i shivered like a child

so enough complaining already. it has been almost disturbingly beautiful lately, at least in appearances, there being something of a chill in this dry, clear air that has blown in on the heels of all that moisture. huron river stage is quite high, i notice as i ride by along huron river drive, stealing glances through the trees that are are now all fully leafed out, and standing in water that has spilled out over the river's banks and laps at the tree trunks, and the high water piling up behind the rapids at delhi mills and the water pouring through and roiling, air entrained and furious standing waves and the silver maples that overhang the river downstream of the now-closed-to-traffic delhi road bridge dipping their leaves allthe way in now, the river threatening to pull them completely in which of course is an empty threat but it is working away on the banks and they'll all fall in, eventually. but i will ride by a steal glances when i can, when i'm not looking out for gouges and openings in the pavement, or overhanging poison ivy or grape vines, or any of the other hazards, natural or not.

yes it is nice to ride these days, even if there is a chill in the dry air; at last it is dry.

yesterday i went to a dinner/birthday party, hosted by a member of ms. cicadashell's book group, which consists completely of fellow schoolteachers and of which ms. cicadashell is very much the youngest, the rest of them being almost to a woman retired, so along with their husbands a considerably older group than we might otherwise hang out with, but witty and urbane and charming and good, low-key fun all the same.

but notable is that one of the husbands is, in addition to being a retired teacher and urbane world traveler, a noted jazz trumpeter who is, by turns, getting some of the respect he has been due (and has long since earned) in this area, having captured the hearts and minds of european jazz fans decades ago. but he recently suffered a significant stroke, which has left him, well, suffering. i had not seen him since. by all accounts he is making great progress, but, really, to be more candid then perhaps appropriate in general company, he has a long way to go yet; it was a massive stroke. the hardest thing, or at least the most frustrating thing, is language, at this point. he can't really talk, and he doesn't really know that he can't talk, so he doesn't really always understand why people can't understand him. it is difficult, and scary, and sad, to imagine that his tremendous fluency in the bebop language may no longer be brought to bear. there is no reason not to hope, of course, but there is reason to doubt it is possible. life is a gift, and like any gift it is all too easy to misplace, or undervalue, or give away in a fit of pique or envy or jealousy. in this man's case it was none of these, however; it was just some chunk of something in an artery, some combination of risk factors leading to their grim outcome. i surely hope he continues to work his way back, if only to have a chat with him.

and if there is anything i can do to decrease my own suite of risk factors, well i'll be doing that too.