“Okay, Parsley, come on, baby.” I helped my golden retriever hop down from my truck. She didn’t normally need assistance with the leap, but I didn’t know how careful we needed to be about activity after her surgery. Dr. Meyers had passed over a pile of instructions when I picked her up, but I’d been distracted cataloging my poor pup’s energy level and feeling heartsick at the size of the bandage on her leg. I knew I’d have to carefully read the ream of paperwork before I’d be comfortable with her bouncing in and out of vehicles or hurtling head-first into the waves again.
We needed to sit tight and quiet at home. Get past this scare before more big adventures.
And, yeah, I was projecting onto my dog, but I wouldn’t forget anytime soon the sight of Parsley crumpled on the trail, like a clump of golden fur that had been dropped from a great height. Which wasn’t far off from what had happened when she’d collided with an ATV as they both crested a sand dune. My knees had given out as the force pulled her leash from my hand, and I’d sunk to the beach. She’d flown impossibly high before landing on the bed of sea oats. The ATV driver had helped me get her to the truck and held her still while we raced to Dr. Meyer’s surgery, swearing up and down he’d never again break beach rules about off roading.
I’d believed him. His shock was genuine. But I had trouble summoning any words of reassurance while my dog’s hip fracture was being evaluated. I’d texted later, assuring him she was fine, his contrition wasn’t necessary, he could stop asking me for penance.
She was fine. What mattered was that she was fine. I guided her inside and settled her on our sofa, then dashed back out for the bag of wound care supplies and the groceries I’d snagged on the way to the vet, so I wouldn’t have to leave her anytime soon.
The house had been damn lonely without her. No tap-tapping paws heading to investigate if the food bowl had magically re-filled itself. No deep doggy sighs as we settled in our respective beds at night. No one wagging her way up to express appreciation of my musical genius when I sang one of the many little ditties I made up about her.
I caught myself too many times singing, “Are you going to be my best pup? / Parsley Moore, my pup very fine,” and not being answered by a wet nose nudging into my hand, as if to certify that yes, absolutely, no finer pup existed. I’d missed having her around to share in my delight at how phenomenal and good she was.
I’d waited so long—too long—after my divorce to adopt the dog my ex never wanted, but I always did. Too long living adrift before I settled into being single again. Or single for the first time, really, since Susanne and I got married the same weekend as our college graduation, and every facet of adulthood, until our divorce when we were twenty-seven, included her.
I spent over a year deliberately quashing my habit of deferring to her opinion—or what I thought would be her opinion—on anything I wanted in my life. It sucked, but the day I adopted Parsley was an anchor I could hang onto. A day I knew I’d finally let my own desires take precedence.
My relief at that moment of independent thought said too much, but I relished this new version of myself, too. I understood myself in a deeper and more accepting way. Everything I wanted now, I wanted with absolute certainty. I build my world to fit the life I wanted, and I’d be ready when it came along.
Parsley plopped her head in my lap, breaking me out of my morose mood. She’d investigated her tragically empty bowls before returning to lean into my touch, and hadn’t seemed to struggle with any of the movement. I stroked her silky ears while scanning the discharge papers.
“Well, looks like you’re cleared for short walks.”
Her tail wagged at her favorite ‘W’ word and I answered her eagerness with our beach-strolling song as I grabbed her leash and met her at the door.
The walk from my place to St. Luke’s was still a bit far for Parsley, so after wiping down her sandy paws, I left her with a dental chew and many apologetic belly rubs. Her soulful eyes worried at me as I set out, and part of me ached about that.
The rest of me, though? I only had this one rehearsal with my handbell choir before the first Sunday of Advent, and I was going into it two steps behind thanks to the time I’d spent at the emergency vet.
Most of my ringers had been with me for a while, and I knew they could roll with challenges. But a donor gifted St. Luke’s with an extra octave’s worth of bells, which meant adding new players. I’d recruited and trained three before Parsley’s injury, but the last one I was taking on faith that she hadn’t completely forgotten her skills from years back.
I’d dug up music that would work if my upper octaves could manage four-in-hand ringing. Organized bell assignments according to each player’s strengths. Spent part of my Thanksgiving creating a playlist of the tunes to help out the aural learners. The timeframe was tight, no question, but I was confident I could get the bells to resound from the chancel with hope and celebration.
Excitement. It was excitement beating against my ribs, not stress; I was eager to get this new, fuller, group up and running.
After setting up the bells and music stands on the padded tables, I greeted the old guard of my handbell players—we called them the Three Graces, though only two of them were named Grace. While everyone moved into place, they caught me up on their Thanksgivings, which was just another excuse to scold me for declining their various pity invites in favor of spending the holiday alone.
They thought it was pride, me refusing to admit I was lonely for the holiday. But I could admit that. It was my stubbornness that kept me from falling in with others’ traditions when what I craved was a tradition of my own.
I paced the area between the bell tables and my podium, using my free space to direct the ringers’ attention to the expanded setup. The new octave was made up of the five new bells above high G, and seven more in bass clef, which meant two additional players at either end of the spectrum. “Okay, thanks for being on time, everyone. And especially thanks to our new ringers—Paul, Kay, Margo, and Julieta—for being here, and on time. You’ll get so used to it you’ll roll your eyes at me like everyone else, but as a reminder: rehearsal starts on time, whether you’re here or not. So be here, or you might miss these inspiring chats of mine.”
Most people smiled or chuckled at that, but Margo’s eyes were narrowed, her expression flat. I wouldn’t have recognized her from back when she was in my handbell choir at St. Patrick’s Catholic, and not just because she hadn’t had the neon orange streak in her wavy dark hair back then. That whole time was—well, on top of being in the middle of my tumultuous marriage, I hadn’t exactly settled seamlessly into that particular music director job. Just seeing Margo Dunway’s name on the list of people answering the call for handbell players had slammed me back to those days of self-doubt and learning to speak up. I wanted to check in with her about it all, but she’d signed up, so she must be at ease with everything. And I knew she knew the instrument. And I’d run out of time to fill the choir. So I’d brought her in.
But it looked like she wasn’t eager to stick around after rehearsal for that chat I’d emailed to suggest.
I went on with my rehearsal spiel. “There’s a notation cheat sheet at the back of your music packets. The first two pieces we’ll work on are mostly ring and damp, or table damp for you low bells, with some echo and some thumb dampening. If you need to grab a highlighter or pencils to mark your lines, there are a few in that tray behind A5 B5. Otherwise known as Grace, right?”
The quietest of the Graces smiled around at everyone, even the dour Margo beside her. “Also the sharp.”
“Beg your pardon, yes. A5, A#5, B5. Which reminds me, I’ve been doing some transcription for pieces for Gaudete Sunday, now that we have three lovely octaves to ring. I’ll engrave those this week. So if you’re wondering when you’ll get a chance to trill or echo, don’t worry, that’s on the way.”
On the other side of Margo, Church Council Grace pumped her fist. Down at the bass clef table, though, Matt the Grace lifted worried eyebrows. I gave him a slight nod to show I understood his worries; I knew he didn’t yet believe my assurances that he could handle the new, larger bells. Beside him, his son Paul rested a hand on his shoulder, and I squashed any impulse I had to envy their easy connection.
The new ringers, interspersed as they were with my usual choir, were young and brightly dressed compared to the two-octave choir’s cohort. The vibe was that of a slightly ragtag group of strangers who’d been stranded together, which might sound daunting. But to me, pulling together disparate people so they not only harmonized, but enhanced each other, was the catnip of conducting.
I took my place on the podium in front of them, flattened open my notes for our rehearsal schedule, and invited all eyes onto me as I led them through warmups.