Seasonal Memories

I just got the sweetest email from a man I went to college with. His sister passed away, and learning of it, I sent him a note of condolence and to let him know I was thinking of him. I have not been in contact with him since college, so it took a bit of internet searching to find him. But I was successful and he responded.

The sweet part was both that he was appreciative of my comments and that he remembered me. I wasn't sure he would. It's been decades. It makes me smile to know that someone I thought of so fondly has returned the sentiment.

For my first two years in college I hung out in the theatre department. It was a magical place. The women were beautiful, the men were beautiful (it was the late 60's after all) and everyone was enormously talented. I loved it but I couldn't see myself making a career of it, so I hightailed it over to the anthropology department and happily studied culture and primates and early man. I have never regretted returning to an academic field. But thinking about my old friend brought back all sorts of memories. I was delighted to remember the names of the productions I worked on (I did Tech -- set painting, stage crew, costumes), the parties I attended, the romantic intrigues of my fellow students, and now that I think of it, the faculty as well.

Freshman year, around this time -- October/November -- it seemed I and everyone around me was feeling out of sorts, itchy, like something was off, but we couldn't put a finger on it. I was sitting on the stairs in the theatre building, probably looking out of sorts, when the beautiful woman who loved & was loved by the subject of this post wandered by. She took one look at me, sat down, and declared it was "the season of the witch." Brilliant! I knew exactly what she meant. It was that time of the year when things are just weird.

All day I have been listening to 60's music, dancing to Laura Nyro & Van Morrison, and thinking how it's kind of that time of year. As I was writing this post I found Donovan's Season of the Witch and listened. The lyrics don't really say anything but the music reminds me of old friends never forgotten. It's ok if things get weird. I'm still smiling!

Rock & Roll Dreams

When I got married, I thought I was gonna be a rock & roll wife!

My guy was an electric bass player and keyboard player and he was really good. As a sideman, he had already recorded a couple albums with a singer-songwriter buddy from college. One single went to #9 on the Billboard charts. They went to the Grammy's, they toured, some of the tours were hilarious, not at all glamorous and a lot of fun. I didn't have a career or children, so I could go with him sometimes. I liked it a lot.

While I was finishing up a BA in anthropology, he was off at music school studying bass and music education (his parents were paying after all). The powers that be discovered he owned and played baritone sax and suggested he'd get lots more playing experience if he changed to a woodwind performance major. At the time I didn't realize this meant me giving up that dream of being a rock & roll wife. He became a jazz educator/musician and while people think it's way cool, I still sometimes miss the possibility I could someday dress up for the red carpet at the Grammy's.

I must be incredibly clear. It was never his dream. All he has ever wanted to be was a working musician. He would be happy working at a music store if he could talk music and noodle on the shop instruments. I don't know when I realized he didn't care a bit for the fame and fortune of rock & roll or even jazz greatness. Sometime after that realization I went back to grad school, established a career, had kids and didn't think too much or too often about reflected rock & roll glory.

A couple years ago a female student of his wanted to be a jazz wife. His jazz wife. (What ever happened to feminist principles where you never went after another woman's man? I guess I'll save that rant for another time). She tried to convince him it was all my fault he wasn't a famous musician. She couldn't understand how someone so talented could be so unknown. And since she was in love with him, it couldn't be him, so it had to be my fault! I'm glad he's always known that fame doesn't matter to him and could ignore her subtle and not so subtle attempts to . . . do what? what the hell was she trying to do? Actually I saw her emails, I got a pretty good idea of what she wanted! She moved away, we moved away, he's not her teacher anymore, he and I are still together.

But something rather interesting has been happening this coming-up-to summer season. A musician we have both loved for years, who isn't exactly famous, but could be, who doesn't exactly play rock & roll, but it's close, has asked him to join his band on a little more permanent basis. My guy is thrilled! He still doesn't care about the fame. He still is just delighted to be playing really good music and to be appreciated for his talent.

This band, where all the players are amazing, is downstairs right now practicing. Before they arrived, my guy set up the keyboard and started playing some of the stuff he used to play for me. It reminded me of my dreams of standing in the wings of The Fillmore in some fabulous costume, basking in the reflected glory. Our youngest daughter graduates from college on Monday, our son has finished school and is making his own way. It's a little later than I thought and I'd have to get a facelift to look like I did when I had these rock & roll wife dreams. I'm way more realistic about fame and what makes a person really happy. But ya never know! I may get a shot at those dreams after all!

Talking to Mombai

Our wireless router died on Saturday. It didn't even have the courtesy to make that s-s-spitz-z-z sound like when a lightbulb fizzes out!

We got a new router.

Then we needed to get it to work with our modem and computers.

So today I spent the day speaking with tech support people in India. If I can understand them, I love speaking to tech folks in India. It kind of reminds me of connections I feel with India. My daughter spent time in Dharmsala, in the foothills of the Himalayas, where the Dalai Lama lives. My college advisor spent her undergrad college year abroad in India. I rather like Bollywood films. I could probably go on listing things I like about India, but I'll just get on with the story.

The first young man was charming and unflappable. A good thing, as half the questions he asked triggered tears. When mechanical things or electronic things don't work I go a bit crazy. This young man laughed a lot, was patient. We were stopped when he asked me my Verizon login and password. I hadn't a clue. He was actually apologetic that he couldn't get the set up complete. He was a lot of fun! Point A.

Next I called Verizon hoping they could tell me my login and password. That young woman was less patient of me, but I sounded less teary, so it probably all evened itself out. And she could give me my login and help me establish a new password. Point B.

Then back to Linksys to finish setting up the new wireless router. It was done quickly, easily and without a single tear or panic attack. This young man invited me to come to India. I was welcome anytime, but Dec has better weather.

Viola! I am on the internet, it is working wirelessly. I'm wrung out. I'm hoping tomorrow is a less fraught day!

Telling Stories

Time has just gotten away from me. I think that's what happens when you go from no structured job to one with specific days and hours. I'm getting to like the new employment venture. Yesterday I made money. Today I got a lot done.

But tonight when I went to visit my favorite blogs, I realized I had missed a whole week of "As the Trout Turns." It shocked me. Where had my time gone? What did I have to show for my time?

I like to write, but I'm not a writer. Writing this blog is great, but I don't have to. What I know about writers is - they write. No matter what. My friends Susan and Madora are writers. They write essays. Susan keeps me in stitches with her commentary on life, children and chickens. Madora catches the truth about everyday life. Many of her essays have been published and she collected the ones on family life into a book. She once wrote an essay about me. It was a real thrill.

And while I don't think of myself as a writer, I am a storyteller. Mostly when I write it ends up a story. I actually get that from my mom. I know I kind of bashed her in my last post. And yes, there are good things I got from her (thanks for the reminders), and one is the storytelling. She told us great stories as kids. They were mostly about her and her best friend Marillyn and their adventures in Depression-era Los Angeles. Some of the highlights included a high power water pistol at a movie theatre; Sneaking into the glamourous hotel The Garden of Allah; and a day spent watching Sonia Henie movies over and over.

I hope my kids learn the joys of storytelling. My daughter doesn't like my stories the way I liked my mom's. My daughter is a poet. Not matter what, she writes poetry. And not the long wordy ones, but clean, sparse poetry that says in 10 words what I as a storyteller would say in 100. I wonder if her moment of "dear lord, I've turned into my mother" will come when she tells a long, rambling tale, a story, worthy of me or her grammy!?