden

Here is a story: you can decide whether it’s a tragedy or a comedy.
Yesterday I went to Parc Lafontaine in the late afternoon; it was a beautiful,
perfect Canada Day and the park was full of quiet groups
enjoying each other’s company. I sat at the western side, near the fountain,
where the bank forms a sort of amphitheater and is covered with long
grass. Maybe six other small groups or couples were in the area too,
and we all got amused watching a little duckling, newly on its own,
swimming around near the shore. A couple, close to it, kept getting up
to look when the duckling disappeared in the reeds, and then they’d
exchange delighted glances, the girl leaning forward on the bench and
pressing her hands together while her investigating boyfriend conveyed
his love in backward, big-eyed looks whenever he spotted
the little creature, still with patches of fuzzy yellow on its back.

So there you have the scene. Enter a man, thirty-ish, dressed in black,
wearing a slouchy hat and sunglasses, accompanied by a smiling huskie-like
dog. He lets the dog off the leash and sits in the grass alone,
listening to a CD player that he places beside him. After half an hour
or so, he gets up to leave, about when I’m thinking of leaving too, and
tosses a red ball into the water and whistles for his dog. The dog
jumps into the lake but ignores the ball because, of course, he sees
motion heading out toward the fountain: the darling little duckling.
All of us watch in growing horror as the dog closes in on the
frantically swimming baby bird. The man is now standing on the shoreline,
calling to the dog, who ignores him. The dog lunges at the bird; no,
he’s not close enough. The duckling swims ahead, leaving a wake. The dog closes in again. The duckling suddenly tries to
dive – an instinctive attempt at escape – but he’s too buoyant; he can’t make himself go down desipe the desperate flapping of his little upended feet. He pops to
the surface — the dog opens his mouth, lunges forward — and the duckling
disappears. The dog, mouth now closed, turns and paddles triumphantly toward the
shoreline where his master is standing, arms at his sides, barking sharp commands. The dog comes up onto
the shore, there’s a scuffle in the bulrushes as the master tries to empty his mouth; we can’t see what’s happening; the master snaps on the
leash and drags the dog onto the path, looking as discomfited as an
actor in the spotlights who has suddenly forgotten the lines of his soliloquy. Those of
us who’ve witnessed the deed stare at the water, casting stunned sideways
glances toward each other; no one says a word, and the man, walking
stiffly, and his dog exit down the path the way they came.

–

I left and went home, where I told J. the story, which, in spite of my
love for the park’s ducklings, made us both laugh – it was just so,
so…shatteringly non-idyllic. Rather like "Bambi meets Godzilla." And maybe the duckling had survived — though I doubted it.

I made a picnic of
grilled chicken; a salad of Quebec wax beans with shitakes, water
chestnuts and walnuts; goat cheese; peaches, raspberries, and mango
tossed with a little cognac; and some strong coffee. The two of us
carried it all over to the park, spread out a blanket, and took our
place among the lovers in their bikinis, the cello and tabla players,
the solo readers and meditators, the couple behind us smoking a water pipe, the family picnickers lying in the
magical late afternoon sun while their babies rolled and ran in the grass: all happily oblivious to the earlier murder
except for a gull who called raucously for an entire hour from the top of a
light pole near the shoreline: "If only you knew!"

 

Conversing with Aged Men

I just started re-reading Plato’s Republic, and in the first three pages came across this dialogue; I wonder if my father-in-law remembers these thoughts from his friends. I’m sorry that it feels too late to read it out loud to him – but maybe I can try. In better days, he would have like that – and what’s said here – a lot.

You don’t come to see me, Socrates, as often as you ought: If I were still able to go and see you I would not ask you to come to me. But at my age I can hardly get to the city, and therefore you should come oftener to the Piraeus. For let me tell you, that the more the pleasures of the body fade away, the greater to me is the pleasure and charm of conversation. Do not then deny my request, but make our house your resort and keep company with these young men; we are old friends, and you will be quite at home with us.

I replied: There is nothing which for my part I like better, Cephalus, than conversing with aged men; for I regard them as travelers who have gone a journey which I too may have to go, and of whom I ought to inquire, whether the way is smooth and easy, or rugged and difficult. And this is a question which I should like to ask of you who have arrived at that time which the poets call the ‘threshold of old age’ –Is life harder towards the end, or what report do you give of it?

I will tell you, Socrates, he said, what my own feeling is. Men of my age flock together; we are birds of a feather, as the old proverb says; and at our meetings the tale of my acquaintance commonly is –I cannot eat, I cannot drink; the pleasures of youth and love are fled away: there was a good time once, but now that is gone, and life is no longer life. Some complain of the slights which are put upon them by relations, and they will tell you sadly of how many evils their old age is the cause. But to me, Socrates, these complainers seem to blame that which is not really in fault. For if old age were the cause, I too being old, and every other old man, would have felt as they do. But this is not my own experience, nor that of others whom I have known. How well I remember the aged poet Sophocles, when in answer to the question, How does love suit with age, Sophocles, –are you still the man you were? Peace, he replied; most gladly have I escaped the thing of which you speak; I feel as if I had escaped from a mad and furious master. His words have often occurred to my mind since, and they seem as good to me now as at the time when he uttered them. For certainly old age has a great sense of calm and freedom; when the passions relax their hold, then, as Sophocles says, we are freed from the grasp not of one mad master only, but of many. The truth is, Socrates, that these regrets, and also the complaints about relations, are to be attributed to the same cause, which is not old age, but men’s characters and tempers; for he who is of a calm and happy nature will hardly feel the pressure of age, but to him who is of an opposite disposition youth and age are equally a burden.

I listened in admiration, and wanting to draw him out, that he might go on –Yes, Cephalus, I said: but I rather suspect that people in general are not convinced by you when you speak thus; they think that old age sits lightly upon you, not because of your happy disposition, but because you are rich, and wealth is well known to be a great comforter.

You are right, he replied; they are not convinced: and there is something in what they say; not, however, so much as they imagine. I might answer them as Themistocles answered the Seriphian who was abusing him and saying that he was famous, not for his own merits but because he was an Athenian: ‘If you had been a native of my country or I of yours, neither of us would have been famous.’ And to those who are not rich and are impatient of old age, the same reply may be made; for to the good poor man old age cannot be a light burden, nor can a bad rich man ever have peace with himself."

Plato’s Republic, Part One, Prelude.

 

The Man Himself, Virtually

   

 

Montreal Jazz Fest – Day 1

All photos taken while waiting for the "Tribute to Leonard Cohen" concert on the evening of June 26, 2008.

The scaffolding is set up on the outside of the Museum of Contemporary Art.

 

Stepping Out

It’s always a challenge to think of how to show off Montreal to first-time visitors who have a short amount of time. I think it’s a rather opaque city, neither beautiful nor grand, but more like a Russian doll with carefully painted features on different layers, most charming when you see the details. We also always want to show visitors the city in a way that will suit them.  Our guests this past weekend were Europeans who love food, wine, and cooking so our first stop was the Jean-Talon market, where we shopped for Sunday dinner. That first introduction was a good choice — they loved it. On the terrace back at home, we unwrapped cheeses, set out bowls of olives, uncorked wine they had brought, started a simple supper together and sat down to enjoy it together and catch up on the past five years.

The next day we walked in the neighborhood, took a driving tour that took us over Pont Jacques-Cartier to Parc Jean Drapeau and the site of Expo, over the Concorde bridge to the roiling point where harbor and rushing river meet; then through downtown and Westmount, and up the back side of the mountain to Beaver Lake and the belvedere overlooking the city. On our way down, we stopped at the other overlook, where three or four white stretch limousines were waiting for groups of teenagers in gowns and tuxedos: it was, apparently, prom night, and they were up there taking pictures of each other — an opportunity too good for a blogger to pass up.

Out for dinner at a French bistro in the Plateau that evening. In the morning – St. Jean-Baptiste Day – three of us went to the big traditional Catholic mass celebrated by Cardinal Turcotte at Eglise St.-Jean-Baptiste, preceded by an organ concert of works by Canadian composers; the one former Catholic among us politely declines and stayed home reading in the garden of her B&B. Then we all gathered one last time for lunch – a sort of Nicoise salad I concocted from the remains of our market trip and whatever we had in the refrigerator, and said our goodbyes.

I’d been looking forward to this visit for several months and the time flew by;
now they’re gone and I’m missing them with that curious ache of
happiness mixed with melancholy, knowing it may be a long time until
the next time we’re together, but feeling like there’s still a lot of their love and warmth in our house, and hoping ours is traveling home with them.

 

Eine kleine Morgenmusik

I apologize for being rather scarce this week. We’ve been running around, and later this weekend we expect company from out of town for a few days. The weather has been gorgeous in the city, and we spent much of today working on our terrace, throwing buckets of water around and sweeping accumulated winter dust back toward the earth. In spite of such a shady location, the flowers are blooming and this little outdoor room feels like a cool oasis, full of ferns and begonias and coleus. I found an old filigreed trolley in the alley, painted it matte black to look like wrought iron, and it now holds our herb garden up high enough that the sun can reach the basil, so to speak.

Inside is a big bouquet of peonies, from Vermont, and a large bunch of yellow roses – I found my old climber, that has never bloomed very well, covered with blossoms the last time we were down there, and cut a big bunch to bring with us. But I am feeling less garden-deprivation than in any of the other years since we’ve been living in the city. We hope to go to the botanical garden later this week, because the roses must be coming into full bloom.

In the early morning, there was very little traffic and the city felt so quiet: only the runners and dog-walkers seem to get up early here on the weekends. After some yoga and some coffee I took my flute out and played near the open door to the terrace, looking up now and then to see the light filtering through the delicate locust leaves, or listen to the sparrows chirping in the branches. It felt like Handel and Bach would have approved.

 

99

(I’ve removed the video link, as I said I would, and rewritten some of the copy below to reflect the dialogue that was previously in the audio. You – and he – are all back in the realm of the imagination now.)

It was a good day. When we brought the cake in, he sighed and said, "I’m afraid I might make the hundred!" He cut it himself, ate two pieces (when he wasn’t busy shelling the green almonds) and after a while reached for the knife again.

"Do you want another piece?" we asked.

"I seem to like it!" he said, helping himself. There were a few presents, many cards, and two shiny mylar balloons, which he marveled at, remarking, "These are the first balloons I’ve ever been given!" – probably true, he hasn’t ever seemed like the balloon type but today, he liked them.

His face had lit up when we gave him the package of green almonds and he figured out what they were. Immediately he set to work trying to crack them – with his few remaining teeth. I took a hammer out onto the balcony and split some for him on the concrete floor. When he got the first nutmeat into his mouth, he smiled and nodded."They don’t taste quite the same as they did," he said.

"Well, they’ve probably been traveling for a while." He nodded, that was true, but he kept eating them anyway.

"Where are they from?" the caregiver asked. "Are they really from Syria?"

My father-in-law looked in her direction and nodded, his mouth full.

"They’re from the Middle Eastern market, but I don’t know from where. Maybe even California; a friend of mine there says she has a big crop on her trees."

"They’re from Bludan," J. said, and his father raised his eyebrows approvingly.

The nuts looked good though – soft and white, as if you took
a blanched almond and soaked it in water. "What do you call them in Arabic?" I asked.

M. looked up and said, "Loz. L-O-Z." He split another nuts form its inner shell with a practiced thumb. "The almond-seller used to walk along
the streets, calling out "Loz!" – he sold the almonds whole, soaked in
water, and we’d go down and buy them — delicious. These don’t taste quite like that."

He had noticed that we were taking pictures. When we said goodbye, he thanked us and said gently, "I probably won’t be with you next year, but I hope you will have many happy memories thanks to all the beautiful pictures J. has been taking. He must have hundreds!"

"Thousands, is more like it. I think he has more of you than of any other person."

"Really??" he said, looking rather pleased.