Long overdue-I wanted to share news about finishing novel number two, and that I have a children’s story in the works, that Susan Deetz will be illustrating. The second novel is off to the market, making the rounds of prospective publishers. Keeping fingers crossed. But still typing. Use the link to my professional facebook page to find today’s post 6/3/21.

Had a good time at a reading 6/12/18 at Rochester’s wonderful literary resource, Writers and Books. Thanks to Wanda Schubmehl for hosting the event. The most I had previously read aloud from the novel was the first chapter, about five minutes. It was interesting going beyond that, into chapter 2, and hoping that folks were feeling engaged. Reminds me of discussions I have had with my brother Tim and his long experience as a musician, especially re the power of the audience. Little do they know it, but they become an integral player as well, affecting the overall sense of experience for all who are attending.

The motto of the NYS Lotto for many years was, “hey, you never know.” Same thing with the arts. You never know what someone might be receiving, how they are hearing/reading, and the overall effect this may have. And some responses keep playing on, long afterward.

“Your most recent blog post was October 2016.It’s June 2018, you know.”
“Yes. Sorry.”
“Well you don’t have to apologize.”
“Yes. I almost said ‘sorry’ again.”
“You’re not from Canada are you?”
“Not directly.BTW, that’s getting kind of old. That Canadian image. And if anybody is needing to apologize, I don’t think Canada is first up.”
“Can we skip the politics?”
“If the politics can skip us.”
“So back to the absence of blog posts…?”
“Wrote things on facebook instead.”
“Is that safe?”
“There is the issue of instant gratification. Folks don’t have to work so hard to find what you’re thinking or doing.”
Hesitation. “You could start to put some of those comments here.”
Hesitation. “There’s also something about self doubt. Like who’s going to read anything here?”
“Well, you could, couldn’t you?”
“I am now.”
“Aha, well that’s a start, eh?”
“Wait, are you from Canada?”
“Oh Canada!”

In the morning I had been listening to the Rochester radio station WXXI, and they were describing the day as wet and dreary.

At noon time I attended an advisory board meeting that included a very nice hot lunch.  I drifted into a this-could-be-anywhere-in-the-USA frame of mind, the meeting familiar to pre-retirement work sessions, almost feeling back in the saddle.  Buckle up, work mode. It was not unpleasant.

I was surprised when I walked out into the parking lot, the light was very bright, the sun surprisingly intense.  As I drove along, I approached an intersection and could see, down through a corridor of trees, the outline of the Gulf at the end of the street. You can’t get further south on the mainland than right here, at this spot on the coast. As I turned for home, I passed a large stand of big  leafy green banana trees, and I had to pinch myself to remember that it was October 20^th, for god’s sake.

Folks from up North have been posting gorgeous pictures of the Fall colors. It’s all good, both North and South have their blessings. What’s especially nice is to feel familiar, at home, if only temporarily, in whatever place you are in, the place that in that moment, you can call here.

The choir director was away and the pianist was giving minimal direction, nothing more was needed, we thought.

The first hymn was “Oh Come O Come Emmanuel”. The women were certain that we were to sing verses four and five. The men were focused on verses three and four.

As the initial chorus ended and we headed into the verse, the choir, to its credit, immediately noticed that something sounded unrehearsed. Quite musically, everyone lowered their voices while staying true to what was thought to be the correct verse.

Having muddled through this first share of two simultaneous verses, finishing up the second go round of the chorus, the pianist looked over at us, glowered, held up fingers to signal the proper approaching verse. The choir apparently disagreed with which fingers were displayed.

For a second time, we launched into the magic of live music continuing bravely forward, regardless of the odd merger of vowels, consonants, the very recognition of text swirling around, here and there a mumbled word recognized like a flash of muted lightning, the choir certain in their own faithful direction. It would be difficult to recreate the Babel of sounds hushly produced. The congregation looked on, amazed, some shaking their heads, as if witness to a musical miracle.

This may sound familiar to folks who have sung in choirs, played in bands, taken part in theater productions.

Your fellow performers saunter in, greetings are made, jokes flash by quickly almost out of earshot. Papers are pulled out from binders that hold the music, there is a group-wide sorting to find the right song, someone looks over another person’s shoulder to see what it is supposed to look like.

Things settle, attention focuses on the leader who, like everyone else, is dressed casually, whose manners are organized and instructive but stop short of being pushy, judgmental. He/she needs you all, and you are all in this together. You will be performing for those who are not yet here. You all have to work together to get the kinks out. Sometimes it is more than that, sometimes it is learning the tune from the get go, hoping that it will not be played/sung this week.

You are in the back, on the single riser, and as the tune is broken into learn-able bits and repeated, the image comes to mind of being in the trumpet section, the big band in which you never played. The director gives you free rein to sing the tenor line, even make it up on occasion. There is a singer who tends to be off key at crucial moments, he is adjacent to your better ear, on the left side. You struggle at times to stay afloat, raise your volume in the hopes of keeping him and yourself in the same lifeboat. He doesn’t seem to notice the effort.

The piece is finished, it’s a little shaky. The director says kindly how we will sound as we become confident. This is just the rehearsal, a mini-break, more shifting of books, papers, everyone very informal, a light smattering of shared stories spreads in groups of threes, heads bending to the side and forward to be a part of it all, to be included. It’s the sum of the parts. It’s the heart of the endeavor.

No one’s arm was twisted to show up. We all want this moment and the moment to come for which we are preparing. We’ll be dressed differently then, the stories and jokes remembered. Quietly.

When we finally deliver this thing, it will be called the performance. What we’ll remember then is that it was never about us. The tune will flow as it will, from the collective work, and the un-rehearsed reception of the listeners, rounding the circle.

Meanwhile, this is the rehearsal. We start and stop and start again, in the liveliest preparation of the present.

I think you know this. It’s what happens when someone close graces you with a visit, with their presence. Forever after, that particular restaurant, or deli, or museum, or stretch of beach, is connected to the time spent together.

“Oh, that’s the place where we…” “Do you remember when _______ was here and we stopped in there?”

That’s the place. We. Tagged with memory, changed into something more, in every way.

It was a visit, temporary.  It continues.

It was startling, as much as a sometimes flapping white plastic bag can startle. It was across the street, just inside the small stand of woods. It should not have been there. It wasn’t there yesterday, was it?

The bag drew attention, a visual target, something grossly out of place. Non-biodegradable, threatening to remain, even if later half buried, for an epoch well beyond our communal lifetimes.

And then I noticed the lofty evergreen tree nearby, clearly planted with landscape intention, once carefully trimmed, shaped.  A yew. It was meant to be at the corner edge of a well tended yard.  It looked as if it might have decided years ago to join its untrimmed brethren, a slow sashay into the woods.  More likely, it stood impassively, editing any comment as the encroaching wildness, brambles and briars, hearty ever entwining bark, twisted its way toward and around what was a solitary presence, the lighthouse swallowed by its once warned sea.

Despite a year of observing the woods across the street, watching the sun rise through its essence,  I had never noticed this  large yew tree.  It took the visiting white bag to show up first, to blink like a sideways glancing eye.

He was heading back north to Mississippi State University the following day. The campus is far enough upstate that the climate is a bit different. He anticipated the approach of a cold rainy season.

We were walking out toward the parking lot. It was 68 degrees at 1 in the afternoon, the skies were deep blue, there was a gentle breeze. I had to remind myself privately, repeatedly, that it was January 20th.

A small group of us had spent the morning doing some volunteer work. It was his first time, and he wouldn’t be back anytime soon given his school schedule.

When he said goodbye, I was reminded of the way that Southern speech can be surprisingly elegant and personal, all in one flash.

He turned to shake hands and said, “It’ll be awhile before I’m back but I’ll promise you it’s not the last time I’m going to shake your hand.”

I was celebrating an appointment that concluded “return only as needed”, by stopping off at Grammy’s, a place for great baked goods and coffee refills. I was seated at one of the smallest tables, the ones typically used by solo customers.

An older man was sitting at an identical table in front of me, but at a right angle, so that I faced his left side and could only make out the first two letters prominently displayed on his baseball cap. He may have looked over in my direction early on, but I was already well into the pastry, coffee and looking at facebook on my phone.

I wondered for a moment if electronic media had interfered with the opportunity for live personal contact. He sat five feet away. I had just entered a comment in response to an acquaintance in Rochester, 1300 miles to the northeast. I looked again. He looked like he might welcome sudden contact breaking in on his left side, a question perhaps about his hat. But then again maybe not.

He reminded me of a “country person”, someone whom I see here a lot, someone you would see at a coffee shop in Clifton Springs, or Palmyra, or at any smaller town that is thirty or more miles separated from a larger population, separated by open fields, farms. Attached ring suburbs are ruled out.

He would be instantly engaging, other than a momentary pause to account for putting his private thoughts away, to account for my geographical displacement, knowing intuitively that I am not from here.

Country folks are in the place where they are from. A lot of family, living or not, nearby. They have stories about the intersection, not that far away, notorious for what happened there. It wasn’t all that long ago. There are also the local stories about the, in fact, long ago.

Such familiarity brings a contentment. Maybe. If the roots are more good than not. A slower, less demanding pace. Another easy sip of coffee, looking out the window, a friendly indifference.

When, on the other hand, the well known acquaintance shows up, the spark is immediate, instantly showing the mutual history of ups and downs, all of which is honored for the experience. Known each other for a long time for better or worse. There is nothing to replace that.

Sometimes it’s different than this, sometimes the local guy beams like a bright light, sends a quick humorous message that is simply shared, reciprocated with no effort.

But not this fellow.  When he left, he took a long time to leave, he stopped and turned around to look up again at the list of specials, as if he had regrets, or might plan better for the future.  He didn’t speak to anyone as he left.

There was already one response to the facebook message.  I decided to tap “like”.  Right back at you.