KC Trip: Day Three Part 2

As she approached the museum through the late afternoon mist the letters carved deeply into the surface of the limestone running along the lintels said, “The Soul has greater need of the ideal than of the real.” Victor Hugo. With that, she eagerly rushed the steps, taking them two at a time, knowing that she had found a place of import, knowing that she had not allowed enough time to take in all the wonder that these linked buildings would contain.

This was not the first time today she marveled at this Midwestern city. When she was researching for her trip she was floored to discover that both major art museums charged no admission. The Arboretum she had sought out yesterday was also free of charge, as was the music on Thursday nights in the Blue Room where she was planning to spend the evening. Even the theatre events were reasonably priced. Maybe she had misjudged this place. She was beginning to see that these venues were not free because they had nothing of value, but instead, it appeared that the residents of Kansas City wanted to be sure that beauty and “the ideal” was available to lift the souls of all, regardless of ability to pay. She caressed the heavy stamped brass doors as she entered the sanctuary.

She shook the last raindrops from her hair and scarf, dripping on the marble entry floor and glanced back outside. Not that all the art was contained within she saw, and from the doorway perched 15 feet above the lawn she saw there were many outsized sculptures scattered about the gardens that she had missed in her dodge of the damp.
A stocky, kind faced guard stood at attention and therefore noticed her hesitation. “Pretty dicey out there today, yes?” she murmured to help tip the arrival’s decision toward staying inside. “Yes, but getting clearer.” Her charge conceded, and moved on squeaking soles toward the first gallery to the left.
A strong bias toward all art pieces painted, drawn or welded caused her to blanch at the door to this room for it was filled with lit cases that were filled with dishes. She always avoided the amber boxes, the gilt utensils and the earthen vases at her own local museum, and with time at issue, wanted to cut to the chase. Too late – for in the moment spent in indecision a single, exquisite teapot had drawn her in for a closer look. She drifted from case to case, and thought about her mother’s fixation with cloth napkins and formal table wear. She had always resisted this mindset; her Scandinavian practicality winning out over her English sense of propriety and her Irish flair for the dramatic. And yet, seeing these beautiful wares and imagining the afternoon teas and the morning coffee served with a scone on the stacked dish seemed suddenly just the right thing to do – well and there was all this talk now days about landfills and conservation—she made a mental note to pick up some charming fabric for some linens and some pleasing cups and saucers from the jumble sale upon her return home. She’d keep it quiet from her mother and the friends who were hell-bent on saving the environment; let their low opinion of her remain a while longer, for some reason she wanted that unchanged.

Finally released from the delicate table wear, her dried boots now tapping out an echoing staccato in the soaring entry, she crossed to the tiny old elevator and made her way to the third floor. At last she reached the first room of paintings. Although she began by chance in the American art gallery, seeing work by many of her favorites from the Hudson River School movement, and a large collection of work by Thomas Hart Benton it did not take long for her to realize that since her recent delving into the mystery and politics of Spanish and Italian art of the 16th and 17th centuries, she wanted to view works from the masters she had been reading about, and after consulting a map, she hurried down the back stairs to the second floor. Now is the point in her day when time stood still. Rather it hurled her back 300 years and then it stood still. The additional reading she had done did indeed have impact on her enjoyment of these canvases she previously had skimmed past. The colors, the light, the choices in texture and paint thickness and in the way the subject was positioned. It pleased her that new illumination could be extracted from her studies.

Before she knew it, the time for the museum to close approached, and she retraced her way through the halls, here and again catching a work she had missed in her haste to take in as much as possible. “I will come back next year and allow more time.” She pledged to herself silently, a promise she intended to keep.
Back outside she walked briskly to her car, the rain clouds now thinning and letting small bursts of the sun’s power peek through. Again, as if a touchstone, the words along the top of the building brought a coda to her visit. Yes, the ideal was an important balm, a necessary stop in the urgent march toward the practical. And march toward the practical she must—she extracted her cell phone and quickly dialed her hostess; their meeting time was fast approaching and one look in the rearview mirror as she entered the car told her that a stop to have the tangle of her hair re-tamed was a necessary step in her enjoying the evening of live music they had planned. They agreed to a new meeting time which accommodated both her need for a stylist and her friend’s need to finish fetching dinner for her kids that were to be kept at home, and she was off in search of the drop-in hair salon she had subconsciously registered on her way to the museums earlier that day.

Although in a neighborhood her suburban husband would label “sketchy”, she got a good feeling when she finally located and entered the salon. The two stylists were busy and the waiting area crowded, but they immediately greeted her and assured her that they could wait on her shortly. The good natured verbal jabs being directed at one of the clients from the “gallery” came from a rowdy bunch that had apparently come in to cheer their friend on as she got “done up” for the evening on the town. In a matter of moments their bright and joyous chatter surged through the door and suddenly the place seemed silent. “They were a fun lot” the other customer commented, and we all chuckled in agreement. As she studied this client from across the room she realized it was not clear if she was in the presence of a fellow woman or a man. The already short cropped hair was being shaved off to stubble everywhere but a thin stripe down the center—there was much discussion on just how long the mohawk could be left for the comfort of the boss at the day job. At night, the client was engaged as a club band, and there of course were no limitations of hairstyles in that realm. Man or woman? Man or woman. Overall the appearance brought to mind K.D. Lang, and the Lang look-alike left after paying with the woman none the wiser as to whether it had been miss or mister.

She settled into the chair by the sink and relished the extra heat as her young stylist massaged shampoo into her hair. The age of the stylist of course immediately brought to mind her own young daughter, a stylist now for three years. Before her daughter had graduated, the woman had used the time during salon visits to sleep, but now that her daughter was “in the business” she found herself more engaged, and it was not long before she knew the name, age and childbearing status of the woman who was washing her hair and putting it back in order. She encouraged the stylist to provide more details, and her mind wandered off as they were provided. Where did it wander, you might ask? Well, to her own children of course. She thought about how young this girl was to be a mother of a two year old at the age of 19, to be working fulltime in a salon. What excited her interest was the focus; this girl knew what she wanted and had set about achieving it. So like the woman’s son-in-law; a homeowner at the early age of 20, a wounded war veteran by 22. She could see reassuring logic to a plan that included early graduation, immediate enrollment in a vocation-based school, and then to pursue further higher education with a marketable fall back trade under ones belt. Yes, she would talk to her husband about these ideas and they could together find ways to encourage their youngest to consider this type of path --a practical plan with accommodation for making a living wage while pursuing higher knowledge. The sense of it made her smile, and that smile reflected back at her in the mirror the stylist held up to her now completed coiffure. Just so. Now she could proceed with her plans without the distraction of frizzled, windswept bangs.

She said a quick prayer as she paid, tipped and exited to her car, entrusting the hands and heart of the young stylist and her child to the protection of the Creator, and then she was off, hurrying back across town to a night of jazz music and friendly chatter.

KC Trip: Back in Time Day Three

note: as I get further into this writing experiment this month, I will have less and less time to proofread and edit my daily 1666 words. I apologize in advance for the rough cut you will be seeing...

The third generation artist of a family filled with artists, Jamie Wyeth has been quoted as saying his father’s work was like that of Robert Frost. On the surface familiar and comfortable, but beneath something altogether different. Andrew Wyeth’s work is something I am a little familiar with, but I was thrilled to have a chance for a deeper look at it when visiting Kansas City. Not only that, but I got to study works by his son and his father as well. Both amazing artists in their own right. Thursday of my trip was the day I had set aside entirely for myself. I knew Chris would most likely be busy with her kids who had the day off of school. It was too early in the week for Bre, who was still settling in to her new city and home, and Shan had a big party for her residents that night. I had all the perfect excuses to take the time for myself and do just exactly what ever I liked. Of course whenever I find time to myself, what I like almost always involves art. Although mom and dad had lived in Kansas City for almost 15 years, I only visited one of their art museums on one occasion. We usually visited at holiday times, and I imagine that mixed with the desire to find activities that please everyone is what kept me away. I do remember having lunch with mom in the lovely atrium of the Nelson-Atkins, so I know I had been there at least that one time. My original schedule for that day looked something like this:

Coffee shop for breakfast Drive by Mom and Dad’s house for pictures Drive by downtown library for pictures of the parking ramp 10:30am arrive Kemper Museum of Art Lunch (a V8 on the road) The Nelson-Atkins Museum 4pm Drive to Crown Center 6pm Dinner at Skies Hyatt 7:30pm American Heartland Theatre play 10pm sleep somewhere undecided

By the time I arrived in Kansas City I knew I would most likely be staying with Christine if she would have me – my attempts to contact Shan made me realize she was just too busy to have an overnight guest. I woke on Thursday morning to a sky that foretold of a day of soaking rain. Not a light drizzle for a few minutes, but instead the heaviness that tells you will be damp all day. Not to lean to heavily on the metaphor, but this most certainly dampened my spirits and altered my plans. I lingered over the breakfast that Chris had ready for me, not really wanting to go out in the muck and yet so excited to get started on my day of art reflection. I mentally pushed back the photos of dad and mom’s place to Sunday, I decided against the play, which I only felt a mediocre interest in anyway. It was no problem at all for Chris to talk me into meeting her for dinner; I decided the Skies idea would be less fun on such a dreary day and switched to the following plan instead:

10:30am Finally get my sorry butt out of the house

Stop at the local Walmart for a much needed purse and small umbrella

Drive downtown to snap pictures of the library parking lot which really was not that far from the art museums

Head to the Kemper and park; once finished there walk the couple of blocks to the Nelson-Atkins

Call Chris to arrange a final meeting time at the Blues Museum for a quick run through and then eat dinner at or near the Blue Room while listening to great live, free jazz music. Well, that is not exactly how the day went down either, but it got me started and out the door with the correct maps, and before I knew it I was in the Walmart parking lot.

It is hard for me to categorize where I stand in the fashion world. I rarely don makeup, in fact I only own a complete set because my daughter got married last year and I felt it was called for to have it available for that day. My hairstyles run toward the simple, I almost never use any type of styling product. I have never understood the shoe fetish that most of my female cohorts ascribe to. I can’t stand to pay extra for a special name on my clothes, and yet I do understand that a well-made garment wears better. I want to look as if I just “throw on anything as I run out the door” but I am wise enough to know that can only result in a fashion disaster. So I try to blend. On this day I chose a black outfit; when one is among artists and art lovers, and especially when one is still a bit overweight, it is always smart to dress with ample amounts of black. Plus, it easily seconds as a dressier look for the evening when I wasn’t planning on going home to change.

On into Walmart to pick up a simple umbrella, but of course I walk out empty handed. I stood in front of the selection for 10 minutes – did I want a small purse sized one, did I need a purse to put it in, did I want to carry a wet umbrella with me all day, would I rather just dash from location to location…all the choices lay before me and although I did pick up a handy little purse which kept my portable camera and keys dry, I did not take with me a new umbrella. Who has an umbrella hang up other than me? I can commit to men and to children and to a career and to a solo trip 400 miles from home to stay with strangers, but I cannot commit to an umbrella. For this I would spend a damp afternoon, wishing I had been stronger.

The dampness started early, as I arrived downtown carefully following the google map directions to the Central Library. I was to find out at least one other time this week that google maps is not always best at telling left from right in their directions. I parked across the street from where the map indicated the libarary would be, but as soon as I got out on the street I could tell that I was still three blocks away. Three very wet blocks. There was a moment of uncertainty; this library parking ramp was incredibly hard to track down on the internet, and I was basically going there on a whim, hoping this was the correct library. I had seen a photo once on the internet a year ago, and no one who I had asked to research it for me had come up with any additional information. I was thrilled when my wet walk and persistence paid off; there across the street was a city block sized parking ramp, and one side of it was decked out to look like a shelf of books. Of course in the dreary rain the pictures weren’t amazing, but I felt I had vanquished the enemy of poor information and obtained the photos that my mom and I both wanted to have. It was not until later that I wished I had gone on inside the library and looked for any additional information on the whys and wherefores of this monument.

It was getting late and I took my soaked little self back to the car and back out toward the museums. Along the way I realized I would pass right by the Union Station; I had wanted to see the Van Gogh movie and I glanced at the time and saw that if I hurried I could get there in time for the next showing. I again parked out in the rain and rain, now dripping into the cold and echoing Union Station I paid the slow ticket clerk and rushed into the theatre just as the movie was beginning. It was a lovely documentary with a charming set of narrators and a pulse quickening story line to keep the information fresh. I left so glad I had added this in to my already busy day and finally made my way to the Kemper.

Again, yes, you guessed it, in the pouring rain. Since I found street parking nearest the administrative building for the Kemper I started there, and saw several interesting works in their lobby and conference room. I joked with the receptionist about clearly being lost in Seattle when I thought I was vacationing in Kansas City, and then braved the last block to the Kemper. To see the Wyeth family works online only is to not see them at all. I was familiar with the work of N.C. and Andrew, not as much with James or Jamie. Andrew having died earlier this year, the exhibit was a post mortem tribute to him and his family. The works were mostly privately held and loaned expressly for this exhibit. All three were as in touch with the texture of the thing as the image they were creating and I had to use my best restraint to keep from running my finger across each work. I found myself reading about the physical ingredients of each work as much as about its date and title. I wavered back and forth trying to decide which generation of Wyeth struck me the most profoundly. I loved that the rain and the weekday had kept the crowds away. Quietly contemplating a room of beautiful art can take the chill out of the rainiest of days.

There were very few other works I was interested in at the Kemper, and the Nelson-Atkins was closing soon, so I got clarification on the direction to walk from the front desk and headed out. The Kemper and Nelson-Atkins museums are situated on either side of the Art Institute of Kansas City, which is populated with beautiful, peaceful old buildings, brick fences and iron gates. The rain was more of a mist at this point, and my camera came out to play for a bit on the lovely fall landscape.

To be continued tomorrow…

KC Trip: Back in Time Day Two

True to my promise to myself, I kept my exercise plan going and wake at my usual time Wednesday morning to go for a jog. Chris suggested, since sidewalks aren’t available, that I run at the nearby Shawnee Mission Park, which I had noticed on the neighborhood map. I threw on some shorts and a sweatshirt and headed out in the misty, muggy morning. I struggled to wake up as the sun struggled to peek through the cloud cover. It did not rain on me and it felt good to get the car- trip-weary muscles stretched and warm.

Running in this park was a lot like running in Moir Park back at home. The trails were well maintained, winding, and quiet on a weekday morning. After passing a couple of dog walkers in the parking lot, I didn’t see another soul save the gardener driving a little Japanese cart that was vacuuming the walkways. Of course the trees immediately recovered the path not fifty feet beyond him; it was a task that would need to be done again and again over the next few weeks as the variety of trees took their turn with the decorating. Since I hadn’t gone as far as mapping out a course, I merely ran for 17 minutes in one direction and then turned around and headed back, ending my run back at the car.

When I returned to Chris’s all the kids were off at school and I quickly ate and showered so we could get a start to our day. Chris had taken Wednesday off so that we could spend some time together exploring while the kids were occupied at school. She has been happily married for 13 or 14 years to Denny, who is off hunting in South Dakota for the week. I hear about how they met and their fun engagement under the sea, while I peruse the newspaper article that has been framed for their wall. I tell her my own unusual engagement tale and discover that our husbands also both had a bit of a wild past before they settled down with us. We grab the keys and head out to visit the nearby Overland Park Arboretum.

This is a new property, and my mom the garden lover hasn’t therefore seen it in the years she lived in town. They have a beautiful Monet Garden near the entrance, and many of the front gardens are buzzing with volunteers, burying next year’s bulbs and situating the mums and other flowers for the fall. They are a busy happy lot and their work only adds to my enjoyment of the gardens. As we wind through the property we stop to take photos here and again; even as it turns inward toward winter these pathways are full of the colors of ripe and russet. I’m as pleased with this space as any trip I’ve had to the Chanhassen Arboretum.

We waver on where to eat lunch, consulting with the intelligent and pleasant staff member in the visitor center, and finally decide to head straight to Union Station to give us the maximum amount of time. As we step into the car to head into town for lunch, the raindrops start, and we are glad for the morning outdoors unhampered by precipitation. As we step into the car to head into town, the raindrops start, and we are glad for the morning outdoors unhampered by precipitation.

Lunch is at a charming 50’s style lunch counter where we both munch on salads while watching the caramel roll the size of a platter sit enticingly next to the men sitting to my right. I continue to be amazed as we cover topic after topic from our lives and discover more and more heart issues that we align on. We talk about the hard things such as how our children entered our life, which was not by the book for either of us, if in different ways. We talk about the fun things like the fact that we both long to learn to play the violin and just might challenge each other to start lessons within the year. We both agree to skip the expensive exhibits at the Station; namely a decadent one called Chocolate and one that appeals to neither of us on Andy Warhol. The Van Gogh film I wish to see is not playing until Thursday, so instead we head to the car and move over to Crown Center.

I see the Coterie Theatre where Shan’s boyfriend works, we browse through a store with intriguing crafts and art, and then it hits me—the shrinking vision, the sparkles before my eyes, the vague feeling of discomfort—a migraine is threatening, most likely due to a lack of caffeine that morning as we hurried out the door. We grab coffees and sit in the two story atrium, watching it drizzle outside and continuing our talk. The hot coffee works its magic and soon my vision and senses all return to normal and I know its safe to continue.

We quickly take a turn through the Hallmark Museum, and I enjoy it more than I anticipated. It seems another hazard of aging is that history captures my attention more and more. Perhaps now that so much more of it has happened during my lifetime even this egocentric person can find something to be excited about! It begins to rain in earnest as we turn the car toward home, and we find poor Kenzie soaking wet in the driveway when we arrive.

Although I am thrilled with the fun and conversation I have had with Chris today, I am a little relieved when she heads off with the girls to gymnastics. Cole is easy company, going right upstairs to do his homework, singing a sweet little song for 20 minutes or more while I read downstairs. The truth is that it is all too good. All too wonderful and fun and comfortable, and I need a steadying hour to settle in, to take a breath, to realize that I have wasted 27 years when Chris and I could have been of such value in each other’s lives. Or maybe not. Who is to say which and how many of the intervening experiences we have had this past quarter century has molded us to fit so well together? Who knows what wisdom we have picked up along the way has made us just the right mix of tolerant and understanding? Still, as I pretend to skim my book during that hour, I realize I have been given a great gift, something valuable that I do not wish to waste. I breathe deeply, now certain this trip will be a success, and head out to the exercise bike to blow off some energy.

That evening we have decided to stay in. Chris makes a delicious salmon and vegetable dinner and we plan to play games with the kids. Instead, before dinner is finished Chris pulls out her memorabilia from high school and a bottle of wine. Soon we are both engrossed in the past, laughing so hard we draw the kids in from their various pursuits several times, wondering what craziness is going on to create so much mirth. Looking through her photos, dance programs and yearbooks we slowly begin to piece together our past. The highlight of the evening, by a landslide, is Chris’s journals from our senior year, which she transparently shares. We read each other entries and hoot and howl. The boy Tom Hawley has created quite a rift between us, and has moved her to write of her feelings for him often. Tom is a boy we literally picked up on the side of the road one night when I was out driving with Chris and another friend Lani. At first we don’t remember many details, but soon the whole sordid tale unfolds. I’m sure I dated him first, but as he didn’t attend our school, and as my crushes changed almost daily, it appears this information was not relayed to Chris. A few weeks later, Chris and Tom are dating and when I find out a few weeks after that, well, the teenage girl madness begins. I appear to give Chris an awful lot of annoying advice amounting to a suggestion she dump Tom immediately. This is a suggestion that is not well received by Ms. Chris. Her commentary on the whole affair provides much insight into my 17 year old mind as well as hers, and I relish this refreshed knowledge. It becomes clear early on that she is a patient girl to put up with friendship from me. It seems to comes with a lot of judgment and rhetoric . What makes the whole thing very funny is that much of her complaints about me are found in the journal she was keeping for our Advanced Placement English course; the course taught by my all time favorite teacher. Ms. Beitel’s comments are peppered throughout the text so I can be assured she got to read all about what Chris had to say about me. Unfortunately, every ugly word of it rings true as I read it. Yep, turns out I was a shit back then too. Sigh.

We finish out the evening hugging and laughing and enjoying Kenzie’s yearbook. I know we are tired when her matter-of-fact explanation of what the “cop” does at their school sends me into fits of laughter. We head to bed and I am happier than I have been in many months. I have rediscovered some of the origin of who I am. I am re-piecing parts of me that got jettisoned along with so much else during the dark year surrounding my divorce. I’m not proud of everything that is resurfacing, but I am finding that some of my strength, my clarity of purpose, and my zest for life has been around for many years longer than I had recalled. This has a stabilizing effect on me that I like. There are no coyote cries tonight, but the howling wind again provides a fence-line for the cozy warmth I feel inside this trip, inside this house and all its hospitality.

KC Trip: Back in Time Day One

Tuesday, October 22, 2009 (recorded November 1, 2009)

As I age, I find myself less and less setting out on adventures. The sad truth is, like the ossification of the bones in my spine and near my joints, the layers of my lengthening days seem to weigh me down and my spirit forgets it can soar. Still, every couple of years I remember that I am a creature of the road, and I set out to find those parts of myself that get lost in the everyday business of life.

Such was the genesis of the trip that began today. Looking back just a few weeks, I can see where the journey began. A friend from high school now living in Kansas City, has found me through Facebook and after we talk once or twice, we are unsure how to proceed. I make some promises of a visit to online friends from Kansas City. A friend of a friend mentions a violinist who ignites my passion for music. Although from Germany, he just so happens to be playing in Kansas City the third week of October. My mind clicks into “why not? and what if? mode and I’m off, planning a five day trip to spend time with people that are all but strangers, to visit a town I haven’t seen much of since my parents moved away nine years earlier.

Planning a trip with the internet at your fingertips is a delightful treat. Places that were just dots on a map 10 years ago are now available for intimate analysis with Google and tourism websites. I love art and music and architecture and theatre and finding out the wheres and whens of these types of venues in a city precisely 444 miles away is simple. I find the theatre where my German violinist is playing, we order tickets, I look at Google Earth in a street level view and begin to plan the places I will walk that night while waiting for the concert to begin. I hear clips of the music he will play. I see photos of the inside of this lovely restored theatre, I map the trip down to assure I arrive in time to refresh and change for the evening.

On my library website I search with the subject matter “Kansas” and “fiction” and land on the book In Cold Blood by Truman Capote. Ah yes, I think, as I reserve it on CD, this will be the perfect brew for the car trip down. Hour after hour of excellent prose, a sparse, hungry tale read in a pleasant voice will keep my company and be part of the whole experience. I pack hastily the night before, feeling less fearful than I often do just before an adventure.

Although a little later than anticipated, thanks to some smatterings of rain and the ubiquitous road construction, I arrive unharmed and after a brief flutter upon seeing the bountiful property at which my high school buddy resides, we settle in as if the time had never passed.
When I approached this outing I did not anticipate I would be received with such warmth and honesty. The world tells us that when one travels back 27 years, artifice will prevail as the characters seek to show their lives as amounting to more than they have. It is a week of finding that not all of what the world instructs is true. Chris is as real and transparent as the day I last saw her, and this puts me at ease enough to honestly share my own heart.

Her three children are also a delightful surprise. The oldest, Kinsey, is an auburn haired spitfire of a girl, bright and rich and full of life and more certain than most preteens feel they have a right to be. She immediately wins me over by engaging me in conversation, as so few children do with adults these days, and by the welcome note and candy she leaves on the pillow of her bed, which she has given up for the week so I can be comfortable. The youngest, Kyla is also a delightful little sprite, the type of child that even old curmudgeons cannot resist grinning around. She tells me while dancing around the table that she just got braces, that she loves gymnastics, that I look older at 45 than her mother who is the same age. I am entranced for the rest of the visit by her impish ways, by her ease in asking for what she needs emotionally, and her assurance that she will receive it, one way or another. Finally, the boy, Cole, buried in the arms of an oversized leather chair, seemingly lost in a popular TV show, but I can see the sparkle in his eye, the curiosity and the joie de vivre bubbling just beneath the surface. At once, through the review of her children, I know that my friend has become a great mom, providing those ingredients essential to becoming a successful adult; fortitude and resilience and a way of looking at life as if seeing it for the first time each day.

We head outside to visit the horses; we had planned a quick ride before the concert, but the rain has not cooperated and so we feed them, and I nuzzle Rusty, the horse that was born a year before I entered Christine’s life, and who was lost to her for over a dozen before she was reunited with him in his old age. The times we had with this horse – it was horses that initially brought us together beyond the school chore Chris had been assigned of leading the new girl, come midyear to this sleepy little country school, through the first few days of her classes. Seeing this elderly rust colored equine brings back memories that I thought were lost forever. I’m again taken with just how much of my past has been buried. Will the excavation prove positive and helpful? I can smell it, like a scent both exotic and familiar; this trip will be a success.

We change, wolf down a little pizza, instruct the children and head off to our concert. We talk almost without rest throughout the half hour trip. So much to share, so much we find in common at the heart level. Our lives externally appear as if they have taken vastly different paths, but when examined at a deeper level, chords of a similar melody run through both. As we discover this the conversation grows more and more interesting, and I think very early we both see that our friendship will continue now, we’ve come home to it and found it both a comfort and a spark.

We arrive at the theatre, the building a work of art in itself, the seats we have are close enough to give the concert an intimate feel and I discover after only one number that the slick background music quality of his CD masks the magnitude of his skills, and the artistry of his band. David Garrett must be heard live; his music is moving in recorded form, but it blew us away in person. I am notorious as a crier when it comes to the power and magic of live music. This concert is so much more than I expected the tears stay frozen inside. I find myself forgetting to breathe, forgetting that this is real. On break, without realizing it, Chris orders us each a glass of my favorite red wine. The concert restarts. The band is not merely adequately supporting Herr Garrett, they are in fact nearly as brilliant as he and each piece washes over me in different ways than the one before. Chris, who has not researched his music beforehand, is equally enamored. It does not hurt that he is achingly beautiful as well. We head home to apple crisp and ice cream and several more hours of rewarding conversation, and I easily drift off to sleep, feeling safe and happy as a patch of coyotes howl their complaints outdoors. This is a place of joy and safety, I cannot feel their lament right now.

"Picnik Show"

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McClintics

Quite a bit will be written about this lovely family in the next few days (I'm gonna blog my nanowrimo entries in November) and I thought I'd introduce them today.

This is the lovely family I stayed with while in Kansas City. Chris was my best school friend in highschool. I haven't seen her in 27 years. Denny is her charming husband and Kenzie, Cole and Kyla are her great kids.

Ben is One...and loves his daddy!

It was so touching to see Ben interact with Dave on Sunday. That child really is just a lover all the way around! Our evening bookclub got cancelled, so we stayed way longer than I had intended. I was having a great time, so that was a plus!

Old Books

Two schools of thought this girl subscribes to:

1. I like my books, wine and beer well done enough to be background noise to the story or drinking experience. I want the words or the taste to be subtle and to not draw attention to themselves, so I can go about the business of being caught up in the story or just enjoying a drink.


2. But I also like a book, wine or beer with a strong note of identity to it. Scott and I did some wine tasting at the apple orchard this year, and the wines that caught my attention and made me want to buy them were the ones that had a singular flavor. That stood out from the crowd. I've definately had my share of book crushes that were based on the words the author used, as much as the actual story, which in those cases becomes secondary in importance. It's the poet in me I think.

I have read several great stories lately, books where I can't really comment on the quality of writing, except to say that it didn't get in the way of what I really wanted, which was the story.

I wanted to mix in some juicy words, and so I reserved Metamorphoses by Ovid from the library. Imagine my delight when I picked it up and it was this antique copy, printed in 1922 and first checked out in 1947? Luscious!

The preface reads,

The eastern skies of modern thought are flushed with the dawn of a Classic
revival. The transient dark agse of dollar education, finding neither
comfort for the present nor hope for the future in such rewards as gross
materialism affords, turn eagerly to the morning light of the ageless
Classics.

Hard to believe that was written in 1922, it sounds to pertinent to 2009.