Wednesday. Still bummed about Dad’s exit from this mortal coil.
Dreamed about him during my morning snooze. I’m walking through tall grass somewhere, when I see Dad, just sitting at a bus stop. He chats for a while, pointing to some birds and talking about “his birds.” Then he stands up again and says he has to cross the river. A bus arrives, and he boards. At that point, I woke up.
I know, the symbolism is obvious. But there it is.
When you’re a kitten, you’re carefree. You know that Mom and Dad are there to protect you and see that your needs are met. Then you grow into adulthood and you figure wow, I’m independent now. I don’t need my parents.
Then a parent dies, and it hits you: you really are on your own. You knew this, but you didn’t know it. Dad’s not going to protect you from coyotes and small children, and Mom’s nipple bar is closed. You’re going to have to fend for yourself in a difficult world.
I spent a lot of time today staring out the dining room window.
Grandma was here today, making applesauce. The early apples are coming in now. The orchards surrounding Beauneville produce a remarkable cornucopia of apples. For pink applesauce, Beauneville cooks use Early Redbirds; for golden applesauce, they prefer the ancient Yellow Transparent. Grandma uses the local Beauneville Golds or tart Gravensteins.
For eating apples, Beauneville denizens savor the tender and juicy American Summer Pearmain; the cute Carolina June; the beautiful and historic Chenango Strawberry; the modern Ginger Gold; the greenish-yellow Hightop Sweet, known to the Pilgrims; the Lowland Raspberry, a Russian apple known in Germany as the Lievlander Himbeerapfel; the patented Pristine; and the distinctively bright red William’s Favorite.
Down at the cider mill, they take all of the Bell’s Favorite and Yellow Horse apples they can get. And, of course, there are plenty of apples for pie: the Moses Wood apple from Maine, the aptly named Spice Sweet, and the strikingly beautiful St. Lawrence.
Beauneville denizens are mad about apples.
Chatted with Pia later in the afternoon. The Ericsons have invited the neighbors over a week from Sunday to celebrate Surströmming Day. Pia says they have a can of Mannerströms, the Rolls-Royce of fermented herrings. They also have a couple of cans of Oskars Surströmming. I believe that’s the Fiat of fermented herring.
Anyway, I can’t wait. I like to eat fish. Pia says I may be in for a bit of a surprise, though. I don’t know what she means.
Roderick practiced hard today. Lots of scales and long tones and orchestral excerpts. Mollie came over after dinner to play the piano reduction of the Crusell while Roderick played the solo. Lots of work to do, but they made it through the first movement without a complete fail.
All for now.