September 4, 2010, approximately 17 months ago, I bought the Crappy Little House with visions of selling the house I had, renovating the CLH and living mortgage free. It has been a long path involving selling a house in a down economy, losing my first builder, hiring another and then going through this process. I can now truly say that there is light at the end of the tunnel. I will be able to remove the parentheses around the word "home" within a month and possibly less. I could not be happier about this. There were times when I lost track of the fact that I was ever going to be able to move into this house. And now I know that I will! I have had to exercise patience for a long time. I'm getting pretty good at the delayed gratification thing.
Today the kitchen cabinets were installed. I love them. It's so strange to order a kitchen (in my case I ordered two kitchens) with all the choices involved, then wait for the cabinets to be built and the house ready to receive them, and then go in and see just exactly what it was that I had selected! And I love my choices! Jim the Kitchen Installer was great and did the job single-handedly within the course of the day. That includes getting all the pulls installed as well. Tomorrow they will be measured for the countertop. I would include pictures but it was too dark when I got there tonight. Hopefully tomorrow.
Appliances come on Thursday with the master bathroom vanity. Waiting on some extra flooring that might delay things a bit. But paint colors have been selected and painting starts in the next few days. When you have a house this small it only takes one day for most projects. This is heady stuff. I'm going to have a home!
And I'm looking forward to tomorrow for another reason. Because I'm well enough to go to choir. But also because tomorrow is the first of two rehearsals when we aren't practicing for a concert, but rather serving as an audition vehicle for a potential new Artistic Director. Two finalists will rehearse us tomorrow night, an hour and 15 minutes each. It will be fun to sing with two excellent musicians who have made it to the finals of this search. I'm really looking forward to that.
One of the philosophies of my life is to throw out to the universe that which you want, and then (and this is important) be patient until it arrives. And I can see the "ship coming in" on the house deal. And I can begin to anticipate what life will be without the choir. Unless I get so enamored with the new guy that I have to give it one more year. I can't wait to see how this works out. No wait. . . . I CAN wait to see how this works out. Patience.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Sunday, January 29, 2012
PROST!
As a classical choral singer, my two most familiar singing languages are Latin (both Germanic and Italian Latin) and German. In the Choral Arts Society, the third most often used language of late would have to be Russian. We love to sing Russian. The choir has sung in Red Square for crying out loud. I was not there, but many of the choristers remember that as their ultimate ultimate choir experience. The Russian embassy in DC loves our group. I have sung there! I have struggled through Russian mostly while singing Rachmaninoff "The Bells" and also his "Vespers." Every once in a while we just schedule a whole concert of Russian music! Such a challenge. Russian is constructed of mostly consonants. So when you're singing fast, it's practically impossible to get the sounds out at the right tempo. Which begs the question, Why did the Hawaiians get all the vowels? I have no idea.
So today I had a Russian experience. It all started when Sandy and I went to the movies Friday in Charlottesville. We saw The Artist which was just exceptional. A modern silent movie. Might win the big award. As we were strolling to and from the car, we passed the historic Paramount Theater. And saw that today at 2:00 was a screening of Dr. Zhivago. I was determined to see it. Saw it as a teenager but remembered nothing except the song and the scene where Lara is leaving the snow covered house in a horse-drawn sleigh.
The theme from Dr. Zhivago was called Lara's Theme, and I remember playing it over and over on the piano when I was in high school. For our generation, this plaintive balalaika tune was our version of "My Heart Will Go On" from Titanic, but without the grimacing, emoting and chest pounding of Celine Dion. Someone wrote words to the Lara tune after the fact, and I'm sure we sang it in choir in high school at some point.
So I drove in to Charlottesville this afternoon and bought my ticket. The Paramount is gorgeous. . Very ornate and old school. I have been there to see some of the live feed from the Metropolitan Opera concerts. I was totally psyched to spend this winter Sunday watching this nearly 4 hour movie. I had my ice coffee beforehand to make sure I would not doze off. Got there early enough to claim the front row, center seat in the balcony. That way I could put my feet up as needed. Four hours is a long time to sit!
The Paramount really does it right. As I sat down, I noticed a couple across the aisle. The woman had what looked like a cocktail in her hand. She said it was a White Russian (vodka, kahlua and cream) in honor of the movie and they were selling them at the concession stand. Wowza!!! I'm not a big cocktail person. At most I'll indulge in a glass of wine now and then. I had not had a white Russian since my brother Chip and I went on the horseback riding adventure in the Bitteroot Mountains of Idaho on the Lewis and Clark trail about 8 years ago. The night we got to Idaho (after driving from Minneapolis) and before we embarked on the trail ride, we were staying in the Sacajawea Motor Lodge (I am not making this up) in Lewiston, Idaho. We had met our group and had a lovely get-acquainted dinner followed by a lovely session of signing about 1200 pages apiece of legal documents saying that should we fall off our horses, get consumed by the wild fires, get struck by lightening, break any limbs. . . well, you get the picture. . . . we would not sue the outfitters. Then we were sent off to get some "shut-eye" (already they had us talking like cowpokes). Well, Chip and I took one look at each other and decided that maybe stopping by the bar for what could possibly be our last rendezvous with alcohol might not be a bad idea. And we each had either two Black Russians, or two White Russians. I can't remember the color of the Russians, but they were pretty tasty. And today, during the intermission of the show, the White Russian I bought and sipped during the second half brought back some pleasant memories.
As well as steadying me for the second half of the show where a deliciously young Omar Sharif struggles between his love for his wife and family and the love he has for the equally attractive Julie Christie as Lara (for whom the theme was played. . . .over and over). Well, what story is more universal than that? And sad. And poignant. And cold as it turned out. The scenes in the winter which were apparently filmed in Finland made me wish that they had served hot chocolate instead of a cocktail on the rocks.
At any rate. . . . I was riveted to this movie. The big screen, the classical opulence of the theater, the music, the grandeur of the story. The only thing that was strange is that now that I have become an independent movie buff, I am used to watching foreign films and reading subtitles. So it just seemed weird to watch this Russian story done all in English with actors with English accents. Heck, given all my experience with singing in Russian, I would have loved to hear it spoken. Although 4 hours of subtitles might beg the question of the need for multiple White Russians. And that would have been not such a good idea I think.
Loved this event. I'm going to take a closer look at the Paramount schedule and not be a stranger to that venue.
Oh. . . and the lady with the White Russian with whom I was chatting before the show. . . turned out she was the newly hired Executive Director of the Paramount. So I already have friends in high places. Fabulous afternoon!
So today I had a Russian experience. It all started when Sandy and I went to the movies Friday in Charlottesville. We saw The Artist which was just exceptional. A modern silent movie. Might win the big award. As we were strolling to and from the car, we passed the historic Paramount Theater. And saw that today at 2:00 was a screening of Dr. Zhivago. I was determined to see it. Saw it as a teenager but remembered nothing except the song and the scene where Lara is leaving the snow covered house in a horse-drawn sleigh.
The theme from Dr. Zhivago was called Lara's Theme, and I remember playing it over and over on the piano when I was in high school. For our generation, this plaintive balalaika tune was our version of "My Heart Will Go On" from Titanic, but without the grimacing, emoting and chest pounding of Celine Dion. Someone wrote words to the Lara tune after the fact, and I'm sure we sang it in choir in high school at some point.
So I drove in to Charlottesville this afternoon and bought my ticket. The Paramount is gorgeous. . Very ornate and old school. I have been there to see some of the live feed from the Metropolitan Opera concerts. I was totally psyched to spend this winter Sunday watching this nearly 4 hour movie. I had my ice coffee beforehand to make sure I would not doze off. Got there early enough to claim the front row, center seat in the balcony. That way I could put my feet up as needed. Four hours is a long time to sit!
The Paramount really does it right. As I sat down, I noticed a couple across the aisle. The woman had what looked like a cocktail in her hand. She said it was a White Russian (vodka, kahlua and cream) in honor of the movie and they were selling them at the concession stand. Wowza!!! I'm not a big cocktail person. At most I'll indulge in a glass of wine now and then. I had not had a white Russian since my brother Chip and I went on the horseback riding adventure in the Bitteroot Mountains of Idaho on the Lewis and Clark trail about 8 years ago. The night we got to Idaho (after driving from Minneapolis) and before we embarked on the trail ride, we were staying in the Sacajawea Motor Lodge (I am not making this up) in Lewiston, Idaho. We had met our group and had a lovely get-acquainted dinner followed by a lovely session of signing about 1200 pages apiece of legal documents saying that should we fall off our horses, get consumed by the wild fires, get struck by lightening, break any limbs. . . well, you get the picture. . . . we would not sue the outfitters. Then we were sent off to get some "shut-eye" (already they had us talking like cowpokes). Well, Chip and I took one look at each other and decided that maybe stopping by the bar for what could possibly be our last rendezvous with alcohol might not be a bad idea. And we each had either two Black Russians, or two White Russians. I can't remember the color of the Russians, but they were pretty tasty. And today, during the intermission of the show, the White Russian I bought and sipped during the second half brought back some pleasant memories.
As well as steadying me for the second half of the show where a deliciously young Omar Sharif struggles between his love for his wife and family and the love he has for the equally attractive Julie Christie as Lara (for whom the theme was played. . . .over and over). Well, what story is more universal than that? And sad. And poignant. And cold as it turned out. The scenes in the winter which were apparently filmed in Finland made me wish that they had served hot chocolate instead of a cocktail on the rocks.
At any rate. . . . I was riveted to this movie. The big screen, the classical opulence of the theater, the music, the grandeur of the story. The only thing that was strange is that now that I have become an independent movie buff, I am used to watching foreign films and reading subtitles. So it just seemed weird to watch this Russian story done all in English with actors with English accents. Heck, given all my experience with singing in Russian, I would have loved to hear it spoken. Although 4 hours of subtitles might beg the question of the need for multiple White Russians. And that would have been not such a good idea I think.
Loved this event. I'm going to take a closer look at the Paramount schedule and not be a stranger to that venue.
Oh. . . and the lady with the White Russian with whom I was chatting before the show. . . turned out she was the newly hired Executive Director of the Paramount. So I already have friends in high places. Fabulous afternoon!
Friday, January 27, 2012
GEORGE IS RIGHT AND I AM WRONG!
This is George the trainer.
I have written about him many times. It's time to blog about him.
For almost three years I've been working out with George as my personal trainer. In three years I have become stronger than I was when I started. . . .a lot stronger. George has been on my case for almost three years. He makes me work harder than I ever wanted to work. He kills me. On Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday mornings he kills me in a group personal training class. On Tuesdays he kills me in a weight lifting class. On Thursdays he kills me in a cardio class. And he wishes he could kill me in the Tuesday/Thursday core training class. But I'm too smart to turn up for those. How many times can a person be killed in a week and still be alive?
And what I have appreciated about George is that never once has he ever treated me nor any of the other men and women in my age bracket like senior citizens. Never once have we heard, "Well, for a woman in your 60's, 5 pound weights should be enough." No, it's more like, "You'll be ready for 25's next week." Never once has he watched me huffing and puffing on the spinner and said, "You're working too hard. You'd better stop now." It's more like "Does that feel good? Good! Now give me another quarter turn of tension!"
I'm a strong believer in mind/body connection. When I'm in an environment where I'm expected to keep upping the intensity, then I can up the intensity.
This is how 5 Star Health and Fitness works. Constantly upping the game. Constantly making progress. Sweating and cursing and being in agony over and over. And reaping the rewards.
But George is also one of my best friends. Because around here, in Nelson County, it's not unheard of for your trainer to also offer free moving help. He's helped lots of 5 Star members move. He will help me move hopefully within the month. He helped me do demolition on the Crappy Little House. Which, by the way, is located right across the street from 5 Star. In return I let him have all the bushes around the house for use at his lake house. He also got my Christmas tree and some of the other stuff I was getting rid of last spring. We're neighbors and friends. And we do stuff for each other.
And last week when I was sick and missed several workouts in a row, George called to make sure I was all right. And he offered to bring me anything that I would have needed. And he would have done it if I was the kind of person who can ask for help, which I'm not.
So this morning I finally showed up for my first workout since the sickness of the past week. George knew I had come in twice this week, and not been able to stay. And he knew I had not worked out in a week. And that I was quite possibly weak, and still prone to coughing and snuffling. And he put all of his challenges on hold. Because he understands every single person who works out. He knows what's going on in their lives. He knows what they did at their last workout, and he already knows what he plans to do at the next one. Every single person is on an individual program. And he knows personalities. He knows I will give him a load of crap throughout the workout as I resist the current challenge. He also knows I'm kidding.
Today he said I was going to work out very easy. He also knew that I would want to go as hard as I could to make up for lost time. My first assignment. . . the elliptical machine. . . . 1200 strides. I'm about 3 minutes into the workout when he looks up and says something I have never heard him say: "Ruth. . . you need to slow down." He told me to slow down several more times. Because he knows I can get overzealous. And he knows I'm not ready. So in this case, he keeps pulling me back so that I can ease back into this workout routine.
This is a great trainer. A great friend. This is someone who knows exactly who I am. Having someone know exactly who I am is a rare occurrence for me. I'm a sucker for anyone who takes the time to know me. And who has my best interest at heart.
Today George was right, and I was wrong. And I told him that during the workout. Something he NEVER hears from me. So he made me said it again:
"George. . . you are right. And I am wrong."
I will never live this down. But thank you, George. Thank you for helping me get younger each year. Thank you for not wanting me to hurt myself. Thank you for not treating me like a little old lady. Thank you for pushing me harder than I would ever push myself. Within a month, I will be able to walk across the street for my workouts. Part of the allure of the Crappy Little House!
For almost three years I've been working out with George as my personal trainer. In three years I have become stronger than I was when I started. . . .a lot stronger. George has been on my case for almost three years. He makes me work harder than I ever wanted to work. He kills me. On Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday mornings he kills me in a group personal training class. On Tuesdays he kills me in a weight lifting class. On Thursdays he kills me in a cardio class. And he wishes he could kill me in the Tuesday/Thursday core training class. But I'm too smart to turn up for those. How many times can a person be killed in a week and still be alive?
And what I have appreciated about George is that never once has he ever treated me nor any of the other men and women in my age bracket like senior citizens. Never once have we heard, "Well, for a woman in your 60's, 5 pound weights should be enough." No, it's more like, "You'll be ready for 25's next week." Never once has he watched me huffing and puffing on the spinner and said, "You're working too hard. You'd better stop now." It's more like "Does that feel good? Good! Now give me another quarter turn of tension!"
I'm a strong believer in mind/body connection. When I'm in an environment where I'm expected to keep upping the intensity, then I can up the intensity.
This is how 5 Star Health and Fitness works. Constantly upping the game. Constantly making progress. Sweating and cursing and being in agony over and over. And reaping the rewards.
But George is also one of my best friends. Because around here, in Nelson County, it's not unheard of for your trainer to also offer free moving help. He's helped lots of 5 Star members move. He will help me move hopefully within the month. He helped me do demolition on the Crappy Little House. Which, by the way, is located right across the street from 5 Star. In return I let him have all the bushes around the house for use at his lake house. He also got my Christmas tree and some of the other stuff I was getting rid of last spring. We're neighbors and friends. And we do stuff for each other.
And last week when I was sick and missed several workouts in a row, George called to make sure I was all right. And he offered to bring me anything that I would have needed. And he would have done it if I was the kind of person who can ask for help, which I'm not.
So this morning I finally showed up for my first workout since the sickness of the past week. George knew I had come in twice this week, and not been able to stay. And he knew I had not worked out in a week. And that I was quite possibly weak, and still prone to coughing and snuffling. And he put all of his challenges on hold. Because he understands every single person who works out. He knows what's going on in their lives. He knows what they did at their last workout, and he already knows what he plans to do at the next one. Every single person is on an individual program. And he knows personalities. He knows I will give him a load of crap throughout the workout as I resist the current challenge. He also knows I'm kidding.
Today he said I was going to work out very easy. He also knew that I would want to go as hard as I could to make up for lost time. My first assignment. . . the elliptical machine. . . . 1200 strides. I'm about 3 minutes into the workout when he looks up and says something I have never heard him say: "Ruth. . . you need to slow down." He told me to slow down several more times. Because he knows I can get overzealous. And he knows I'm not ready. So in this case, he keeps pulling me back so that I can ease back into this workout routine.
This is a great trainer. A great friend. This is someone who knows exactly who I am. Having someone know exactly who I am is a rare occurrence for me. I'm a sucker for anyone who takes the time to know me. And who has my best interest at heart.
Today George was right, and I was wrong. And I told him that during the workout. Something he NEVER hears from me. So he made me said it again:
"George. . . you are right. And I am wrong."
I will never live this down. But thank you, George. Thank you for helping me get younger each year. Thank you for not wanting me to hurt myself. Thank you for not treating me like a little old lady. Thank you for pushing me harder than I would ever push myself. Within a month, I will be able to walk across the street for my workouts. Part of the allure of the Crappy Little House!
Thursday, January 26, 2012
GRAB YOUR COAT. . . . . .
This is such an obscure reference title I'm tempted to see if any of the 3 people who regularly read this blog (okay, there may be 10) have any idea where it comes from. But I know the answer would be "no". So I'll just give it up. Again, from the vast wealth of influence in my life that was the music my dad used to listen to. . . . . the song was "The Sunny Side of the Street." And the artists for the rendition that runs in my head were The Kirby Stone Four. They also brought forth "The I-Had-A-Dream-Dear Rock" on the same album (remember albums?) and that song was arranged by me for elementary chorus and performed many times during my 32 year teaching career. And here I am veering far from the topic in the first paragraph. It's a wonder that anyone decides to read these missives to the end! Heck, it's a wonder I could hold down a teaching job!
Anyway. . . . . .The Sunny Side of the Street. Yesterday I was gray, gray, gray. Today the sun is peeking through. I actually smiled big and wide today and nobody was there to see it. But I will post pictures of what caused it. All in good time. . . . .
Here at the end of the day I'm feeling better. Another rather iffy day. . .no workout. But I think I've turned a big corner and it feels great. A little less gray in my world. A little more sun.
Went to the Crappy Little House and saw (surprise!) my old buddies Al and Ronnie from framing days. Did not expect them. They were hard at work building the frames and hanging the interior doors. When I saw them I didn't exactly understand what they were doing, but when I got back later after they were done, was I thrilled. I have pictures to show you (hold your horses. . . they're coming!).
Went to Lowes to order some more carpet and another box of master bath floor tiles, and to pick up the tile for the laundry room and the second bathroom. Stopped by a tile shop to see what their selection was. Fun shopping but too many choices. Give me three choices and I can tell you what I want. Give me 729 choices and I can't function.
Met Sandy for our regular Thursday-afternoon-at-three-o'clock glass of wine at the Afton Mountain Winery. Sandy, aka Thelma, and I have not seen each other much since our trip. We had a lot of catching up to do. What a gift to have a local BFF to laugh and cry with. I feel sorry for men, who don't seem to have this luxury. I don't know how I would get through my life without it. So anyway. . . catch up we did. For almost 2 hours, but still only one glass of wine. Because we made a pact and we're sticking to it.
It was getting towards dusk as I swung by the Crappy Little House. I needed to unload the tiles and a light fixture. And I went inside and there they were. The interior doors I had picked out. The ones I had forgotten all about. But they were in and they are wonderful.
Now I have no idea why this style of door makes me so happy, but when I saw this I just broke out into the biggest grin!!! And it felt good to smile. Like the sun was coming out. But only figuratively. Actually the sun was setting. But you get the picture.
Here is the den/second bedroom with the French doors in place. They will be able to stay completely open when I need a bigger living room. . . like when book club meets. When I have company, they will close up and make a bedroom. Love these!
A shot from where the kitchen will be towards the front door. Door to the right of the front door is the mud room/laundry. The boxes are the kitchen cabinets. The "lumber" is the moldings for the baseboards.
Laminate floors in. Hard to tell, but they are really pretty. I fooled around with the lighting on the picture after the fact and still don't think this is a great picture, but it was getting dark when I took it. The door is to the screen porch and there you see the triple windows looking out to the back from the living room.
This is much greener than the house really looks. But I have been unable to get a good picture of the color because the brightness of the sky fools with the camera in the IPhone. So I doctored this a little. But you kind of get the idea.
This stage of the operation is fun. I have to admit it. And each day as I feel better physically and emotionally it will be funner and funner!!! :)
Grab your coat, and get your hat!
Leave your worries on the doorstep
Just direct your feet
To the sunny side of the street.
Don't you hear the pitter pat?
You know that happy tune is your step
Life can be so sweet
On the sunny side of the street.
I'm getting there!!!
Anyway. . . . . .The Sunny Side of the Street. Yesterday I was gray, gray, gray. Today the sun is peeking through. I actually smiled big and wide today and nobody was there to see it. But I will post pictures of what caused it. All in good time. . . . .
Here at the end of the day I'm feeling better. Another rather iffy day. . .no workout. But I think I've turned a big corner and it feels great. A little less gray in my world. A little more sun.
Went to the Crappy Little House and saw (surprise!) my old buddies Al and Ronnie from framing days. Did not expect them. They were hard at work building the frames and hanging the interior doors. When I saw them I didn't exactly understand what they were doing, but when I got back later after they were done, was I thrilled. I have pictures to show you (hold your horses. . . they're coming!).
Went to Lowes to order some more carpet and another box of master bath floor tiles, and to pick up the tile for the laundry room and the second bathroom. Stopped by a tile shop to see what their selection was. Fun shopping but too many choices. Give me three choices and I can tell you what I want. Give me 729 choices and I can't function.
Met Sandy for our regular Thursday-afternoon-at-three-o'clock glass of wine at the Afton Mountain Winery. Sandy, aka Thelma, and I have not seen each other much since our trip. We had a lot of catching up to do. What a gift to have a local BFF to laugh and cry with. I feel sorry for men, who don't seem to have this luxury. I don't know how I would get through my life without it. So anyway. . . catch up we did. For almost 2 hours, but still only one glass of wine. Because we made a pact and we're sticking to it.
It was getting towards dusk as I swung by the Crappy Little House. I needed to unload the tiles and a light fixture. And I went inside and there they were. The interior doors I had picked out. The ones I had forgotten all about. But they were in and they are wonderful.
This stage of the operation is fun. I have to admit it. And each day as I feel better physically and emotionally it will be funner and funner!!! :)
Grab your coat, and get your hat!
Leave your worries on the doorstep
Just direct your feet
To the sunny side of the street.
Don't you hear the pitter pat?
You know that happy tune is your step
Life can be so sweet
On the sunny side of the street.
I'm getting there!!!
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
GREY OR GRAY?
Because I wanted to use grey (or gray) in the title. And I've just never known how to spell that word. So I googled it. And both ways are correct. The spelling grey is most often used in the UK, and gray is used in the US. Unless it's a person's name. And of course Earl Grey tea. I've often said that the longest relationship I ever had with a man was with a delightful old British gentleman named Earl Grey! And actually, that's true! Me and Earl. Every single morning. Anyway. . . . . . .
It's been a gray week. (I guess I'll use the American version.)
I have been blogging for nearly 3 years now. And in rereading the entries, the thing I notice is that I have a pretty amazing life. Retirement could not possibly be better. And even though I haven't written daily, or even weekly during some times, in general I have outlined a remarkably carefree life. Some of that is that I'm just lucky. Some of that is that I'm committed to happiness. Hence the Plan B philosophy. And the habit of framing my thinking to focus on what is present in my life instead of what is missing. And that's been a habit to practice and refine, and I've got it down pretty well.
But this week was a challenge. I guess one week out of three years is not bad.
Being sick, for me, is miserable. I was hoping to get to choir last night. No deal. I was hoping to get to La Cage aux Folles tonight. No deal. I was hoping to work out at least three times. No deal. All right. Minor disappointments at best. But disappointing never the less.
So gray, gray, gray all the way around. A couple of ice storms thrown in for good measure. An "adult" decision made which would have been more fun to ignore. . .no details coming on that one. But again. . . .gray.
So, sorry about that, blog-wise. On the sunnier side of life, which I'm sure I will be able to embrace in the near future, the house progress is impressive. Although it does not lend itself to pictures yet, I ended the day today by seeing the flooring completed in the living room/kitchen/den. And it looks fabulous. And Michael and Lainey, the floor guys, are great. They also do ceramic tile which might come in handy for a couple of additional ideas I have, once the gray has cleared out of my head.
So onward and upward. Concentrating on what is present in my life instead of what is missing. Because when you get right down to it, nothing is missing. Nobody on the planet is more fortunate than I am.
Pictures should be forthcoming in the next few days. Not sure how the IPhone will translate inside the house. Wish I knew a professional photographer! But I will do my best, all by myself. It's the way I roll.
It's been a gray week. (I guess I'll use the American version.)
I have been blogging for nearly 3 years now. And in rereading the entries, the thing I notice is that I have a pretty amazing life. Retirement could not possibly be better. And even though I haven't written daily, or even weekly during some times, in general I have outlined a remarkably carefree life. Some of that is that I'm just lucky. Some of that is that I'm committed to happiness. Hence the Plan B philosophy. And the habit of framing my thinking to focus on what is present in my life instead of what is missing. And that's been a habit to practice and refine, and I've got it down pretty well.
But this week was a challenge. I guess one week out of three years is not bad.
Being sick, for me, is miserable. I was hoping to get to choir last night. No deal. I was hoping to get to La Cage aux Folles tonight. No deal. I was hoping to work out at least three times. No deal. All right. Minor disappointments at best. But disappointing never the less.
So gray, gray, gray all the way around. A couple of ice storms thrown in for good measure. An "adult" decision made which would have been more fun to ignore. . .no details coming on that one. But again. . . .gray.
So, sorry about that, blog-wise. On the sunnier side of life, which I'm sure I will be able to embrace in the near future, the house progress is impressive. Although it does not lend itself to pictures yet, I ended the day today by seeing the flooring completed in the living room/kitchen/den. And it looks fabulous. And Michael and Lainey, the floor guys, are great. They also do ceramic tile which might come in handy for a couple of additional ideas I have, once the gray has cleared out of my head.
So onward and upward. Concentrating on what is present in my life instead of what is missing. Because when you get right down to it, nothing is missing. Nobody on the planet is more fortunate than I am.
Pictures should be forthcoming in the next few days. Not sure how the IPhone will translate inside the house. Wish I knew a professional photographer! But I will do my best, all by myself. It's the way I roll.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
COMING UP FOR AIR
When I was in Fort Myers, Florida, I had the opportunity to see a manatee. He (she?) was in an inlet pool. The water was really murky and you had to stand there and just hope to catch a glimpse of one of them coming up for air, an event that lasted approximately 4 seconds. Fortunately, there was one who surfaced twice while I watched.
I feel like that is what I'm doing right now. Coming up for air. I've been in a cesspool of illness for the last 24 hours. Actually, I've been "sick" for almost a week. I just did what I always do. I denied that it could ever happen to me. I went into a firm state of denial about anything which would suggest that I could ever get sick! Because I really don't get sick. Part of that, I guess, is that I'm lucky. But the other part is because I invest a lot of energy in being healthy. I eat really well, exercise nearly every day, limit my wine intake, get plenty of sleep, floss. . .you know. . all the major things. Except that since I've been living in someone else's house the eating healthy thing has gone the way of the dodo. I don't eat unhealthy. As a matter of fact, ask my friend Sandy and she'll tell you that I'm OBNOXIOUS about my healthy eating. But still, finding healthy items at a restaurant twice a day, every day, is not the same as stocking the refrig with lots of fresh fruits and vegetables, making nutritious soups from scratch, and generally embracing the super foods as my main cuisine. Haven't been able to do that. Need to get back to that. So maybe that's why I got sick. Or maybe I'm just like everyone else. . . .no. . .that can't be it.
Anyway. . . . . in retrospect, I probably should have bagged the whole MLK concert experience. It is a grueling schedule, especially when one is driving 3 1/2 hours each way for practices. But I knew I could soldier through. Well I awoke in the hotel the day after the concert and I felt like someone was sitting on my chest. I did not have the strength to even get out of bed after the previous day's schedule. But I had to check out, so I dragged myself out of bed, got the car and hit the road.
I arrived here mid-day, and could only make it from the car to my bed. I didn't even get my suitcase out of the trunk because that would have required too much energy. I climbed into my Forever Lazy and pretty much passed out. I couldn't believe how much worse I felt. I had thought I was on the uphill swing. WRONG!
Awoke this morning still feeling bad, although my breathing was easy and my chest clear. So I stayed in bed and called in to the gym saying I would not be in (unheard of!), called Choral Arts and said I would not be coming to practice tonight (impossible!), and put Dave on notice that I was iffy for the Wednesday night performance of La Cage aux Folles at the Kennedy Center (No! Not that!).
Not only do I think I won't get sick, I eschew any drugs of any kind. So I was forcing fluids and using hot packs and drinking grapefruit juice and all the other non-drug remedies I normally use when I need them which is hardly ever. But I was still suffering from a throbbing headache. So picture me at 1:00 this afternoon, still in my Forever Lazy, having ventured down the stairs, holding a roll of toilet paper because there was not any Kleenex in the house (you don't need Kleenex if you're not going to get sick!) and I'm really tired of the headache. So I ventured into Jean's bathroom and found a bottle of Aleve which had not expired. I bit the bullet and had ONE!. And an hour later, I perked right up. An accident? Perhaps not. Anyway, I felt good enough to get dressed and venture out into the world. To come up for air.
I drove to the Crappy Little House to see what was cooking. Not a soul there but the flooring had been delivered and the drywall was now primed white. Duncan the Builder showed up about 10 minutes later. And then I got the call that the kitchen cabinets were a half hour away. I was starting to be glad that I had not been able to hit the road! I got to see the cabinets delivered!
Cabinet truck arriving!
Hard to see, but big strong man carrying one of the cabinets into the house.
This was pretty exciting, even if I was a little out of it. Tomorrow the laminate floor will be installed in the living room/kitchen and 2nd bedroom. Other flooring to follow. The kitchen can go in after that. This is huge progress.
So I'm sitting here painfully aware that the choir will be beginning to rehearse Beethoven's opera, Fidelio in about an hour and a half and I will not be there. And I wish I was. But on the other hand, I will be able to do something I have not been able to do for the last six years. . . . watch the State Of the Union address live. He's my president, and I'm looking forward to hearing him.
The jury is still out about whether or not I'll venture north tomorrow for the show. But in the meantime besides bringing in my suitcase, I've bought a box of Kleenex, another bottle of grapefruit juice and some Hall's lozenges. Only one pill per illness. And only if absolutely necessary.
I feel like that is what I'm doing right now. Coming up for air. I've been in a cesspool of illness for the last 24 hours. Actually, I've been "sick" for almost a week. I just did what I always do. I denied that it could ever happen to me. I went into a firm state of denial about anything which would suggest that I could ever get sick! Because I really don't get sick. Part of that, I guess, is that I'm lucky. But the other part is because I invest a lot of energy in being healthy. I eat really well, exercise nearly every day, limit my wine intake, get plenty of sleep, floss. . .you know. . all the major things. Except that since I've been living in someone else's house the eating healthy thing has gone the way of the dodo. I don't eat unhealthy. As a matter of fact, ask my friend Sandy and she'll tell you that I'm OBNOXIOUS about my healthy eating. But still, finding healthy items at a restaurant twice a day, every day, is not the same as stocking the refrig with lots of fresh fruits and vegetables, making nutritious soups from scratch, and generally embracing the super foods as my main cuisine. Haven't been able to do that. Need to get back to that. So maybe that's why I got sick. Or maybe I'm just like everyone else. . . .no. . .that can't be it.
Anyway. . . . . in retrospect, I probably should have bagged the whole MLK concert experience. It is a grueling schedule, especially when one is driving 3 1/2 hours each way for practices. But I knew I could soldier through. Well I awoke in the hotel the day after the concert and I felt like someone was sitting on my chest. I did not have the strength to even get out of bed after the previous day's schedule. But I had to check out, so I dragged myself out of bed, got the car and hit the road.
I arrived here mid-day, and could only make it from the car to my bed. I didn't even get my suitcase out of the trunk because that would have required too much energy. I climbed into my Forever Lazy and pretty much passed out. I couldn't believe how much worse I felt. I had thought I was on the uphill swing. WRONG!
Awoke this morning still feeling bad, although my breathing was easy and my chest clear. So I stayed in bed and called in to the gym saying I would not be in (unheard of!), called Choral Arts and said I would not be coming to practice tonight (impossible!), and put Dave on notice that I was iffy for the Wednesday night performance of La Cage aux Folles at the Kennedy Center (No! Not that!).
Not only do I think I won't get sick, I eschew any drugs of any kind. So I was forcing fluids and using hot packs and drinking grapefruit juice and all the other non-drug remedies I normally use when I need them which is hardly ever. But I was still suffering from a throbbing headache. So picture me at 1:00 this afternoon, still in my Forever Lazy, having ventured down the stairs, holding a roll of toilet paper because there was not any Kleenex in the house (you don't need Kleenex if you're not going to get sick!) and I'm really tired of the headache. So I ventured into Jean's bathroom and found a bottle of Aleve which had not expired. I bit the bullet and had ONE!. And an hour later, I perked right up. An accident? Perhaps not. Anyway, I felt good enough to get dressed and venture out into the world. To come up for air.
I drove to the Crappy Little House to see what was cooking. Not a soul there but the flooring had been delivered and the drywall was now primed white. Duncan the Builder showed up about 10 minutes later. And then I got the call that the kitchen cabinets were a half hour away. I was starting to be glad that I had not been able to hit the road! I got to see the cabinets delivered!
This was pretty exciting, even if I was a little out of it. Tomorrow the laminate floor will be installed in the living room/kitchen and 2nd bedroom. Other flooring to follow. The kitchen can go in after that. This is huge progress.
So I'm sitting here painfully aware that the choir will be beginning to rehearse Beethoven's opera, Fidelio in about an hour and a half and I will not be there. And I wish I was. But on the other hand, I will be able to do something I have not been able to do for the last six years. . . . watch the State Of the Union address live. He's my president, and I'm looking forward to hearing him.
The jury is still out about whether or not I'll venture north tomorrow for the show. But in the meantime besides bringing in my suitcase, I've bought a box of Kleenex, another bottle of grapefruit juice and some Hall's lozenges. Only one pill per illness. And only if absolutely necessary.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
MILLI VANILLI!
Sometimes you don't get what you want. But other times you do, so I guess it all evens out. I wanted desperately to be able to sing the whole concert tonight. As it was, I sang maybe 20% of the notes. The rest of the time I was doing an amazing job of lip synching. I could have put Milli Vanilli to shame. However, this put a definite damper on my enthusiasm level. Especially for the three hour rehearsal.
Three hours on bleacher seats is hard at best. To sit there and not be able to produce notes makes it easier to pay attention to the hardness of the benches. In fact, at the end of the rehearsal I was whipped. Not real enthusiastic about going back in after dinner to fake the concert.
But during dinner I had a nice conversation with one of the men in the choir who is always fun to talk to. And then I had a cup of coffee to snap me out of it. A supportive email helped a lot. And so I changed into the blue dress, lined up and boldly marched in. And the concert was fabulous. So much incredible talent in this concert. I would literally beam every single person I know to this concert if I was able to do so. Most of them would resent the intrusion. But afterwards they would thank me profusely. There's just no way to describe how exciting it is.
This was Norman's last MLK concert. This is a year of "lasts" for him. And probably I'm sharing them as my "lasts" as well. Which means they are all very bittersweet.
Anyway, I totally rocked out on the final gospel piece and the audience this year was totally into all the singing. So the gospel pieces went on and on and just got better and better. What amazing energy. After such a grueling day.
Then to be in that concert hall as everyone in the 200 voice combined choirs and everyone in the sold out audience sang "If I Can Help Somebody", Dr. King's favorite hymn. . . well it was goose bump Disneyland for sure.
So I'm back "home" in the hotel (I'm going to be so glad when I don't have to put quotes around the word "home.") Freezing rain predicted for overnight again. But it's supposed to be in the 50's tomorrow so I hope I can get out of here all right.
I'll leave you with these words and wish that you could have joined in:
If I can help somebody as I pass along,
If I can cheer somebody with a word or song,
If I can show somebody that he's travelin' wrong,
Then my living shall not be in vain.
Then my living shall not be in vain,
Then my living shall not be in vain,
If I can help somebody as I pass along,
Then my living shall not be in vain.
Dr. King would have loved this event!
Three hours on bleacher seats is hard at best. To sit there and not be able to produce notes makes it easier to pay attention to the hardness of the benches. In fact, at the end of the rehearsal I was whipped. Not real enthusiastic about going back in after dinner to fake the concert.
But during dinner I had a nice conversation with one of the men in the choir who is always fun to talk to. And then I had a cup of coffee to snap me out of it. A supportive email helped a lot. And so I changed into the blue dress, lined up and boldly marched in. And the concert was fabulous. So much incredible talent in this concert. I would literally beam every single person I know to this concert if I was able to do so. Most of them would resent the intrusion. But afterwards they would thank me profusely. There's just no way to describe how exciting it is.
This was Norman's last MLK concert. This is a year of "lasts" for him. And probably I'm sharing them as my "lasts" as well. Which means they are all very bittersweet.
Anyway, I totally rocked out on the final gospel piece and the audience this year was totally into all the singing. So the gospel pieces went on and on and just got better and better. What amazing energy. After such a grueling day.
Then to be in that concert hall as everyone in the 200 voice combined choirs and everyone in the sold out audience sang "If I Can Help Somebody", Dr. King's favorite hymn. . . well it was goose bump Disneyland for sure.
So I'm back "home" in the hotel (I'm going to be so glad when I don't have to put quotes around the word "home.") Freezing rain predicted for overnight again. But it's supposed to be in the 50's tomorrow so I hope I can get out of here all right.
I'll leave you with these words and wish that you could have joined in:
If I can help somebody as I pass along,
If I can cheer somebody with a word or song,
If I can show somebody that he's travelin' wrong,
Then my living shall not be in vain.
Then my living shall not be in vain,
Then my living shall not be in vain,
If I can help somebody as I pass along,
Then my living shall not be in vain.
Dr. King would have loved this event!
Saturday, January 21, 2012
NESTING
I'm in the George Washington University Inn on the campus of the school by that name in Washington, DC. I'm doing one of my favorite things. . . .being a hermit in a new environment. Outside the sun is going down and will soon obstruct the view from my 6th floor room. But here's what's out there:
You might be able to make out the towers of Georgetown University and the Key Bridge beyond. Also, the great townhouses in the foreground of 25th street. The white building at the rear left is none other than the old Howard Johnson's hotel where nearly 40 years ago certain characters scoped out an office in the Watergate building across the street. Nixon stopped being president very shortly thereafter! To the left where you can't see in the picture I can see the top of the Kennedy Center. I love being in a city, and particularly this city which has always been a major player in my adult life. I'm so glad I decided to do this.
I don't know if the priests are at Dave's or not (see yesterday's blog). The weather did not disappoint and there was ice covering my car when I woke up this morning in Springfield. Of course I had not brought any boots, or a car scraper, or even a car that does well in bad weather. My little Rav4 with lots of winter experience is home in the driveway of the Crappy Little House and is currently serving as a storage facility for a bathroom vanity and a bunch of light fixtures. I'm guessing the scraper is in that vehicle. Not great planning on my part.
It helped that the morning rehearsal was postponed by an hour. I had no trouble making it on time. My only problem is that the scratchy throat and headache that greeted me when I awoke the day after the last rehearsal, has morphed into a bronchial thing that requires coughing up nasty stuff from that part of my anatomy. Not a real advantage if one is trying to sing. I found that the middle octave of my range was missing this morning. I have never ever been sick for a rehearsal or performance so this is frustrating. I feel pretty good. I just have to let this thing run its course. And I hope it finishes the race before tomorrow night! With that in mind, I nixed the idea of sight-seeing this afternoon in favor of a short walk to a coffee shop where I got chicken noodle soup for lunch. Now back in the room I'm forcing fluids to try to force this junk in my upper chest to abandon ship during the night. I want to be able to sing every single note tomorrow night.
But here in the room is an IPod deck and I'm happily typing and listening to Pandora on my phone. This hotel houses Notte Bianchi, one of the restaurants that Dave and I have frequented on our theater evenings. I may have to mosey down for a glass of wine in a bit. And the mushroom risotto on the menu looks pretty amazing. I've had it before and it's worth foregoing the point counting for another experience in culinary bliss.
So Plan B is a whomping success so far. I have so many friends who have told me they would never want to stay in a hotel alone. They do not know what they are missing!
You might be able to make out the towers of Georgetown University and the Key Bridge beyond. Also, the great townhouses in the foreground of 25th street. The white building at the rear left is none other than the old Howard Johnson's hotel where nearly 40 years ago certain characters scoped out an office in the Watergate building across the street. Nixon stopped being president very shortly thereafter! To the left where you can't see in the picture I can see the top of the Kennedy Center. I love being in a city, and particularly this city which has always been a major player in my adult life. I'm so glad I decided to do this.
I don't know if the priests are at Dave's or not (see yesterday's blog). The weather did not disappoint and there was ice covering my car when I woke up this morning in Springfield. Of course I had not brought any boots, or a car scraper, or even a car that does well in bad weather. My little Rav4 with lots of winter experience is home in the driveway of the Crappy Little House and is currently serving as a storage facility for a bathroom vanity and a bunch of light fixtures. I'm guessing the scraper is in that vehicle. Not great planning on my part.
It helped that the morning rehearsal was postponed by an hour. I had no trouble making it on time. My only problem is that the scratchy throat and headache that greeted me when I awoke the day after the last rehearsal, has morphed into a bronchial thing that requires coughing up nasty stuff from that part of my anatomy. Not a real advantage if one is trying to sing. I found that the middle octave of my range was missing this morning. I have never ever been sick for a rehearsal or performance so this is frustrating. I feel pretty good. I just have to let this thing run its course. And I hope it finishes the race before tomorrow night! With that in mind, I nixed the idea of sight-seeing this afternoon in favor of a short walk to a coffee shop where I got chicken noodle soup for lunch. Now back in the room I'm forcing fluids to try to force this junk in my upper chest to abandon ship during the night. I want to be able to sing every single note tomorrow night.
But here in the room is an IPod deck and I'm happily typing and listening to Pandora on my phone. This hotel houses Notte Bianchi, one of the restaurants that Dave and I have frequented on our theater evenings. I may have to mosey down for a glass of wine in a bit. And the mushroom risotto on the menu looks pretty amazing. I've had it before and it's worth foregoing the point counting for another experience in culinary bliss.
So Plan B is a whomping success so far. I have so many friends who have told me they would never want to stay in a hotel alone. They do not know what they are missing!
Friday, January 20, 2012
PLAN B
Always, always have a Plan B.
One of the major lessons of my life. I live by this rule. If you always have a Plan B, then when Plan A goes south, you have a back-up. And voila! Less disappointment and frustration. So I always have a Plan B. And many of them have turned out to be fantastic. I expect this one will as well.
I'm in DC for my Martin Luther King Tribute Concert final rehearsal and performance. One of my favorite concerts of the year. We get to sing gospel. With a real gospel choir! It's just the most wonderful, uplifting experience each and every year. This is probably my last one since I'm likely not to be in choir next year. So that makes it extra special.
Well, as most of you know, my participation in the Washington Choral Arts Society is brought to you (well, to me) by the letter D. As in Dave. As in wonderful ex-boyfriend Dave who has made his house in West Springfield available to me any time I need it for the past 4 years. Usually he's not even here, since he also has a condo in DC where he lives during the week. But on weekends, when I need to be up here, he and I can have Friday night dinner together. . . .lately . . . sushi!!! So that is the case this weekend.
Except that last week he told me, when I said I would be in for Friday - Sunday nights, that there would be several priests staying at his house this weekend. Hmmmmm. Dave is a good Catholic, and very generous with his big empty house. So the priests are coming in for some function or another. Yes, I could be there too. Dave would be out of town anyway. But really, the idea of sharing a house with multiple priests was just not something I had ever considered. Don't know why. But given that my comfort zone is to be in any house completely alone. . . . multiple priests? Could I just decide it was a bucket list item ("I've always wanted to spend the weekend in a house with multiple priests!") and go for it? Ummm. . . no. I could not.
So last Tuesday I realized that for this weekend, I needed a Plan B and I needed it fast. I considered calling one or both of my sons and suggesting I stay Saturday and Sunday night with them. But at that point staying with priests started looking pretty good. Then I thought about the other friends I have who live in this area. The ones who would, after the fact, say to me, "WHY DIDN'T YOU CALL ME????? YOU COULD HAVE STAYED HERE!!!!!!. But I just have a terrible time calling people and asking them if I can stay at their houses.
But then it hit me. The Ultimate Plan B! I would stay in DC! This is precisely one of the reasons I wanted to be mortgage free. So I could afford to have cool experiences. So I went on line and booked two nights at the George Washington Inn, a mere 4 blocks from the Kennedy Center. I would check in after the Saturday rehearsal and then walk around town, maybe do a museum or two. Sunday morning I could wake up, watch CBS Sunday Morning, go have breakfast somewhere. And then WALK to my rehearsal/performance. After the performance I could walk back to the hotel, check out the next morning and head home. Eureka! LOVED this idea. Made the reservations. Less expensive than my two nights in Venice, Florida, and that includes parking the car.
So tonight I'm at Dave's. Yes, we had sushi. I'll leave in the morning. Gotta get out of here before the priests arrive! Plan B. . . full steam ahead. Except that there is winter weather coming in tonight. It's supposed to be gone by morning, but around here no one ever knows.
So I'll blog what happens if it's interesting enough. Wouldn't want to bore all my loyal fans. In the meantime, I'll check the sky and maybe consider a Plan C!
One of the major lessons of my life. I live by this rule. If you always have a Plan B, then when Plan A goes south, you have a back-up. And voila! Less disappointment and frustration. So I always have a Plan B. And many of them have turned out to be fantastic. I expect this one will as well.
I'm in DC for my Martin Luther King Tribute Concert final rehearsal and performance. One of my favorite concerts of the year. We get to sing gospel. With a real gospel choir! It's just the most wonderful, uplifting experience each and every year. This is probably my last one since I'm likely not to be in choir next year. So that makes it extra special.
Well, as most of you know, my participation in the Washington Choral Arts Society is brought to you (well, to me) by the letter D. As in Dave. As in wonderful ex-boyfriend Dave who has made his house in West Springfield available to me any time I need it for the past 4 years. Usually he's not even here, since he also has a condo in DC where he lives during the week. But on weekends, when I need to be up here, he and I can have Friday night dinner together. . . .lately . . . sushi!!! So that is the case this weekend.
Except that last week he told me, when I said I would be in for Friday - Sunday nights, that there would be several priests staying at his house this weekend. Hmmmmm. Dave is a good Catholic, and very generous with his big empty house. So the priests are coming in for some function or another. Yes, I could be there too. Dave would be out of town anyway. But really, the idea of sharing a house with multiple priests was just not something I had ever considered. Don't know why. But given that my comfort zone is to be in any house completely alone. . . . multiple priests? Could I just decide it was a bucket list item ("I've always wanted to spend the weekend in a house with multiple priests!") and go for it? Ummm. . . no. I could not.
So last Tuesday I realized that for this weekend, I needed a Plan B and I needed it fast. I considered calling one or both of my sons and suggesting I stay Saturday and Sunday night with them. But at that point staying with priests started looking pretty good. Then I thought about the other friends I have who live in this area. The ones who would, after the fact, say to me, "WHY DIDN'T YOU CALL ME????? YOU COULD HAVE STAYED HERE!!!!!!. But I just have a terrible time calling people and asking them if I can stay at their houses.
But then it hit me. The Ultimate Plan B! I would stay in DC! This is precisely one of the reasons I wanted to be mortgage free. So I could afford to have cool experiences. So I went on line and booked two nights at the George Washington Inn, a mere 4 blocks from the Kennedy Center. I would check in after the Saturday rehearsal and then walk around town, maybe do a museum or two. Sunday morning I could wake up, watch CBS Sunday Morning, go have breakfast somewhere. And then WALK to my rehearsal/performance. After the performance I could walk back to the hotel, check out the next morning and head home. Eureka! LOVED this idea. Made the reservations. Less expensive than my two nights in Venice, Florida, and that includes parking the car.
So tonight I'm at Dave's. Yes, we had sushi. I'll leave in the morning. Gotta get out of here before the priests arrive! Plan B. . . full steam ahead. Except that there is winter weather coming in tonight. It's supposed to be gone by morning, but around here no one ever knows.
So I'll blog what happens if it's interesting enough. Wouldn't want to bore all my loyal fans. In the meantime, I'll check the sky and maybe consider a Plan C!
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
BUILDING WALLS
Okay, okay, okay. . . I'm writing. Stop yelling at me!!!!
Sorry . . I was just yelling at my brain because it was yelling at me. My brain and I are having a shouting match. Sometimes blogs come into my head at inopportune times. I just finished my Tuesday morning weight lifting class which meets at 7:30. I want my breakfast. I'm hungry. But NOOOOOOO! I have to sit down and write this blog because it is bursting out of my head. And I don't even know what it's going to say. So I'm juggling my kashi with blueberries while I'm writing. . .because my brain won't leave me alone. So here goes:
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"Before I built a wall, I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down."
from "Mending Wall" by Robert Frost
To begin with. . I love that poem so much. And I don't know why. I have always loved it. From the time I first heard it, or maybe read it, in high school. Because there is a difference between reading a poem and hearing a poem. But whatever. . . I love to read this poem aloud. I could sit and read it aloud time after time and not get tired of hearing it. For someone who struggles with attention deficit, this poem must soothe me in some way. And I don't think it's the message in the poem. I get the message. . .I believe the message. I agree that walls can be a problem if one thinks of them as ways of separating people instead of bringing them together.
I never liked deeper meanings anyway. I like literal meanings. I'm not so good in the abstract. I always loved conjuring up the picture of these two men meeting to stack the rocks out in the field. I can picture the "neighbor beyond the hill" more vividly than I can picture the narrator. To me it's a poem about two guys mending a rock wall. Fine. But mostly, I love how the words of this poem sound when they are read out loud. I love the combination of these words. Even if they had no deeper meaning at all. I have one other poem in my life that strikes me the same way: "The Shortest Day" by Susan Cooper. I could read that one out loud for an extended amount of time as well. Words can be like music if they are put together the right way. I admire people who can put them together.
ANYWAY. . . . . (so far I can't believe that this is what my brain was yelling at me about. . . )
So I'm coming out of the gym at 8:30 having done some extremely satisfying pumping of iron. To feel stronger today than I did three years ago is so mind-blowingly wonderful. And I looked across the street to where the Crappy Little House sits, and I was gratified to see multiple vans and trucks outside. Men hard at work. I was hoping they would work yesterday, but with the MLK holiday, most of them were staying home with their kids who were out of school. I totally understand that.
So I make a quick stop at the house to see what's cooking. And it's going to be a productive day. Outside the guys who had started the siding were back to continue that job. And inside, a new pair of guys were hard at work installing the drywall. My rooms are going to become rooms. I will, when I return tomorrow from my weekly trip to choir practice, see the house with the divisions it will have.
We have totally reworked the inside space of this house, and now I will get to see what we created. They are building walls.
And when I saw that my mind went directly to my poem. . "Mending Wall." A poem that discusses, albeit in a veiled way, the possible negative outcome of constructing walls. And it got me to thinking about my house.
I am about 70% hermit. I think I got this from my dad. I get such pleasure from returning to my house, wherever it is, where I live alone, and just settling in. . to let my brain operate any old way it wants without anyone else asking why I'm either doing what I'm doing, or why I am not doing what I SHOULD be doing. When you live alone, nobody SHOULDS you!
So I guess I was drawing comfort from the construction of the walls, both inside and out. Outside the siding is going to supply the beautiful, soothing green color that became "my" color way back when I lived in the townhouse in Burke where I was raising my children. That color has followed me through every other house since. I choose it every time. Even when I think I'm not choosing it. I love seeing that color begin to wrap its way around my little house.
And on the inside, the drywall is going up to hide not only the electricity and pipes that will provide me with the power and water, but also the insulation that will keep me warm and cool. That drywall will become the noise barrier that will keep Rt. 151 at bay, and the walls that will support the furniture. They will create the spaces that will define my daily needs. I'm so happy to see these walls going up. I'm loving these walls. I celebrate these walls. And I'm not thinking at all about "to whom I'm like to give offense."
Can my love for the words and ideas of "Mending Wall" live in peace and harmony with the love I have for my own walls? Am I walling anybody in or out? Not sure. Have to think about that.
In the meantime, I'm going to finish my breakfast, read that poem aloud about 50 times (because nobody is here telling me I shouldn't do it) and then get ready to leave for DC.
Don't know if this made any sense. But my brain has settled down at least.
Sorry . . I was just yelling at my brain because it was yelling at me. My brain and I are having a shouting match. Sometimes blogs come into my head at inopportune times. I just finished my Tuesday morning weight lifting class which meets at 7:30. I want my breakfast. I'm hungry. But NOOOOOOO! I have to sit down and write this blog because it is bursting out of my head. And I don't even know what it's going to say. So I'm juggling my kashi with blueberries while I'm writing. . .because my brain won't leave me alone. So here goes:
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Before I built a wall, I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down."
from "Mending Wall" by Robert Frost
To begin with. . I love that poem so much. And I don't know why. I have always loved it. From the time I first heard it, or maybe read it, in high school. Because there is a difference between reading a poem and hearing a poem. But whatever. . . I love to read this poem aloud. I could sit and read it aloud time after time and not get tired of hearing it. For someone who struggles with attention deficit, this poem must soothe me in some way. And I don't think it's the message in the poem. I get the message. . .I believe the message. I agree that walls can be a problem if one thinks of them as ways of separating people instead of bringing them together.
I never liked deeper meanings anyway. I like literal meanings. I'm not so good in the abstract. I always loved conjuring up the picture of these two men meeting to stack the rocks out in the field. I can picture the "neighbor beyond the hill" more vividly than I can picture the narrator. To me it's a poem about two guys mending a rock wall. Fine. But mostly, I love how the words of this poem sound when they are read out loud. I love the combination of these words. Even if they had no deeper meaning at all. I have one other poem in my life that strikes me the same way: "The Shortest Day" by Susan Cooper. I could read that one out loud for an extended amount of time as well. Words can be like music if they are put together the right way. I admire people who can put them together.
ANYWAY. . . . . (so far I can't believe that this is what my brain was yelling at me about. . . )
So I'm coming out of the gym at 8:30 having done some extremely satisfying pumping of iron. To feel stronger today than I did three years ago is so mind-blowingly wonderful. And I looked across the street to where the Crappy Little House sits, and I was gratified to see multiple vans and trucks outside. Men hard at work. I was hoping they would work yesterday, but with the MLK holiday, most of them were staying home with their kids who were out of school. I totally understand that.
So I make a quick stop at the house to see what's cooking. And it's going to be a productive day. Outside the guys who had started the siding were back to continue that job. And inside, a new pair of guys were hard at work installing the drywall. My rooms are going to become rooms. I will, when I return tomorrow from my weekly trip to choir practice, see the house with the divisions it will have.
We have totally reworked the inside space of this house, and now I will get to see what we created. They are building walls.
And when I saw that my mind went directly to my poem. . "Mending Wall." A poem that discusses, albeit in a veiled way, the possible negative outcome of constructing walls. And it got me to thinking about my house.
I am about 70% hermit. I think I got this from my dad. I get such pleasure from returning to my house, wherever it is, where I live alone, and just settling in. . to let my brain operate any old way it wants without anyone else asking why I'm either doing what I'm doing, or why I am not doing what I SHOULD be doing. When you live alone, nobody SHOULDS you!
So I guess I was drawing comfort from the construction of the walls, both inside and out. Outside the siding is going to supply the beautiful, soothing green color that became "my" color way back when I lived in the townhouse in Burke where I was raising my children. That color has followed me through every other house since. I choose it every time. Even when I think I'm not choosing it. I love seeing that color begin to wrap its way around my little house.
And on the inside, the drywall is going up to hide not only the electricity and pipes that will provide me with the power and water, but also the insulation that will keep me warm and cool. That drywall will become the noise barrier that will keep Rt. 151 at bay, and the walls that will support the furniture. They will create the spaces that will define my daily needs. I'm so happy to see these walls going up. I'm loving these walls. I celebrate these walls. And I'm not thinking at all about "to whom I'm like to give offense."
Can my love for the words and ideas of "Mending Wall" live in peace and harmony with the love I have for my own walls? Am I walling anybody in or out? Not sure. Have to think about that.
In the meantime, I'm going to finish my breakfast, read that poem aloud about 50 times (because nobody is here telling me I shouldn't do it) and then get ready to leave for DC.
Don't know if this made any sense. But my brain has settled down at least.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
WHY I LOVE FACEBOOK!
We interrupt this blog to bring you this special announcement:
It is with a not very deep sense of sadness that I announce the demise of the very wasp of which I wrote previously. The unnamed flying insect,who was the subject of two blog entries, met her untimely death around mid-day on Wednesday. No witnesses who will admit to it were present, although evidence would indicate that the wasp met with a quick but possibly violent death. The body was quickly disposed of so that no further investigation is possible. Further details may be shared as they become known, but don't count on it.
And now back to our regularly scheduled blog.
I love Facebook. And I'm finding that sharing that opinion, especially with people in my age bracket, is not always a popularity-inducing position. I know, I know. I was one of those people a mere year and a half ago. "What a waste of time," I said, scorning all young people who had found yet another excuse to withdraw from society. I watched the movie. I saw those two rich twins get ripped off. Or did they???? I made the judgements. I was willing to be superior to anyone who treaded into this murky land of social networking. Whippersnappers. . . . all of them. (See blog entry 8/27/11).
And then I joined. But not to participate, mind you! No! Just to see what my former elementary students were saying about me on a Facebook site they had developed which dealt exclusively with a discussion about their former music teacher and the songs she wrote. I mean. . . I had to know!
Well, as it turned out, they were saying some very nice things, for the most part. And when I posted a reply, a bunch of them "friended" me! And voila! I was on Facebook! (And I became aware that the word "friend" had apparently become a verb when I wasn't looking!)
Now for the record, I have only sent out friend requests to about 3 people. My friend list is made up solely of people who came to me. I wanted in advance to only have as friends people who would say yes to me. I never have handled rejection very well. And the friends came. At first a slow trickle and then faster. I didn't know enough to put any securities on my wall, so anyone could find me fairly easily.
And deciding who were my "friends" was an interesting process. I found the requests fell into categories:
1. Those who I used to teach. Accept them all. I'm a teacher. I can't reject my students. In my case these were either my former elementary music students . . . . (what's not to like about a little kid coming to music?) or my former pregnant middle school girls. (Lower percentage of requests. Many of them spent most of the time they were in school rolling their eyes and hating me. For the record. . . some of them didn't do that.)
2. Friends from elementary school. I mean we were in Edison Grade School together. We went waaaaaaaay back. We walked to school together. We suffered through Mrs. Milam in 6th grade. We made fun of each other on the playground. We remember FUN NIGHT and the annual Halloween parade around the neighborhood. And yes, even the Christmas pageant. (Those were different times.)
3. Friends from Junior HIgh and High School. We were in separate social classes that seem to have disappeared now. We are all so emotionally mature now!!! Nobody whispers behind my back and thinks I'm uncool! Unless they do that Wall to Wall which, now that I think about it, is entirely possible.
4. Friends from college. Sorority sisters. A guy in my class who is now a girl. Old loves. People who married their college sweethearts and are still married! You know, miracle cases like that.
5. Former teaching colleagues. . . from several different schools. People who know who my kids are. People who came to baby showers thrown for me. Who shared the daily ups and downs of my life. Who laughed and cried with me in the teacher's lounge. They have spread all over the country. How else would I have ever kept track?
6. People who made my life a living hell in one way or another who, I'm ashamed to admit, made me feel smug and superior just by ignoring their friend request. Oh yea, I recognize their pathetic attempt to bury the hatchet. Not that I'm still bitter. Apparently I'm not as emotionally mature as my old high school friends. But that was only one person.
7. Girls who knew my brother in junior high and 50 years later are trying to get to him through me. Are you kidding me???
8. Chautauqua friends. . . .my summer family, which grows every year.
9. My Choral Arts family. . .with whom I share the extraordinary singing highs on a weekly basis.
10. My current daily buddies who live near me now or who work out at my gym with me. These are my newest, retirement friends.
Today I posted a picture of my younger son Casey and myself during the Christmas holiday. I had received it via Snapfish from his girlfriend. What's a person alone to do? I have this picture and I just love it so much and I want to show my friends. So I put it up on Facebook. Within an hour 13 people had "liked" the pic and 7 others had left a comment. That's 20 people who saw and enjoyed the picture and I didn't have to invite any of them over or clean up after them! They were from all walks of my life: 3 former pregnant teens, 5 former elementary music students, 1 buddy from Edison School, 3 former teacher colleagues, 3 friends from Chautauqua, 3 high school friends, 1 college friend, the girl who is after my brother (I mean, seriously. . . is she kidding?), a random woman who doesn't fall into any of the other categories, and my best friend Joan. That's quite an affirmation for me. I'm connected.
I love it when my former students post pictures of their own kids. Some of them are in their 40's and have children that are growing up to look much as their parents did when I taught them. Talk about the circle of life.
So to sum up. . . I know. There are negatives to this whole social networking thing. I was dragged kicking and screaming into the 21st century in this regard. And it's possible to find or be found by people you would rather not reconnect with.
But it's also possible to find treasure.
It is with a not very deep sense of sadness that I announce the demise of the very wasp of which I wrote previously. The unnamed flying insect,who was the subject of two blog entries, met her untimely death around mid-day on Wednesday. No witnesses who will admit to it were present, although evidence would indicate that the wasp met with a quick but possibly violent death. The body was quickly disposed of so that no further investigation is possible. Further details may be shared as they become known, but don't count on it.
And now back to our regularly scheduled blog.
I love Facebook. And I'm finding that sharing that opinion, especially with people in my age bracket, is not always a popularity-inducing position. I know, I know. I was one of those people a mere year and a half ago. "What a waste of time," I said, scorning all young people who had found yet another excuse to withdraw from society. I watched the movie. I saw those two rich twins get ripped off. Or did they???? I made the judgements. I was willing to be superior to anyone who treaded into this murky land of social networking. Whippersnappers. . . . all of them. (See blog entry 8/27/11).
And then I joined. But not to participate, mind you! No! Just to see what my former elementary students were saying about me on a Facebook site they had developed which dealt exclusively with a discussion about their former music teacher and the songs she wrote. I mean. . . I had to know!
Well, as it turned out, they were saying some very nice things, for the most part. And when I posted a reply, a bunch of them "friended" me! And voila! I was on Facebook! (And I became aware that the word "friend" had apparently become a verb when I wasn't looking!)
Now for the record, I have only sent out friend requests to about 3 people. My friend list is made up solely of people who came to me. I wanted in advance to only have as friends people who would say yes to me. I never have handled rejection very well. And the friends came. At first a slow trickle and then faster. I didn't know enough to put any securities on my wall, so anyone could find me fairly easily.
And deciding who were my "friends" was an interesting process. I found the requests fell into categories:
1. Those who I used to teach. Accept them all. I'm a teacher. I can't reject my students. In my case these were either my former elementary music students . . . . (what's not to like about a little kid coming to music?) or my former pregnant middle school girls. (Lower percentage of requests. Many of them spent most of the time they were in school rolling their eyes and hating me. For the record. . . some of them didn't do that.)
2. Friends from elementary school. I mean we were in Edison Grade School together. We went waaaaaaaay back. We walked to school together. We suffered through Mrs. Milam in 6th grade. We made fun of each other on the playground. We remember FUN NIGHT and the annual Halloween parade around the neighborhood. And yes, even the Christmas pageant. (Those were different times.)
3. Friends from Junior HIgh and High School. We were in separate social classes that seem to have disappeared now. We are all so emotionally mature now!!! Nobody whispers behind my back and thinks I'm uncool! Unless they do that Wall to Wall which, now that I think about it, is entirely possible.
4. Friends from college. Sorority sisters. A guy in my class who is now a girl. Old loves. People who married their college sweethearts and are still married! You know, miracle cases like that.
5. Former teaching colleagues. . . from several different schools. People who know who my kids are. People who came to baby showers thrown for me. Who shared the daily ups and downs of my life. Who laughed and cried with me in the teacher's lounge. They have spread all over the country. How else would I have ever kept track?
6. People who made my life a living hell in one way or another who, I'm ashamed to admit, made me feel smug and superior just by ignoring their friend request. Oh yea, I recognize their pathetic attempt to bury the hatchet. Not that I'm still bitter. Apparently I'm not as emotionally mature as my old high school friends. But that was only one person.
7. Girls who knew my brother in junior high and 50 years later are trying to get to him through me. Are you kidding me???
8. Chautauqua friends. . . .my summer family, which grows every year.
9. My Choral Arts family. . .with whom I share the extraordinary singing highs on a weekly basis.
10. My current daily buddies who live near me now or who work out at my gym with me. These are my newest, retirement friends.
Today I posted a picture of my younger son Casey and myself during the Christmas holiday. I had received it via Snapfish from his girlfriend. What's a person alone to do? I have this picture and I just love it so much and I want to show my friends. So I put it up on Facebook. Within an hour 13 people had "liked" the pic and 7 others had left a comment. That's 20 people who saw and enjoyed the picture and I didn't have to invite any of them over or clean up after them! They were from all walks of my life: 3 former pregnant teens, 5 former elementary music students, 1 buddy from Edison School, 3 former teacher colleagues, 3 friends from Chautauqua, 3 high school friends, 1 college friend, the girl who is after my brother (I mean, seriously. . . is she kidding?), a random woman who doesn't fall into any of the other categories, and my best friend Joan. That's quite an affirmation for me. I'm connected.
I love it when my former students post pictures of their own kids. Some of them are in their 40's and have children that are growing up to look much as their parents did when I taught them. Talk about the circle of life.
So to sum up. . . I know. There are negatives to this whole social networking thing. I was dragged kicking and screaming into the 21st century in this regard. And it's possible to find or be found by people you would rather not reconnect with.
But it's also possible to find treasure.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
THE WASP: PART 2
Disclaimer: If you have not read the previous blog entry: The Wasp, this one will mean absolutely nothing to you. Might as well skip it.
Well, there's a fact checker in every crowd. Here I was having a poignant moment with the only other living thing in the house, and I'm so moved I have to write an equally poignant story about the little creature. A story full of pathos and subtext and symbolism and childhood angst. I story of redemption and triumph over fear. The "not a dry eye in the house" kind of story. It flowed from my fingers into the computer at a time of day when I would normally not even think about blogging. And yet, there it was. The story of the wasp and how he came to give my lonely life new meaning.
Until the FACT CHECKER showed up. Now in all fairness, the fact checker is a dear friend who is also a Master Gardener (most of my best friends are Master Gardeners. How can this be? I hate dirt, sweating, bugs, bending over, heat and anything that requires my undivided attention for more than about 8 minutes - how did I meet these people?). She wrote to me soon after I posted the previous blog. And in the spirit of full disclosure, here are the facts.
The "boy" wasp in my house is not a boy, but a girl. How MG knows this from a distance of 2,790 miles is beyond me. But apparently she says that only female wasps live through the winter. Now actually, that makes a lot of sense. Of course the girls would be stronger. Point taken. I'm glad I didn't actually name him Frank. . .which I had considered.
Now, fact #2. SHE (meaning the wasp) is being docile until spring when she will lay eggs. At that point she gets a kind of waspish PMS which will mean that she and I will be unable to co-exist anywhere, particularly my bedroom. I shared a bedroom with my sister for 18 years and it was a disaster! After she (the wasp, not my sister) lays her eggs, I will eventually have many more wasps than I currently have.
Fact #3 - She CAN SO live outside, which is where she needs to be to build an outside nest.
So mea culpa, mea culpa for passing along such an abysmal load of misinformation. What was I thinking?
I guess my next step is to drive home tomorrow, find that little drama queen and stomp her into the ground, followed by burial at sea, aka my toilet. It's the only way.
My thanks to my friends who care enough to set me straight. If I want a companion I'll spare the next stink bug.
But I miss Frank already.
Well, there's a fact checker in every crowd. Here I was having a poignant moment with the only other living thing in the house, and I'm so moved I have to write an equally poignant story about the little creature. A story full of pathos and subtext and symbolism and childhood angst. I story of redemption and triumph over fear. The "not a dry eye in the house" kind of story. It flowed from my fingers into the computer at a time of day when I would normally not even think about blogging. And yet, there it was. The story of the wasp and how he came to give my lonely life new meaning.
Until the FACT CHECKER showed up. Now in all fairness, the fact checker is a dear friend who is also a Master Gardener (most of my best friends are Master Gardeners. How can this be? I hate dirt, sweating, bugs, bending over, heat and anything that requires my undivided attention for more than about 8 minutes - how did I meet these people?). She wrote to me soon after I posted the previous blog. And in the spirit of full disclosure, here are the facts.
The "boy" wasp in my house is not a boy, but a girl. How MG knows this from a distance of 2,790 miles is beyond me. But apparently she says that only female wasps live through the winter. Now actually, that makes a lot of sense. Of course the girls would be stronger. Point taken. I'm glad I didn't actually name him Frank. . .which I had considered.
Now, fact #2. SHE (meaning the wasp) is being docile until spring when she will lay eggs. At that point she gets a kind of waspish PMS which will mean that she and I will be unable to co-exist anywhere, particularly my bedroom. I shared a bedroom with my sister for 18 years and it was a disaster! After she (the wasp, not my sister) lays her eggs, I will eventually have many more wasps than I currently have.
Fact #3 - She CAN SO live outside, which is where she needs to be to build an outside nest.
So mea culpa, mea culpa for passing along such an abysmal load of misinformation. What was I thinking?
I guess my next step is to drive home tomorrow, find that little drama queen and stomp her into the ground, followed by burial at sea, aka my toilet. It's the only way.
My thanks to my friends who care enough to set me straight. If I want a companion I'll spare the next stink bug.
But I miss Frank already.
THE WASP
As a child I was afraid of wasps. They could sting me. And they were creepy looking. And they flew so slowly. . . . how was that possible? They seemed to hang about in space, drifting, not really flying. They seemed to have no place to go. In my mind, they were hovering over me and watching my every move, waiting for just the right time to dive bomb whatever it was that was responsible for inflicting pain right into whatever span of my skin was available. In many ways they were much more sinister than bees ever were.
Here in the upstairs room of the vintage 1750's house that I currently call home, stink bugs and flies and wasps have taken up residence for the winter. Not lots of them. Not enough to complain about. Just kind of a coexistence from the cold. The stink bugs are a no-brainer. . . . they sit right where they are and don't even flinch when you approach them with a piece of toilet paper to scoop them up and flush them down the toilet. Last night at book club we were comparing ways of ridding a room of stink bugs. The toilet paper/flush connection is mine. The flies seem to die before I ever see them alive. They are just dead on the bathroom floor having expired from god knows what. Maybe they die of old age. I was gone for 11 days. What is the life span of a fly?
But last night I noticed the wasp. A loner. No other wasps around. I admit to stomping on a few in the past few weeks, and then sending them to their watery graves via flushing mechanism. However, this wasp seemed different. Last night he (of course he's a boy. . .I have no idea how I know this) and I were the only living things in this big old house. And for the first time I looked upon him as more of a companion than a threat.
And while I was organizing my stuff, unpacking and preparing to retire for the night, I had occasion to observe him. He likes light. I had the overhead light on and he flew from the window, where the light had deserted him, and landed on the thin chain that operates the overhead light/fan in the middle of the room. He just sat there on that metal chain. And I realized he was seeking warmth too, because the metal chain hung down from the light. It had to be warm.
And then I realized that he and I were not that much different. I was seeking warmth too. . .but he didn't have a Forever Lazy to climb in to. He had a chain on a light. I was going to have to pull on that chain to extinguish the light and it was a little nerve wracking to walk over and and reach up to put my hand so close to where he sat. Would he come after me? Would he seek his warmth on my Forever Lazy? But then I began to feel bad for him that I was taking away his source of light and warmth. So I went in to the bathroom and turned on the overhead light, which fortunately is on a dimmer so that I would not have to burn it full out all night. I hoped he would go in there for the duration of the night. And when it was completely dark in the room, save for the dim light coming out of the bathroom, I wasn't afraid at all. I just wished him well.
This morning he is on the window where the bright sunshine is pouring through. I know from how he is acting that he wishes he could fly outside. But I know more than he does. He would not survive in the 32 degree temps outside. I'm leaving in a few minutes for DC and my regular Tuesday choir rehearsal. I leave him the room with my blessing. I don't know if he will be here when I get back. What is the life span of a wasp?
Here in the upstairs room of the vintage 1750's house that I currently call home, stink bugs and flies and wasps have taken up residence for the winter. Not lots of them. Not enough to complain about. Just kind of a coexistence from the cold. The stink bugs are a no-brainer. . . . they sit right where they are and don't even flinch when you approach them with a piece of toilet paper to scoop them up and flush them down the toilet. Last night at book club we were comparing ways of ridding a room of stink bugs. The toilet paper/flush connection is mine. The flies seem to die before I ever see them alive. They are just dead on the bathroom floor having expired from god knows what. Maybe they die of old age. I was gone for 11 days. What is the life span of a fly?
But last night I noticed the wasp. A loner. No other wasps around. I admit to stomping on a few in the past few weeks, and then sending them to their watery graves via flushing mechanism. However, this wasp seemed different. Last night he (of course he's a boy. . .I have no idea how I know this) and I were the only living things in this big old house. And for the first time I looked upon him as more of a companion than a threat.
And while I was organizing my stuff, unpacking and preparing to retire for the night, I had occasion to observe him. He likes light. I had the overhead light on and he flew from the window, where the light had deserted him, and landed on the thin chain that operates the overhead light/fan in the middle of the room. He just sat there on that metal chain. And I realized he was seeking warmth too, because the metal chain hung down from the light. It had to be warm.
And then I realized that he and I were not that much different. I was seeking warmth too. . .but he didn't have a Forever Lazy to climb in to. He had a chain on a light. I was going to have to pull on that chain to extinguish the light and it was a little nerve wracking to walk over and and reach up to put my hand so close to where he sat. Would he come after me? Would he seek his warmth on my Forever Lazy? But then I began to feel bad for him that I was taking away his source of light and warmth. So I went in to the bathroom and turned on the overhead light, which fortunately is on a dimmer so that I would not have to burn it full out all night. I hoped he would go in there for the duration of the night. And when it was completely dark in the room, save for the dim light coming out of the bathroom, I wasn't afraid at all. I just wished him well.
This morning he is on the window where the bright sunshine is pouring through. I know from how he is acting that he wishes he could fly outside. But I know more than he does. He would not survive in the 32 degree temps outside. I'm leaving in a few minutes for DC and my regular Tuesday choir rehearsal. I leave him the room with my blessing. I don't know if he will be here when I get back. What is the life span of a wasp?
Sunday, January 8, 2012
THELMA AND LOUISE: JIGGEDY JOG!
The great Florida adventure of 2011-12 is over. Yes we spanned two years. . . at least number-wise. I am safely back at Jean's, the laundry is started, the heat has been turned up, and I anxiously await the progress on the Crappy Little House.
We were in Seabrook Island at a friend of Sandy's for two nights. We spent a glorious warm sunny day yesterday touring Middleton Plantation outside Charleston. What a wonderful site that is. Full of rich history of an influential family with members who had signed the Declaration of Independence as well as those later who signed for the secession of South Carolina. Massive formal gardens, slave quarters, stables and rice fields. And a mighty fine restaurant to boot. A lovely time with Sandy's friend Lorraine serving as our own private guide and docent. And auspicious ending to a fabulous trip.
Thelma drove the entire trip. I totally identify with not wanting to give up control behind the wheel, so I just let her. It was such a treat to be the rider, and apart from failing miserably in convincing her that talking on a cell phone while driving is daft and dangerous, she was a wonderful chauffeur for this trip. When we arrived back at her house around 6 this evening, Bill had Kentucky Fried Chicken waiting for us. What the hell. . . . . . I had some. Tomorrow a reckoning with the scale, a trip to Whole Foods for supplies for the larder, and a firm recommitment to counting points. Oh yea. . . and back to the gym. Big time.
I'm back at Jean's and in the house alone. Seems strange, but being in a house alone is my default setting, so I am completely comfortable. In addition to the several loads of laundry, I reneged on my whole no TV thing by watching the season 2 premiere of Downton Abby on PBS. . . . a truly great show. I have to finish Death Comes For the Archbishop by tomorrow night's book club, and I'm going to eagerly check the progress on the Crappy Little House.
As for my dreams tonight. . . . well they'll probably include this bad boy. . . ..
Good night!
We were in Seabrook Island at a friend of Sandy's for two nights. We spent a glorious warm sunny day yesterday touring Middleton Plantation outside Charleston. What a wonderful site that is. Full of rich history of an influential family with members who had signed the Declaration of Independence as well as those later who signed for the secession of South Carolina. Massive formal gardens, slave quarters, stables and rice fields. And a mighty fine restaurant to boot. A lovely time with Sandy's friend Lorraine serving as our own private guide and docent. And auspicious ending to a fabulous trip.
Thelma drove the entire trip. I totally identify with not wanting to give up control behind the wheel, so I just let her. It was such a treat to be the rider, and apart from failing miserably in convincing her that talking on a cell phone while driving is daft and dangerous, she was a wonderful chauffeur for this trip. When we arrived back at her house around 6 this evening, Bill had Kentucky Fried Chicken waiting for us. What the hell. . . . . . I had some. Tomorrow a reckoning with the scale, a trip to Whole Foods for supplies for the larder, and a firm recommitment to counting points. Oh yea. . . and back to the gym. Big time.
I'm back at Jean's and in the house alone. Seems strange, but being in a house alone is my default setting, so I am completely comfortable. In addition to the several loads of laundry, I reneged on my whole no TV thing by watching the season 2 premiere of Downton Abby on PBS. . . . a truly great show. I have to finish Death Comes For the Archbishop by tomorrow night's book club, and I'm going to eagerly check the progress on the Crappy Little House.
As for my dreams tonight. . . . well they'll probably include this bad boy. . . ..
Good night!
Thursday, January 5, 2012
THELMA AND LOUISE: TOGETHER AGAIN!
We're in Jacksonville for the night. We'll be out of Florida tomorrow morning. It's been a great time for us both.
For Thelma. . . a family surprise party/birthday and visits with old friends. . . a swim in the Gulf (apparently my new best friend, Gulf of Mexico, is very fickle and was all over Sandy as well! Huh! Figures. . . . . . ), tennis and long walks.
For me, aka Louise, it was all that I have previously recorded plus visits to the homes of three different Chautauqua friends in their Florida habitats. I took a brief run out to Sanibel Island. . long enough to have a nice lunch and vow to return. I've had guided tours of Fort Myers including the fabulous Edison and Ford summer residences (only drive-bys of these. . must return for a closer look) and the most super phenomenal Banyan tree on the Edison property that I have ever seen.
This is one tree, and this is only a part of it. I could literally get a chair and sit and look at this tree all day.
Got an extensive tour of Shell Point retirement community where my friends live. An amazing complex of beautiful housing and services for seniors. While there I was able to see a manatee!!!! Twice! They have an inlet from the river where the manatees come to escape the cold. . . and there was cold to escape in the past two days. I saw one little manatee surface twice. A real thrill. Ugly little bugger. So ugly he was precious!
I met Thelma and her friend this morning for breakfast in Naples. I have one inquiry in for a property in North Naples for possible rental next year. It's a tiny house with a pool. They can heat the pool so that I could swim every day. It would not be cheap, but one thing I'm thinking about is renting for only the month of February to see if I like the area I've chosen and even if I would like living down here. So that's where I am with that.
And so the trip back began with each of us taking long periods of time to regale the other with what we did while we were apart. My two main things to want to be sure to do on this trip were 1.) see a Manatee (check), 2) pick an orange off a tree. Up until today, the second item had yet to be accomplished. But Thelma's friend took us to a house in her neighborhood where I picked a grapefruit! And I was pretty happy about that. It would have been enough. But then my karma really kicked in when we decided to stop at a fruit stand off the highway. You may remember that on my way to Bradenton I stopped at a fruit stand where the lady told me that it was against state law for her to allow me to pick an orange. But then as we drove up to the stand today, there was a sign. . . Pick Your Own! Thelma and I went berserk. Well. . . make that I went berserk! There was a little lady sitting inside eating Kit Kat bars and looking a little surly if you ask me. Thelma and I collectively can emit enough kinetic energy to fill a barn without trying too hard. So we took both of our bigger -than- life personalities into this big garage type structure and began getting very excited about picking. The woman somewhat begrudgingly got out of her seat, put down the Kit Kat and took us out back where she said: "Go down this row and you can pick off the first two rows down there." I'm a teacher. I'm a teacher who taught teachers how to give clear instructions. These were not clear instructions. But Thelma and I have the collective emotional age of one kindergartener when we get going, so we merrily made our way down the row and found our own version of "the first two rows" and began picking like mad. What fun! Suddenly I asked Thel. . . . "what kind of oranges are these?" To which Thelma replied, "Naval oranges. It says so on the sign." Hmmmmm. "Uh . .Thelma. . . . . . how come there are no navels on these oranges?" Ooooops! Wrong row? My solution: "Let's just start picking on the right row. These oranges will be at the bottom of the bag. Kit Kat Lady will never know!" Thelma's solution: Take her 3/4 full bag down to the lady, confess everything and throw herself on the mercy of the court! I'm holding my breath and cursing the day I met Thelma as I wait for her to reappear around the corner with a little lady who had dialed her surly up a couple of notches to where she was downright threatening! She clearly needed another couple of Kit Kat's. I didn't catch the whole exchange, but I heard surly Kit Kat lady say, "Well, you're not very good at following directions!" I decided that now would not be a good time to explain to her, in carefully articulated teacher language, just exactly how many ways HER lousy directions could have been interpreted. We realized that her main concern was that we would end up with not ripe enough oranges (as in, "Those oranges you picked won't be ready until March!") and that we would be disappointed. I quickly assured her that Thelma and I had the collective emotional age of one kindergartener (she somehow did not grasp what I was talking about) and that all I really wanted to do was to pick oranges anyway. Eating them later was entirely optional. At this point Kit Kat lady was really starting to loosen up, smile a little, and basically do everything she could to get us checked out and on the road as soon as possible. And I gotta tell you from the comfort and safety of my hotel all these hours later. . . . I'm pretty sure that somewhere out there Kit Kat Lady is reflecting on her day, missing us a little, and seriously considering retirement.
Thelma happily picking the wrong oranges before she squealed like a pig!
Picked most of them. . . the ones on the bottom!
So here we are outside Jacksonville in a hotel. We've been to the pool and the hot tub. We've squeezed about everything we can out of this state. Basically, we brought Florida to its knees! And we both agree we're ready to get home. Thelma to her husband and animals (mutually exclusive) and me to the progress on my Crappy Little House and life in the big house without Jean. We are stopping for the night tomorrow in Charleston with yet ANOTHER friend of Thelma. Home Saturday or Sunday. It's been a great trip.
For Thelma. . . a family surprise party/birthday and visits with old friends. . . a swim in the Gulf (apparently my new best friend, Gulf of Mexico, is very fickle and was all over Sandy as well! Huh! Figures. . . . . . ), tennis and long walks.
For me, aka Louise, it was all that I have previously recorded plus visits to the homes of three different Chautauqua friends in their Florida habitats. I took a brief run out to Sanibel Island. . long enough to have a nice lunch and vow to return. I've had guided tours of Fort Myers including the fabulous Edison and Ford summer residences (only drive-bys of these. . must return for a closer look) and the most super phenomenal Banyan tree on the Edison property that I have ever seen.
This is one tree, and this is only a part of it. I could literally get a chair and sit and look at this tree all day.
Got an extensive tour of Shell Point retirement community where my friends live. An amazing complex of beautiful housing and services for seniors. While there I was able to see a manatee!!!! Twice! They have an inlet from the river where the manatees come to escape the cold. . . and there was cold to escape in the past two days. I saw one little manatee surface twice. A real thrill. Ugly little bugger. So ugly he was precious!
I met Thelma and her friend this morning for breakfast in Naples. I have one inquiry in for a property in North Naples for possible rental next year. It's a tiny house with a pool. They can heat the pool so that I could swim every day. It would not be cheap, but one thing I'm thinking about is renting for only the month of February to see if I like the area I've chosen and even if I would like living down here. So that's where I am with that.
And so the trip back began with each of us taking long periods of time to regale the other with what we did while we were apart. My two main things to want to be sure to do on this trip were 1.) see a Manatee (check), 2) pick an orange off a tree. Up until today, the second item had yet to be accomplished. But Thelma's friend took us to a house in her neighborhood where I picked a grapefruit! And I was pretty happy about that. It would have been enough. But then my karma really kicked in when we decided to stop at a fruit stand off the highway. You may remember that on my way to Bradenton I stopped at a fruit stand where the lady told me that it was against state law for her to allow me to pick an orange. But then as we drove up to the stand today, there was a sign. . . Pick Your Own! Thelma and I went berserk. Well. . . make that I went berserk! There was a little lady sitting inside eating Kit Kat bars and looking a little surly if you ask me. Thelma and I collectively can emit enough kinetic energy to fill a barn without trying too hard. So we took both of our bigger -than- life personalities into this big garage type structure and began getting very excited about picking. The woman somewhat begrudgingly got out of her seat, put down the Kit Kat and took us out back where she said: "Go down this row and you can pick off the first two rows down there." I'm a teacher. I'm a teacher who taught teachers how to give clear instructions. These were not clear instructions. But Thelma and I have the collective emotional age of one kindergartener when we get going, so we merrily made our way down the row and found our own version of "the first two rows" and began picking like mad. What fun! Suddenly I asked Thel. . . . "what kind of oranges are these?" To which Thelma replied, "Naval oranges. It says so on the sign." Hmmmmm. "Uh . .Thelma. . . . . . how come there are no navels on these oranges?" Ooooops! Wrong row? My solution: "Let's just start picking on the right row. These oranges will be at the bottom of the bag. Kit Kat Lady will never know!" Thelma's solution: Take her 3/4 full bag down to the lady, confess everything and throw herself on the mercy of the court! I'm holding my breath and cursing the day I met Thelma as I wait for her to reappear around the corner with a little lady who had dialed her surly up a couple of notches to where she was downright threatening! She clearly needed another couple of Kit Kat's. I didn't catch the whole exchange, but I heard surly Kit Kat lady say, "Well, you're not very good at following directions!" I decided that now would not be a good time to explain to her, in carefully articulated teacher language, just exactly how many ways HER lousy directions could have been interpreted. We realized that her main concern was that we would end up with not ripe enough oranges (as in, "Those oranges you picked won't be ready until March!") and that we would be disappointed. I quickly assured her that Thelma and I had the collective emotional age of one kindergartener (she somehow did not grasp what I was talking about) and that all I really wanted to do was to pick oranges anyway. Eating them later was entirely optional. At this point Kit Kat lady was really starting to loosen up, smile a little, and basically do everything she could to get us checked out and on the road as soon as possible. And I gotta tell you from the comfort and safety of my hotel all these hours later. . . . I'm pretty sure that somewhere out there Kit Kat Lady is reflecting on her day, missing us a little, and seriously considering retirement.
So here we are outside Jacksonville in a hotel. We've been to the pool and the hot tub. We've squeezed about everything we can out of this state. Basically, we brought Florida to its knees! And we both agree we're ready to get home. Thelma to her husband and animals (mutually exclusive) and me to the progress on my Crappy Little House and life in the big house without Jean. We are stopping for the night tomorrow in Charleston with yet ANOTHER friend of Thelma. Home Saturday or Sunday. It's been a great trip.
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