Laugh Drops

Last Friday evening I was thrilled to be in attendance at UB’s Slee Hall for a concert featuring my nephew Matt’s internationally known and critically acclaimed percussion ensemble, Talujon.  Talujon is a “five man quartet” with more drums and percussion instruments than a music store.  Marimbas, kettle drums, chimes, bongos, cymbals, drum kits, kalimbas, gongs - you name it – the stage was overflowing.

As one might expect of a percussion concert, most of their performance was loud.  But this is a classical music hall so certain rules apply, spelled out in the program booklet – no noise allowed during the performance.  No cell phones, no talking, no humming, no coughing,  no unwrapping of candies or cough drops!

When Matt made his Lincoln Center debut a number of years ago, my sister in law, who had gathered the clan for the occasion, drummed (so to speak) into our heads that any audience noise whatsoever would have us ejected from the premises, causing a disgrace to the entire family and a blot on Matt’s permanent record.  I coughed once or twice the night before this concert and in less than five minutes she had presented me with a steaming mug of honey and lemon tea.

One piece that Talujon performed was one of those very avant garde over-the-top far-out modern pieces which consisted primarily of unorthodox materials being coaxed into even less orthodox sounds.  Two performers were at opposite sides of the stage and two others were on the right and left aisles of the audience.  We were “surrounded.”  The lads were equipped with spruce branches, wine glasses, water, trash cans, cap pistols and many other toys.  Until the cap gun part, most of the piece was excruciatingly subtle and terribly hard to hear.  Probably due to their collective unease, the audience became noisier than the performers at several points.

It was during this piece that I realized one of the audience members seated behind me was either trying to suppress a cough – or a laugh.  The sounds he was making (and I could tell it was a man making this noise) were little whimpers and sharp outbursts and intakes of breath, repressed snorts and somehow desperate-sounding shaking noises.  I thought at first that I could fish in my purse and pass back a forbidden wrapped cough drop, but thanks to my days as a preacher’s kid trying not to laugh in church, I quickly realized it was laughter he was trying to stifle, and, as far as I know, there are no such things as laugh drops.

I caught a quick glimpse of this poor man after the piece had ended and as his wife was handing him a tissue to wipe his eyes.  His face was crimson and he was still trying to catch his breath.  I believe it was the spruce branches that had gotten him started and the cap guns that had finished him off.   

So the Talujon concert was a night to remember in many more ways than one and I sincerely hope that no one ever invents anything like laugh drops.   

The Return of Blessed Lumber

As I was puttering around this afternoon in the alley behind my shop, I found a frozen T-shirt knotted up on the ground underneath my clothesline.  I can never bear to see something go to waste so I rescued the shirt, thinking if nothing else it would make a great cleaning cloth for glass.

The shirt was frozen solid but an interesting multi-colored repetitive pattern was visible – some sort of a crest with four skulls in the middle, a crown on the top, crossed swords, rampant lions – the usual fare for a crest.  Around the outside of the top of the crest are the words “Loyalty, Virtue, Nobility” – then the words “and from such” and on the bottom of each crest what I thought were the words “Blessed Lumber Returns.”  The shirt was frozen but as it thawed more of the pattern was revealed.

“Blessed Lumber Returns” – I thought I had found some rare T-shirt from an odd cult of lumberjacks or possibly woodworkers – virtuous, loyal and noble beings all – hearts like lions, ready with shiny crowns and slashing swords to leap into action at any Highland Games’ caber toss or into the sawdust labyrinth of the local woodworking warehouse.  Perhaps these guys stripped down to their tool belts and conducted drum circles in the deep woods.

I pictured this group, maybe like the members of the Possum Lodge, with sacred incantations to invoke the return of lumber.  Why they would be doing this instead of planting more trees was beyond me – but a picturesque idea nonetheless.  Perhaps they also gather to sing the famous “Lumberjack Song.” (“I’m a lumberjack, and I’m OK.  I sleep all night and I work all day.”)

As the shirt slowly thaws, finally one more letter of the motto has been revealed, partially obstructed by one of the many swords – this letter is an “s.”  So it is supposed to read “Blessed Slumber Returns.”  By which, I guess they mean if one conducts oneself in a loyal, noble and virtuous manner, one is gifted with a good night’s sleep.

 
I don’t know about anyone else, but I am going to sleep like a log tonight.

The Woods Are Full of 'Em

This morning I awoke from a dream with a recurring theme – space invaders.  No, not invaders from space, but invaders of my space – my Fortress of Solitude, my forest hermitage. 

My house is situated in the middle of over 30 acres of young woodland.  There are a couple of ancient oaks back there – but several generations ago my property was farmland so the woods today are mostly second growth.  As unspectacular as they are, however, I am enrolled in a managed forest plan and I have vowed to protect them from development for as long as I live or perhaps even beyond.  With a Voldemart only a half mile away, I like to think of my little acreage as surviving like Central Park – a bit of untamed green as a refuge for the few remaining wild things, in the midst of the rampant consumerism.

So the worst nightmares I ever experience anymore are concerned with my woods.  I have dreamt that I awake to giant yellow bulldozers crashing through my trees, leaving a trail of broken branches and raw earth.  I have dreamt of dozens of cars parked up and down my narrow driveway with people picnicking in my backyard.  I have dreamt of row upon row of little houses made of ticky-tacky, each complete with swingsets and screaming rugrats.

I have dreamt that there is a jogging path just visible on the North side of the house, about 5 feet into the woods (which are about 20 feet away from the house).  I have dreamt of camp meetings taking place on my land, with strangers sitting on my tiny porch and some of them even trying with studied determination to open my door and gain access to my house – like creatures from the Dawn of the Dead movie.  These folks set up huge tents full of folding chairs and I fully expect to see a fiery old itinerant preacher out there. 

The dream this morning was the worst so far.  I glanced out the bathroom window and to my astonishment there was a strip mall, just visible through the trees.  I looked out again and some of the trees had vanished and the mall was closer.  I saw asphalt and parked cars.  The next time I looked all of the trees had gone and there was only a paved driveway between my house and the mall.  Just before I awoke, my last horrified peek confirmed that even the paving had disappeared and now abutted to my house were a real estate broker and the whole rest of the strip mall, stretching off into the distance, all the way to Voldemart.

Maybe it would help if I put up curtains?

The Olympics

As usual, I started out being an Olympics curmudgeon.  The torch passed within blocks of my house and I did not deign to go see it.  Silly me.

Now, after being glued to the NBC coverage (all I can pull in with my antenna) for the last 2 weeks, after even watching a hockey game this afternoon (and those of you who know me know how improbable this is!) - now I am filled with sadness that the whole marvelous spectacle is about to end.  *sigh*

I will miss being able to see these crazy and wonderful kids - talk about reality TV - this is reality TV! I find the skiing/target shooting event to be silly, the cross country racing to be painful to watch, but I loved the snowboarders (were those real blue jeans or what?) and the ice dancers and the figure skaters - and who can ever forget Joannie Rochette?  I loved Virtue and Moir as well - what a program they skated!

And I even got to see a bit of the curling - such an interesting sport!  I would watch that again - it is graceful and slow - but I like it!  Who knows, maybe I will even watch a hockey game again some day.

After tonight, I will turn my antenna back towards CBC and NBC will just fade away.

Bye bye, Olympics - I am gonna miss you!

Above the Falls and Below the Falls

Crazy relatives - everyone's got 'em!

Grandpa "Herbie" and Grandma Flossie, along with Aunt Olive and Uncle Charlie - 1934.

The Parsonage

I have been working on a series of stories about my life as a Preacher's Kid - way back at the dawn of the Age of the Baby Boomer.  Here are three tales about the houses that our churches so generously allowed us to occupy.

The Kitchen Window

In every church community where we lived the Parsonage Committee was a group of parishioner volunteers who saw to it that the parsonage was repaired and decorated for each pastor and family.  Plumbing, heating, painting, and roof repair – the Parsonage Committee either did this work themselves or allotted funding for professional help.  Or not.  I remember when the attic of the Pavilion parsonage was invaded with bees and my dad ended up on a long wobbly ladder trying to get rid of them.  And I have a photograph of dad on that same ladder, painting the Pavilion parsonage!

When my parents moved into the parsonage at Pavilion, my mother began her decorating routine as usual.  This was in 1950 – the parsonage was probably over a hundred years old even then.  The kitchen had only a hand pump at the sink when we arrived but after my mother’s continued consternation this old dinosaur was soon upgraded to a set of real faucets (and hot water!).

The one feature of the kitchen that even the best parsonage committee could not repair was the lack of a window over the sink.  The plumbing was on an inside wall – the kitchen window was off to the left but just not the same to mom.  So she figured out an ingenious fix to this imagined flaw:  she made dad buy a set of Venetian blinds and some shelf brackets and a board.    She hung up the blinds over the new shelf, sewed a set of curtains and - voila!  A houseplant was even installed on this new “window sill.” It sure looked like a window – just enough to ease her worried soul when she was standing at the sink washing dishes.

Members of the Parsonage Committee were flummoxed at first by the arrival of this anomaly and more than one could be seen pulling up the blinds to find a blank wall underneath.  Mom was inordinately pleased with herself over this trick.

The Big Surprise

An incident connected with the Parsonage Committee in Attica sent my mother nearly around the bend, but as the Minister’s Wife she knew discretion was the better part of valor and when she was called upon, she gave a performance worthy of an Academy Award.

We had gone to the lake for our usual week of summer vacation at the cottage and when we walked into the parsonage we were nearly blinded by a newly redecorated downstairs: living room, dining room and foyer.  Some walls were covered in patterned wallpaper and on the other walls really wide stripes.  The color scheme of this delight was deep maroon, white and silver.  The pattern consisted of enormous white flowers.  The stripes even marched up the stairs to the second floor.  Mom almost keeled over on the spot but when the Parsonage Committee burst in upon us to see how we liked our “Big Surprise” mom had regained her composure and somehow managed to convince the committee of her absolute delight.

In retrospect, we were quite lucky at this relatively low-key decorating approach.  In later years my dad and step-mom lived in one parsonage (in a town which shall remain nameless) (OK – it was Honeoye Falls!) where the kitchen looked like it had been done by the set decorators on Laugh-In.  Hot pink, neon orange and enormous butterflies:    “Sock it to me!”

Polka Dots

In addition to my “suite” of two rooms upstairs in the old barn of a parsonage in Albion, down the hall was my very own bathroom (or half-bath as they are called nowadays).  I was thrilled with this little room and set about decorating it.  The plumbing fixtures were old – even the toilet seat was very beat up looking with scuffs and dings and missing paint.  It would never have occurred to anyone in those days to try to find a store and buy a new toilet seat – this one was perfectly serviceable – just ugly!

So I decided to decorate the toilet seat.  I got out my pearlized pale blue nail polish and painted polka dots over the scuffs and dings.  Mom thought I was very clever and Dad rolled his eyes and after we all got a kick out of making something old new again, we pretty much forgot all about it.  Until a member of the Parsonage Committee happened to be visiting one day and beheld this wonder for the first time.

Word spread like wildfire and I never lived that down. When I returned for the church’s anniversary celebration over 30 years later– several long-time parishioners came up to me and mentioned the polka dotted toilet seat.

The Sun Also Rises?

I am assuming this is still the case, otherwise it would be dark all the time and there would not be beautiful sunsets for me to photograph, but I must admit I haven’t seen a sunrise since I stopped frequenting the Continental back in the late eighties or so.

My maternal grandparents were both early birds – Grandpa worked at the “Bank with the Gold Dome” in downtown Buffalo and commuted by bus from Elma so he arose before the birds to make it to work on time.  Grandma loved to paint quick studies of the sunrise over her beloved garden from the cozy vantage point of the bathroom window on the second floor of their house on Bowen Road.  To live this lifestyle they naturally had to be in bed by nine or so.

My parents, on the other hand, were night owls – well, at least my mother was a night owl.  As a preacher’s wife she was obliged to attend church every Sunday, but that was the only day of the week she arose much before noon.  She hated daylight so much she would have made a perfect vampire.  Nighttime brought out the best in her – with every light blazing in our usually massive parsonages, she would sew, dust, read, dust some more, do laundry, and dust again.  I often wonder what our electric bills must have been like back then.

My dad was on call around the clock so he slept when he could – catnaps during the day on the couch in the living room, a quick snooze at his desk in his study, catching a few z’s while he waited in the car when he was chauffeuring me someplace – but he was always there to make the valiant attempt every school morning to pry me out of bed.  I do not know how he managed this because I was the kid who stayed up reading with my flashlight under the covers until all hours of the night; or I whiled away the night time hours listening to those far off stations on my brick sized turquoise colored transistor radio.  Cousin Brucie on WABC, Dick Biondi on WLS, Dick Summer and Irving the Second (aka Superplant) on WBZ - rock ‘n’ roll and silliness! 

Every school morning dad would call me from their room, “Time to get up.”  I would mumble, “I am up,” and of course, fall back asleep.  This was repeated several times, until my human snooze alarm appeared in my doorway and made sure I stumbled into the bathroom.  He was always nice enough to turn on the wall heater so the bathroom was toasty but as soon as he went back to bed I would curl up on the bathmat and go back to sleep.  This resulted in a series of knocks at the door.  “Are you awake?”  “Yes.”  “What are you doing in there?”  “I am brushing my teeth.”  “I don’t hear any brushing.”

I do not know how he managed this but I made it to school nearly every day (unless I decided to skip gym class and then I became quite talented at feigning illness).

When it came to my abbreviated college career, my nightmares were the morning classes – I rarely made it to any of them.  I failed Psychology 101 when it was an 8 o’clock class – passed it easily the next semester when it was in the blessed afternoon.

Having to work for a living also behooved me to abide by the timetables of others.  I do not even remember what time I had to show up for work in those dreadful days – I guess I have pushed that horror from my mind.

The best part of having my own business is the ability to set my own hours.  I open the shop at 11am from Tuesday through Friday and 1pm on Saturday.  This allows me to sleep in to at least 9:30 on weekdays, 11:30 on Saturdays.  I think about those poor folks who have to get up at or before the crack of dawn – and it makes my stomach clench – I am simply no good at anything until the sun is high in the sky.  I cannot think or create or even eat in the morning.

Thus I find myself to be the perfect combination of my mother and my father.  I catnap when I can and I stay up as late as I can – writing, reading, and listening to the radio.  Sometimes my cats give up on me and go to bed before I do – and they are nocturnal souls!

So perhaps this explains why you receive an email from me that I sent out at 3am or a Facebook post at 4am.  I get enough sleep, do not worry – I just sleep different hours than most of you.

And if you phone me at 8am, don’t ask, “Did I wake you?” because you did.