Pops @ Post

Tonight we attended the Pops at the Post, which I wrote about a few days ago.

Rain and thunder teased us off and on from 5pm to about 6:30. Showtime is 8. We scurried to an unusually empty parking at 6:15 and began unfolding our camp chairs, table, and picnic.

We had our choice of real estate there on the parking lot. The real tailgaters, those with the 10x10 tents and grills, had been on the perimeter since about 2pm. But the most of us, those who roll in a small meal, blanket for babies, that kind of thing, were mostly missing.

The family was confused. "Where do we set up?" they asked. With so much space to choose from, nothing really stood out. "There." I pointed to a spot with "no parking" painted on it. "But we'll be out in the middle," they said. "Folks will show up and come in all around us," I said, and sure enough, they did.

I took this photo during the 1812 Overture. You can see the large screen erected on our parking lot; there were 2 others on other parking lots. Just past the screen on the right, you can see the loading dock, where the symphony was actually located.

From this vantage point, the crowd appears small. We were quite near the front, with many, many people behind us, and there is another very large parking lot to the north.

The event was well-attended, after all, and the music was delightful. Good time had by all.

Weekend

I'm not usually a person who highly anticipates the weekend Even when I had a 5-day, 9-to-5 job, I tried not to. I've always felt you can waste 5 days only cherishing the 2. That's 71% of your life you can waste, only appreciating the remaining 29%.

But this weekend is a biggie.

Several years, our local newspaper celebrated its 150th anniversary by hosting a free concert by our local symphony -- outside.

Turns out the loading dock of the newspaper building, there in the middle of downtown, made a great "shell" to resound the music.

Who knew?

It was a huge, extravagant event, complete with large screens and speakers in parking lots for viewers who couldn't locate their camp chairs close enough to see. Cardboard fans on wooden paddles also served as the program for the music.

That first concert had a patriotic theme, and the paper arranged for 2 Black Hawk helicopters to fly over downtown. The finale was the 1812 Overture, complete with cannon.

The city went mad for it! Loved it! Begged the paper to repeat it the next year.

So they did. And they repeated it the next, and the next. The music, helicopters and Overture became tradition.

The first weekend in June has become the traditional Pops at the Post weekend, and people now organize tailgating parties starting as early as 2pm. Streets are blocked off and it's a free, family-friendly, see-people-you-haven't-run-into kind of thing.

We love to go. We carry our canvas chairs and pull our rolling cooler along behind us, filled with picnic goodies. We eat in our laps and chat, get up and wander around and talk with friends. The blocked streets also host vending booths where restaurants offer food to those who don't pack their own. Our local soda pop company, Cheerwine, offers free drinks to all. Our local grocery chain, Food Lion, has coolers of free water for the taking.

Little One typically brings a friend or two and they wander around, meeting up with their other friends. We are nearby and check in from time to time on her cell phone: "Where are you now?" -- just for safety. She is not allowed to be out of the company of friends.

Then, when the sun is just about to go down, the magic begins. By the time the Overture starts, LO returns and sits with us.

At the very end of the 1812 overture, when all the bells ring, is the most magical moment of all. People are stationed in the bell towers of all our downtown churches (including ours.) At just the right moment, they all clang away like mad. It's so exciting and fun. And it happens tomorrow night.

Hope to see you there.

Wicked

Little One and I spent an enchanted evening last night in our nearby Big City, attending the touring Broadway production of Wicked.

To cut to the best quote of the night, she confessed at intermission, "Nana, I almost cried. It isn't scary; it's just overwhelming."

She was right.

The event started for us, I guess, at about 3pm when she dedicated 1.5 hours of her time to coaxing my hair into a French twist for the occasion. Then we threw on clothes, drove to a nearby restaurant for a quick meal, and proceeded to the City for the show.

Usually the evening rush-hour traffic on our interstate is headed toward our town, not back into the City, so I had not been concerned. I was edgy, however, when all lanes of traffic came to a dead stop -- not once, not twice, but 4 or 5 times in a 10-mile stretch. We never did see an accident or signs of construction. Despite the stops, and the intermittent rain, we got to the auditorium, parked, ran through the rain, and arrived inside in plenty of time to have a refreshment and pick up a size S "Wicked" t-shirt before the seats opened.

During this time, LO spotted a merchandise fellow wearing red sequin shoes, and asked me to take her picture with him. "Sure," I replied. This child knows no strangers, and marched up to the guy. She announced that his shoes were screaming to be in a picture with her. He smiled and agreed. Please check this blog soon for inclusion of the photo -- it's on her phone and she's at school at the moment.

Now for the play: This will be very short.

I've seen only a few Broadway plays in my life -- a few in NYC and a few traveling productions.

Nothing I've ever seen pales to this production.

Sets: amazing.
Special effects: artful.
Costumes: oh my goodness.
Cast energy: over the top.
Talent: ......wow.
Script: clever.

And the music: we were still humming it this morning. Headed to iTunes after this post to see what I can download....

During the play I glanced at our girl a few times to see how she was reacting. I wondered if she heard more in the music than I did, seeing as she can truly sing, and I have a double-case of Tin Ear. Her eyes were just filled with wonder. I rarely see her totally, completely absorbed in anything, but last night, she was. She thanked me and hugged me several times since, and, I really feel it was worth every hard-earned penny.

We drove home in more intermittent rain and reached the house at about midnight. I am so thankful for this enchanted night.

Shredding

I have just spent 1.5 hours of my precious life opening, shredding, unclogging, and coaxing junk pieces of paper into bits for one reason -- FEAR.

I am afraid to put these papers in the trash. Someone might steal my trash and thus steal my life. My money. My identity. My good name.

This is crazy.

I thought there was a recession on. I thought no one could get credit. So would someone please tell me WHY we get 2 to 4 new credit card notices a day?

When I was little, our dad would watch TV and explain the marketing techniques to us during the commercials. I ate that stuff up.

Today as I was shredding (that was before I got the thing overheated AND jammed, the second and final time) I watched those marketing techniques go down the shredder.

"You've been selected" to pay our exorbitant interest rates.
"You deserve it!"

And, the bane of all my existence, the "checks." Sometimes Discover includes them with our bill and sometimes they just send them separately.

The checks are so nefarious because they would make you feel like you're doing something very normal -- writing a check. Except in this case, the money is not yours, so you will pay interest. But by their "normalizing" it -- making it seem just like an everyday occurrence, you may not remember it's going to cost you big time.

So I watched these papers go down the shredder, and the seconds ticked by on the clock. It was all one giant metaphor for my life going past.

When we buy a shredder, (and yes, we've bought more than one in our 15 years of marriage,) we always buy the best one we feel we can afford. That way, we haven't overspent, but maybe, maybe, we have gotten a good quality one that will serve us well and last a long time.

That's our general philosophy on buying everything we get.

This shredder is rated for 10 pages per pass. I say with any shredder, divide the number by 2 and subtract 1. This particular shredder sounds happiest when it's processing 4 sheets of paper.

R-r-r--r-r-r-r-r- it happily chews up the papers.

I tried putting in a whole pad of the Discover checks: the outside says there are 8 and there are papers on the front and back: 10 sheets of narrow paper all together.

Ng-ng-ng-ng the shredder is singing slowly and sotto voce.

Then it stops.

I hit "reverse" and "forward" as long as I can until it grinds to a total and complete stop.

I opened the bay (must unplug to get it to open, safety check, tyvm.) and find although the bin is not full, all the ditritus from the shredding is jammed up there in the blades.

So I dig it out with my bare fingers. Remember it's unplugged.

The first time DH ever did this, I was frightened. Worried that the blades could disengage and chew up more of his fingers.

But it did fine for him so now I dig in with impunity. (Forgot to check, but I do NOT think there is such a word as "punity." Just saying.)

Did this once, did not run through a whole book of checks again, but it clogged again and now that I've unclogged it again, it just won't run at all.

I tend to toss shred things onto the shredder and save them up just because I hate the noise of the thing. I think in the future I'll shred things day by day, one or two things at a time, and avoid the trauma of doing a huge job.

The Vacuum

It's an intimidating feeling when one sits down to write something, and nothing, nothing comes to mind.

I committed to writing more on my blog, and doggone it, I intend to follow through.

But nothing comes to mind.

I could write about having seen in the newspaper yesterday that I am supposed to speak at a Memorial Day event today, but had not been notified. I called our efficient and able City Clerk and she, too, had not heard anything about it. She dutifully went in to the office, on a Sunday, on a holiday weekend, and emailed me a proclamation to read today. Day saved. Thank you, MH.

I don't know who failed to contact us, but if I were not to show up for the event, the audience would think it was I who had dropped the ball. We can't have that.

I could write that we're having friends over tonight for a cookout. Just a married couple, laid back, easy.

I could write that LO wants so badly to work this summer. She has looked into the few contacts she has, but has been told over and over that they are trying to hire adults this year, as they really need work.

I wrote the exec direc of our children's theater, meaning well, and offered her services as an intern to the summer drama camps for children. She could use the experience next year on her resume.

Now she's ticked off that I have potentially gotten her a non-paying job and she won't be able to secure a paid one. I should have asked her first.

But all these things are so mundane, you wouldn't want to read them. I'll try to do better next entry.

Deep Thoughts on... Poison Ivy

I must say I was so relieved last night when my DH said, "I don't know how on earth you get poison ivy every year. We just do not have any to be seen in our yard."

So many people ask me accusingly, "Don't you know what it looks like? You just need to stay away from it!"

It makes me feel a little like an idiot.

DH mowed Wednesday and I worked the periphery, pulling the tall blades of grass from between my impatiens, and thinning the mint that tries to dominate my flower bed.

I can see the headlines now : Mint: The New Kudzu.

But that's off-topic.

So I did those two things, and now I have red patches with high yellow-filled blisters on my arms, face, and behind an ear. Another red patch has sprouted in the little hollow at my throat.

I sponged makeup on the portion of my face last night, so I could greet at the Youth Theater. When I got home, it was really hot and angry. Obviously did not like makeup.

DH was annoyed that I had not headed straightaway for a shot. Now the dr. office is closed and I'm sprouting more postules by the hour.

I called the doctor's office and had the service page the doctor on call. I explained my predicament, and told him I can waste money on all the bottles at the drug store, but the only thing that relieves poison ivy for me is a shot. Because their office is closed, he offered to call in a prescription of Prednizone for me.

Then I approached the vanity issue.

"Um, doctor, in addition to the pain and discomfort, I, uh, wonder about the appearance. You see, I serve on City Council. I have to be on TV Tuesday, and don't want to look like, uh, like a Freak of Nature. Are there any old-time poultices I can use that might work?"

He laughed. and laughed. and laughed.

I got a little defensive. "You'd be sensitive about it, too, if it were you!"

"Yes, I would," he acknowledged. "In my opinion, none of those things work. I recommend Calamine and makeup, ma'am."

At least he called in the meds.

Blog.

To the family and friends who follow my blog: I blogged today and encourage you to nag me to continue.

In 2005, I posted 89 times.
In 2006, 80.
In 2007, 54 times.
In 2008, I made a NY resolution and posted 229 times.
In 2009, 78.

This year, I have posted 3 times.

Yikes.

I tell myself I'm too busy to write or draw.

But I'm not too busy. In addition to working, I choose to do other things that waste my time. Websudoku. Organizing cabinets that are already organized. Going to coffee. Facebook.

But life is short. The blog is my way of chronicling what we're doing, and trying to communicate in a pretty non-communicative family. Other than my mother-in-law, pretty much no one else really stays in touch. So I blog.

So, (sigh) as of today, I'm back in the saddle again. I encourage you to Hold Me Accountable. I. will. blog.

Every Day Matters

I've not blogged in forever, mostly because I delude myself that I'm too busy.

I'm not too busy. I choose to do other things that waste my time.

I'm finally prompted to post because of an artist I admire, Danny Gregory. His writing and drawing really, really make me think. You know how sometimes you just "click" with someone? The things they say, the things they notice -- they are the same things you notice, and you feel that you relate? ...even though maybe you've never met? That's how I am with this guy I never met. Not in a creepy-stalky way, but in a platonic, from-far-away, sort of way.

Danny started drawing as an adult in 2002 when his wife fell from the platform at the subway station. The train ran over her and severed her spine. She survived, and was a paraplegic. Through the experience, they realized every day matters. Danny struggled with the loss of his wife's well-being, and drew to cope. As his talent amazingly developed, he began to write books encouraging others to just draw. He said the more you draw, the better you get, regardless of whether you think you have talent or not.

This idea truly appeals to me, and I became a follower of his books and website.

So his wife passed away a few months ago, and he has faithfully posted about what it's been like for him and his son. Although Danny considers himself an artist, I have to admit his writing is top-notch. And, (although I know it's totally politically-incorrect to say this) for a guy, he is amazingly articulate with his feelings.

It hurts to read what he is going through. I avoid visiting his site. Then, after days and days, or weeks and weeks of not reading it, I must.

Today I asked myself why it's so hard.

First it's probably hard because his site has always been such a happy place for me. "You (yes, you!) can draw! All you have to do is try!" Now, it's not so happy.

Am I that shallow? I had to ask myself. Can I not roll along with this guy who is competely and legitimately hurting?

Then I realized why I can't bear his pain.

It's my pain. His losing his wife brought home the reality that one day I will lose J or he will lose me. It. will. happen. And I just can't bear to think about it.

I'll continue to procrastinate on visiting his site, and inevitably visit it, and voraciously read it. Just because I have to. In the meantime, I. must. create. Every Day Matters.

Time Goes By

Little One has been on hiatus from piano lessons as her days are filled with studies, cheerleading practice, basketball games, and practice for the Youth Play at the local little theatre. The kids are doing Midsummer Night's Dream this year, and she is a fairy. She's also in the church youth choir and attends Young Life every week.
She clearly misses piano lessons, and has played her piano as much as ever during this break, missing only the lessons themselves. It's two less chauffeur trips a week for me, thankfully..

Lately she's been playing and singing an old favorite of hers, "100 Years" by Five for Fighting.
Here are the lyrics:

I'm fifteen for a moment
Caught in between ten and twenty
And I'm just dreaming
Counting the ways to where you are

I'm twenty two for a moment
She feels better than ever
And we're on fire
Making our way back from Mars

Fifteen… there's still time for you
Time to buy and time to lose
Fifteen…there's never a wish better than this
When you only got a hundred years to live…

I'm thirty three for a moment
Still the man but you see I'm a they
A kid on the way
A family on my mind

I'm forty five for a moment
The sea is high
And I'm heading into a crisis
Chasing the years of my life

Fifteen… there's still time for you
Time to buy and time to lose yourself
Within a morning star

Fifteen… I'm all right with you
Fifteen… there's never a wish better than this
When you only got a hundred years to live…
Half time goes by
Suddenly you’re wise
Another blink of an eye
Sixty seven is gone
The sun is getting high
We're moving on...

I'm ninety nine for a moment
Dying for just another moment
And I'm just dreaming
Counting the ways to where you are...

Fifteen… there's still time for you
Twenty two… I feel her too
Thirty three… you’re on your way
Every day's a new day

Fifteen… there's still time for you
Time to buy and time to choose
Hey fifteen… there's never a wish better than this
When you only got a hundred years to live...

Little One has sung this song before and, while I noticed how lovely the words are, I've never been so moved by the words.. and her.. and me.

She's almost fifteen now! And she sits, and plays piano so beautifully, and sings the words with pure spirit and a heart just bursting with love for her music.

I'm on the other end of the cycle, past the halfway mark in my own life, just now beginning to reach my prime, just now beginning to serve in a way I'd like to serve, and thinking back on how I've spent my own life. "Capture your moments!" I want to say. "Hold on! Don't rush it!" and finally, "I am so proud of you! Please keep singing -- no matter what, please... just... sing."

But I say nothing. And she moves on to another song.

Fifteen -- there's still time for you
And you've only got a hundred years to live...

04.January.2010

It's a cold day outside, a really cold day, and I am still in my robe and slippers with a space heater nearby. Little One is still in bed; it's her last day of Christmas break. Next week she has exams for the very first time, and she has studied every day.

She did an extraordinary job of caring for the dogs for a week for the down-the-street neighbors, who visit family in Connecticut every year between Christmas and New Year's. Sure, there were a day or two when we had to remind her, but after that, she took it seriously and considered the weather when going down there. She made 2 trips a day -- evening to take them inside and morning to feed them and take them out. It was bitter-cold and she would go early in the evening if she thought the dogs would appreciate being inside a little extra. She asked me to come along the last day so we could gather all the dog food cans and take them to wash and recycle. The dogs wagged tails and were very quiet and respectful of her when we came in; I could tell they appreciate her.

DH gave me a book of short stories with my Christmas and it is haunting me. All the stories are set in the 70's; each story includes a character who saw the guy walking on a tightrope between the towers of the World Trade Center. It's similar to the new book Olive Kitteridge in that way; in that book, each story stands on its own, but each one includes a character who knows Olive.
This book is named Let the Great World Spin by Colum McCann. It won the National Book Award and has been on the NY Times best seller list for 4 weeks now. (Olive has been on for 29.)
The stories are compelling. The writing is tight yet descriptive. Lots of fragmented sentences. Yet the stories are about noble people, people with hearts, to whom LIFE happens. The stories are heartbreaking -- they give me bad dreams -- and yet I cannot stop reading. This guy is a Good Writer, and already I dread finishing the book.

I have been studying the Harlem Children's Zone. I first heard of it a few years ago when my favorite radio show, This American Life, did a feature on Baby College. I was intrigued.

During the campaign when my mentor mentioned the northeast quadrant of our city -- what can we do about the crime? the poverty? I googled the Harlem Baby College and realized it's a component of the larger program, the Children's Zone. I am continuing to study it. Last night I listened to more interviews of the founder, Geoffrey Canada. Today I am getting the book about it, Whatever it Takes, by NY Times editor Paul Tough.

During his campaign Barack Obama committed to implementing programs modeled after the HCZ in 20 cities around the US. This program is called "20 Promise Neighborhoods." I am intrigued, and looking into it.

So for LO's last of holiday -- we are : getting her eyebrows done, taking her new dress to the alterationist, buying new flats, getting our nails done, and calling for an appointment for new retainers. The old ones are lost, but these lasted a year, a new record.

Sigh. Shower. Dress. and, Out!