Singing in Bowling Green

"This is where we walked, this is where we swam. Take our picture here, take a souvenir."
-R.E.M.

This past weekend, I attended a funeral in Ohio.

My high school choir director passed away in mid September after suffering a stroke in late August. He had been rather unwell for a while, and sometimes these things do not come as a surprise.  His daughter E was very open and shared the goings on with him on our choir alumni Facebook group. It was incredibly generous of her, to share this intensely private family time with the students who loved him, from the late 60s through the 80s and into the 90s. 

We referred to him back then as "Uncle Andy" but E was the only one who held the honor of calling him Dad. 

When he was moved to hospice care, his daughter picked the date for his service, and began planning it. Some people said "He's not dead yet, he could rebound and surprise us." I told my husband this and asked him what he thought. As many of you know, he has a great amount of experience in end of life care. He told me very sweetly "once you are in hospice, there isn't a rebound to look forward to. He can be there a while, or he could pass quickly. E is right to make her plans for her dad at this time. No one can or should question it because it is the right thing to do."

And Doug was right. Uncle Andy passed away, and there was plenty of time for people to make plans, arrangements, and come to sing the gentle teacher home. I told Doug that I wanted to go, and he said "of course you do, and you should."

Now, a couple of months ago, one of my college professors passed away and I did not mourn the way other people did. I was sad for his family and their loss. But other than that, I wasn't so heartbroken that he had passed. It felt like nothing to me. 

This, however, was different. 

"Uncle Andy" was kind of a joke nickname, because he wasn't a loving Uncle figure. He sure could yell at us, he sure could be demanding...  We were mostly being sarcastic when we called him that. He was a taskmaster, was unrelenting at times, and there was sometimes a scariness to his intensity. 

But for as much as I thought he was mean at times, just like my college professor who recently passed, I never for one moment thought that he didn't love me and want the best for me, unlike the college professor. When it came time for "teach to" moments, he delivered them with love instead of self-righteous "I told you so" lecture and unwillingness to be a champion. I don't know if his daughter had the same experiences at home but "Uncle Andy" was inspiring, a great teacher, a tremendous mentor, and several of my friends went on to teach music, or have music careers, thanks to him.

Our high school choir was exceptionally good. Our entire music department was. We were incredibly lucky. 

E told us the songs we would be singing, and I got sheet music from a couple sources and posted them to my personal website so people could download them and start practicing. We all made our arrangements with our families, and about 40 of us I reckon made it to Ohio for the funeral. Some flew in from as far away as Phoenix and Atlanta. 

my friend Eva during the rehearsal

A couple of days before the event another good friend sent me an email with her regrets that she couldn't make it there for a variety of reasons.

I was sharing a hotel with my friend Eva, and told her that if she could make it to somewhere on my route I would drive her and not ask her to pay for a portion of the room costs.

I wanted her to be there, because she should be there.  So she got herself to Eva, and we had a fourth roommate, a girl who graduated the year behind us.

Two sopranos and two altos, just like old times.

I left here at 5:40am and arrived at my friend's house in Connecticut at 9:15. Not bad for rush hour through Hartford and down to New Haven. We were back on the road before 10am and made it all the way to Bowling Green with a lot of laughs and a few stops where we obeyed the bladder and the gas tanks. 

At about 7:40 we were checked into our hotel rooms, and readying up to go to a brief rehearsal at the church. Several people were flying in later and wouldn't get to their hotel rooms until midnight. A second rehearsal was held in the morning, and just about everyone was there.

One of the pieces I honestly NEVER remember singing. My friend Kat told me that we sang it on our England tour in 1983, but I do not have an ounce of recollection over it and neither did my friend Hadley. My sightreading skills are better than I remember, and being with other altos who remembered the song was exceptionally helpful. 

After the rehearsal and before we went up, our conductor, who herself was a music teacher, had done all she could for us to prepare us. She got rid of the "Hawl LAY lou YAs" and got us to remember it is "Allah lu ya" and to not sound like Jersey Shore or Long Islanders. She gave us the pep talk, reminding us that "you can do this, because he taught you to do it." She told us that today, we were all his children. This bothered me a little because we can't claim that... ever.  That relationship only belongs to E. He wasn't Pappa Andy, but Uncle Andy. But... I understood where she was coming from and deeply appreciated the pep talk.

Everyone started crying. It kind of wasn't fair to do this to us right before going up to sing. So not fair. 

You know you're in Bowling Green
when there is a Basketball in the
flower arrangement.

The service was really nice, and there was a guest vocalist, and her husband was the organist and accompanied us on the piano. They were were both incredibly talented and wonderful.

When it was our turn to sing the first of our four songs, I was terrified. It is meant to be done a cappella, and most of us wanted Judy the conductor to accompany us. She told us that we could do it, it would be wonderful, don't worry about it. The piece was the one I linked to in my entry yesterday, Randall Thompson's "Alleluia." 

We crushed it. I was so relieved.

At the end, Eva turned to me and was bawling. "I can't do this, I can't sing the next song. I can't."
I started crying too and told her she'd better stop it. I didn't want to kill her. In church. At a funeral. 

We all got through the second piece, and the third, without tears and with great success. 

Our final song was Handel's "Hallelujah Chorus," which we all knew inside out and upside down. I lost it at the end, and started to cry.

We sounded so good, it was so much fun. And I missed him. I missed Uncle Andy and I didn't get a chance to let him know that I appreciated everything he did for all of us through the years. Especially for me. My love for music is rooted in his choir classroom. And with several of the people standing there in the pews with me, and several people who couldn't make it. 

That night we all went out to dinner and then to a bar, which was loud and stupid, as my last entry explains. Yeah, you like the Yankees. Please be quiet about it. We tried a second bar that was supposed to have Karaoke, but it didn't.

I was back at the hotel room by 11, and the four of us girls holed up in this room all tried to go to bed but we talked and talked for hours about family, problems, life, the kids, the jobs or lack of jobs, our post-high school relationships (they had many, I had three...and I was kind of proud of that even though their stories were just plain hysterical and amazing).  Before I fell asleep I said "I love you guys."

The time was about 3am. Voof. 

In the morning I said "I hate you bitches," as I was packing up all my stuff. 6:30am came way too early. And I still hurt from laughing.

We were on the road before 8am and the plan was to swing a tad south into Pittsburgh and have lunch with Jessica, which we did, and it was wonderful. I miss her so much. Spending 90 minutes with her was such a blessing and my two travel companions were happy to meet here and see a little bit of Pittsburgh. 

I wanted to take them to the top of Mt. Washington to see the view of the city, but it decided to start raining and I opted to skip it and have us hit the road and put some serious miles between us and the whole rest of the weekend. 

I drove to Bellefonte, and Kat took over. She drove to Danbury where her husband met us at 9:30pm. I was home here at the house at 12:30. Exhausted, stiff, still feeling like I was moving. It was a great trip, a great time, and I am so happy to have wonderful friends, and while it was a sad moment in time, it was great to be together and support our friend, our "cousin" as it were, and be there for her. 

There were a lot of laughs, tons of laughs, and I have to do a whole separate entry about the funny stuff. In the meantime, here is a picture of my long distance traveling companion. Being a true pimp. Sitting in the baby high chair at the Fuel & Fuddle in Pittsburgh.

Ode to the Yankee Fan in the Bar

Okay, we get it. You like the Yankees a lot.

You have a team jersey on, I think it is A-Rod's number on the back. The Yankees are too cool to put names on their jerseys, so I'm just guessing at this point. You have your hat on backwards, and you're drinking that beer. You jump up and scream WOOOOOOOOOOOOO at the top of your lungs when good stuff goes down on that big screen TV behind the bar. "YEAH SUCK IT BITCHES!" is your response when your team does something great on the field.

Thing is, you're the only one in this Ohio bar who is cheering for this team or any team. There are three people watching the other screen where the Ohio State football game is going on. There are 10 of us trying to have a discussion over here. And you're jumping around like your ass is on fire and your hair is catching.

Socially, some people would recognize that they are alone in this behavior and kind of stop maybe? Yeah.

Bowling Green Ohio

Is very, very very.... very far away from my house. I put over 1700 miles on my car since Friday. Every inch was worth the trip.

Seeing as it is 1am and I just got home, I will write about it later.

In the meantime, watch this video. It is Randall Thompson's Alleluia, and I'll tell you why you watched it when I write another entry later today.

Football Pictures

By the way - I've been trying to take some fun action pictures of Geoff's football team. Here are a couple that I like. 

 That's Geoff, number 77.

 touchdown pass...

touchdown sachems!!!

be prepared, and beer prepared

I'm watching the Steelers game, hoping they don't self destruct. They're losing, but I have faith they'll pull through. Compared to the Patriots who were winning 21-0 and managed to completely blow it.

Haverhill Brewery Brewfest - September 24, 2011

So I am taking Doug and Dave to the local beerfest today - if you're anywhere near Haverhill, MA the Haverhill Brewery puts on a great event. Two sessions, we'll be at the first.

And it'll be blogged in the Shenanigans blog.

It is a gloomy, gross day so I'm hoping that it is a lot of fun, and there are tents.

Hello, Goodbye, I'm sorry

I got really good there at posting frequently and then Sept 11th kind of took the wind out of my sails. Sorry to leave you so abandoned. Here is an update.

Tonight I am sitting on the couch with Doug, watching a football game with two teams I don't care about at all but long time friends know I love me some football. So, we watch. Actually, I kind of care because Michael Vick is playing, and I spend great swaths of time pondering his crime and sin, incarceration and redemption (to some) and rekindling of his career. I personally feel that everyone gets a second chance, especially if they are genuinely contrite, and sorry for what they've done. Some people say he isn't sorry. How do they know? They say he is sorry he got caught, sorry he lost all his money and fame, NOT sorry that he tortured dogs and did horrible things to them.

Problem is, culturally... I think he thought what he was doing wasn't wrong and he learned that it is. And I like to think he has taken that cultural difference and has learned from it, and will work to educate others.

I like a good redemption song. And once it hits 10pm we'll switch over to "Breaking Bad."

Anyway.

I didn't get the job that I interviewed for in September. I thought I was a shoe-in, but the HR recruiter told me they're going with someone who has more experience and who has been without work for a shorter period of time. I guess I understand that. Like she maybe has been unemployed for 4 months to my 18... so her brain is better. She's still sharp, has that "I remember what an office is" edge that I'm obviously missing.

I thought there maybe should be a rule that if I'm a good candidate, I get picked first because I've been out of work longer. Then, let the other person be unemployed for a while...

It's only fair, right?

Geoff and football... oh it is fun.

Geoff's team had their first real game canceled because we had the remnants of a tropical storm come through on a Wednesday, and by Thursday the field was so flooded they couldn't have anyone on it.

He was really disappointed, and came home from school. I asked if they had practice instead and he was indignant. "NO! Why would we have practice if the game is canceled!"

Well, it's the kind of thing that athletic departments do. You have an indoor practice or weight room or something. "Didn't you even ask?"

No.

Well, turns out I was right, they did. But the thing is... no one communicates to the kids what they're supposed to do. So they make stupid mistakes like come home. I emailed the athletic director and told him that if Geoff was in trouble for coming home that I was going to rain down hellfire, and he understood. None of the freshmen who left got in trouble.

A couple other stupid things have happened that have me pondering how anyone knows what is going on in this world.

But it all works out, right? And this past Thursday Geoff's team had their first game, and won in an "oppressive" (as Geoff put it) fashion. 24-16. Geoff doesn't get to play a lot, but he likes it, and the guys seem to like him, or at least tolerate him, and it's all good.

He got to play in the JV game last Saturday, and there is a JV game tomorrow, so he gets to suit up and go out there... they do the same with the Varsity too, even though he said that the Varsity guys just say "hey freshman, get me a water" which pisses him off. I told him that's part of paying his dues, being a low man on the totem, and if he gets through to Varsity in three years, he should remember to say "Please."

Last Saturday was our town "day" here in little small town land. Every town in this area does a "day" where there are events and activities, food, entertainment and all kinds of things.

Our Boy Scout Troop organizes and runs a burger burn, which is one of our big fund raisers for the year. This year, we far out paced the last three years that I've run this event. Or is it two years? I forget.

Anyway, we had a line 30 people deep at one point, the grill was rocking, the boys were super helpful, and the woman running the cash box kept handing me batches of 20 dollar bills to get them out of her way.

I handed all the money to the assistant Scoutmaster, who at the end of the day pulled me aside and said  "what were our expenses?"

90 bucks for rolls, donated at cost by the local bakery. Burgers, dogs, sausages from the meat market in Haverhill, and cheese, came to about $320. We got free ice and charcoal, but someone went out and bought more charcoal because they felt we didn't have enough. I spent 80 dollars on chips and condiments, so all told under $500 dollars out of pocket from the troop.

He looked at me and said "We made $2700.00."

I think we made $500 last year, and $700 the year before.

It was a great day.

I would fight

Each year around 9/11 I have a hard time sleeping. I start to think about what I would do if I were on one of those flights. How I would respond. Part of my feelings tonight (this morning) center not around 9/11 itself but where I find myself these days with not having a job (got a call today letting me know I didn't get the job I most recently interviewed for), fighting with Bank of America over their complete fucking up of my mortgage, frustrations about so many other things... I don't think of myself as aggressive, naturally. I think of myself as rather mild mannered, always willing to talk things out, negotiate, rationally solve problems. But on nights like tonight, I have different visions. I'll try poetry for a change. See how this fits, or communicates what I'm thinking.


I would fight

my cell phone would be on
because I would want to have you be on that other end
hearing that I have no fear, that I am brave.

I would tell you I love you first, and listen to you breathe
just for me
for a minute,

and then I'd rise.

I would put the phone down where I once sat
and hope that you would hear.

I know how to dislocate a shoulder.
I know how to take a punch.
I know how to set that example
so others who maybe wouldn't fight would know

it is time to do so.

I would not have time to return to my seat before all is
said
and done
and completed.

So I would just have to know that you are aware of what I've done.

I would hope that you'd be proud of me, of my actions
not just this moment but all the moments of my life
during the time you've known me.

You would have the opportunity to tell people ten years on
"She had no fear," and you would not be lying.

But you maybe wouldn't know
that my last act and breath would be full of tears and sorrow
for not being able to touch your cheek again, or hear you
breathe.

Knowing that I'd never have the chance either way,
I'd still fight.

Lap Soup

I know it's not appropriate. I know it is not funny. I know. I know....

I made chicken soup tonight for dinner. I wanted to clear out space in the freezer, and there was a large bag of chicken stock and 2 chicken breasts up in there hogging up space. I got them all together, I got everything cooking. I added celery, frozen corn (to make more room in the freezer), and wanted some carrots but didn't have any. I found a bag of carrots/broccoli/water chestnuts and pulled all the carrots out of it.

Doug got home from work and got a big huge bowl of soup, and plopped down on the couch.... promptly spilling his bowl of soup in his lap.

He ran into the bathroom shower downstairs and Geoff came down, and started laughing.

I told him that he was NOT allowed to laugh that it was NOT funny. I asked him to get a towel while I supervised the dogs in cleaning up all the soup on the floor (and couch).

With towel in hand, I went to the bathroom to check on Doug, and he was in the shower holding the detatchable shower head on his nads.

"Are you okay?"

"NO!" he yelled at me indignantly. "I burned my..."

"boys."

"Balls."

"I know I'm sorry."

"I NEED A TOWEL!"

"I have your towel... here."

He came out and started drying himself off. And he laughed a little, and I told him he wasn't allowed to laugh. He still had his socks on.

After he was dried off and dressed again, he didn't get a second bowl of soup. He got crackers and cheese, and wine. "So you're mad at my soup?"

"Yes."

"It was doing the only thing it knows how to do," I said sadly, echoing a story from his childhood where his dad stomped on a whistle that he wouldn't stop blowing...

"Burning my balls is the only thing it knows how to do?"

"No, being HOT is the only thing it knows how to do."

Labor Day Peach

I just ate a peach.

Not just any peach, but the last of the peaches that Doug brought back with him from Ohio. He had purchased a nice, full, overflowing bag of them from an Amish farm near Salem when he went to see his grandmother the day after he dropped Jess off at college last week.

We made short work of the bag, enjoying one or two a day each and basking in the glory of the flavor and texture of these gems. A napkin or paper towel was mandatory while eating them lest peach juice flow down the hand and arm.

On Thursday, I placed the last peach into the refrigerator, fully believing that Geoff would eat it after football practice. He didn't. He said he doesn't like them cold, and didn't want to wait for it to warm up. So it sat there until just now when I decided that if I didn't take it, it may go bad sitting in there by itself.

It was freezing cold, juicy beyond imagination. Napkin at hand I finished it off, the ripe flesh falling away from the stone core.

Now I am sad because grocery store peaches are sad, horrible rocks in comparison to these beauties, and I refuse to buy them. I want another giant bag of peaches straight from the Amish farm in Ohio.

And I have this sense that summer is over.