I have found that as children get older, performances get longer - whether they are plays or concerts - and yet the seating arrangements stay uncomfortably the same. As I walked toward the gymnasium I was debating my choices. I could head for the folding, unyielding, metal chairs in the front to allow for pictures without framing it with shoulders and heads of the people in front of me. However the chairs were always packed closely together and didn't allow for much personal space. I decided that I would change things up and sit on the bleacher seats instead - same butt-numbing results, but the advantage of a higher viewpoint which comes in handy for large groups such as this one and the ability to spread out a bit. People tend to leave a bit of space between each other on bleacher seats, and it's easy to shift a bit to either side when not impersonating a can of sardines. At least with these concerts there is no worry of being unable to hear, microphones and speakers flanked the back to amplify the piece enough that even the parents at the top could hear clearly.
High school concerts are the big leagues of the public school concert world, and programs are handed out at the entrance. I took two, one for reading through and using as reference during the performance (and then as a fan once the air became sifling) and the other to tuck carefully away to take home and put in the scrapbook with the pictures I would take. I had my digital camera, video camera, and tripod all stored in my handy camera bag, along with extra rechargable batteries and AC adaptors tucked in the side pockets. Over my other should I carried my purse, hastily cleaned out at home and refilled with bottles of water and granola bars (mostly for my son after the concert), tissues and a foldable seat cushion for me (it was a large purse). I saw a lot of familiar faces as I found a seat. We were all like an extended family by now, seeing each other four or five times a year at these same functions. I set up camp mid-way up the bleachers in the center section, just 5 rows down from the top where there were several wall outlets, just in case. I waved at another mom heading up the steps with similar gear in tow. She scooted past me and began setting up as well. We chatted a bit while getting comfy, placing our jackets beside us to make sure no one encroached in our territory, and looked through the program commenting on the soloist selections and pieces that the children were performing. The selection for that year was Jersey Boys, and I was pleased to see that there were several pieces that were familiar upbeat songs.
The audience hushed as the performers quickly and quietly entered and took their beginning places. The boys all looked rather dashing in white dinner jackets and bow ties, and the girls in purple sequins with large tulle bows around their waist. Scanning the layout of the group, I turned on the video camera and adjusted the zoom so that I would be able to see all of them and I wouldn't have to fiddle with the buttons except to zoom closer for the soloists. The director stepped up and described the different pieces for the performance, introduced the soloists and walked towards the small band that would be playing the music. As the band began, the singers all began the choreographed steps, smiles in place. I spotted my son near the back with most of the other boys and snapped a few still photos of him, and them, as they stepped and moved to the music.
I find that the show chior is aptly named, it is a complete show story with amazing vocals. The opening song shifted to another as the ladies melted away and the gentlemen stepped forward. My son took a step further toward the microphone and I zoomed in the camera as he began his solo piece. I held my breath. He had been practicing all week, humming under his breath and doing scales while in the shower, and it had paid off - he was fantastic. I managed to get a picture or two of him before I had to dig for the tissues in my purse. As his voice trailed off on the final note, the wave of applause built. Technically the applause was supposed to be held until the end to keep from interrupting the following song, but since I didn't start it I didn't feel too guilty in clapping just as loud as I could. Standing there in the spotlight, smiling as the applause (his applause) drowned out the continued music, his eyes met mine and I gave him two thumbs up. I sat back comfortably on my cushion to enjoy the rest of the performance. I thought of the amazing journey my son had brought me on, from school to school, group to group, concert to concert, and I was so thankful that he did. All of it, every painful and butt-numbig minute, had been worth it for just this one night.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Monday, May 9, 2011
Week 13 - Review
I have always been a fan of book series. Different styles, different genre - I just love a good story, and it's a great pleasure to finish a good book and know that there is another portion of the characters lives that I get to live along with them. It's almost like calling up an old friend every month or so and catching up on things. One of the first series that I became addicted to was the "Clan of the Cave Bear" series by Jean Auel. In this series we follow our heroine Ayla from early childhood to eventual motherhood in the shadow of the last Ice Age. When I had last re-read my final book in the series, I noticed in the author notes that she was working on another book for the series, I frantically went online searching for publication dates, in hopes that it was out and available at my nearest bookstore. Sadly, that was not the case, I had to wait another six whole months for the next installment to arrive. As the release date came closer, I pulled out all of the other books and dutifully read them all through in preparation, it would not do to read the new book without having the previous stories fresh in my mind. Finally the day arrived and I plunked down my hard earned money on the counter, not even minding the extra I paid for hardcover when I usually went for the more comfortably priced paperback. I waited for a quiet evening to crack open the cover and begin my new journey into "The Land of Painted Caves."
New mother Ayla was continuing her training of the Zelandonia and happily married to her love Jondalar, all was well. The story drifted along, pausing here and there to remind readers, or to instruct those who had not read earlier books, of the history of the characters and land. I noticed as I went along though, that there was a lot of that backtracking, a whole lot. I understand the concept of not wanting to exclude readers that didn't have the history, but it became obvious that serious portions of this "new" book weren't new, but a recap of earlier ones. I plowed onward, optomistic that Ms. Auel would catch the new readers up to speed and the second half of the book would surge forward in time.
Ayla went to the grand summer meeting of people. Her new introduction to everyone was over and this year she was able to look forward to familiar faces and catching up on news. She was able to introduce her new daughter and juggled her duties as mother and wife with her new increasing demands of the Zelandonia, the spiritual leaders and healers of the people. As the title foretells, as part of her training she is taken on a tour of the lands to see all of the sacred caves and their paintings. There are lots of descriptons of stalagmites and stalagtites, dark echoing caverns, and cryptic lines and markings with the caves they visit. All the while, Ayla is absorbing these with wonder and widom. An chance meeting with a group of "outlaw" men from a nearby cave introduces the idea of retribution and justice in this early civilization, but Ayla and Jondalar return safely to their home in the Ninth cave as the summer closes.
Apparently winter in early civilizations is as boring as winter in modern times, because we skip forward to spring and Ayla's continued training. Sadly the story detours to Ayla's history, as read in books one and two, and I get another chapters closer to the end of the book. I must admit at this time I was waiting on the edge of my seat for some spark of new life to bring some conflict and excitement to the story. While there was a captivating chapter or two when Ayla recieves her "calling" to the spiritual world, and the sacrifice she makes for that calling, the conflict never comes. Unfortunately, although the author notes do not mention it, this seven hundred fifty seven pages is merely Ms. Auel's re-entry to authoring, and is apparently the groundwork for another book to follow. I would recommend that avid Cave Bear fans reread the older books and wait for Painted Caves to come out in paperback to spare the $30 hardcover price, and wait for a couple of years for (hopefully) another book to come out that has that same spark and interest that the older ones had, yet this one sorely lacks.
New mother Ayla was continuing her training of the Zelandonia and happily married to her love Jondalar, all was well. The story drifted along, pausing here and there to remind readers, or to instruct those who had not read earlier books, of the history of the characters and land. I noticed as I went along though, that there was a lot of that backtracking, a whole lot. I understand the concept of not wanting to exclude readers that didn't have the history, but it became obvious that serious portions of this "new" book weren't new, but a recap of earlier ones. I plowed onward, optomistic that Ms. Auel would catch the new readers up to speed and the second half of the book would surge forward in time.
Ayla went to the grand summer meeting of people. Her new introduction to everyone was over and this year she was able to look forward to familiar faces and catching up on news. She was able to introduce her new daughter and juggled her duties as mother and wife with her new increasing demands of the Zelandonia, the spiritual leaders and healers of the people. As the title foretells, as part of her training she is taken on a tour of the lands to see all of the sacred caves and their paintings. There are lots of descriptons of stalagmites and stalagtites, dark echoing caverns, and cryptic lines and markings with the caves they visit. All the while, Ayla is absorbing these with wonder and widom. An chance meeting with a group of "outlaw" men from a nearby cave introduces the idea of retribution and justice in this early civilization, but Ayla and Jondalar return safely to their home in the Ninth cave as the summer closes.
Apparently winter in early civilizations is as boring as winter in modern times, because we skip forward to spring and Ayla's continued training. Sadly the story detours to Ayla's history, as read in books one and two, and I get another chapters closer to the end of the book. I must admit at this time I was waiting on the edge of my seat for some spark of new life to bring some conflict and excitement to the story. While there was a captivating chapter or two when Ayla recieves her "calling" to the spiritual world, and the sacrifice she makes for that calling, the conflict never comes. Unfortunately, although the author notes do not mention it, this seven hundred fifty seven pages is merely Ms. Auel's re-entry to authoring, and is apparently the groundwork for another book to follow. I would recommend that avid Cave Bear fans reread the older books and wait for Painted Caves to come out in paperback to spare the $30 hardcover price, and wait for a couple of years for (hopefully) another book to come out that has that same spark and interest that the older ones had, yet this one sorely lacks.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Week 12 - Book Intro
As a gangly young teenager I was desperately looking for a way to reconnect with my stepfather. He had been around since I was five and things were just like a "normal family" until I had gotten to about twelve. Inexplicably, he and I never talked any more. Our conversations became one sided where he interjected a monosyllable every once in a while before abruptly ending by telling me to go do "something." I had no way of knowing, with my preteen experience, that it had almost nothing to do with me. Looking back now, I understand the undercurrents of my parents' lives at that time and see more clearly that there was nothing that I could have said or done to make any significant change in my stepfather's grumpy disposition. I never saw the drunken episodes or heard the arguments about his drinking between him and my mother, those were stories that I heard much later in life. Long after the denial of being an alcoholic, the quitting cold turkey, the many falls off of the wagon, and finally the divorce in my early twenties - that was when my mother and I talked about those times. But back then I was sure that it must be about me, and since it was I could, and must, fix it.
Since I was a young teenage girl, and my father a guy's kinda guy, there was little mutual ground for me to work with. Still I gave it a shot. That summer was interesting in many ways for me, since I learned a lot of new things from him even if it was with faked interest from the start. That was the year that I learned to shoot a rifle, when I kept asking him about the one that we kept in the barn in case of raccoons or big rats. He took me out and showed me how to shoot a few evenings a week for a month or so. We shot some of the empty beer cans, ironically that he provided, off of the mound of dirt past the garden. I learned how to change a bike tire tube, how to tell the difference between English and metric wrenches, and how to work a wood splitter. All of these activities were rather short lived. I assumed that I had not put in proper effort, and kept casting about for another avenue to reconnect.
He was never much of a reader, not for fun anyway, but I was. I loved reading just about anything. I actually had a secret goal of reading every non-fiction book in our little elementary school library before finishing eighth grade (I made it to the W's). I had noticed on a little shelf in our living room that there were a couple of old, faded paperback books. I had asked my mom and she had said that they weren't hers, so they must have been his. I thought how perfect it would be if I read them and then I could talk to him about the books. The covers were rather odd, an old Star Wars kinda look to them, and they were obviously old and well-read. The title didn't give me any hint or clue as to what I was delving into, just a single word "Dune" with the smaller letters "Frank Herbert" underneath the silhouette of a man walking in a desert. I knew my stepfathers liking for the science fiction stories - we watched Dr. Who on PBS and sat and watched Star Trek (the originals with Scotty and Kirk) every night - so I knew that this must be along the same lines.
Delving into the work of Arrakis, known as "Dune" to the natives was an amazing experience for me. Not only was this a new and amazing adventure, but it was the first time that I found that grown-up books could be as interesting and attention-grabbing to me as the young adult versions. It seemed easy to forget everything that I know and allow the author to paint a new universe, where monstrous animals lived, space travel was as common as cruise ships, and magic lived and breathed within societies. The voyage of the teen prince to a new world was easy to follow, and lent itself nicely to my own tribulations. While I was unable to use "Dune" as a vehicle to bridge the widening gap between myself and my stepfather, I was able to follow along with young Prince Leto through many stages of his life. Through the reading several books in the series, I imagined my stepfather reading them at my own age, and I at least felt that while we were on different pages now, once we had both been in the same place, riding along on a highliner to a new unknown world.
Since I was a young teenage girl, and my father a guy's kinda guy, there was little mutual ground for me to work with. Still I gave it a shot. That summer was interesting in many ways for me, since I learned a lot of new things from him even if it was with faked interest from the start. That was the year that I learned to shoot a rifle, when I kept asking him about the one that we kept in the barn in case of raccoons or big rats. He took me out and showed me how to shoot a few evenings a week for a month or so. We shot some of the empty beer cans, ironically that he provided, off of the mound of dirt past the garden. I learned how to change a bike tire tube, how to tell the difference between English and metric wrenches, and how to work a wood splitter. All of these activities were rather short lived. I assumed that I had not put in proper effort, and kept casting about for another avenue to reconnect.
He was never much of a reader, not for fun anyway, but I was. I loved reading just about anything. I actually had a secret goal of reading every non-fiction book in our little elementary school library before finishing eighth grade (I made it to the W's). I had noticed on a little shelf in our living room that there were a couple of old, faded paperback books. I had asked my mom and she had said that they weren't hers, so they must have been his. I thought how perfect it would be if I read them and then I could talk to him about the books. The covers were rather odd, an old Star Wars kinda look to them, and they were obviously old and well-read. The title didn't give me any hint or clue as to what I was delving into, just a single word "Dune" with the smaller letters "Frank Herbert" underneath the silhouette of a man walking in a desert. I knew my stepfathers liking for the science fiction stories - we watched Dr. Who on PBS and sat and watched Star Trek (the originals with Scotty and Kirk) every night - so I knew that this must be along the same lines.
Delving into the work of Arrakis, known as "Dune" to the natives was an amazing experience for me. Not only was this a new and amazing adventure, but it was the first time that I found that grown-up books could be as interesting and attention-grabbing to me as the young adult versions. It seemed easy to forget everything that I know and allow the author to paint a new universe, where monstrous animals lived, space travel was as common as cruise ships, and magic lived and breathed within societies. The voyage of the teen prince to a new world was easy to follow, and lent itself nicely to my own tribulations. While I was unable to use "Dune" as a vehicle to bridge the widening gap between myself and my stepfather, I was able to follow along with young Prince Leto through many stages of his life. Through the reading several books in the series, I imagined my stepfather reading them at my own age, and I at least felt that while we were on different pages now, once we had both been in the same place, riding along on a highliner to a new unknown world.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Week 11 - Expertise
Seven days and counting to our family vacation, time to get to work. The trip and reservations had been set and planned several months ahead, and left to sit quietly until now. Our family, my husband, myself, and our four children are driving to Tennessee to visit with my mother for a week.
The lists begin, lists are as essential to me as breathing when planning a trip with our family. Lists for the trip itself, we are driving fourteen hundred miles with two adults and four children in one vehicle. Lists for the vacation itself, when we arrive in the mountains of Tennessee and our rented cabin. And of course, the list for the trip home. All of the lists are placed in the folder that will reside safely next to my co-pilot seat, along with the reservation confirmation paperwork, the registration and insurance information for the van, and an extensive list of phone numbers on the off chance a cell phone is lost along the way.
Packing begins. Confidently, with extensive list in hand, I begin by tackling each of the kids dressers one at a time. Carefully selecting only the choicest articles of clothing, ones that are comfortable for wearing in the car, are presentable enough to wear if we go to a nice restaurant for dinner, and will be warm enough/cool enough depending on the weather. All goes into the quickly filling laundry basket. Once the preliminary selections are finished, I pull out the kids backpacks and empty them of the residual school papers and broken pencils. Checking off each item on the list as I pack, each backpack fills with the required number of socks, shorts, tshirts, and underwear. Allowing each of the kids to have their clothes packed in their own backpack allows for easy packing and unpacking, but also allows easy access while we are traveling. One bag for all of the extra shoes and sandals to keep any dirt, mud, or residual shoe smell safely away from the clothes. The final backpack for all of the bathroom items that we are bringing, shampoo, contact lens solution, toothpaste, deodorant, etc - all safe in one place should anything leak. The last to be packed, the only suitcase, would hold hubby's and my own clothes. It also held the precautionary mattress cover for my son's occasional nighttime accidents, extra socks (which seem to disappear away from home much faster than they do at home), and any other incidentals that didn't fit in any of the other backpack's categories.
With all of the items on my list checked and accounted for, I pulled out my tried and true LL Bean bag. It's one of the bigger ones, but it was the perfect size to fit between the front seats under the slide-out cup holders. This is what my hubby calls the Doomsday Bag, because if we lose it, we are doomed. These are the basic essentials required to go any length of time with my children in any vehicle. In this bag goes a handful or two of pencils, a couple sharpeners, individual book lights for each of them to read (eternally optimistic), extra rechargeable batteries and the charger, every charger cord for the various electronics we are taking, and individual mini packs of M&M's and mini candy bars (never underestimate the power of chocolate as persuasion). Topping all of this off is a gallon zip lock bag of the various medications that my son takes, the few my husband will need if his gout attacks, cough drops, antacids (my oldest son nearly killed us all after a bad BBQ sandwich last year), Nyquil, melatonin, and 3 large bottles of Advil. Carefully placing the red striped bag near the now-assembled pile of backpacks, There is one last item on my agenda. I grab throw five throw pillows from the couch (I always knew they were good for something) and open the blanket chest for five of the fleece throws I made last year.
I call for all of the troops and explain that nothing, Nothing, was to be added, taken out, or messed with in any way unless I okayed it. They all look at me with acceptance, knowing from past experiences the frantic animal I become if someone alters my perfected form of over-organization. I point to the empty laundry basket next to the pile and tell them that if there is something else that they want or have to take, it should go in there, and we would see if there was space when it came time to pack up. I knew that it would be overflowing by the time we left, and most would find it's way into the space left in my suitcase. I gaze at the pile periodically throughout the time left before we leave, mentally reviewing if we had enough socks, or if I had forgotten anything vitally important; picturing in my mind how it should be stacked and packed in the van so that there would still be enough room for all of the kids. My job for vacation is the provisioning and packing, to make sure we get there with all bits and pieces intact, and then I am on vacation. At least until it's time to pack up again to come home.
The lists begin, lists are as essential to me as breathing when planning a trip with our family. Lists for the trip itself, we are driving fourteen hundred miles with two adults and four children in one vehicle. Lists for the vacation itself, when we arrive in the mountains of Tennessee and our rented cabin. And of course, the list for the trip home. All of the lists are placed in the folder that will reside safely next to my co-pilot seat, along with the reservation confirmation paperwork, the registration and insurance information for the van, and an extensive list of phone numbers on the off chance a cell phone is lost along the way.
Packing begins. Confidently, with extensive list in hand, I begin by tackling each of the kids dressers one at a time. Carefully selecting only the choicest articles of clothing, ones that are comfortable for wearing in the car, are presentable enough to wear if we go to a nice restaurant for dinner, and will be warm enough/cool enough depending on the weather. All goes into the quickly filling laundry basket. Once the preliminary selections are finished, I pull out the kids backpacks and empty them of the residual school papers and broken pencils. Checking off each item on the list as I pack, each backpack fills with the required number of socks, shorts, tshirts, and underwear. Allowing each of the kids to have their clothes packed in their own backpack allows for easy packing and unpacking, but also allows easy access while we are traveling. One bag for all of the extra shoes and sandals to keep any dirt, mud, or residual shoe smell safely away from the clothes. The final backpack for all of the bathroom items that we are bringing, shampoo, contact lens solution, toothpaste, deodorant, etc - all safe in one place should anything leak. The last to be packed, the only suitcase, would hold hubby's and my own clothes. It also held the precautionary mattress cover for my son's occasional nighttime accidents, extra socks (which seem to disappear away from home much faster than they do at home), and any other incidentals that didn't fit in any of the other backpack's categories.
With all of the items on my list checked and accounted for, I pulled out my tried and true LL Bean bag. It's one of the bigger ones, but it was the perfect size to fit between the front seats under the slide-out cup holders. This is what my hubby calls the Doomsday Bag, because if we lose it, we are doomed. These are the basic essentials required to go any length of time with my children in any vehicle. In this bag goes a handful or two of pencils, a couple sharpeners, individual book lights for each of them to read (eternally optimistic), extra rechargeable batteries and the charger, every charger cord for the various electronics we are taking, and individual mini packs of M&M's and mini candy bars (never underestimate the power of chocolate as persuasion). Topping all of this off is a gallon zip lock bag of the various medications that my son takes, the few my husband will need if his gout attacks, cough drops, antacids (my oldest son nearly killed us all after a bad BBQ sandwich last year), Nyquil, melatonin, and 3 large bottles of Advil. Carefully placing the red striped bag near the now-assembled pile of backpacks, There is one last item on my agenda. I grab throw five throw pillows from the couch (I always knew they were good for something) and open the blanket chest for five of the fleece throws I made last year.
I call for all of the troops and explain that nothing, Nothing, was to be added, taken out, or messed with in any way unless I okayed it. They all look at me with acceptance, knowing from past experiences the frantic animal I become if someone alters my perfected form of over-organization. I point to the empty laundry basket next to the pile and tell them that if there is something else that they want or have to take, it should go in there, and we would see if there was space when it came time to pack up. I knew that it would be overflowing by the time we left, and most would find it's way into the space left in my suitcase. I gaze at the pile periodically throughout the time left before we leave, mentally reviewing if we had enough socks, or if I had forgotten anything vitally important; picturing in my mind how it should be stacked and packed in the van so that there would still be enough room for all of the kids. My job for vacation is the provisioning and packing, to make sure we get there with all bits and pieces intact, and then I am on vacation. At least until it's time to pack up again to come home.
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