I'm only a couple of weeks away from being 63 years old. And I have been blessed in that I have had few opportunities to experience real grief. Part of that is that I have not lost too many loved ones before their time. Part of it is just me.
I think grief is the loss of something or someone who has entered your heart and lived there. The loss of such a person or thing is unbearable. Grief happens.
But apparently not to me. I have had the uncanny ability to walk away from lifestyles, people, situations, jobs and just calmly move forward. Not looking back. Grateful for the past, but focused solidly on the future.
I have lost both my parents and a few friends. And I was sad about that. But I truly think I have only experienced disabling grief once in my life. And that is when my boys moved out of my house when they were in high school and went to live with their dad. During those times, but for the gift of a couple of angel/ friendships, I'm not sure I would have chosen to go on. I could not see the future.
That was the worst case. I survived. I made it through the quagmire and came out on the other side.
And in the ensuing years have found the most wonderful life. I'm so glad I persevered and got to where I could look back with perspective.
Okay. . . that was background.
This is an epic week in my life. I will be saying goodbye. In a major way. And I've said goodbye before, so no big deal. . . . right?
On Sunday I will sing my final concert in the Kennedy Center conducted by Norman Scribner. Big deal. . . . no one is dying. Right?
So we've been rehearsing the Brahms Requiem. Norman has always said that the Bach St. Matthew Passion is his all time favorite piece. Which is also mine, interestingly enough. But the Brahms Requiem is practically his signature piece.
The thing about Norman is that he is an obsessive student of music. In all the years I have sung with him, which has included repeating works every so often, he has always demonstrated that each and every time he approaches a performance, even of a piece he should now "know in his sleep," he continues to study and strive to glean what the composer intended. With music scores from the past, it is fascinating to begin again on a piece, and have to erase the former markings because he has rethought the whole thing. It's new every single time.
The Brahms Requiem, if sung in a regular concert situation, is a gut-wrenching piece to sing. It is so much a part of me that I can't remember not knowing it. This will be my third time singing it with Norman. To have to sing it under these circumstances is like asking someone to sing at the funeral of a loved one. This is no funeral. But it is the end of an extraordinary era in the life of music in Washington, DC. But what this man has meant to me personally is something I cannot even begin to put in words.
So I have been wondering in the past few weeks why I have not had the energy I usually have. And why I can't seem to make decisions right now. And today on the way home from choir as I listened to the Brahms on my IPod, it occurred to me. I'm grieving. This is grief. This is profound loss.
I don't know if I will continue on with the new guy for one more year. Because I can't make any decisions right now. But I know that come Sunday afternoon, I and all my choral colleagues are going to have to dig down very deep and give this man what he deserves to get. . . . a Brahms Requiem for the ages. He will be stalwart. He is so engrossed in a music rehearsal or performance, that each and every note is important to him. His brain will be where it needs to be. . . . solidly on bringing out of the group that which Brahms intended.
And I need to be able to do the same. To be in that moment, and not let my brain go where it will want to go. . . . . to the significance of those words and that gorgeous music and that man.
I am so beyond grateful to be able to be a part of this concert. Singing with the Choral Arts Society has been easily one of the top 5 events of my life. Now if I can just get through the concert, be present, soak it in. This is very hard. . . but I wouldn't miss it for the world.
http://youtu.be/pXopMPYpz0o
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Sunday, April 15, 2012
ANNIE OAKLEY!
This is the story of an injury, a birthday, and a journey out of my comfort zone.
The story starts out as a thumb thing. At some point in time when I was moving. .. perhaps when I was putting together my heavy iron bed, I injured my thumb. I thought it was a little sprain. It's my right thumb, and I have learned in the past month that you need your right thumb to do many things if you are right handed, which I am. I've learned that continuing to work out and lift weights multiple times a week might not be a good idea if you have a bad right thumb. Prevents healing, and all that.
So on Friday I went into my gym and told George the Trainer that for the next 2 weeks we would have to do exercises that completely stayed away from my thumb. He has known about the injury since it happened, and I had told him I would be the judge of whether or not a certain gym activity would further hurt it. However, my thumb was worse. Now I was leaving it up to him. I will miss my weights for a couple of weeks, but I need to get this thumb healed up.
Now to the second part of the story. I had a Saturday morning rehearsal at the Kennedy Center, so I drove up to DC on Friday afternoon. I had arranged to take Casey out to dinner for his birthday. His 30th birthday! Which is actually today. . . April 15th. A day for the rest of America that will live in infamy. Except for this year when April 17th is living in infamy. . . .but I digress.
I had called him and we decided that I would pick him up and drive him to Ford's Fish House in Ashburn, Va. where we would be joined by Chad and Sara. It had to be a late dinner to allow time for Chad to drive back from Maryland after his broadcast which ended at 7:00.
I had stopped in Charlottesville at the UVa Bookstore to pick up an external hard drive for my MacBook Air. My computer guy, David is cleaning up the computer and adding some software. As I was leaving the bookstore I got a call from Casey. It went something like this: "Mom, what time do you think you'll get up here?" Me: "I'm leaving Charlottesville now. So I'll be up there way before 7:30." Casey: "Well, I'm trying to decide what to do this afternoon since I left work early. I wanted to know if you want to do something with me. It's something that you said you wanted to try." Me: "And what would that be?" Casey: "Going to the shooting range. I want to try out my new gun."
Okay. . . background information needed here. But if your blood ran cold reading Casey's last sentence, then you have a good empathetic context for my position here.
I don't think I am alone in being a woman who abhors guns. It is possibly too sweeping a statement that all women outside Idaho, Montana and Wyoming hate guns. But lots of them do. And heck, maybe some women out in those states hate them as well. . . but I doubt it.
As a single mother of boys, I did not allow them to have guns. Of course they made guns out of everything. . . legos, sticks, bananas, fingers, Clyde the Dog's tail. But that did not deter me from forbidding any facsimile of a weapon inside the house. I was raising kinder, gentler men. It was my mission. Violence was not condoned in our house. I was raising Gandhi's. Of course I forgot to factor in that 50% of my boys' genetic structure was right-wing, NRA condoning, beer guzzling, profanity spewing, Neanderthal (must I go on?) protoplasm.
The first thing my sons did after leaving the nest was to arm themselves. Many times over. My two beautiful babies, the lights of my life, the Bert and Ernie of child-dom. . . . have morphed into "can't-own-too-many-guns-ists." They give each other Christmas and birthday gifts like: telescopic sights, silencers, heck I don't even know gun paraphernalia jargon!
I guess I can take heart in the fact that what they seem to like to do with these guns is (1.) own them, (2.) talk about them, (3) look at them, and (4) take them to the gun range and shoot them.
Over the past 10 years or so I have responded to this development by going from being apoplectic, to appalled, to uncomfortable, to resigned, to moderately accepting. Heck, I came from a childhood where we watched westerns on TV every single Saturday morning. Our heroes were Roy Rogers, The Lone Ranger, The Cisco Kid, Gene Autrey, Hopalong Cassidy! All of them armed! We kids owned holsters and cap guns and vests and cowboy hats, which our parents were only too happy to buy for us. We mimicked riding our horses fast and shooting behind us at the bad guys chasing us. Never mind that the lesson here is "Arm your kids to the hilt and they will never ever again want to touch a gun."
And here is the kicker, secretly I always thought that it would be fun to shoot at a target. So a while back when Casey said, "Mom, you should go to the shooting range with me," I'm sure I replied that I would like to. . . .some day. Hence the invitation on Friday.
So I get to Casey's house and I'm semi-excited-terrified about shooting. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em? He brings out a large backpack with all his shooting gear in it. ( I can't help but conjure up images of him in first grade wearing his first backpack off to school.) Also, he has his gun cases, wherein lie the dreaded weapons that heretofore I was unwilling to even look at. And off we went.
At the gun range I have to sign a bunch of stuff I don't read. I know. I know. I never read anything. We would have never been able to shoot by the time I got done. But I have told Casey about my thumb issue. And all the way to Northern Virginia the little voice in the back of my head has been saying, "You KNOW you shouldn't be shooting a gun if you want this thumb to heal." I know all about the kick-back that a handgun can cause ( I can't even believe I just wrote the word "handgun!"). I am pretty sure that somewhere in the great beyond Gandhi is frowning. So Casey tells me that he will rent me a 22 (I've heard of that) and that it will not kick back hardly at all.
So the guy at the range takes me to a glass case to "pick out" my gun. And he explains that once it is rented, I can come back and exchange it for any other 22 in the case. How accommodating!!!
So of course, I pick the only gun in the case that looks like Dale Evans might have used it. Heck, if it's good enough for a religious woman who can sing Happy Trails to You, then it's good enough for me. It's a revolver. . .not a 6 shooter but a 9 shooter. Somewhere up in the great beyond Dale Evans is smiling.
Next step is for me to get the "talk" from the monitor. Basically it is "Don't be shooting at the ceiling!!!" I take the pledge that shooting at the ceiling is the last thing I'm thinking about. We pick out our targets. . . I don't want anything that looks like a person, so I get circles with orange dots in the middle.
And in we go, donning our noise canceling earphones. We are the only ones in this particular range which has about 8 "booths" in it. This is not unlike bowling, actually.
Casey gets everything ready, loads my gun, reviews the rules, sets the target and then says: "Okay, Mom, go to it!" I pick up that Dale Evans Special and realize that Dale was a lot stronger than I ever gave her credit for! Never mind the bad thumb. It took BOTH thumbs to pull that trigger. Luckily I did not hit the ceiling on my first shot, but I'm not sure I hit the target either. Casey tells me it will be easier if I cock the gun first. I'm all in. I saw all my western heroes pull back that doohickey on top before firing. But even my good thumb can barely pull that thing back. How did Dale Evans do that? In a skirt? So at the end of the 9 shots, I request another gun. Casey offers to go get me one and returns with a semi-automatic in pink. Seriously?
Bottom line. . . I LOVED this gun. So much easier to shoot. Now I'm into it. But then people come in to fill the other booths, and start to fire guns much bigger than mine. Even with the earphones, it's like cannons going off. I can't believe how loud it is. Or the flashes of fire. Or the pieces of the fired bullets flying through the air. Casey's new gun is a biggy too, and it is borderline terrifying to be so close to the reality of the destruction these weapons are capable of. I find myself becoming more afraid of guns than ever, yet still enjoying the experience. Out of my comfort zone? I think so!
The good news is that my thumb never felt any ill effects from the shooting session. And I had quality time with my son. And it was fun. Will I do it again. Hmmmmmm. Actually. Probably.
The story starts out as a thumb thing. At some point in time when I was moving. .. perhaps when I was putting together my heavy iron bed, I injured my thumb. I thought it was a little sprain. It's my right thumb, and I have learned in the past month that you need your right thumb to do many things if you are right handed, which I am. I've learned that continuing to work out and lift weights multiple times a week might not be a good idea if you have a bad right thumb. Prevents healing, and all that.
So on Friday I went into my gym and told George the Trainer that for the next 2 weeks we would have to do exercises that completely stayed away from my thumb. He has known about the injury since it happened, and I had told him I would be the judge of whether or not a certain gym activity would further hurt it. However, my thumb was worse. Now I was leaving it up to him. I will miss my weights for a couple of weeks, but I need to get this thumb healed up.
Now to the second part of the story. I had a Saturday morning rehearsal at the Kennedy Center, so I drove up to DC on Friday afternoon. I had arranged to take Casey out to dinner for his birthday. His 30th birthday! Which is actually today. . . April 15th. A day for the rest of America that will live in infamy. Except for this year when April 17th is living in infamy. . . .but I digress.
I had called him and we decided that I would pick him up and drive him to Ford's Fish House in Ashburn, Va. where we would be joined by Chad and Sara. It had to be a late dinner to allow time for Chad to drive back from Maryland after his broadcast which ended at 7:00.
I had stopped in Charlottesville at the UVa Bookstore to pick up an external hard drive for my MacBook Air. My computer guy, David is cleaning up the computer and adding some software. As I was leaving the bookstore I got a call from Casey. It went something like this: "Mom, what time do you think you'll get up here?" Me: "I'm leaving Charlottesville now. So I'll be up there way before 7:30." Casey: "Well, I'm trying to decide what to do this afternoon since I left work early. I wanted to know if you want to do something with me. It's something that you said you wanted to try." Me: "And what would that be?" Casey: "Going to the shooting range. I want to try out my new gun."
Okay. . . background information needed here. But if your blood ran cold reading Casey's last sentence, then you have a good empathetic context for my position here.
I don't think I am alone in being a woman who abhors guns. It is possibly too sweeping a statement that all women outside Idaho, Montana and Wyoming hate guns. But lots of them do. And heck, maybe some women out in those states hate them as well. . . but I doubt it.
As a single mother of boys, I did not allow them to have guns. Of course they made guns out of everything. . . legos, sticks, bananas, fingers, Clyde the Dog's tail. But that did not deter me from forbidding any facsimile of a weapon inside the house. I was raising kinder, gentler men. It was my mission. Violence was not condoned in our house. I was raising Gandhi's. Of course I forgot to factor in that 50% of my boys' genetic structure was right-wing, NRA condoning, beer guzzling, profanity spewing, Neanderthal (must I go on?) protoplasm.
The first thing my sons did after leaving the nest was to arm themselves. Many times over. My two beautiful babies, the lights of my life, the Bert and Ernie of child-dom. . . . have morphed into "can't-own-too-many-guns-ists." They give each other Christmas and birthday gifts like: telescopic sights, silencers, heck I don't even know gun paraphernalia jargon!
I guess I can take heart in the fact that what they seem to like to do with these guns is (1.) own them, (2.) talk about them, (3) look at them, and (4) take them to the gun range and shoot them.
Over the past 10 years or so I have responded to this development by going from being apoplectic, to appalled, to uncomfortable, to resigned, to moderately accepting. Heck, I came from a childhood where we watched westerns on TV every single Saturday morning. Our heroes were Roy Rogers, The Lone Ranger, The Cisco Kid, Gene Autrey, Hopalong Cassidy! All of them armed! We kids owned holsters and cap guns and vests and cowboy hats, which our parents were only too happy to buy for us. We mimicked riding our horses fast and shooting behind us at the bad guys chasing us. Never mind that the lesson here is "Arm your kids to the hilt and they will never ever again want to touch a gun."
And here is the kicker, secretly I always thought that it would be fun to shoot at a target. So a while back when Casey said, "Mom, you should go to the shooting range with me," I'm sure I replied that I would like to. . . .some day. Hence the invitation on Friday.
So I get to Casey's house and I'm semi-excited-terrified about shooting. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em? He brings out a large backpack with all his shooting gear in it. ( I can't help but conjure up images of him in first grade wearing his first backpack off to school.) Also, he has his gun cases, wherein lie the dreaded weapons that heretofore I was unwilling to even look at. And off we went.
At the gun range I have to sign a bunch of stuff I don't read. I know. I know. I never read anything. We would have never been able to shoot by the time I got done. But I have told Casey about my thumb issue. And all the way to Northern Virginia the little voice in the back of my head has been saying, "You KNOW you shouldn't be shooting a gun if you want this thumb to heal." I know all about the kick-back that a handgun can cause ( I can't even believe I just wrote the word "handgun!"). I am pretty sure that somewhere in the great beyond Gandhi is frowning. So Casey tells me that he will rent me a 22 (I've heard of that) and that it will not kick back hardly at all.
So the guy at the range takes me to a glass case to "pick out" my gun. And he explains that once it is rented, I can come back and exchange it for any other 22 in the case. How accommodating!!!
So of course, I pick the only gun in the case that looks like Dale Evans might have used it. Heck, if it's good enough for a religious woman who can sing Happy Trails to You, then it's good enough for me. It's a revolver. . .not a 6 shooter but a 9 shooter. Somewhere up in the great beyond Dale Evans is smiling.
Next step is for me to get the "talk" from the monitor. Basically it is "Don't be shooting at the ceiling!!!" I take the pledge that shooting at the ceiling is the last thing I'm thinking about. We pick out our targets. . . I don't want anything that looks like a person, so I get circles with orange dots in the middle.
And in we go, donning our noise canceling earphones. We are the only ones in this particular range which has about 8 "booths" in it. This is not unlike bowling, actually.
Casey gets everything ready, loads my gun, reviews the rules, sets the target and then says: "Okay, Mom, go to it!" I pick up that Dale Evans Special and realize that Dale was a lot stronger than I ever gave her credit for! Never mind the bad thumb. It took BOTH thumbs to pull that trigger. Luckily I did not hit the ceiling on my first shot, but I'm not sure I hit the target either. Casey tells me it will be easier if I cock the gun first. I'm all in. I saw all my western heroes pull back that doohickey on top before firing. But even my good thumb can barely pull that thing back. How did Dale Evans do that? In a skirt? So at the end of the 9 shots, I request another gun. Casey offers to go get me one and returns with a semi-automatic in pink. Seriously?
Bottom line. . . I LOVED this gun. So much easier to shoot. Now I'm into it. But then people come in to fill the other booths, and start to fire guns much bigger than mine. Even with the earphones, it's like cannons going off. I can't believe how loud it is. Or the flashes of fire. Or the pieces of the fired bullets flying through the air. Casey's new gun is a biggy too, and it is borderline terrifying to be so close to the reality of the destruction these weapons are capable of. I find myself becoming more afraid of guns than ever, yet still enjoying the experience. Out of my comfort zone? I think so!
The good news is that my thumb never felt any ill effects from the shooting session. And I had quality time with my son. And it was fun. Will I do it again. Hmmmmmm. Actually. Probably.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
COMPANY!
My first house guest has been and gone. Nobody died. Nobody stepped on anybody. No fights broke out. Nothing was broken. I guess that's a good visit.
My sister, Bonnie, arrived a day later than planned, but safe and sound last Thursday. As luck would have it, she had trouble getting into the driveway because Carlos the Yard Guy had his truck and trailer parked there. I love Carlos. A great guy who works very hard at his yard care business. A pillar of integrity and good humor. I called on Thursday morning and left a message: "Carlos, I think I have to start having the grass cut. Can't wait any longer. Give me a call at your convenience." Within 15 minutes I got a call back saying he was on his way to another job but could stop by and "knock it out." And that he did. His crew and his machines were unloaded, and three hard working guys tackled my nearly acre of land. There were mowers and weed whackers going nuts for about 40 minutes. In the end we determined a monthly price which means that I will never have to worry about the grass again this season. I won't have to call. Carlos will just keep checking in and when the grass needs cutting he'll do it. I love Carlos!
So Bonnie had to come in the other end of the circle drive (SOOO glad I had that drive cut in when I first bought the house). Within a half hour of her arrival she and I met Sandy at the Afton Mountain Winery. Because it was "Thursday at Three" which is our weekly event. Tomorrow is Thursday. At 3:00 Sandy and I will be there again.
Besides drinking wine, Bonnie and I ate the delicious sausage/kale/bean soup I had made. She loved it as much as I do so we had to make some more. Sandy and Bill were leaving town for the Easter weekend so we were able to avail ourselves of using their house to watch the Masters Golf Tournament, surrounded by all of Sandy's kitties. The tournament was spectacular. Texted with Casey through the whole thing. Thanks to Sandy for the use of her television for this event.
Bonnie and I ate at some of my favorite restaurants. My number one pick is the Green Leaf in Waynesboro where we went for Easter Sunday brunch featuring Steve on the jazz guitar. It's my regular place, so I guess that means I also have a "Sunday at Noon" event each week.
We shopped at Bed, Bath and Beyond. Bonnie came bearing multiple coupons, all of which they let us use. We bought two bookcases, one for my den and one for the bedroom. Assembly was required and assemble we did on the smaller one. It sits next to my piano and will store my piano music and choral scores.
They look great and allow me much needed storage. This one will hold books and the bins will have photo albums. These were inexpensive, easy to assemble, and look great in the rooms. Thanks to Bonnie for the housewarming gift!
We had book club up on Humpback Mountain on Monday night, so I had Bonnie read the selection: The Dive From Clausen's Pier by Ann Packer. This kept her busy while I was working out at my gym across the street. Book Club was really fun and the book was universally enjoyed. . .maybe a first for this group.
So all in all a great week with my sis. Except for the whole not having a bed thing, and she obliged by bringing her own inflatable bed. We discovered that 988 sq. feet is plenty of space for two people. We each had our own room and own bath. The porch was a great extra space for reading. Bonnie enjoyed sitting on my deck in the sunshine. We hung out a load of laundry. Weather was great.
I'm all practiced up and ready for all comers! The mountains of Virginia await you all! Don't take too long getting here!
My sister, Bonnie, arrived a day later than planned, but safe and sound last Thursday. As luck would have it, she had trouble getting into the driveway because Carlos the Yard Guy had his truck and trailer parked there. I love Carlos. A great guy who works very hard at his yard care business. A pillar of integrity and good humor. I called on Thursday morning and left a message: "Carlos, I think I have to start having the grass cut. Can't wait any longer. Give me a call at your convenience." Within 15 minutes I got a call back saying he was on his way to another job but could stop by and "knock it out." And that he did. His crew and his machines were unloaded, and three hard working guys tackled my nearly acre of land. There were mowers and weed whackers going nuts for about 40 minutes. In the end we determined a monthly price which means that I will never have to worry about the grass again this season. I won't have to call. Carlos will just keep checking in and when the grass needs cutting he'll do it. I love Carlos!
So Bonnie had to come in the other end of the circle drive (SOOO glad I had that drive cut in when I first bought the house). Within a half hour of her arrival she and I met Sandy at the Afton Mountain Winery. Because it was "Thursday at Three" which is our weekly event. Tomorrow is Thursday. At 3:00 Sandy and I will be there again.
Besides drinking wine, Bonnie and I ate the delicious sausage/kale/bean soup I had made. She loved it as much as I do so we had to make some more. Sandy and Bill were leaving town for the Easter weekend so we were able to avail ourselves of using their house to watch the Masters Golf Tournament, surrounded by all of Sandy's kitties. The tournament was spectacular. Texted with Casey through the whole thing. Thanks to Sandy for the use of her television for this event.
Bonnie and I ate at some of my favorite restaurants. My number one pick is the Green Leaf in Waynesboro where we went for Easter Sunday brunch featuring Steve on the jazz guitar. It's my regular place, so I guess that means I also have a "Sunday at Noon" event each week.
We shopped at Bed, Bath and Beyond. Bonnie came bearing multiple coupons, all of which they let us use. We bought two bookcases, one for my den and one for the bedroom. Assembly was required and assemble we did on the smaller one. It sits next to my piano and will store my piano music and choral scores.
After she left yesterday and I went up to DC for choir and came back, I assembled the bigger one today.
They look great and allow me much needed storage. This one will hold books and the bins will have photo albums. These were inexpensive, easy to assemble, and look great in the rooms. Thanks to Bonnie for the housewarming gift!
We had book club up on Humpback Mountain on Monday night, so I had Bonnie read the selection: The Dive From Clausen's Pier by Ann Packer. This kept her busy while I was working out at my gym across the street. Book Club was really fun and the book was universally enjoyed. . .maybe a first for this group.
So all in all a great week with my sis. Except for the whole not having a bed thing, and she obliged by bringing her own inflatable bed. We discovered that 988 sq. feet is plenty of space for two people. We each had our own room and own bath. The porch was a great extra space for reading. Bonnie enjoyed sitting on my deck in the sunshine. We hung out a load of laundry. Weather was great.
I'm all practiced up and ready for all comers! The mountains of Virginia await you all! Don't take too long getting here!
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
THE REPORTS OF MY DEATH. . . . . . . .
According to my IPhone calendar (or I'm guessing, any other calendar) it has been two weeks since my last post. This does not mean I am dead just to put the fears of about 6 - 10 dedicated readers to rest. I may be down a few readers by now, however. I mean how many times can you go to a blog expecting an entry and be disappointed? It's asking too much.
But for those of you hanging tough, I'm baaaaaaaack!
Been in the house for over a month now. Still no couches. Hence no new pictures. I've been expecting couch #1, which is a sofa bed for the den/extra bedroom/music studio/living room extension. My first overnight guest in the person of my sister Bonnie arrives tomorrow and so far. . . .no place to sleep for her! Oh yea. . . we shared a double bed while we were in high school, but those days are long since past. Never mind the endless discussion that could be brought to bear on the provocative topic of "WHY DID WE SHARE A DOUBLE BED IN HIGH SCHOOL?" We are not sharing a double bed, or any other size bed ever again. Especially since she snores like a buzz saw in a beehive. It's a miracle I'm letting her in the same house. . . especially a TINY house. Anyway. . . .was hoping the sofa bed would have arrived by now. Bonnie is bringing an inflatable bed for her own use. That's just the kind of gracious hostess I am.
So I'm at Dave's on the morning after choir. We are rehearsing our final Kennedy Center concert with Norman. Brahms Requiem. This will be epic.
What's also epic is that Dave has once again decided to go into serious discussion with his real estate agent, Pip (apologies all around to Charles Dickens, but I'm not making that up) about actually getting the FOR SALE sign up on the front lawn of this house in the not too distant future. I have been staying in this house under the threat of having it sold out from under me for about 5 years! Thank goodness for the terrible house market! Because when you get right down to it. . . everything is about me being able to do what I want to do.
Okay. . so yesterday I drove up early because Dave needed assistance going to pick up one of his several antique cars. This one. . . a HUGE yellow Lincoln convertible, vintage about early 1960's (it's the same model as the car Kennedy was riding in when he was killed) had been in the shop for a new exhaust system. Dave was hoping it would take months for it to be fixed so he'd have a place to store it. Bummer. . . they finished in a week. So off we went to Woodbridge yesterday to pick it up. Ahhh. . . Dave and his cars. Another whole series of blogs I probably will resist writing.
Anyway. . . I got him to the place and then went on my merry way to Pier 1 Imports where I have $60 to spend, which I did not spend, and then off to sushi. A little disconcerting to be driving to choir after that and hear the news report about the outbreak of salmonella on the east coast traceable to sushi. Hmmmmmm. No salmonella from last night's salmon yet!
So after choir I get back to Dave's and trudge up to my room after a long, arduous rehearsal. SURPRISE! Good old Pip the real estate agent had arranged for a plumber to come in and DISMANTLE both of the upstairs bathrooms. By dismantle I mean . . . . . NO FIXTURES AT ALL. As in NO TOILETS! My first instinct was to run back downstairs to see if the powder room toilet was intact. But running downstairs has not been an option for quite a few years, so I hobbled downstairs instead. The good news. . . . the house had one working toilet. The bad news. . . .it was on a different floor than I sleep.
This is an issue for me. Without going into too much detail let's just say that close proximity to a bathroom in the middle of the night is a good thing for me. Let's just say that my lovely first born son, Chad, in his first act of defiance which took place when he refused to vacate the womb, set in motion a chain of events that made the word "prolapse" part of my working vocabulary. (Oooops. I just went into too much detail. Sorry. I said I wouldn't.) Okay. . . so it's not very possible for me to avoid night time trips to the bathroom unless I cut off all liquids for about three days in advance. Funny thing about aging. Men worry about their lack of hair. Women worry about their lack of bladder control. Can't do much about either.
I know. . .Whaaaaaaaah! Whaaaaaaaaah! Whaaaaaaaaah! Poor me! I had to walk all the way downstairs last night when I needed to use the bathroom. I had to walk downstairs in this free house I have had available to me to stay in for the last 5 years. In this house whose owner gave me his original Kindle last week. I've been saving for a Kindle and Dave has three. So he just up and gave me his first one.
There are people in Africa with no running water! And no 988 square feet of living space with or without a sofa bed. And most of them don't have a Kindle either!
So. . it's just a story folks. Not a pity party. And the good news is that I got a fairly good cardio workout several times last night as I negotiated the stairs in the dark.
All is well. I haven't died, nor tripped, nor even wet the bed. No cause for alarm. I'm heading home and will welcome my sis tomorrow. And I'll load her up with a full car of stuff. Because I'm still downsizing.
But for those of you hanging tough, I'm baaaaaaaack!
Been in the house for over a month now. Still no couches. Hence no new pictures. I've been expecting couch #1, which is a sofa bed for the den/extra bedroom/music studio/living room extension. My first overnight guest in the person of my sister Bonnie arrives tomorrow and so far. . . .no place to sleep for her! Oh yea. . . we shared a double bed while we were in high school, but those days are long since past. Never mind the endless discussion that could be brought to bear on the provocative topic of "WHY DID WE SHARE A DOUBLE BED IN HIGH SCHOOL?" We are not sharing a double bed, or any other size bed ever again. Especially since she snores like a buzz saw in a beehive. It's a miracle I'm letting her in the same house. . . especially a TINY house. Anyway. . . .was hoping the sofa bed would have arrived by now. Bonnie is bringing an inflatable bed for her own use. That's just the kind of gracious hostess I am.
So I'm at Dave's on the morning after choir. We are rehearsing our final Kennedy Center concert with Norman. Brahms Requiem. This will be epic.
What's also epic is that Dave has once again decided to go into serious discussion with his real estate agent, Pip (apologies all around to Charles Dickens, but I'm not making that up) about actually getting the FOR SALE sign up on the front lawn of this house in the not too distant future. I have been staying in this house under the threat of having it sold out from under me for about 5 years! Thank goodness for the terrible house market! Because when you get right down to it. . . everything is about me being able to do what I want to do.
Okay. . so yesterday I drove up early because Dave needed assistance going to pick up one of his several antique cars. This one. . . a HUGE yellow Lincoln convertible, vintage about early 1960's (it's the same model as the car Kennedy was riding in when he was killed) had been in the shop for a new exhaust system. Dave was hoping it would take months for it to be fixed so he'd have a place to store it. Bummer. . . they finished in a week. So off we went to Woodbridge yesterday to pick it up. Ahhh. . . Dave and his cars. Another whole series of blogs I probably will resist writing.
Anyway. . . I got him to the place and then went on my merry way to Pier 1 Imports where I have $60 to spend, which I did not spend, and then off to sushi. A little disconcerting to be driving to choir after that and hear the news report about the outbreak of salmonella on the east coast traceable to sushi. Hmmmmmm. No salmonella from last night's salmon yet!
So after choir I get back to Dave's and trudge up to my room after a long, arduous rehearsal. SURPRISE! Good old Pip the real estate agent had arranged for a plumber to come in and DISMANTLE both of the upstairs bathrooms. By dismantle I mean . . . . . NO FIXTURES AT ALL. As in NO TOILETS! My first instinct was to run back downstairs to see if the powder room toilet was intact. But running downstairs has not been an option for quite a few years, so I hobbled downstairs instead. The good news. . . . the house had one working toilet. The bad news. . . .it was on a different floor than I sleep.
This is an issue for me. Without going into too much detail let's just say that close proximity to a bathroom in the middle of the night is a good thing for me. Let's just say that my lovely first born son, Chad, in his first act of defiance which took place when he refused to vacate the womb, set in motion a chain of events that made the word "prolapse" part of my working vocabulary. (Oooops. I just went into too much detail. Sorry. I said I wouldn't.) Okay. . . so it's not very possible for me to avoid night time trips to the bathroom unless I cut off all liquids for about three days in advance. Funny thing about aging. Men worry about their lack of hair. Women worry about their lack of bladder control. Can't do much about either.
I know. . .Whaaaaaaaah! Whaaaaaaaaah! Whaaaaaaaaah! Poor me! I had to walk all the way downstairs last night when I needed to use the bathroom. I had to walk downstairs in this free house I have had available to me to stay in for the last 5 years. In this house whose owner gave me his original Kindle last week. I've been saving for a Kindle and Dave has three. So he just up and gave me his first one.
There are people in Africa with no running water! And no 988 square feet of living space with or without a sofa bed. And most of them don't have a Kindle either!
So. . it's just a story folks. Not a pity party. And the good news is that I got a fairly good cardio workout several times last night as I negotiated the stairs in the dark.
All is well. I haven't died, nor tripped, nor even wet the bed. No cause for alarm. I'm heading home and will welcome my sis tomorrow. And I'll load her up with a full car of stuff. Because I'm still downsizing.
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