The two of us have returned from a lovely 4th of July walk around the grounds. It seems someone upstairs (as in the Great Upstairs) spilled several million gallons of red, white and blue paint everywhere, since that is pretty much all the colors we have seen.
To begin with, Rudy was pretty enamored with all the little flags in the ground. So many targets for urination purposes. I see decorations. . . Rudy sees the ladies room. What can I say? For the record, Rudy has begun to embrace the ecumenical nature of Chautauqua. Whereas she used to pee on the Methodists every morning, yesterday she moved on to the Catholics.
Of course the gardens are spectacular, and with the houses decked out for the holiday, and the ubiquitous child on a bike or scooter. . . . . well it's an explosion of Americana!
I know I've been crowing about the fact that you see so many children here, especially this week, and it seems that none of them are carrying a cell phone. It's hard to handle a phone when you are on a bicycle, or playing frisbee, or being a thug on Thunder Bridge, or eating an ice cream cone. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for the adults. And in their defense, the lectures now begin not with an admonishment to "turn off your phones," but rather with the more current trend to "silence your phone, but tweet and FB post at will!"
But being privy to private conversations will continue to unnerve me. I've had many such situations since coming up here. Two in particular stand out in my mind.
Last week I marched myself down to the spa to get my toes done up for the summer. If you have read my posts in previous years, you know I get the feet done for sandal weather. And this year is no exception. I went to the St. Elmo Spa. Like every single other place on the grounds, it is a short walk from my house. The section of the spa which accommodates manicures and pedicures is a smallish room that adjoins the reception area. There are three pedicure "stations" and one table for manicures. It's virtually impossible to have a "procedure" done without making conversation with others who are also there for a service. Which is fine at Chautauqua. And yes, you could bury your head in the latest Oprah magazine and everyone would probably leave you alone. In fact, I was pretty engrossed in Oprah The Magazine when another woman came in to get her toes in. Followed shortly thereafter by a woman getting her nails done. We three, along with the women doing the work made for a pretty crowded room. And then lady-getting-the-manicure's cell phone rings. She takes the call. And she doesn't say, "I'm getting a manicure, can I call you back?" No, she says, "Oh sure I can talk, I'm only getting a manicure!" Never mind how awkward this is for the manicurist who has to constantly ask her to switch her phone to the other hand. Never mind that now the rest of us can no longer have a conversation amongst us, and we certainly can't concentrate on Oprah. Never mind that I am finding out information about her family that she might not want me to know. And then after she finishes this call . . she takes another one. Granted the ladies in the spa should have told her to please save the calls for later. But what really happened is that the rest of us just rolled our eyes at each other. . . including the manicurist who was sitting right in front of the woman, but was never noticed. So, we've all been there. And it's annoying. Not earth shattering, nor life-changing if you're like me, you choose carefully those issues about which you want to have a major hissy. But still. . . . . give me a break.
But then on another day I was walking down the street to a movie. The street was pretty much deserted. Probably around dinner time. And a woman (young this time) behind me was on her cell phone. And I could hear everything she was saying. Apparently she was leaving a message for a friend she had been trying to reach. And she was pouring out her heart in this message. I was only a couple of feet in front of her, but she was oblivious to the fact that I might be able to hear her. But this time, instead of being annoyed, I was really moved by the conversation I was hearing. The girl on the phone was clearly telling her friend about her broken heart.
Now I'm going to digress for just a minute, but I guarantee I'll be back to this girl. If you are a regular reader, you're probably surprised that it has taken me so long to digress!
One of my real passions up here is theater. I have always loved theater. I attend every single theater event that I can. I have not seen the first play yet. And I will explain later why I'm not going to write out the whole name of the play. But suffice it to say that it was written by a certain Mr. Williams whose first name is the state in which I was born, and the play's title involves a feline who has sore feet from walking around on top of a house. Hopefully that is not too cryptic for you all. At any rate, the word out is that this play is terrific. And I'm going to see it Saturday afternoon. I chose that date because I wanted to attend the pre-play functions in order to prepare myself. Those functions include a brown-bag lunch where we meet the cast and see the set. Also a presentation about the author and the making of the production here. Also, one of my favorite events, the evening where all the young actors in the company this year perform their audition monologues. They are fabulous and you really get a sense of these "kids." The kids, by the way, are in the final stages of the top drama programs in the country: Yale, Julliard, NYU, etc. These "pre" events show us an incredibly accomplished and confident set of actors. They have huge personalities and are fearless on stage. If I had had the slightest bit of encouragement I would have studied theater instead of music. But I had nowhere near that kind of confidence. And then you find out the roles they are going to play. And this first play. . . (you know, the one about the feline on the extremely warm, metal, top-part of a house?), has VERY strong characters in it.
Okay. . . back to girl on the phone. So she is behind me and is leaving this message and the gist of it is that she has a crush on a guy and this guy's girlfriend is in town and she is feeling mighty blue about it. That part is pretty normal in the scheme of things. But then I hear the word "leading man." And I slow down and pretend to look at some real estate listings and she passes me and yep. . . . . it's her! The woman who will play a woman whose name is the nickname for Margaret in the play about the feline on the extremely warm. . . . . well, you know. And I'm dumbfounded. I have stumbled onto the fact that this unbelievably confident, outgoing future star of stage, screen and television, is, in fact, a normal girl who has fallen in love with her co-star and is sad about it. That is SOOOOO Elizabeth Taylor!!!
So here's why I can't say the name of the play "out loud." A couple of years ago you longtime readers may recall that I named a couple of performers that were appearing here. I then proceeded to rant about their prima donna ways. Only to find out that any schmuck who happens to be googling either of their names, might possibly be directed to my blog. . . . who knew??? So apparently that happened and I got a really nasty, profane response to my blog from a complete stranger! Lesson learned. In this case, I would be mortified if someone searching to find out about this play got my blog and found out about what I heard from her phone call. Yes. . . chances are extremely remote. But I'm not out to embarrass anyone for sure. I just found that call very heart wrenching. So hence the cryptic nature.
Choir is over for the evening and Rudy and I are chilling on the porch listening to the beginning of the pops concert in the amp across the way. I admit that I'm going to sit here and drink wine, and then maybe open a bottle of local Virginia hard cider from Bold Rock that my son gave me and is in the freezer getting nice and cold. And then I'm going to mosey on over to the amp for the finale. . . the 1812 Overture. The crowd takes the part of the cannons. We each get three small paper bags. We blow them up and smash them on cue. . . . three different times. The noise is deafening. It could not be more schlocky or more fun. I would not miss smashing my paper bags for all the money in the world. Rudy will stay home and cower under the bed, like any respectable dog would do.
Happy July 4th everyone.
PS: Desert Bunny: this is as close to a "blog on demand" as you're ever likely to get!! :)
