Singing in a Sea of Blue

My Dad is pretty much famous. Not quite as famous as Andrea Bocelli, but I'm more excited when I see Dad on TV than I am when I see Mr. Bocelli. {My Dad is the handsome tenor with the silver hair. He's throughout the video clip, but he first appears at second 32, on the left of the screen by the corner of the organ. He's the one who sits up a little bit to get a better view. You can also see him before the video plays under the two stars and the "B" in Bocelli.} The Mormon Tabernacle Choir will be in an upcoming music video of Andrea Bocelli's. How cool is that?! We're excited for this weekend when we get to hear and see Dad singing during sessions of LDS General Conference.

*Mernie Mern's mom is in this video, too. {Playing the violin.} Perhaps she is the most famous of them all!

my red heaven

Minerva Teichert said, "I want a little red in my heaven." I want to be in Minerva's heaven, for she has a signature shade all her own. I imagine her up there painting sunsets and bursting dahlias. Portraits of children with cheeks in brilliant shades of rouge. And autumn leaves like those we saw tonight on our way up the canyon to a place I believe to be a little piece of heaven.

Like a Minerva Teichert painting, there were no hard lines, just places where one color fades into another: green blends with yellow, then orange, then red. The further up we got, the less red there was. (The lack of red wasn't an indication of our relativity to heaven, just a change in landscape, I firmly believe.)

We pulled through the gate at The Lot as the sun began to rest its eyelids. The aspens seem to have turned early this year, fallen leaves like yellow confetti welcoming our weekend party up the stone path. We had just enough daylight left for a short walk before dinner. The light of the late afternoon played in the nooks and crannies of the hillside, casting shadows down the face of the mountain, subduing the fall hues.

When everyone was inside, I turned off the light on the deck and stepped out to look at the stars. Aspen branches stretched heavenwards and cradled the night's sky, a canvas of black and white. I located the Evening Star and the curve of the Big Dipper, which has dipped a bit lower than a few weeks ago. Under a Harvest Moon, I imagined Minerva painting a picture of our little Lot in the woods, cocooned in aspens and pines, one color fading into another.

happy weekend

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Tarzan of the Foothills

Last night I went to E's for sandwiches. Fresh tomatoes, cheese and avocado, all grilled to perfection, the way only E can make them. C was there to fix the cable, and his presence was occasion enough for sandwiches. We watched C the Cable Guy (his old nickname, proposed months and months ago was "The Weather Man," because he studies the sky, but after last night, I like The Cable Guy) go in and out and in and out, searching the garage for the tools necessary to complete the task.

We surveyed the outside of the house. Well, the Cable Guy did. E and I stood helpless, watching him move vines and branches to get to the right cable, our own Tarzan in the foothills. After much pushing and pulling, we were victorious, at least in part. Perhaps we'll have to have another night with C the Cable Guy. He says fixing this is now a matter of pride. At least we know how he takes his sandwiches: turkey with cheddar. Hold the avocado.

The leaves are falling, falling as if from far up,
as if orchards were dying high in space.
Each leaf falls as if it were motioning no.

And tonight the heavy earth is falling
away from all other stars in the loneliness.

We’re all falling. This hand here is falling.
And look at the other one. It’s in them all.

And yet there is Someone, whose hands
infinitely calm, holding up all this falling.

by Rainer Maria Rilke

around the world

Grandma taught me that sewing thread is strong. We'd sit on the floor of the sewing room and watch her foot work the pedal of the sewing machine, bobbing up and down, up and down, waiting for a pair of shorts, or a summer skirt, or a bag to carry our music books to and from lessons. Sister and I would thread a needle, dip our hands into a mason jar of buttons, and choose the largest one of the bunch for the beginning. Making one long button train, we'd only stop when the thread was oh-my-heck-up-to-its-neck in buttons. Then we'd carry the caterpillar-like band of button brothers over to Grandma. She would tie a strong knot on the end. Button chain stuffed into a pocket, we'd go on with our playing, usually throwing Grandma's homemade bean bags into baskets until our summer sewing projects were ready for wearing.
* * *
It was the last walk for a long, long time. The conversation jumped from here to there as we interrupted each other, no common thread to our thoughts, except that we know one another inside and out. Frontways. Backways. Sideways.

I tried not to think of tomorrow as we stepped to the sounds of summer, ponytails and swishy skirts blowing in the wind. Just as the street began to slope, I stopped. Stopped walking. Stopped listening. I wished Time would follow suit. My thoughts trailed off into uncertainty. I got over the initial shock of the thought of not being together. Of here and there and this place and that place and before I realized, we were almost home. We sat on the grass and laughed as if the next night we'd be walking the same path of pavement, past the same lantern-lit porches.
* * *
When the sewing needle stopped its up and down, we'd take our button garlands over to Grandma. She would cut the thread over the mason jar. Leaping free, they would all fall into the jar, like sand into an hour glass, filling up where time had left an emptiness. They were home.
* * *
Now we each walk different streets, separated by time zones and cultures and climates. The one common thread that binds us is home, a thread that now stretches around the world, intrinsically connecting us back to our beginning.

sugar in the sky

Tonight we went to The Lot in the woods. This is my favorite time of year there. Against a backdrop of ever-green, the leaves wait in the wings for a fashion show in their robes of red, and gold, and rust. The quaking aspen cheer them on, shaking in the wind.

The sky was clear tonight, clouds having floated on to bluer skies. Sprinkled across a dark chocolate sky, we could see the milky way, as faint as fine sugar, a fairy-dusting of trillions of stars.

finger food

My dad makes words out of broken pretzels. He lines them up on the white counter top until someone walks along and appreciates them. Abstract and primitive-looking, it takes a few minutes to de-code his creation. I will slowly smile in his direction, giving him the creative credit he deserves, and go about my business. Like letters being erased from a chalkboard, the pieces disappear one by one as the night continues.

Recently, he's had a hankering for senbei rice crackers, something he learned to love while living in Japan. Mom obliges him and a box sits next to the cookie jar, his first stop after he walks in the door from work. A few weeks ago I came home late. The house was dark and dad was at the piano. Bifocals resting gently on his nose he was carefully studying his music. I walked towards the cookie jar and noticed his latest creation. Smiling, I got his attention. "Dad," I said, gesturing in the direction of this little rice man. He looked over his bi-focals, smiled back at me and turned to face his music. I think it's one of his best.