In the shadowlands

In the shadowlands

Time, frozen yet frantically

passing. He sees life.

I took my son to New York. Only time will tell f the trip had any affect on him, desired or otherwise. Our flight was delayed an hour out of Charlotte due to “traffic into LaGuardia”. I think that meant it was raining in New York, because it was when we finally arrived. Raining hard.

Our approach to LGA took us right up the East River, just after sundown. The look on Wubby’s face as he was the Manhattan skyline for the first time was worth the sacrifice of free plane tickets to Cielo in January.  We were supposed to take a cab from LGA to Grand Central and then the train to South Norwalk. The delay tossed those plans right out onto the tarmac in Charlotte. Luckily, we have an amazing friend in Alecto, who very generously sent a car for us that deposited us in her driveway at approximately the same time our (missed) train was leaving Grand Central.

I felt kinda bad because our delay caused Alecto to miss bikram Thursday night, but I got over it when she fed us homemade meatballs and marinara sauce. Bedtime came  quickly, and Homer graced me with his presence on the bed for the duration. Wubby swears Ally (Allie?) the tortoise shell kitty came out of the bedroom where I was passed out with Homer, and I do vaguely remember waking up  during the night and thinking, “there’s a cat sleeping on me!”, but decided I dreamed it. I never saw this particular cat during our stay, but Alecto swears she has two cats. Whatever.

Friday was rest-up day. Alecto left us her car, bless her heart, and I got to practice driving like a Connecticut yankee. Fun. I haz some. Took Wubby to the bank so he could get some folding money. We discovered downtown Weston, CT–because we didn’t blink as we drove past. I’m not supposed to say what we would call Weston here in the NC Piedmont (strip mall, with class.) Suffice it to say that found Weston to be a very quaint little town square indeed. I can’t believe the elementary school kids aren’t scarred for life for having attended Hurlbutt Elementary, though.

After a leisurely afternoon nap, we were treated to dinner at the Roadhouse. If you’re from my neck of the woods and you can remember what the Fourth Street Filling Station was like when it was Shober’s, then you’re close to the Roadhouse, particulary in the winter when the firewas stoked at Shober’s. That was a long time ago.

Next up: Wubby goes to bikram, then hits the big city.

I not nervous…well, maybe a little

Thursday I’m piling Wubby in the car, heading to Charlotte to catch a plane to NYC and (hopefully) get from the airport to Grand Central in time to catch a train to someplace in Connecticut where Alecto, bless her pea-pickin’ heart, will pick us up and take us to meet Simon.

This will be my third trip to the big city, on purpose as opposed to those nasty layovers at JFK on the way to Santo Domingo. I know, it doesn’t make any sense to fly to NY to then fly to the Dominican Republic, especially not in January. But hey, it was cheap. Although we did wind up flying all over the eastern seaboard in a blizzard only to wind up back in Greensboro about fourteen hours later, but that’s a different story.

My first trip was in 1983. I was 22, and had never been on a plane before. We flew out of Roanoke, VA, which is an experience, as the airport is surrounded by mountains. True story, when they needed to extend the runway at the Roanoke airport, there was a major road in the way. Solution: put in a tunnel, then bury it and build the runway on top of it. Sometimes I really miss Roanoke. Anyway, it was a business trip for my mom, and a lesson in traveling for me and my aunt (mom’s sis.) While she worked, aunt and I wandered around mid-town, in the rain, for three days. Then the three of us wandered around for 2 more days and came home, in the rain. We couldn’t get to the airport because some tunnel somewhere was flooded. Our flight was delayed 5 hours, because of rain and fog. When we finally boarded, we were ninth in line for take-off and the liquor was flowing freely.

I didn’t see much of the city on that trip. It rained. A lot.

The second trip was three years ago, for a job interview. It was supposed to be up and back in one day. Didn’t happen that way. It was June, the first 90+ degree day of the summer, and there was a power outage. Then the thunderstorms came rolling in. The interview went well, and sometimes I wish I’d gotten that job. Turned out that someone already with the company found out they were interviewing outside and decided he really wanted to move to NC. Oh well. At least I didn’t have to spend the night at the airport. It just so happened that a great friend of mine was in the city on business and was gracious enough to let me crash at her hotel, which was very nice. Something-or-other Murray Hill. We had a lovely time, and I got home mid-afternoon the following day.

So I’m wondering what on earth has possessed me to take my 20-year-old kid to the big scary city. Not really wondering… I know why. Art. He needs art. MoMA, Met, Whitney, whatever we can find. We’re meeting up with an artist, cousin of my dad’s, who has a studio somewhere on the west side, around 72nd I think. I’m a little nervous about meeting him, afraid I’ll blubber and cry like an idiot. He looks like my dad. I suppose I’ll have to apologize in advance.

I think I’m ready for it to be Thursday. Except for some tiny details, like packing. I suppose I should have my head examined, but hey, I already know I’m crazy so that would be a waste of time. I have a new toy to play with on the trip, a netbook. Could come in handy if we get stuck in an airport during a thunderstorm or other rain-related event.

I promise not to touch the paintings.

What I really can’t figure out is why Alecto is being so nice to the Wub and me. But then, we might be sleeping with the dog!

the psychic ipod strikes again!

IF my ipod had been in the general vicinity of my computer when I downloaded the piano music from iTunes Friday night, it might make sense. Maybe. But my ipod wasn’t anywhere near the computer. It wasn’t even in the house. It was in the car.

Saturday morning we debated over what to do with the day and settled on a trip to Costco for food. So we jumped in the car and headed into the frenzy that is greater downtown Mall and outlying shopping meccas. While hubby drove I grabbed the pod and tried to figure out what I was in the mood for. Since nothing immediately came to mind, I took a chance and put it on shuffle. I don’t do that very often because, for some reason, the pod likes to play Christmas music in shuffle, and I have LOTS of Christmas music. (Dear Apple ipod Geeks: can you maybe add some options to shuffle, like include/exclude by genre, perhaps?)

First up: Chopin Waltz, A minor, early opus. One I wasn’t familiar with. Then. I’ve gotten familiar with it since then, and it’s the first official entry in my recital program, along with a B minor waltz that I played ages ago. Next, a Borodin string quartet. I used to love string quartets. We had a quartet-in-residence when I was in college, and they were good. They played an outdoor recital at the vineyard owned by my library employer Myra, in July of 1983. I remember that because it was hot, my future sister-in-law came with us, I wore my new engagement ring in public for the first time, and the quartet played Barber’s Adagio for Strings, which is an entirely different work when played by only four instruments.

Last night at church one of the music guys and I were talking about a song I want him to play. He said it was kinda hard, and I told him to just play the chords that follow the bass line and not to listen to the extraneous stuff going on over it. He said that sounded like a good idea, picked at a few chords on his guitar and thought about it, and then said to me, “Do you play any instruments?” I was crouched on the floor in front of him when he said that, and I just dropped the rest of the way down and sat there looking at him. The other music guy said, “Yeah, she’s a pianist.” Music guy number one wanted to know why I hit the floor, and I told him. He said, “Sounds like a God thing to me.” then he announced to everyone that the Christmas party will be at our house so they can sing carols at my piano.

Well, alrighty then.

The tuner is supposed to be here in four hours. The house is a mess, and I need to go buy horse food. I’m not touching the piano until its tuned. It’s hard enough to be rusty and dusty; playing an out-of-tune piano just makes it worse.

I think I’ll go buy horse food, come home and remove the large dust bunnies from the music room and move the several piles of music on the piano and on the floor around the piano out of the way so Mr. Tuner can do his job, and find something to occupy myself with until he leaves. Then I have a date with Frederic.

turning over a dusty leaf

See that?

I have one of those in my music room. It’s not quite that dusty, nor is it that old. That one up there is a grand. Mine is a studio upright.

A dusty studio upright.

Oh, and it’s out of tune too.

I honestly don’t know what I’ve been waiting for. Maybe for me to feel better, which may or may not ever occur. Maybe for a billboard in the sky that says “OK, it’s time to start playing again.”

When I was in college I worked in the listening lab at the library. Most of the recordings were, you guessed it, vinyl. We had a few cassettes, but mostly…vinyl. Someone would come to the counter and request a recording, and we would give them headphones, assign a cubby, and spin the records. Kind of like a geeky DJ.

The supervisor of the listening library was a wonderful woman named Myra. Her husband was an education professor, and they owned a beautiful house and vineyard in the valley. At the end of the school year, she invited all of the listening lab employees to her home for a cookout and multi-level croquet match. As we were touring the house, there, in her living room, was…a dusty piano. “Who plays?”, I asked. “No one”, she replied. “Karl used to, has a music degree from Cincinnati Conservatory, actually. But he hasn’t played since college.” Karl was nearing retirement age at this time, so that piano had been dusty far longer than mine. I remember thinking to myself, “I’ll NEVER do that!”

Only I did.

Last week the piano tuner called to see if I needed him to come tune the dusty piano. My first inclination was to say, “Heck no, I don’t play it.” But I thought about it before I said anything.

And the tuner is coming Monday, which means I have to dust the piano. And sweep up the dust monkeys.

No, I didn’t see the billboard in the sky. What I did see was my looming birthday, and the fact that I’m running out of time to play that recital I always wanted to play. All by myself. My senior recital in college was a dual recital with Crissy the weird flautist. Gosh, I miss Crissy. She was way too much fun.

But that’s another story for another day.

So, tonight, I’m goofing around on the computer when I should be doing something constructive, and I decide to look up my old piano professor. I found him, too. On iTunes. He isn’t playing, but the entire album is of his compositions. He was always a gifted composer, more so than a pianist, although he was an excellent performer as well. For a man small in stature, he could play the hell out of a piano. He hit one of the upper treble keys on his piano so hard it broke the string. That’s power. He likes to travel, and his compositions reflect his experiences in some exotic locations. Here’s the link if you’re interested.

FYI, track 13 was written after 9/11. He sent me the sheet music for it, because I asked him nicely. I’ve played at it, and I understand it, which is half the battle. It will be in my recital.

The last day of girls gone hillbilly, Alecto and CG asked me what my dreams were. I couldn’t think of any, at least not any that I could make them understand. Except this one. To play again. It’s up to me.

And it’s time.