Common Ground

Sandals slapping the street, Mom's voice slipped away with each slap. The rest of the family trailed behind as I walked ahead in The Common. I brushed away oak leaves with my summer-tanned-toes, all pretty-in-pink, searching for the perfect acorn. I picked up three, held an on-the-spot acorn audition, and pocketed the winner. Bending down, I let go of the other two, re-uniting them with leaf and city street.
Slap, slap, slap.
* * *
Together, he and I are in the park; walking past children climbing about Ducklings and running through fountains. Swan boats drift under willow branches. There is comfort in the ease of each other. Comfort in our cadence. Unity in stride and thought. And no memory of life before Saturday strolls and the everyday side-by-side. Tomorrow. Yesterday. The Past. The Present. The Future. Lives folded into one; wrapped up, like our hands. Clasped. Hoping. Happy.
* * *
That night, on the 18th floor of a rented room, I took in the Charles at night. My sister sweetly snoozing next to me, I stepped out of bed, feeling the cold air as the cooler pushed it about the room. Inching closer and closer to the floor-to-ceiling windows, I took a deep breath. I can do this. I stood on my tip-toes and slowly lowered my forehead down until it touched the glass. I extended my arms out, like a bird preparing for flight. The Hancock Tower stretched high into the night sky. I was lost in the midnight blue-hue of the late hour. The River, The Hancock and the sky. Dark. Sheeny. Reflective. Cars crossed the Longfellow and traversed the Turnpike, blinking below. Stars twinkled in the blue above, and lights lined the masts of idle-for-the-night boats along the river. I imagined the lap-lap-lap sound of the water hitting up against them. I stepped back from the glass and flattened my feet on the floor. A circular forehead print left evidence of my midnight meditating.
Lap, lap, lap.
* * *
I pull that acorn out sometimes. It's by far the biggest in my collection; definitely the most green. I love that such a small thing holds so much promise - a towering tree with a trunk big enough for five children to encircle, hand in hand. Branches to cradle the sky. Leaves to shelter and crunch under foot. And acorns. Hundreds of acorns, each a representation of the past, the present and the future; of hope and happiness.

city tulips

Em stopped in today. She brought tulips and a red bag from Strand. And, a book. It's like she knew I needed one; knew it was one of those days. I woke up wanting. Something. A new shade of lip gloss. A new felt tip pen. A new song to sing to. A new book to inspire. I love the blue-gray cover. Like the sea. I'm 30 pages in. (Em, it's a gem). I found a Raffaello Sanzio bookmark among a pack of papers down in the office today. I've tucked it behind the pages of my new book. The gold of the Madonna's crown peaks up just above the blue-gray, like a tulip emerging in Spring.

Em sat in the red chair at my parent's house. She wore her gorgeous white coat and balanced a chocolate brown bag on her lap. I'm wearing my pink sneakers. They poke out from my dark jeans; the only hint of hue to my monochromatic black-blue outfit. My foot went back and forth, one knee over the other, effortlessly swinging, as Em caught me up on her trip home. I wish she could stay. I wish New York City wasn't so far away.

My blue book is tucked into my red bag. I'm headed home to my yellow brick house with my tulips. Farewell, sweet Em. Until summer in the City.

muumuus and minuets

First there was Cristin, who, at seven a.m. looked like a Barbie doll, her eye-liner, shadow and lipstick as if it had been hand-painted by the manufactures of Mattel. The pink Barbie Mobile was just behind the violin studio doors. I was sure of it. It took her to all the musical events around town, and she always got priority parking. She was the picture of perfection, teaching Suzuki with style.

Then, there was Judy. Night and day wouldn't begin to describe their differences. Judy went make up-less, unless she was playing for the Utah Symphony, and even then, it was lipstick and a little mascara. Judy roamed her house teaching minuets in a Hawaiian muumuu. She had dozens. Pink, yellow, blue, green. Going from Barbie to frizzy-haired, au naturale muumuu-wearing Judy was an adjustment, but how I grew to love Judy. Every aspect of her. Her dry wit. Her mechanical pencils. Her 70's style spectacles. I even grew to love Twinkle, her dog.

Her house smelled of rosin, xerox machines and dried out Crayola markers. Her piano ledge was peppered with markers of every shape and color. She slipped sheet music between them, creating a make-shift stand. A radial rainbow of marker lids spread out on the carpet beneath the piano bench, creating a colorful cushion for Judy's orthopedic shoes. She'd pump the piano pedals with the tick, tick, tick of the metronome, in her orthopedic shoes, smashing marker lids as she'd go.

Any time I'd arrive at my lesson with a crisp new Vivaldi, Bartok or Gluk, and before we could begin, Judy would scamper down the stairs to the xerox machine, her muumuu fluttering with every quick step. She'd come back in the studio with a fresh copy of my piece ready for marking. There was method behind her markers: green meant second position; purple meant third; orange was fifth. -0-0- meant "watch out" (a type for Judy's 70's shades) meaning, even if she wasn't there, she was always watching (think Big Brother in a muumuu). By the time federation or a recital came around, my music had been copied at least four times, hues turning to black with each copy, making room for new colors, new codes. Judy would plunk out the melody on the black and white piano keys, pausing to make any necessary marker editions. I'd follow along as best I could, paying attention to all the marks on yet another concerto of many colors.

I've had some recent run-ins with a few teachers as of late - one past violin teacher (not Judy) and another elementary school teacher. They still have those kind teaching, nurturing eyes. I want to tuck myself under their wing of wisdom and reap everything from their very beings. N still has those sparkley blue eyes and Miss P. still has the license plate that says JP 4 BYU. I'm sure Cristin has kept up the oil changes on her Barbie Mobile, and I have no doubt Judy still meanders in her muumuus, humming minuets as she scampers up and down the stairs to the xerox machine.

sweet shootin'

Alright Kyle. It's official. You've made the cut.
Number 26 gets spot number 20 here at 2186.
Korver, we heart you.
(And your peanut butter and jelly sandwiches).

Confession(s)

When I'm driving on the freeway (or anywhere, for that matter) I get excited when I see several cars of the same color all in a row, or in the same section of the road.
It drives me nuts to let my cell phone battery drop below three bars. It is always fully-charged or I'm in a panic to plug it into its charger.
I collect acorns - from Central Park, Boston Commons, my Grandma's backyard, from walks with Linds on the south side of Provo.
I can't parallel park. As in physically cannot parallel park.
I hate it when the microwave doesn't show the time - when people forget to clear it. When it reads 00:30 (30 seconds).
I love pick-up trucks.
I love shapes. Especially when they're combined. We have a square-back chair here in the YBH with a round mirror over it. I like it ever so much.
I had the most enchanted childhood. Hands down. And, it still continues, even though we've all gone our separate ways, per se. My neighbors are my sisters and I love them as such.

put your red foot forward

There are Red Shoe Days and then there are Red Shoe Days. The first being, days upon which red shoes cover pink toenails in hopes they'll bring luck to the day. The second being, days upon which red shoes call out from the closet, a silent alarm clock of sorts, which cannot be ignored. They match your morning mood of determination for yet another round of here-we-go-again. As your pink-painted feet hit the carpet you can feel it; Red shoes forecast the paths of a propitious day. Today was a Red Shoe Day.

I awoke with one of M's songs in my head. As my feet hit the floor, my red shoes sang back. Today, it was my patent pair, with the button at the toe. Perfect, I thought as I slid them out of their shoe slot and onto the floor until I was ready to step out for the day. Today was going to be a good day.

I proudly put the pedal-to-the-metal this morning on my way to an appointment, arriving ten minutes early. This never happens. I sat down with my book and crossed one knee over the other, patent shoes swinging in the periphery.

Two red shoes arrived at Trio, where the Trio becomes a deuce, as Nat and I catch up over lunch. Today we went out on a limb and tried the bread pudding, not sure if it would satisfy our salivating. It was, in short, amazing. Amidst walnuts, and red shoes, we chatted about what we always chat about (Nat, today you had some brilliant lines. Which, honestly, is nothing new).

Tile pattern selected and painter scheduled, red shoes skipped back to the car in parking lot at the slab yard. Errands are much more fun with red shoes. Trust me. Along my rouge-route, word came from E. Buone notizie! The best news yet. At the red light, rosso shoes were right in sync, tapping to the beat. And, tonight at the movies, red shoes went effortlessly up and over the seat in front of me, satisfied with the view from the top and happy to be part of a Martha Milestone.

Every girl needs a pair of red shoes.

like a yellow banana-seat bike

"Your vibrato will come," she said, as I awkwardly wiggled my finger and wrist for the ten millionth time, trying to find some sort of rooted rhythm. With each wobble, I desperately hoped it would take seed in me. I knew how it was supposed to sound. Back and forth. Back and forth. I knew what it was supposed to look like. Yet it seemed beyond my grasp. "It will come," I kept hearing in my head. "One day, you'll pick up your violin and it will be there. I promise. Keep at it. You'll get it." As her student, I trusted everything she said.

Perhaps learning vibrato was like riding a bike...My thoughts wandered off between finger wobbles. The clomp, clomp, clomp of my Dad's work shoes behind my yellow bike stepped back into memory. I could feel his hand on the back of the seat. Steady. Reassuring. Pushing me up 900 south, his tie flapping in the wind behind him. It made me feel like we were going fast, when I heard his tie flap like that. I'd give my five year-old self the pep-talk right before a test-ride, "Today's the day! I can feel it!" And we'd be off, my feet going ninety miles a minute, trying to balance my body as it wobbled back and forth on the banana seat. I wanted that rooted rhythm of peddle-pushing and handlebar steadiness. I wanted it bad. So I kept peddling, trusting my Dad wouldn't let go until I was ready. Rooted. Full of rhythm.

I can still picture the look on his face the day I peddled off on my own towards the park. His hands were in the air, his fists pumping up-down, up-down, into the sky. He moved them to his face and cupped them on either side of his mouth, hoping his words would reach me, "Way to go, M! Way. To. Go!" I was afraid to look back, but I heard him. I think he might have been more excited than I was. I tossed my bike on my friend's lawn that afternoon, like the big kids did. No kick-stand. I just tossed it. I walked through the breezeway and peered out at my yellow bike from the window. How good it felt to know I got myself there on that bike and I could get myself back, Dad-less. That feeling was pretty dang cool.

It's that way with so many things. Vibrato. Riding a bike. Learning cursive. Trying to pronounce French "R's." Falling in love. One day it just comes. We reach the sweet spot of the note, and the vibrato finally vibrates. The training wheels come off. The cursive flows. We recite the days of the week en francais, with perfect French "R's." Someone comes along and we effortlessly fall. We know what it's supposed to look like; what it's supposed to sound like. People ride bikes, speak French and fall in love everyday. We just have to listen to our five year-old invincible selves, "Today's the day! I can feel it!" We have to keep at it. Keep peddling. And, if we do, the cheerleaders will come out in scores, fists pumping up-down, up-down into the sky. We'll hear them shout in unison, "Way to go! Way to go!" We know it will come, whatever it is. And, it will be pretty dang cool when it does.

drawing in the dark

It's Sunday. I'm skipping down the street after church in my green and navy plaid dress with the pleats and the big white collar. Libby's ahead of me. She's always ahead of me. She likes to stand up as fast as she can and turn around to see if she is the first one up after the "Amen." She usually is. It makes mom and dad mad. Secretly, I want to try it, just so I can beat her, but it's church and it's me. I don't do things like that. Especially in church. By the time I hit the big crack in the sidewalk, Libby is up the front path and has put the key in the front door, barging in like she owns the place. She left the keys in the dead bolt. I hate it when she does that. I think she does it just to bug me. I yank on the brass key, shimmying it out of the lock.

Libby is already in the buffet, elbow-deep in the gumdrop bag. As long as she eats all the black ones, that's o.k. with me. I make my way through the swinging doors to the kitchen with the yellow trellis wallpaper and the French tiles on the floor. As I pass, I look at her as if dessert before lunch was absolutely the most distasteful behavior. It is. She could care less and has shoved another mouthful of gumdrops in her mouth. I take the stool from the back entry, revealing the yellow clogs that house themselves underneath. They are left without their cover of stool-shingling, but just for a bit. I reach up to the Triscuts in the cupboard above the microwave. By the time I replace the stool, Libby has snatched the cheese and is cutting perfectly thin slices with the marble cheese cutter. She's really good at that. Once she asked if she could have it. The cheese cutter, that is. She said, "Aunt, B, when you die, can I have your cheese cutter?" Aunt B just laughed and said, "Well, of course you can!" I couldn't believe she asked that. Even if she thought it, she shouldn't have said it. At least not like that.

The mozzarella block is clean shaven. I take the mild cheddar, place it perfectly square on the marble and lower the wire cutter as evenly as I can. I'm frustrated when it comes out thicker on one side. With the ding of the microwave, it's my turn to take my cheese and crackers on their paper towel Magic Microwave ride. They come out perfectly melty; the cheese all bubbly and warm. Just as I sit down at the table, Libby's wadding up her paper towel and going for the frozen bonbons. She's got chocolate on her face, but I decide not to tell her. It mixes well with the conglomerate of gumdrop colors from her burst-in-the-door-binge.

Aunt B walks in and takes her shoes off. She walks to her bedroom and places them on her shoe rack, full of pumps and walking shoes. I'm going to have a shoe rack like that one day. And I'm definitely going to have a pair of red shoes. Maybe even two. Aunt B comes into the kitchen, happy to see we've helped ourselves. She makes her own lunch, something uninteresting like melba toast with blue cheese, and warm honey-lemon water. She always drinks that. I don't know why. But, she gets to use that honey that comes from a the plastic bear. Mom never lets us buy that kind. I've cleared my place at the banquette, picking up every last crumb - Libby's, too. Then, I go to the freezer and take out one bonbon. Only one. I wanted two, but I only took one. It was the polite thing to do, I think.

Fed and satisfied, we've shut all the doors leading to the hallway with Aunt B's desk and her floor-to-ceiling bulletin board full of family photos. There are three photos of me. One from last school year when my parents were out of town on picture day and our baby-sitter did my hair. It looks ridiculous. I hate that picture. Libby grabs a towel and shoves it up and into the crack between the door and threshold of the bathroom door. Light likes to sneak in sometimes, and we want it to be as dark as possible. We've our drawing pads on our laps- the big ones that we got with Aunt B at the printing department at the University. I've stretched myself out on the floor, my legs extended, my back to the study door. That's my spot. It's always been my spot. It's right across from Aunt B. My drawing pad reaches all the way from my waist down to my ankles. I can see my saddle shoes and ruffled church socks poking out from the bottom. I've got a pencil in my hand - a mechanical one - that's the only kind Aunt B uses. They're kind of fancy. And, you never have to sharpen them. I've turned the end so I have just the right amount of lead.

It's pitch black, and quiet, until Libby breaks the silence. "Wait. Are you here? Where are you?" Aunt B's calm voice comes from the door by the bedroom. "Yes, I'm here. Martha, are you here?" she says, waiting for me to answer."I'm here." Aunt B asks if we're ready. She announces we will now begin. This, is our favorite game. Aunt B tells us what to draw, and we draw it, in the dark. In our shadowless studio. Bears, dogs, boys, girls, boats, cars, trees, boys in trees, girls walking dogs. I'm getting o.k. at bears. I just draw two circles for the body, and four for the arms and legs. The rule is, when B rings the bell, we have to stop. No matter what. Even if we're not done. She gets up and turns the light on and we laugh laugh laugh at the silly things we've drawn. None of the eyes end up on the animal's or the people's heads, and sometimes the cars look like they are driving in the air. Aunt B stoops down to look at each of our twiggy, speckled drawings and says something like, "That's marvelous!" She turns off the light and finds her way back to her dark corner. Libby and I flip forward a page on our larger-than-life drawing pads, and, we start all over again. She's seventy-six, but she knows all the best games. I think drawing in the dark is my favorite.

Flight.

(and Flight of The Bret)

slowly. quietly.

This whole blog thing has been an interesting endeavor. I still wonder if I'm o.k. with the fact that my words are out here. Out there. However, something tugs me back into this void of blogland. Something vulnerable and frightening. Some sort of addicting excitement.

I've been reading about writing. Today. Yesterday. Last week. I came across some old English packets from Lake's class, chapters from "Learning to Fly" and "Art and Fear," both of which I have read again since senior year. I tucked them into my bag before I left my parent's the other night, excited to re-read and re-learn; to re-discover.

By referral, (thank you Betsy at King's English) I am also reading ,"If You Want To Write," by Brenda Ueland. This is a gem of a book. It's been a literary kaleidoscope these past few days, shifting my thought-pattens ever so slightly, letting light sparkle in the symmetry. Something I already feel so passionate about is mirrored by Ueland's encouraging instruction. This book has opened my eyes, much like Lake (and all her glorious packets!) filling the entire field with new colors and patterns.

These past few days, days, when I've never written so much and never been so frustrated with my outcome, I've needed somewhere or some thing to turn. Here in my hands is this great kaleidoscope of a book, which, with every turn of my wrist, bravo's! my seemingly peewee efforts and gives me just enough light to hope one day, for the brilliance of a full spectrum.

playing jane

The grand piano was staged in an odd place. And, someone was playing it. Did he move it himself? We weren't quite sure. Familiar melodies came from the foyer. M and I hastened our steps, eager to find out who this maestro was. We soon discovered this was no maestro. This was Mr. Maestro. Yes, this man had the talent and the tenacity. Somehow he wheeled that grand piano from stage left (the wall) to center stage (directly in the middle of the foyer, where four doors lead to one central entry way), placing him in perfect position, viewable from all angles and entrances. Any girl was bound to fall for this feat. To add to MM's forte, his musical selection would woo any girl directly into those ivory-tickling hands. He was lulling the ladies to the soundtrack to "Pride and Prejudice." And, he was playing from memory.

Such poise! Such technique! Our Horowitz of the Hour would glance from stage left, to stage right, trying to make eye contact with any girl who might be interested in being his Page Turner For Eternity. Talk about a grand gesture! I quickly diverted my eyes from his gaze, not wanting to distract from his version of PBS's Great Performances on location at the Institute building.

We walked on to find E. She was standing, eyes closed, legs crossed at her ankles. Her coat was folded over her arms and she was leaning against the back of a chair, clearly taking in the impromptu recital. I approached. Standing perpendicular to E and with my back to Mr. Maestro, I pointed in his direction with my thumb. "Is that a guy? Is he seriously pla...?" E nodded her head before I could get to the end of my inquiry. "Yes. That is why I'm standing here. It's my favorite." She closed her eyes, lost amid the trickling scales. He had gone to all this trouble. What with the piano moving and all. Not to mention the fact that I bet his neck really hurt from all that bobbing.

In an "oh-well" moment, I looked at E, folded my coat over my arms, crossed my boot-covered ankles, and leaned up against the back of the chair next to hers. I mirrored her every action, minus the eye-closing. I wasn't about to go that far. Plus, it was too entertaining to watch this guy's head bob up and down in anticipation of The Look of Love from girls who passed.

The song ended, and our Maestro began anew; another selection from the movie's score. E and I walked out together and began to talk about something else, the subject of which is escaping me. The English waltz one-two-three'd it in my head as E and I split up and I got into my car to drive home. I piled my books on the desk and reached into my closet. Before I realized it, "Pride and Prejudice," the movie, was playing on my laptop. I fell asleep to Darcy Dialog, Georgian-era girlish gossip and triplet notes.

As much as I hate to admit it, I think his plan worked, because today, at a random moment, I thought, "I sure hope Mr. Maestro is at Institute on Tuesday. I'll even help him move the piano."

Seconds and Firsts

Tonight I saw a favorite movie for the second time, paying only a dollar this round. I would dished out more. I adore that film - everything about it. Seeing it again confirms my hunch. E and I were talking about this very thing on Tuesday night. How there are movies that you get homesick for. Movies you crave. Movies you've seen a million times over. Movies you could recite from opening shot to final scene. Every so often, you have to give in and fall asleep amid Marianne and Willoughby, Darcy Dialog or a classic Tom and Meg Moments. This movie is destined to be one of those. think I liked it more upon second screening and I feel it will be that way on round 50. I can't wait.

I came home to learn of this. This is a first. And maybe a last? But, thanks for the introduction. I printed out a picture and took it to the master-minds at Kinko's. It is on its way to becoming a life-sized cardboard cutout. Hey, I owe you one. We've been looking for a fourth roommate.

Driving home tonight, I listened to Joni for the five-thousandth time. Oh, how I love her sweet strumming. I'm currently occupying our couch for the fourth time this week, hot water bottle snug to my chest, reading and writing.

Confession

Alright, alright. M, here you go. In recognition of your patience and persistence, I'm going to humor you. So...making his blog debut, (drum roll. fanfare.) is: Mr. L.
Name: Mr. L
Industry: Real Estate/Construction
Occupation: Realtor, Contractor(ish), Renaissance Man.
Location: Colorado
State of Origin: Missouri
Interests: swimming, golf, getting the first parking spot in the Y lot at swim practice every morning and evening at 6 (Except Wednesdays. On Wednesdays, he was late), a good cereal bowl, el heuvo rancheros, Argentina, travel, talking business, cars, extremely nice golf courses, delicious food. And, consoling/befriending girls who, long, long ago, were in love with his roommate.

ooo you make me live

There are few people I'd rather rock out with. M and I have Rocked it and Rolled it with the best of them. Last night was yet another night with some comrades du rock. As soon as the bass was booming, and the amp was upped, out came the dance moves. M promised me an air-drum solo, and man, did M deliver. I'm a little jealous of those mad skills.

Tired feet, throbbing heads and ringing ears, we made our way for post-concert pie and a little Guitar Hero. Chat. 23. I had no idea. Although different tenants live within those walls, I walked through the back door and all of a sudden it was Nut Rolls, blue pancake breakfasts, and Mentoring- Saturday, Crystal's voice in my head asking (for the fifteenth time in the same morning) if we could go to Chuckie Cheese, except with her lisp, it came out "Chut-chee-cheez."

My neck and shoulders are a little sore today. M and I busted out the JT moves quite quickly, all neck-bobs, shoulder rolls and break dancing feet. They should have paid us to be at that concert. We made them look good. No doubt the camera man was more happy than we were to catch us on film. Look for us in the music video. We're the crazies up front, stage right, in our own little bust-a-move, check-it-be-fo-you-wreck-it world. It was so worth the neck pain. Chris and Ray's pies...yum!

Oh, and freakishly tall kid with the curly blond hair - just so you know, you made my night. In all my concert-going, I ain't never seen moves like that befo! Keep on reelin'.