Mother's Visit

In August my mother came to visit for two weeks, the first time in ten years that she’s been able to come to Maine.  For a number of summers she, my dad and aunt came to see us, but as my dad’s health deteriorated they had to stop.  Coming this year alone was no easy thing, starting with the long flight from Dallas which included a frantic change of plane in DC.

My mom is allergic to cats, VERY allergic.  She came to help when Emily was born and ended up in the ER because of a reaction to our cats.  We currently have two beloved cats that spend a lot of time in the house.  Can you imagine the cleaning we had to do?  The rugs and furniture were professionally done, but the rest was grunt work for Bill and me-every surface downstairs-windows, curtains, walls, doors, you name it. Also, our guest room is on the second floor and that was a no go. So we moved furniture, trudging up and down the stairs time and again, and I’m very proud to show you the sunroom transformed for mother.

Our life in Maine is quite different from the life mom lives in Texas.  We did our best to show her the beauties of coastal Maine, introduce her to our friends, and gently expose her to our rather liberal and progressive views.  She had lunch with one of our male friends and his male spouse and I know that was a stretch (handled well).

I saw that she was overwhelmed by the beauty and sense of the spiritual upon entering  St. Saviour’s, much like I was the first time I walked thru the doors.  Of course she went to church services with us as well as to two organ concerts.  People loved her charm and southern accent.

The two weeks that mother was here were exhausting and frustrating and often sobering as I witnessed first-hand her 83 years.  But most of all I felt so very lucky, lucky to have my mom and have her in Maine with me.

Summer Vacation

Late June, the eastern shore of Lake Michigan near Traverse City.  This was my morning walking route.

Jolli Lodge in Leland.  We stayed in a separate cabin on the hill.

Our good friends Mary and Jeff, from Urbana, IL.  They were our neighbors in Dallas over 20 years ago.  Our children went to nursery school together, then we all moved away.

Sleeping Bear Dunes

Bill and Jeff and the giant northern white cedar

Sunset from our cottage

I was captivated by the studio of artist and naturalist Gwen Frostic.

Delicious home-cooked meals with good local wine

Me, relaxed and happy

A New World

In the summers of 1979 and 1981, more years ago than I can wrap my mind around, I worked as Staff Accompanist at the prestigious National Music Camp in Interlochen, Michigan.  Affectionately known simply as Interlochen, it changed my life.

Twenty-fours years old and reeling from a divorce, I needed a fresh start.  I was a sheltered Southern Baptist girl with a long list of do’s and don’ts who had rarely left her home state of Texas, all of which made me question who I was and what I was doing.

Well, everyone was not Baptist at Interlochen; in fact many were not even Christian.  And yes, that was a shock.  I quickly made friends with other staff and faculty members and we set about solving the world’s problems in addition to going out for beer and polka-dancing. I heard the f-word from one of these friends…and it was ok.  Only a week or two into the summer session I realized with a start that non-Christians can be good people, too…does my naiveté shock you?

This was the time I first talked to a gay man about life in a heterosexual world, what it’s like to tell your parents, how one has to hide it…remember, this is 1979, decades from where we are now.  I ate my first-ever bagel at the canteen, a Lender’s frozen one, no less, and I loved it.

More than this eye-opening, though, Interlochen was about discovering myself as an artist and committing to making music as my life’s work and passion.  I played the piano all day and every evening there, just about working my fingers to the bone.  Sometimes boring, sometimes incredibly challenging.  But I found I could do it, and do it well.  And it was the life I wanted.

I am writing about this now because last week I was there, visiting for the first time in thirty-two years.  It is hard to describe the feeling that came over me when I stepped onto the campus.  The ladies at the information booth were so excited at this alumni’s visit and peppered me with questions…but I only wanted to be quiet, and to hear the sounds around me.  One hears music everywhere: fingers flying in the Schumann piano concerto coming from a stone practice hut, kids practicing their ‘cellos outdoors, a junior choir doing vocal warm-ups with the doors of the studio thrown wide-open.  As we approached the impressive open air auditorium, Kresge, I fought back tears upon hearing the orchestra rehearsing…all of a sudden I was 24 again.

So many memories, so much time passed…

Thank you, Interlochen, for showing me a new world.

Chamber Music Intro

Earlier this week two of my young piano students, ages 9 and 10, spent a day at a chamber music festival in Blue Hill.  Based on an earlier audition tape, they received music about eight weeks ago which was to be thoroughly learned by festival day. I gulped when I saw what they were to learn-it was quite a challenge!  But we dove in, section by section, week by week, and they were ready.

Lily played two movements of a Mozart Serenade for strings and keyboard, while Mia performed a Purcell Chaconne for 2 violins and keyboard.  Oh my, was I ever a proud teacher.  Each group marched confidently upon the stage and took a professional bow together.  The girls played on a beautiful Steinway grand in one of the best halls for chamber music in Maine.  And afterwards I cheered for them as if I were at a rock concert.

I can never say what music has meant to me other than it is my life, whether performing, teaching or listening.  I see myself as a youngster in these two girls and take seriously my role in guiding them along this path. What a hopeful and inspiring afternoon, to hear them make music with others.

Bravo, Lily and Mia!

Call of the Wild

It’s back…that recurring and sometimes annoying desire to live in the country.  When I really think about it this wish has been ongoing for much of my adult life-it flares up now and then before I kick it under the bed.  You could say that my coming to Maine 20 years ago was the first acknowledgement, leaving Dallas, a city of a million people, to move to Monmouth, population 3,000.  But even then we lived right in the middle of the tiny downtown, across the street from the post office.

What I have dreamed of, all these years, is a 19^th century farmhouse with a barn surrounded by several acres of fields and woods.  A stream bordering the property. A sunny garden space, some berry bushes and a few fruit trees. Chickens.  A cozy house with a woodstove that feels like home.  About half an hour drive to a small city. No mortgage.

Superficially you might think that I’m a city girl.  I love snobby cultural institutions such as art museums, symphonies and lecture series. In the past 20 years, though, I’ve discovered that I can do pretty well making my own culture-a few examples are my Proust group, my project with Bill of listening to all of the Beethoven string quartets, our own foreign movie festivals and many dinner parties with interesting company.  And of course there’s the New York Times.  I find periodic trips to a city gratifying and quite satisfactory, where I soak up all the culture I can muster before happily returning home.

Over the course of our time in Maine we’ve looked at several places just like the above.  Different reasons popped up not to take the plunge-bad timing, lack of courage, or just plain disagreement.

Well, I can dream, can’t I?

Morning Ritual

I love a good cup of coffee…or two…or three…I don’t remember when I started drinking it every day, but I do remember my first cup.  When I was little my mother used to invite church ladies over for meetings and she would let me try a cup, loaded with milk and sugar.  I was probably around 5 or 6, so coffee is one of my earliest memories.

I think I’ve had every possible type of coffee-making gizmo, from the ubiquitous Mr. Coffee maker, percolator, French Press, Melita filter baskets and a kind that made a cold brew that one heated it up in the microwave.  Good flavor, but no aroma!

When we were in Italy last fall I relished every sip of the common cappuccino and came back determined to make something that comes close without spending hundreds of dollars on an espresso machine.  A couple of Christmases ago Emily and Jeff gave me a Biraletti Moka, the Italian poor-man’s espresso maker.  After finally figuring out how to use it, with the help of many a YouTube video, I enjoyed showing off my espresso expertise to guests after dinner.  And then, voila! I realized this was the key to making my morning coffee.

After quite a bit of experimentation this is what I came up with:  fill bottom section with cold water, up to the escape valve (mine holds 10 ounces).  Add 2 rounded tablespoons of finely ground strong coffee, such as French Roast, to the coffee container.  Screw on top and put on a medium high burner for about 8 minutes.  The fun part is watching the coffee come bubbling up into the top section.  While coffee is making I microwave ½ cup of almond milk for 1 minute, then froth it.  This makes 2 small cups of marvelous coffee, very close to what we had in Italy, with pretty foam on top.

I take my cup to the sunroom and sit quietly for a few minutes, trying to empty my mind and start the day truly anew.  Perhaps this could be called meditation or prayer, but I can hardly get started without it.  Then I read a poem or two and I’m ready to work.  Delicious!

Briefly It Enters, and Briefly Speaks

I am the blossom pressed in a book,
found again after two hundred years....

I am the maker, the lover, and the keeper....

When the young girl who starves
sits down to a table
she will sit beside me....

I am food on the prisoner's plate....

I am water rushing to the wellhead,
filling the pitcher until it spills....

I am the patient gardener
of the dry and weedy garden....

I am the stone step,
the latch, and the working hinge....

I am the heart contracted by joy....
the longest hair, white
before the rest....

I am there in the basket of fruit
presented to the widow....

I am the musk rose opening
unattended, the fern on the boggy summit....

I am the one whose love
overcomes you, already with you
when you think to call my name....

                                     Jane Kenyon, from Things