Musical Memories

The love of music runs deep in my family. My mother was a music major in college, and my dad has played the piano since he was young. I, in fact, am named after the patron saint of music. So it is only natural that my mother started to teach me how to play the piano when I was four. It's funny how well I can still remember the songs that were in my first piano book, especially when I can't remember the name of the person I met yesterday at the park, but music has a way of helping us remember.

When I was nine, my mother took me to a concert. Afterwards, she asked me what I thought of the cello, and introduced me to the man who would be my cello teacher for the next eight years, Mr. F. Every Saturday morning for three years, my mother dutifully drove me to Mr. F's house for lessons. He held the lessons in his studio in the basement, where his little Italian mother also had her apartment. My lessons were often punctuated by the fragrance of Italian food, and I could occasionally hear "Mama" F. talking to herself in Italian. Mr. F himself was a gentle man, knew and understood music well, and it was a true honor to know him and to have learned from him.  After his mother died, he moved to a new house, and my lessons moved to a new day.

I was also dutifully taking piano lessons from my mother. But at one point, when I was twelve or thirteen, Mom decided that we needed to take lessons from someone besides her, and she signed us up to take lessons from the neighborhood piano teacher, Mrs. F. Mrs. F was a very different teacher from my mother. For one thing, she spent much of my lesson listening to me play as she sat in a chair across the room and smoked. I would finish playing my song, turn on the piano bench, and watch the swirls of smoke rise over her head, as she commented on my playing. If I needed help, she would tamp out her cigarette, jump to her feet, and stand next to me at the piano, leaning over me to play. Mrs. F was quite a busty woman, and I would lean away, since if I didn't, my personal space would be invaded by "the girls." Mrs. F would demonstrate the correct way to play, her long nails clicking as she played. "You need to count this like so...'one T and A, two T and A...' "

One summer, the thought of having to walk to my piano lesson in the heat, sit in a cloud of cigarette smoke, and be invaded by strange breasts seemed like more than I could stand. I told my sister that I DID NOT want to go to my piano lesson, and she came up with a "scathingly brilliant" idea. She took her hair brush and hit my arms and legs with it, creating little sores that looked like a scary rash. I showed my mother, who was convinced that I was having some kind of allergic reaction to something, and I stayed home from my lesson that day. The next week, some of the "rash" still remained, so I showed it to Mrs. F, who clucked, "Oh, you poor dear. I hope you're better now."

When I was fifteen, Mrs. F announced to me that she wanted me to date her son, A, when I was sixteen. A was already in college, studying to become a veterinarian. A was not at all appealing to me. For one thing, he needed his mother to set him up with a date! Sometimes when I had my lessons, he would lurk in the wings, staring at me as I played. It felt more and more uncomfortable to go to my piano lessons, and I was dreading turning sixteen. I did not see how I could turn down Mrs. F's request that I date her son without offending her. And for all her idiosyncracies, I did like and care about Mrs. F a lot.

But God was watching out for me. Two things happened that saved me from the dreaded A. For one thing, I started dating a guy from my class named D. For another, we moved, and I stopped taking piano lessons, focusing solely on cello.

I often wonder whether Mrs. F is still around, teaching students, singing to them in her low, smoky voice, her fingernails clicking as she plays. I wonder what happened to A. I hope he found and married someone wonderful. I pray for Mr. F, my beloved cello teacher, who died several years ago. The last time I saw him was at my wedding, when he did me the honor of playing the cello for the ceremony.

My kids are now taking music lessons, and sometimes when I hear one of their teachers count out a difficult passage, I hear Mrs. F's voice in my head, counting along, and I am surprised when I don't hear her nails clicking on the keys.

Front Row Seats

Life with my husband, Scott, is never boring. We have now been married twenty six years, and I am still amazed and amused at what he does, but I am not sure I am any closer to really understanding him than I was as a young bride. He has a quirky way of doing things, and I am alternately cringing or chuckling, depending on my mood. Scott's favorite phrase is "dog squirt." (Yes, I do realize what images that phrase brings to mind!) If a room is messy, he'll announce, "This room looks like dog squirt." Or, "This smells like dog squirt." Or even,"I feel like dog squirt." He even uses it as an expletive, "DOG SQUIRT!!!!!"

Scott is a bit like a mad professor. He really focuses on things he is working on, and he can't always pull his head out of his project enough to explain himself to the rest of us. He is also famous for losing things. The combination of these two problems can make life interesting.

"Where's my......?"
"Your WHAT?"
"My.....(accompanied by some sort of gesture)"
"WHAT???"
"My....you know... (he now points his index finger and makes rotating motions with it)"
"You mean your screwdriver?"
"Yes, that's what I said."
"Which one, flat or Phillips?"
"That one. (He makes a criss cross motion)"
"In your dresser."
"Where in my dresser? I can't find anything in there. It's always covered with clothes."
"That's because you keep your tools in your drawers. Where should I put your clothes, in your toolbox?" (Right now, in Scott's underwear drawer, there are empty medication bottles, a couple of test kits, several screwdrivers, pliers, screws, several flashlights, and a haircut/beard trimming kit. Where am I supposed to put the underwear?)

I would have to say that my favorite Scott story happened about two years ago. We had taken our five youngest kids on a month long RV trip across the country. This alone should let you know exactly what our mental status is. In any case, we were at our campground near Washington, D.C., getting ready for our first trip into the city. Our campground provided a shuttle into town, and it dropped passengers off at the Metro station. The kids and I had grabbed all of our backpacks, water bottles, and other daily necessities, and were sitting in the shuttle, waiting for Scott. On the shuttle with us were several older couples, most of them from the South. The kids and I sat for a few minutes and listened to their pleasant banter.

All of a sudden, we heard a door slam. Scott came running out to the shuttle carrying the umbrella stroller and camera bags. With every step, his shorts rode a little lower on his hips. Finally, his shorts fell completely down. Poor Scott had his hands full, so he ran a few steps with his shorts around his ankles, then realized he would move faster if he could hike them up. He grabbed his shorts and yanked them up, while still jogging out to the shuttle. The ladies in the shuttle started to giggle and hoot. "I've seen EVERYTHING now," one of them commented between snorts. I admit it, I couldn't resist. "Well...that's because he lost his pants!"

Red-faced, my beloved finally reached the shuttle, climbed up the stairs, and asked me, "Honey, do you know where my belt is?" "Yes, it's on the stove." (Only those of you who have stayed in an RV with five kids before will understand how a belt could end up on the stove.) Scott turned to the shuttle driver. "Do you mind if I go and get it?" "PLEASE DO!" the shuttle driver exclaimed. Scott jogged off to get his belt, and applause broke out when he got back on the shuttle with his belt ON. Every morning after that, as we got on the shuttle, the ladies would giggle and whisper to each other. And my dear husband just grinned at them.

Sometimes I feel as though I live at the zoo, other times I feel like my house is a three ring circus. Either way, I have front row seats. And they're the best seats in the house.

Queen of Notebooks

My husband has called me "the queen of notebooks" because to me there is something promising about a blank notebook. All of that lovely blank paper waiting for me to fill it gives me a little thrill. I could write anything in there! I am a sucker for a good notebook. I especially like the smaller ones that fit in my purse. I do buy a lot of notebooks, and I currently have about twenty that are in various stages of being filled up.

My notebooks contain my dreams. My dreams of finally being organized again, of all those wonderful homeschooling plans I want to implement, of healthy menu plans for my family, of cleaning routines that will make keeping house more routine and easier, of places I want to go and things I want to see, books I want to read, music I want to play.

The problem is that I am WAY better at planning than I am at implementing my plans. This is one of the things about myself that I do not like, and I want to change. It is sad to think of all of my little notebooks full of unrealized dreams. I am going to give my little notebooks the dignity they deserve. One at a time, I am going to actually DO what I have planned to do in each of my little notebooks. And I am starting with one of the ones I dread the most but need the most - organizing my home.

So wish me luck, keep me in your prayers, and please post your best cleaning and organizing tips, because I need all the help I can get.

A Little More about Me

A couple of years ago, I thought that I might write a blog. I had it in mind to write about broad aspects of my life: being Catholic, homeschooling, having a large family. I didn't want to get too personal, this IS the Internet, after all! I set up my blog, but never actually posted to it.

But really, who is interested in generalities? Isn't it much more interesting to have personal glimpses into other people's lives?

That's what this blog is about. Little glimpses into my life.

So, in random order, here are a few things about me:

I am completely in love with my husband, and we have been married 26 years.
I am unapologetically Catholic. I was born Catholic, and after years of study and prayer, I choose to remain Catholic. There's just nothing else like it!
I love to read. So much so that it borders on obsession.
I play the cello. Not as well as I did in college, but I do play. And I love music, all kinds of music. I especially love good harmony. I do not like most rap. I don't consider talking to a beat music.
Bad grammar makes me twitch.
My children are my heart. They are noisy. They must constantly be reminded to pick up after themselves. Most of them have some form of ADD/ADHD. But they are seven of the kindest, funniest people I know, and I am blessed to be their mother.
Six of my seven children live at home.
My home has been called "the house of commotion."
I love animals, especially dogs. I will always have at least one dog, probably more.
I can't stand beer, but I love wine. However, Diet Dr. Pepper is my all-time favorite drink.
I love to travel!
I miss my grandmother. She had twelve children, and most days I think of about ten questions I'd love to ask her.
When I lived alone, I was very organized. Now, I seem to be organizationally challenged.

I am going to leave it at that for now. If I told you EVERYTHING about myself, you would have no reason to continue reading!