When You Were My Age

It was 1987.  Where were you then?  In a beautiful home in Florida.  Not too big, yet certainly not small.  Very comfortable in it's period details which you were careful to preserve.

You were happy, mostly.  Yes, you were discovering that Florida was not where you wanted to be, but that didn't matter so much.  You had a husband willing to sacrifice for you.  To try to make you happy.  You missed Rockport?  No problem, you got to spend summers there.  He drove you back and forth each year.  Yes, he too was happy.

You were retired.  From what?  No career.  You had worked a retail job while your husband was still in college, another for 'fun money' later.  After I left home for college, yet another job for extra spending money.  Never was it necessary that you work.  He provided as you both expected that he would.  When he retired, so did you.  You were 49 when that happened as you were ten years younger than him!

When you were my age you had a 5 year old grand-daughter.  Not the girl-y girl that you had dreamed of, but at least you could buy her dresses!  No dolls, though...a stuffed animal loving child.  Your only child, your daughter, had a home of her own.  Husband and child.  You were free to enjoy her companionship as a friend.

And your friends.  Yes, they were retired, too.  You living in Florida attracted them to visit and they did quite often so that you never felt abandoned or alone.  You enjoyed their company so much.  Just as you enjoyed your family from 'up north' coming to visit you.

Life was pretty good for you...when you were my age.

My life is so different at the age you were when you were my age.

Me, Myself, and I

So here I sit...alone...trying to complete a list of seven things that I truly prefer to do alone. Beyond the obvious. Being an only child complicates this. Most of my life I have desired and sought out companionship. On the other hand after so much time alone, I feel quite comfortable with it. Prefer it? No. Apathetically accepting? Probably. I'm pretty much tired of trying or hoping for anything different. So, I could write a gigantic list of things that I would love to share with someone else, things that I now do alone, but that isn't the task, is it?

Here goes.

1. Painting (as in art). My little studio is set up in my dad's side of the workshop, far from the stairs. I desire only music while painting.
2. Playing the piano. I can't play with an audience - usually. And don't try to sing along, it'll screw me up. When I lived in FL, I would practice sometimes a couple hours each day. If I caught a glimpse of the mailman heading up our walk I'd make a mistake - just because I knew he could hear me playing. Once, though, I did manage to sit and play ragtime on a piano that was being auctioned at a local church as potential bidders filed in and out of the building for over an hour.
3. Shopping (as in clothes). 'A' will barely spare me the time amid shopping for herself. Mom is always commenting when she shouldn't. My first husband used to follow a couple steps behind all the time - extremely annoying. Although I rarely have opportunity, let me shop by myself.
4. Reading. Sharing newspaper stories with another is pleasant, but don't interrupt a good book. I can sit and read while watching the TV. Actually, that's sort of my norm. Not much of interest on the tube anyway. Even when there is a good show, I'll read during the ads. Having another person around while reading a good book is, well, irrelevant to me.
5. Writing. I can collaborate and have. When it's me and the words, I need peace and quiet. You can hang out and comment and offer constructive criticism when asked - later. I appreciate the comments. I also like a proofreader.
6. Floating. Yep, you read it correctly. I don't get to float anymore, but I can easily recall the sensation. During summers in Florida, I would force myself to take 1 hour lunch breaks. I would drive to the pool at the park where my parents wintered. Not a soul around, the pool to myself, I'd take 45 minutes and just float on a inflatable raft. Lovely.
7. Crying. I'm a private crier. Yeah, there have been times in my life when I've shed tears more publicly. I'm not comfortable with that. I cry alone.
   

There you have it.

Sometimes They Just Won't Stay Away

Many years ago, when we lived in Groveland, my parents built our own inground swimming pool. It was the big project before the boat! Anyway, the pool was a great summer gathering spot for friends. Come autumn, my dad would cover it all so that the leaves would not accumulate and make a huge mess to clean up in the Spring.

One Spring, when I was about 10 years old, I watched as my dad uncovered the pool to clean it, 'shock' it with a heavy duty chlorine treatment, and otherwise get it ready for summer fun. That's when we discovered the turtle that had wintered under the cover! He was happily swimming about and it became a challenge to net him and remove him from the water before adding all that chlorine. My dad finally captured him, put him in a cardboard carton, and traipsed out back through the woods to a little stream to let him go. Then Dad finished his work on the pool cleaning.

Three days later my mom called out from her spot at the kitchen window. "Come see who's back!" We ran to the window to watch as our turtle dragged himself across the cement-work surrounding the pool, teetered on the edge, and then plopped himself head first back in the pool.
We knew that the chlorinated water was not good for him and too much would probably kill him, so out came the net and another rescue! This time, just to be sure, we took him far in to the woods to a clearing with a swampy area. Upon release, he swam happily away.

Until...a few days later...we watched as he plopped in to our pool!

This silliness just had to end. My dad netted him for the third time and we boxed him up and put him in our car. This time we drove to the other side of town and released him at a very large pond. That was the last we saw of him!

A couple of days ago I was struck be the similarity of the turtle tale to some news I received. Seems my former husband/cyberstalker/harasser has moved to New Zealand (with some family help). Hmmmmm, first from the UK to the States and he returned home. Now halfway around the world! Sometimes you've just got to take them further and further away or they keep coming back.

Barefoot

Gee, two posts today!

As I dragged myself out of bed this morning to yet another cold and blustery day, I couldn't help but think how much I miss going barefoot - every day. Which brought to mind a little poem that my dad used to say. And while now it seemed at arbitrary moments, I'm sure at those times it was appropriate.

So as I stood in front of my dresser this morning, I looked down at my soon to be socked feet and thought, "Barefoot girl with shoes on..." But what was the rest? I don't think he ever recited the rest. Well, the wonders of the Internet and Google later, I bring you...

The Dying Fisherman's Song

'Twas midnight on the ocean,
Not a streetcar was in sight,
The sun was shining brightly
For it had rained all that night.

'Twas a summer's day in winter
The rain was snowing fast,
As a barefoot girl with shoes on,
Stood sitting on the grass.

'Twas evening and the rising sun
Was setting in the west;
And all the fishes in the trees
Were cuddled in their nests.

The rain was pouring down,
The sun was shining bright,
And everything that you could see
Was hidden out of sight.

The organ peeled potatoes,
Lard was rendered by the choir;
When the sexton rang the dishrag
Someone set the church on fire.

"Holy smokes!" the teacher shouted,
As he madly tore his hair.
Now his head resembles heaven,
For there is no parting there.
-- Author Unknown

I Am So Out of Touch

old train ironwork

I've been feeling that way for some time now. The more I hear and see the more convinced I am that I somehow don't quite fit with things anymore. A new online acquaintance and I touched on this subject just about a week ago. In our brief discussion I mentioned how much I enjoy owning, and using, a hand-crank radio. I absolutely love pumping a player piano. I gain pleasure in waving to folks I know. I try my best to be considerate of other drivers on the road, folks in line, other pedestrians on the sidewalk. I don't understand being tied to a cell phone or text messaging while hanging out with my friends. I have one credit card and it does everything I need it to do, and that's not often. I've never owned a house with more than 2,000 sq. ft. nor a luxury car. My living quarters have always been comfortable and filled with carefully chosen pieces and family items. No Rooms to Go for me. My vehicles have been dependable for getting me from one place to another (most of the time). I find more enjoyment in discovering unique and creative things than in elegant functions. Hidden treasures. I'd rather own things that I take care of and, if they break, I can fix them rather than throw away and buy new. I just watched a TV show where a couple was looking for a vacation home. They paid 1.5 million for a 5,000 sq. ft. VACATION home for TWO PEOPLE! Heck, I wouldn't want to have to take care of it! And what ever happened to young couple buying 'starter homes'? Now they want at least three bedrooms, three baths, an office, a 'guys' room, and more. Speaking of TV. I'm perfectly happy with my 19" color set and basic cable. I agree that flat screens are cool, but only because they are less aesthetically intrusive. If and when my 19" plain old set gives up, I guess I'll buy a flat screen, but no bigger please. Surround sound? Really, why? iPod? mp3? not me. I did give in a buy an inexpensive digital camera.

In business, I want to do what is best for my customer, not my pocketbook. Don't ever ask me to sell something I don't believe in or to convince a customer that they need what I know they don't. I'm on time to my appointments and when I enter a customer's house, I remove my shoes. Especially with rain and snow!

I give when I can and try to take very little.

I try to be a good neighbor. Helpful, quiet, sociable.

I am so out of touch.

My Horrorscope

Wow. I don't really believe in these things but, wow.

(Oh yeah, the title word play is intentional)

So, back to wow.

Gemini (May 21 - June 20)
Your talents and abilities should be used to the fullest on things that could have a good effect upon your material circumstances. You have what it takes to derive returns from more than one source.

Certainly the stars don't expect me to take on yet another 'job'! Number four? I think not.

******************************

I've added another painting to the Cellar Studio. It's an 8 X 10 oils of the Bluenose II, an adaptation from a newspaper photo. It won't be making the craft fair rounds. Don't know what will happen with it. Just felt like painting.

Being Different

Just like this Hydrangea I am usually juggling multiples. I have to have many different types of things going on at once. And frankly, I enjoy being a bit different and having a variety of interests. As a point of fact, this plant is supposed to have deep, rusty rose blooms. Until this year, it did. Now it's pink, purple, blue, and a very pale rose.

Anyway, my point...Dickiebo did a 'what your taste in music says about you' questionaire and posted his results. Annette then did the same and got the same results as Dickiebo. So....I gave it a go.

And of course, came up with a different result:

Your musical tastes are reflective and complex. You are intellectual to the point of being cerebral. You are very open to new experiences, and even more open to new ideas and theories. Wisdom and personal accomplishment are important to you. You are naturally sophisticated. You are drawn to art, especially art by independent artists. You are likely to be financially well off... and not because you were born that way.

It was doing okay until the finances comment. Oh well maybe there's hope!

No Doubt About It

The post below was written to the Pianotech List by a piano technician that I admire. It was written in response to a question from another tech about how to respond to his ability being questioned by a customer ( a call-back complaint after over 6 months time). The very first time I met David Andersen, I was impressed with his spirit, honesty, and desire to embrace the world whole-heartedly. And although David may disagree with this, I find him to be a very humble man. With his permission I have reprinted his post here.

"I'll tell ya what's up: doubt kills strength, confidence, power, and pleasure; habitual doubt is a toxic, dangerous mental program or habit. When you are insecure
---people can feel it
---it dulls your ability to be clear and focused
---it kills the pleasure of the task in the moment
---it focuses your attention on the self-generated internal dialogue rather than the interesting and challenging task at hand
---it allows you to make stupid decisions, like giving away time and effort for free when you need to be supporting yourself and your family, and consistently undervaluing your worth, the value you bring in people's lives.
Doubt kills the warrior spirit inside of you. It infects everything in your life.
1. Do you see yourself as an artisan, a professional, a craftsperson?
2. Do you generally do the best job you can do?
If yes, then STOP with the doubt and insecurity. You're doing a better job on this planet than a vast majority of humans that live here or have lived here. If your clients don't respect you, fire them. Or suffer. Your choice.
It's that clear and stark. It really is."
David Andersen

Diamonds in the Rough

Even the booking of today's tuning was a little different. The phone call came a couple weeks ago from a pleasant sounding woman who said she was making the call for her backdoor neighbor. Mr. J needed his piano tuned. She was calling to check on the price and to schedule a convenient date. I asked her how long it had been since Mr. J's piano had been serviced. She paused and then said she would put him on the phone. Odd, I thought she was making the call because he was at work or something and unable to personally speak with me. Mr. J gave me the information needed. He owns a Steinway grand. It had been tuned about a year ago, but since then one bass string had broken. I told him my tuning fee and he scheduled the tuning for today.

This morning I slept in a bit and once I did get going with breakfast and shower was dreading the tuning job. Having a string break on it's own is not a good sign, nor was I relishing dealing with ordering a replacement and the subsequent repeat visits to install and tune it. I'm in a 'give me simple' mood. Nevertheless, with tuning gear in hand, I headed out for the 10:30 appointment.

Mr. J's place was about a fifteen minute drive and easy to find. But what a place. As I approached and parked in the gravel drive, it was difficult to convince myself to stay. His house looked like a small, old barn. Added on and patched however the mood swayed carpentry. It was two stories tall. With a deep breath I gathered my tool kit and headed for the aged front door. Rough sawn and slightly beaten, it did boast one small window, a kitty door, and an enormous door knocker. As I rapped with the knocker, I stole a cautious glance through the window. It didn't look good. My quick view didn't show ordinary living quarters. To the right, and in a little, was a large utilitarian sink. To the left, haphazard storage. I stepped back from the pane as I heard footsteps approaching from inside.

Mr. J seemed to be in his late sixties or early seventies. I found it very hard to tell exactly. He was disheveled but clean and somewhat reserved. I extended my hand as I introduced myself and my purpose for being there. He commented that he had forgotten my name but did remember our appointment. Since all I could see was the old sink and lots of piles of 'barn-ish' storage, I asked where he was hiding the piano. Mr. J said it was upstairs. At that point I noticed the worn staircase to my right that had been hidden from outside view and hauled myself and tools upward. Mr. J followed. Halfway up I saw a kitty bowl filled with water on a small landing.

Upon arriving on the second floor I was greeted by an expansive view of Ipswich Bay hampered only by the white streaks of thermal glass panes gone bad. I made a quick assessment of my surroundings. The second floor was one large room. I was standing in the 'living room' section. I looked further and saw the old Steinway at the far end. As I approached the piano, still looking around, I spotted Mr. J's bed on the left. A double sized mattress on the floor. Mr. J's house seemed as disheveled as Mr. J.! The lid to the piano was open so I set my tool case down by the bench and had a look inside the Steinway. It wasn't a pretty view. What should have been bright and shiny was layered in gobs of rust. Everything steel was host to the orange-y brown parasite, including moderately sized patches of the cast iron plate.

I was thrilled with this discovery. Nothing better than piles of rust to justify my exit. I pointed out the problems inherent with trying to tune a piano with such decay to Mr. J. He was unfazed. I told him that ethically and professionally, I felt it best that a tuning not be attempted. I told him that there would be no service charge. Still he wanted me to try. I knew I had dreaded this appointment for some reason! Not many sounds worse to a piano tuner than strings breaking or the plate cracking. I got everything ready to start and then closed the lid. Better for breaking tensioned steel to hit the interior of the piano than me. Luckily, things weren't too far off, tuning-wise, and I gingerly began making some fine adjustments where needed. And only where needed.

About fifteen nerve-racking minutes into the tuning, I heard Mr. J holler, "MoMo get over here!" I turned to see Mr. J grabbing on to a cat's tail trying to 'haul'er in'. A split second later there was even more commotion. MoMo let go of a field mouse and it scurried across the floor and under a couch. Then the fun began! MoMo was frantic. She couldn't find her new playmate. Mr. J was frantic because he couldn't either! They both searched and searched and scolded each other. Finally MoMo headed out to find another friend while Mr. J continued his search. After ten minutes, or so, even he gave up. I told him that between a rusty piano and a loose mouse in the house, he was fortunate that I was still there! He said he usually just catches the mice in his hand and carries them outside to free them.

Wonderful. But where was that mouse?

Remarkably, after temporarily forgetting about the newest, tiniest house guest, and after an hour of tentative tuning waiting for the snap. The snap never happened. The piano was tuned with not one string breaking. I advised Mr. J that paying to replace the one broken string was probably not an economically sound choice. It's absence was not perceptible being one of a pair. It's partner was still there for that note. I sat down at the key board and played a short passage of ragtime. Afterwards, Mr. J sat down and performed a stunning piece of 30's jazz. He was totally amazing.

I wonder what was.

The Image

In the photograph he is smiling. His wife stands next to him. She's an average woman. The type that makes you feel as if you have seen her before or conversed with her at some unspectacular event. Somewhere. Hard to believe that they have been married for over six years. She is his fourth wife. Where do you know her from? Well, it really doesn't matter, does it? She has no part in your life. But the man. Another photograph captures him laughing, obviously sharing a light-hearted moment at a social function. Strange to see him laughing. Is he truly that happy deep down inside? How could he be? It wasn't so long ago. Maybe he had shared his unhappiness with his third wife. Strange that she owned the house he and his second wife had wanted to buy so many years ago. Odd coincidence. Does he even think of those days any more? You know, the ones spent with his family. Seeing the photographs makes you wonder.

His second marriage wasn't perfect, but it was his longest at fifteen years. His first had ended in four years, mimicked it seems by his third. Number two had appeared destined to last. He had a close family. They seemed to share the same goals, aspirations. They worked hard together. They laughed together. Then after more than a decade, they started to grow apart. But they didn't quit. They still enjoyed each other and the family that they had created. Things would get better, they thought, and when he earnestly began new hobbies, his wife encouraged him. He felt good that there were new goals, new opportunities to be happy together. She, too, felt optimistic once again. It had been a tough battle but they had stayed together and worked through it. There was so much to look forward to together.

Until one evening when he told her he had filed for divorce. He gave her nothing to grasp for a reason. He said, simply, that he wasn't happy. He had never been. Not once, he said. She later heard rumors that he had met another woman, but by the time she'd heard that, she had no longer cared. He would be moving out in two weeks. They should tell their daughter. And they did, but he didn't leave, and they played a charade of acceptance of the inevitable divorce until ten months later he was gone. His ex-wife had primary custody of their daughter. He had liberal visitation and he picked his daughter up every other weekend. Then, after a few months, she didn't want to go with him one Saturday and he walked away. He never tried again. He sent gifts at Christmas and on her birthday. He paid the required child support until she graduated high school. Then it was over. He didn't see her. He didn't write. There were no cards, no gifts. A month after his mother died, he sent his daughter a letter and the obituary.

Could a man discard his own child so easily? Surely he must have regretted his decisions.
How does he laugh so readily? If the camera could look inside this man how different the pictures might be.