Count Em....31
We woke up early that morning because we had to get the fruit and berries ready for the sangria. It was going to be a fine day and a wonderful party!
At noon, with all the preparations behind us, and dressed to the nines, Chris and Sarah, Dave and I walked out the side door into my folks’ garden, to get married. Because I never knew the lyrics to anything, the “processional” music was Cat Stevens’ Morning Has Broken, and justified or not, I’m blaming that music for the fact that I cried from the minute we opened the door and I realized this was not just a party until well after we’d signed the register.
Most of our immediate and extended family and many of our friends were there, which was wonderful and heartwarming, and I love that in that flowery and verdant garden, which was my mother’s joy, we were all various versions of young, strong and beautiful. There was a beribbonned swing way in the back of the yard, we had croquet and horseshoes and stilts, music and food, a beautiful homemade cake covered in fresh flowers and we had successfully concocted a very potent version of sangria that we still make for special occasions; we had given the kids ID bracelets with their new initials, my brother Pat took lots of pictures, which I can still see in my head, but which, except for a few, are lost now—still in the beigey-rose album we used to look at in the dead of winter, but which disappeared when we made the move from our big house.
I can remember being humbled by the strength of my emotions, delighted at the solemn way the kids were involved and dizzy, dizzy with love.
Outwardly, we’ve seldom made a big deal of our wedding anniversary. In fact, we joke about how many of them were spent apart, but every year, in my heart and in my increasingly doddering mind, I celebrate it again and congratulate us on the brilliant decision we made that year to have a party at which we’d get married.
We woke up early that morning because we had to get the fruit and berries ready for the sangria. It was going to be a fine day and a wonderful party!
At noon, with all the preparations behind us, and dressed to the nines, Chris and Sarah, Dave and I walked out the side door into my folks’ garden, to get married. Because I never knew the lyrics to anything, the “processional” music was Cat Stevens’ Morning Has Broken, and justified or not, I’m blaming that music for the fact that I cried from the minute we opened the door and I realized this was not just a party until well after we’d signed the register.
Lorna and Dave 1979
I can remember being humbled by the strength of my emotions, delighted at the solemn way the kids were involved and dizzy, dizzy with love.
Outwardly, we’ve seldom made a big deal of our wedding anniversary. In fact, we joke about how many of them were spent apart, but every year, in my heart and in my increasingly doddering mind, I celebrate it again and congratulate us on the brilliant decision we made that year to have a party at which we’d get married.
One of my friends posted music from “The Piano” tonight on Facebook. He was very taken by the sound, so I watched the video. It reminded me how compelling the movie was, and that I’d like to see it if we ever start watching DVDs again.
More than that, it reminded me that I love full-bore, bang the keys piano like Vanessa Carleton and Tori Amos play. The tinkly end of the piano doesn’t interest me at all, so I’m partial to Rachmaninoff and his robust ilk if I’m listening to classical music, which probably explains why I’m also drawn to the cello, the contralto and bass voices, and the drums (but not the high hat feature).
When I was a singer, I had a rich and full-voiced sound, which used to surprise people who thought I’d be singing in the upper ranges because I was just a bit of a thing. I did well with choral music, I could ballad till the cows came home and if something had released my inhibitions I could sing a mean blues number. I think I miss singing more than almost anything that I don’t do anymore.
If I could go back though, I’d cherish that voice, but I’d also like to have learned to play the drums—my brothers play drums, one brother and one sister play guitar and legions of my relatives play a multitude of instruments, sing and write music. It’s wonderful to see their joy.
Even more than playing “drums”, I’d love to have learned to play these. Or these. Or these:
More than that, it reminded me that I love full-bore, bang the keys piano like Vanessa Carleton and Tori Amos play. The tinkly end of the piano doesn’t interest me at all, so I’m partial to Rachmaninoff and his robust ilk if I’m listening to classical music, which probably explains why I’m also drawn to the cello, the contralto and bass voices, and the drums (but not the high hat feature).
When I was a singer, I had a rich and full-voiced sound, which used to surprise people who thought I’d be singing in the upper ranges because I was just a bit of a thing. I did well with choral music, I could ballad till the cows came home and if something had released my inhibitions I could sing a mean blues number. I think I miss singing more than almost anything that I don’t do anymore.
If I could go back though, I’d cherish that voice, but I’d also like to have learned to play the drums—my brothers play drums, one brother and one sister play guitar and legions of my relatives play a multitude of instruments, sing and write music. It’s wonderful to see their joy.
Even more than playing “drums”, I’d love to have learned to play these. Or these. Or these:
- just kidding!
Sometimes, I can’t narrow down a subject for a post. Today, I just let a number jump into my head, and then counted out the same number of photos on my web album site. This was the result:
We had all gone to a First Nations celebration at Victoria Island, and I thought this was a beauteous picture of Emma, Julia and their friend Lucy.
I have to admit that I also thought that they were too close to the water. I sometimes channel my mother like that. She had the most vivid imagination when it came to possible danger—which probably explains the dearth of childhood accidents in our family.
The water is the Ottawa River, and if I had taken the photo from further away, we would have been able to see the back of the Parliament Buildings and the National Gallery. but I am a people picture-taker, and just went for cute.
Victoria Island is a five-minute walk from our place, and a centre for First Nations activities. That is as it should be but when I’m there I can’t help but think about the first two seasons of the Ottawa Shakespeare Company when they produced A Midsummer Night’s Dream and the Scottish Play there in the early 1990s. The Company was a newly-formed one, and I was on the Board, Bruce a performer, Sarah, Emily and I did various front-of-house tasks, I did a lot of schmoozing, Dave came to a few performances and Chris ignored it, as he did anything that had the potential to bore or embarrass him. We had some amazing moments there. It was a very precious and joyful time in my life, and my memories of that company, the artists and technicians, the company manager, the Board, the audience and the people who hung out at the beer tent are still vivid and warm.
Victoria Island was and is a great place to be.
Les Girls, Victoria Island
I have to admit that I also thought that they were too close to the water. I sometimes channel my mother like that. She had the most vivid imagination when it came to possible danger—which probably explains the dearth of childhood accidents in our family.
The water is the Ottawa River, and if I had taken the photo from further away, we would have been able to see the back of the Parliament Buildings and the National Gallery. but I am a people picture-taker, and just went for cute.
Victoria Island is a five-minute walk from our place, and a centre for First Nations activities. That is as it should be but when I’m there I can’t help but think about the first two seasons of the Ottawa Shakespeare Company when they produced A Midsummer Night’s Dream and the Scottish Play there in the early 1990s. The Company was a newly-formed one, and I was on the Board, Bruce a performer, Sarah, Emily and I did various front-of-house tasks, I did a lot of schmoozing, Dave came to a few performances and Chris ignored it, as he did anything that had the potential to bore or embarrass him. We had some amazing moments there. It was a very precious and joyful time in my life, and my memories of that company, the artists and technicians, the company manager, the Board, the audience and the people who hung out at the beer tent are still vivid and warm.
Victoria Island was and is a great place to be.
- I’ve had several ideas for a post tonight but I got poleaxed by the wonder of Chapman’s Double Dark Chocolate ice cream bars. They’re tiny, they’re delicious and if you eat six or so, they’re quite satisfying.
- I’m giving serious thought to going to this Celtic Rock Festival. “Going” means persuading Dave that we’d love it and that it would be worth the drive to northern New York. I do love Celtic Rock—how can anyone resist dancing to it?
- Every once in a while I get incredibly depressed and long to spend days in bed with my head under the covers. I seldom actually do it, but I can get pretty low and bedraggled—there’s absolutely no reason for it; it’s chemical and because I have a wonderful life it doesn’t really behoove me to complain, but it still sucks. I must be over it though if I can write about it.
- One of these days I’m going to count the cushions we have in our house—I guess I should say “the cushions that I have incorporated into our house”. Dave is cushion-mania-free. We live in a place that basically has 3 rooms and two bathrooms and without really counting, I can see about twenty beautiful cushions of various sizes, shapes and colours from where I am now. That’s why it seemed quite bezack to be planning a clandestine visit to a gift shop in a hotel whose bar I like so that I could buy the 6 cushions I’d picked out between entering the hotel and ordering a Pinot Grigio. Could I be less responsible? less conscious of consumerism’s dark side? less needy? more comfy?
- One of my brothers told me I should stop shopping at Chapters because the owners have an anti-Palestine bias—I’ve looked but haven’t been able to see what he’s referring to—and yes, I know it’s a big-box store and it’s killing the independent bookstores, but I would find it hard to stop. I also go to independent bookstores, often with wonderful but costly results, but today at Chapters I could buy 2 paperbacks and get the 3rd one free. And get 10% off as well with my Irewards card. It’s hard to believe that evil could come in such a seductive package.
- And finally, tonight I came across a movie on PBS that I watch every time I can: Leave Her to Heaven with Cornell Wilde, Gene Tierney and Vincent Price. The first time I saw it, I remember thinking what a tragedy it was; later, I realized how dark it was, then remembered noticing the iridescent beauty of the two lovers, then realized there was a whole sexual undertone I’d missed, next focussed on how unlike himself Vincent Price looks without a moustache. This time, still enthralled, I couldn’t help but notice how high the waistlines were for both men and women . Oh, the learning, oh, the layers!
MAY 2010T
No comments:
Post a Comment