A Valentine for My Teacher

We have all had teachers in our lives who profoundly changed who we are or what we become.  I will never stop seeking out people who can teach me something; the  love of ongoing learning is what keeps us fully alive.

One of my most remarkable  teachers was my high school music teacher.  I was always a back-row soprano, much too tall for anything but the last row of the risers.   I was content with that since I  never had the desire to do anything but sing for the pure love of singing.  That changed in my junior year of high school.

I missed the first three weeks of school hospitalized for a spinal fusion (scoliosis) and being plastered in to a walking body cast that I would have to wear for the next year.  I remember walking into the chorus room and taking a seat in the back, hoping like ANYTHING that no one would notice me, point or gasp at the incredible bulk of plaster that encased my entire  upper body.  Enter the new music teacher - (then) Miss Blecha.  She was a ball of fire with a take-no-prisoners attitude about everyone giving their best and enjoying the music as much as she did.  Then it happened.   She had me stand up, come down and SIT IN THE FRONT ROW.   She  told the entire class that in order to sing properly  they were all to sit up as nice and straight as I did.

Better  a hole in the earth open up and suck me in to the abyss.

No such luck.  As it turned out it was one of the greatest things that ever happened to me in my life.  Being a front-row soprano was a much different deal.  I paid attention for the entire class (imagine that), stayed on task, learned how to breathe and sing properly, and found out I loved singing even more than I thought I did.  I went on to sing in small groups, musicals - you get the idea.  After high school I paid for my college books by singing at weddings and  funerals. I sang at the weddings and ordinations of my dearest friends.  The first time I sang Messiah with my college chorus and a live orchestra the experience so overwhelmed me   I went back to my dorm room, sat on my bed and cried my eyes out.  With joy.

I am fortunate enough to still have her in my life.  When my parents celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary in 2000, I flew home for the festivities.  I  called Jean (now Mrs. McGee) and sent her the music for the mass - all of the same songs my parents had at their wedding.  Jean was at the church for rehearsal and we got right down to business, tackling Shubert's Ave Maria first.  It's a tough, tough piece to sing.  When I finished,  I turned around to look at her and there was this long pause...... and she said, "Well, are you going to sing it that slow?"   WHOMP.   I was sixteen again, nervous in front of my teacher.  She rocked me through the rest of the music and by the time she was finished with me I was ready for the big day.  My parents renewed their wedding vows with their son, my brother Steve, as the presiding priest.  My brother Gary did the scripture readings.   I sang, as did 3 of their granddaughters.  My mother later told me it was the happiest week of her life.  She was gone from us one year later.

Jean and Dennis came to Gloucester to visit us on their 25th anniversary and she sat in my living room and played on our rickety piano and made all of us (and our guests).....sing properly.  We had a BALL.  It was a howl to watch her teach my husband how to sing in his  "head voice."  Years later,  he still talks about "head voice" singing like he has a clue.  (He was the darling in a boys choir until he hit puberty and so misses having that singing voice.)  Pretty cute. Her gifts keep on giving.

So why the Valentine for Teacher?  I mentioned in my Christmas letter that I had started writing a blog.  Jean wrote back and asked me for the web address so they could read up.  I  immediately reverted back to that nervous, sixteen year old student.  Oh mercy, what would she think of a written "performance"?   So,  I'll send her the link to this blog, but the first entry I want her to read is this one. We both have had a lot of love - and loss - in our lives lately.  I want to very publicly thank her, and to let her  know the gift of what she has taught me continues to feed and sustain me.  When I am stressed out on my long commute,  I sing in the car - it relaxes me.  When I am at dinner with friends, we sing around the table.  When I am too angry or grief-stricken to find words to pray, I sing hymns instead.  (St. Augustine said, "Those who sing pray twice.")  She has taught me much more, but that is for another time.

So a very Happy Valentines Day to Jean,  and to all the great teachers we have had  in our lives. May we all realize the obligation of passing that knowledge on, and teach others what we have been blessed with.  (And may we also remember to tell them to never rest one hand on the piano when we stand properly and sing. )

Even Steven

"Even Steven" was something my mom used to say  a lot  - probably because with 6 kids there was a lot of dividing up to do and there was much less chaos if things were evenly distributed.

This weekend I officially become "even Steven." Twenty six years ago on Labor Day Weekend I left Nebraska and flew out to Boston to start the next chapter of my life. Twenty six years later, here I am.  I have had one foot in two very different lives for 26 years  each.  Even.  Balanced.  Or not.

First of all, I can't believe I am 52.  (I expected to be MUCH older when I turned 52, probably close to being dead because back then it sounded so ancient.)  I know like my brain is more fully formed than it ever was at 26  and I do like myself a lot more.  While I am happily  free from so many of the concerns that overwhelm the 26-year-old mind, I look back and am a little in awe of myself -  I uprooted my life, my culture,  everything I had and knew to move halfway across the country. Yikes.  I was motivated by a broken heart, a fatigue of singing at all my friend's weddings (and then  babysitting their children) but mostly  because I had to feed the wanderlust that  took root when I began reading books. Those days of lying in the grass and watching the contrails from jets stream across the sky  - oh how I wanted to be one of those people ON the jet,  going somewhere,  anywhere - just going.   I wanted to  see,  do, and experience the big, wide world.

Would I do it over?  In a New York minute.  There are parts of both lives I would never want to repeat, which is moot anyway since we don't get a do-over in life.  I can't choose which life has been richer or more satisfying because each has had tremendous joys and gifts.

It will be interesting to see which way the scales tip in the next 26 years.  I have a lot of places to see (when am I EVER going to get to Paris????) and a lot of things to do out here.  I do know that when it is all over I want my body to be burned and my ashes to be scattered along the Platte River in Nebraska.  That saying about "you can take the girl out of the country but you can't take the country out of the girl" is true.  Life is where you live it, but home......is home.

4th of July Fireworks

Happy 4th of July !  This is a picture of our gift shop window all ready for tourist season.  The little patriotic wall quilt that is  hanging from the weathervane was made by my mom.  She was a quilter who took her odds and ends and leftovers and made them in to little wall hangings, table runners, etc. and sold them in our store under the label Major Stuff Quilts. She did pretty well with them, too!  It was always nice to make a note beside whatever sold and catalog where it was going to find a new home. We had people from Ireland, England, Australia - all over the world purchase those little quilts and take them to their far-off homes.  Mom really got a kick of seeing her handiwork travel all over the planet. Bonus - she used the  money to buy more fabric.  Talk about a win-win.

The 4th of July is also special because it is the day I met my husband.  The couple trying to get us together tried (and failed) about three times until we both managed to get to the same party at the same time.  People find out we met on the 4th of July and ask, "So, was it fireworks between the two of you?"  It's a tough question to answer. Basically, my reaction was, "Meh, he's ok."  Joe's reaction was to purchase my engagement ring two months later and wait another 4 months to propose.  This is one of those rare situations where I was wrong and he was right.  This 4th marks the 23rd anniversary of our first meeting.  Thankfully, 23 years later, there are still fireworks!