an oldie but a goodie

Tonight, attending Little Women: The Broadway Musical as produced by the venerable Albion H.S. Arts Department, I experienced a peculiar mixture of participation and nostalgia. I was in the audience (for the second consecutive night—I couldn’t stay away), but I felt invisible, like a ghost of high school musicals past. I looked around for other “ghosts” but saw surprisingly few. Rather than wondering whether they shared my sentiments, I focused on my own thoughts—of how I used to perform on that stage, of how I enjoyed the twitter of the audience and the rash of camera flashes when I entered stage left, of how I longed to perform again, except…

Except for the passage of time. What made this viewing experience even eerier than previous ones (I’ve been back for others) was the content of this particular show. Little Women looks back on the life of the March family, Civil War-era New Englanders with four daughters, all coming of age while their father is off to war as an Army chaplain for the North. The lead character is Jo, a spunky, aspiring writer who loves her home almost as much as life itself but finds she can’t hold onto it. She wishes she could live and relive and relive her growing-up years with her three beloved sisters, making up plays in the attic and skating on the nearby pond. But she can’t. Just like I can’t hold onto the precious parts of my life that I’d like to.

I try, though, I try. I take photographs and go to great lengths to preserve them. I save tickets and theater programs and my children’s artwork, spelling tests and book reports. I save so much email that my network administrator issues frequent warnings: “Your inbox is almost full. Delete some of your old mail or you will no longer be able to send or receive messages.” I obligingly “trash” a few non-personal messages and carry on with my life-clutching habits until a similar warning appears two weeks later and I repeat the process.

In these days of digital media, with DVDs and TiVo and YouTube, we can replay many moments. But not really. Not the flesh-and-blood experiences of being there—feeling the warmth of the spotlight, squinting hard in its glare, and a few moments later, our eyes adjusted, seeing the stream of dust floating and sparkling serenely while we raised a ruckus in its wake… We can replay those moments on machines but not relive them from the same perspective—never again.

Watching Little Women, feeling like an invisible presence in the auditorium I once-upon-a-time commanded, I realized: You can’t hoard life. It marches on, and quickly. “Time, like an ever-rolling stream,” goes the old hymn, “bears all its sons away, they fly forgotten as a dream dies at the opening day” (or opening night of the next show). Yes, my ditzy, dazzling rendition of Ado Annie in Oklahoma! is long forgotten.

So here I am, a modern-day Jo March, writing like a maniac trying to make sense of it all, trying to live with passion and not give up, but being forced to surrender each moment as it comes and goes. Clutching, clinging, longingly looking back…

But the curtain has closed on that part of my life, and “the show must go on.” I am graciously granted another performance. May I gratefully embrace each new day, each new act, each new song, as authored and directed by God Himself, the greatest of all playwrights.

“Here dies another day
During which I have had eyes, ears, hands
And the great world round me;
And with tomorrow begins another.
Why am I allowed two?”

—G.K. Chesterton

Oops!

Here’s the link to the new site where I’ve been actively posting:
http://lifeina-town.blogspot.com/

Technical difficulties

Hello, A-Town subscribers!
I recently realized that I had erroneously posted the wrong e-mail subscription box on the Life in A-Town site. So that is why, although you have subscribed to receive new posts, you have not been receiving them. In order to read the adventures of the Water Fam in A-Town, please go to the “new” A-Town site and re-enter your e-mail address. That should do the trick. Thanks for your patience as I figure out these technological doohickeys.
“Grace”

Switching Horses

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Card Clutter

I grew up collecting boxes and boxes of baseball, football and basketball cards. Initially it was for fun, but later in my teen years I started to view them as “investments.” That’s about the time, in the early 1990s, when the card companies flooded the market and the card industry hit the crapper.

 

Many of the stars of that era—Dwight Gooden, Don Mattingly, Jose Canseco, Darryl Strawberry and Mark McGwire—also fizzled with injuries, drug problems and off-field troubles. Their card values plummeted like Kodak stock.

 

But it was a good era for football with guys like Dan Marino and John Elway. Basketball also was golden with Michael Jordan, Charles Barkley, Magic Johnson and Larry Bird.

 

As I moved around, venturing off to college and changing addresses several times with my mother, I kept the really good cards close by. I even sold a few in a pinch at college. When it was time for the winter formal dance my freshman year, and I was short on cash, I sold a couple Barry Sanders and Troy Aikman rookie cards. I think I got $100 for the lot. That paid for my tickets, a new tie and flowers for my date.

 

I was content to leave most of the cards in my old bedroom at my father’s house. Last year he began cleaning out the house preparing to move into a smaller one. Each trip home I returned with three or four boxes of cards. After a year, the cards started piling up and they’ve overtaken an entire bedroom in our house.

 

I’d sell some of these, but they’re not worth that much. They’re not worthless either, so I don’t want to give them away. I also don’t want to take the time to hunt down buyers. With online auctions, you should have these things professionally graded because the difference in value between “good” condition and “very good” is about double the price of the card. I don’t want to shell out money getting a card appraised and its condition graded when the sale price may not cover those costs.

 

So I’ve just let the cards sit on shelves, in the corner on the floor, on top of desks and tables. My wife says they should go. I agree. I don’t feel much emotional attachment to them. I keep hoping someone will show up, hand me two grand, and take the lot.

 

Anyone interested? lifeinatown@gmail.com

Exercises in Enthusiasm

Ben the body-building boy

This week, Ben decided he really wanted some homework. He expressed feelings of jealousy that his older sister Vi and many of his bus friends have homework. This is the sort of sweet enthusiasm exhibited by very young learners. If only we could keep this passion alive throughout grade school, junior high, and on and on, throughout our lives.

In my own experience, the fires burned brightly until about ninth grade, when my primary love interest turned from books to boys. My intellectual curiosity didn’t regain its full fervor until late in college, when I looked back with no small level of remorse about the brilliant scholar I might have been were it not for the allure of dancing eyes, witty one-liners, and Stetson cologne. But enough about me!

Ben wanted homework, so we took a look at Mrs. K’s Pre-K Newsletter and found the Home Corner Activity of the week: “Draw a picture of a place you can go or something you can do to get exercise.” Taking cues from his strong-man dad, Ben quickly sketched the attached picture. To add weight to the work, Ben asked me for the first letters of several of his friends’ names, which appear on the right side of the body-building boy. Beautiful.

In other Waters exercise news, Vi had her first P.E. swim session last Monday. This is an experience Vi had been fretfully fearing—even dreaming about—since the first day of fourth grade last September. We have taken her to the school pool to practice as frequently as our crazy-juggling schedules would allow (not nearly often enough to suit Vi). We have discussed the dreaded “Swim Test” many times over the last several months. The night before the Big Day, Vi received a pep-talk phone call from Auntie Jean who lives overseas and who promised to offer prayers for peace, strength and success at 2 o’clock Monday, our time. After school, big smiles: Vi was one of 6 kids in her class to qualify for the Deep End—in the non-nutty sense of the term. What a relief! “Who of you by worrying can add a [swim-stroke] to your life?”

Lastly, I can’t end an entry about this week’s exercises without sharing a bit about our Ballroom Dancing lessons, which we’re taking Tuesday nights in February. I gave Will a gift card for the class as a Christmas present. I thought it would be fun and funny, and I liked the notion of supporting our friend, the dance instructor. Will felt sheepish at first: When we arrived at the studio and the greeter/receptionist asked whether we were there for Ballroom lessons, Will asked her to keep her voice down. But when he saw several other respectable men enrolled in the class, he seemed to let down his guard. And, amazingly, we found out we can Fox-Trot! The part where the man is supposed to guide his partner into a spin was the most fun for me. The instructor tried telling the men how to apply pressure to the woman’s left shoulder to indicate the intended twirl, but Will gave away the move every time with a ridiculous brightening of his face, raising his eyebrows and dropping his jaw in a jaunty grin. It was fun and funny—and will be for the rest of this month. We hope to be able to show off our new moves at two weddings we’re to attend later this year. Breakdown!

Vi-va Nervosa

Vi landed a part in the local high school musical. She’s just a fourth-grader, but the show calls for two kids, and Vi was recommended as a ham-who-can-sing by some of her teachers at the elementary school. She can sing, too—while our precious Pearl (ahem) “sings” like her Papa, Vi stood in the theater director’s living room and performed “The Star Spangled Banner” with such confidence and precision that I practically burst with pride.

There were no formal auditions. The director sought suggestions, interviewed the children, and chose the ones he needed. So it all came about in private—until this week, when Vi had to attend her first full-cast sing-through of the show. I picked her up at the end of the school day, rather than having her ride the bus home. Then I walked her from the elementary school over to the Big-Bad-H.S., site of many happy memories as well as angst-filled moments in my own adolescence. It smells the same—the school. I’ve noticed that all three schools retain the same predominant aroma as when I hallowed their halls 17-30 years ago: elementary (Tempera paint), middle (chlorine from the pool), and high school (unidentified source—probably pheromones).

My pulse rose slightly as we checked in at the office and made our way to the music wing. We wove through a few small groups of teenagers. (Why did I feel intimidated? Am I not twice their age—or more? I wondered if my hair looked okay. I hoped my jeans were long enough. Had I remembered to tweeze my eyebrows that morning?) We arrived at the rehearsal room—chock full of musical teens, plus the director and choreographer. I felt daunted by the scene. I wondered how my 9-year-old daughter would manage the pressure awaiting her in the next two hours. But I didn’t hover. I handed her a brown paper bag with some snacks in it, and I left the room, the hall, the school—briskly.

At exactly six o’clock, I returned to collect my girl. She reported that when it came her turn to sing her solo, she “felt hot and wanted to puke.” Flashback! I remembered the feeling.

Precious Pearl-isms

Pearl is 3 years old and, in her parents’ completely biased opinion, exceptionally cute. Here are some representative Pearl-isms, for your enjoyment:

Instead saying “Sorry” (as Pearl must often be coaxed to say, especially to brother Ben), she says: “Farry.”

In like manner, “sweater” is pronounced “fwetter.”

To Pearl, the pronoun “I” is nonexistent – in its place, she substitutes “My”:

“My need a drink of water.”

“My love you.”

“My don’t want to wear a fwetter.”

Pearl’s all-purpose curse word / insult / expression of exasperation is “Shut up.” (OK, we know this is not really cute, but sometimes we find it hard not to smile at her usage.) Pearl seems to invent excuses for uttering this powerful phrase. For example, she might tell us: “Hannah told me to shut up, and that was not really nice.” (She might not have seen Hannah for well over a week, and it’s almost certainly a false accusation, but the ‘reporting’ premise allows her to say ‘shut up’ without actually saying it.)

Pearl, like her Papa, loves to sing, and she usually does so with tremendous enthusiasm and scant regard (or is it oblivion?) for accuracy of pitch. (Much like Will.)

Pearl is a chatterbox. Her enlightening explanations about the world and the way things work is peppered with the conjunction “be-tuz” (because).

One of Pearl’s most frequent, most adorable phrases is: “Pick it up me.” And we do.

Excusing the View

Thatched hut dressing rooms. That’s what I’m staring at for the entire 40 minutes of my workout. Directly behind me, the wall is covered with a beautiful tropical beach scene. In fact, the whole gym is tropical/nautical in décor – which, with as much winter as we endure in these parts, is a good idea. I like the place. It’s all women, and I like the friendly banter among the patrons. But the layout of the exercise equipment leaves this to be desired: A better view from the elliptical trainers than two simple curtained stalls with a faux straw roof. Positive spin: I am compelled to exercise my imagination, as well as my body.

Pee and Peppermint

This is a story about our downstairs bathroom. We have a 4-year-old son. Anyone who lives with a little boy can relate: They might be potty-trained, but their aim stinks. And I mean, literally, stinks.

 

First, there’s the wet seat problem – despite my repeated admonitions for Ben to please lift up both toilets lids, he frequently forgets. Then, I frequently forget that he forgets and – doh! – I sit on the peed-on potty. Hate that.

 

The second and more vexing problem is the smell the errant pee causes when some of it lands on the floor and dries there. And no matter how hard I try to clean the toilet bowl and the surrounding area on a regular, almost-daily basis, I can’t keep up! The bathroom always seems to smell like pee.

 

Another one of our potty problems is the traveling soap and towel set. I’ve tried bar soap, liquid soap, foaming soap, even dish soap, but I haven’t yet secured a soap that will last more than two days in our bathroom. The kids play with it, drain it, hide it, or drop it behind the bureau, only to be rediscovered clumped up with the dust bunnies six months later. As for hand-wiping implements, our youngsters seem to think a wet towel is a happy towel – they douse any and every piece of cloth (or paper) that I place within three feet of the sink.

 

My father works part time at a grocery store. About a month ago, he brought home a lovely, pearlescent, pear-shaped dispenser filled with special, holiday-scented soap: Peppermint Vanilla. I received it as one would a treasure. I protected it from the resident soap-snatchers by stealthily stashing it behind the bathroom curtain, on the upper level of the double-hung window sill – surely, I thought, this one will survive.

 

For the last month, the soaps have rotated as usual though the family wash basin, while I have carefully apportioned a half-pump’s-worth of Peppermint Vanilla lava-like surfactant onto my skin and enjoyed the luxury and success of my personal soap supply.

 

Two nights ago, however, our two potty predicaments converged: A friend of mine had come to see me. In preparing the house for her visit, I left the precious peppermint soap perched on the sink so that, should nature call, she could enjoy the extravagance of washing her hands with something other than grease-fighting dish detergent. I think she did, in fact, use the restroom while she was here. So I should have felt proud of making provision for my guest. However, I forgot to return the soap to its hiding place.

 

Two hours later, I was sorting books in an upstairs bedroom when I heard my husband Will exclaim: “Oh, man! This is dangerous, you guys.” I dashed down, only to discover my fears confirmed: My lovely peppermint gift-soap, thickly lathered all over the downstairs bathroom floor. My heart sank (unreasonably, I realize – this was soap, Grace – keep your eternal perspective!) but 10 minutes later I laughed out loud when I realized: No more pee smell! The peppermint wiped up the pee. At least for the next 24 hours.