Conversation

Out of the blue: "Mom?"

"Yes?"

"Someday I want to be a teacher."

"Okay." (Thinking, Hey, sounds good. He must enjoy learning.)

"I'm going to be a music teacher."

Me, with a smile: "Oh, good. Then you can teach something you enjoy."

"Yeah. I'm going to teach my students, then they can be in my orchestra. I'm going to be a orchestra leader, too."

I think to myself that sounds pretty ambitious and kind of cool.

"I'm going to be a composer too. I'll write the music, then I'll teach my orchestra and they can play the music I wrote. Won't that be cool, Mom?"

Yes. Yes, son, that will be cool. Very cool. I love to hear this, living out their dreams out loud. I can't wait to see it.
---------------------------------------
Adding later: Loving Husband's reaction, "Think this kid has control issues?"

Me, after I stopped laughing: "No. Not at all. And he does NOT get them from his mother." At all.

Loving Husband is such a sentimental guy, isn't he?

Random Notes on Piano

Five-year-old gent is a smitten kitten.

Thursday is piano day. We have a lovely piano teacher, Miss Melissa. She encourages students to arrive early or stay a few minutes to observe others' lessons, so we often see the lovely and shy twin girls who take lessons immediately after the fine young gents.

Today, my fine young gent beckoned to me and whispered in my ear, "See that girl in the pink? I think she's beautiful." Then he giggled. I nodded and agreed that both girls are very lovely. "Mom, I just think she is sooooo pretty." He hid his face.

"Mom. I love her. Mom, I think I want to marry her."

His little face. He was giddy. He was even blushing a little. It was sweet, and silly too, of course, because he's five and she's....eleven? twelve? And it was also absolutely endearing because it made me think of how most of us have felt at one time or another in the throes of a mad crush. Smitten and silly and giddy and in luuuuuuv.

Maybe next week, he'll play her a love song.

---

This gent got a compliment today, from his piano teacher. Miss Melissa asked, "Now, how old is he again?" of the eldest fine young gent, nearly eight. "I'd forgotten that he was that young. You know, he plays very well for his age. Very well." The twins' dad agreed.

It's true. He just gets piano. He's not a prodigy by any stretch of the imagination, but he understands how the piano works. He has taken to scales as though he was born knowing them. He likes learning to sight read. Today he told us that as he plays, he can see the music in his head.

He has absolute pitch, too. Sometimes I'll be singing my latest earworm and if it's a song he knows, he'll join in. Then he'll tell me, "But actually, Mom, it's this," and start singing in a different key. If we go to the piano to check, he's always right. His grandfather, loving husband's father, had absolute pitch as well. He was a country singer-songwriter, Wynn Stewart. He was an interesting guy. I should write a post about him sometime. Anyway, story says that he would complain when loving husband's mom sang, because, though she wasn't a bad singer, she didn't sing songs in the original key, so they clashed with what he heard in his head.

---

Here's how I knew that we'd lucked upon the perfect piano teacher: One day, I asked her, "Don't you get tired of hearing 'Twinkle Twinkle' all the time?" and she was taken aback by the question. It was though it had never occurred to her. Here's the crazy part. It's not as though it was just one of my kids playing Twinkle until he'd learned it. She follows the Suzuki method. Traditionally, Suzuki students begin by playing endless versions of "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star." Over and over and over and over. I've only had two beginners and I've heard the Twinkles enough to last this lifetime and into the next. She said that she enjoys seeing her students learn so much that she likes hearing them play the Twinkles. I would go stark raving mad.

We love our piano teacher. As in, we have a genuine fondness for her and we think she's wonderful. She's experienced. She has clear expectations, and she loves music. She's got very talented students in their teens, and young beginners. She's the perfect blend of strict and sweet, precise and flexible, high standards mixed with understanding of what's developmentally appropriate. She loves the piano, she likes teaching, and she enjoys her students.

---

This fine young gent plays piano too. He likes it, and he's good at it. All fall, since we started lessons again, he'd been dragging his feet about practice. Three weeks ago he had an utter sobbing meltdown over piano practice. He told me he hated piano. He never wanted to play piano again. He begged me to let him quit. "I always make mistakes!" he wailed.

I felt horrible. Was I pushing him too hard? Did I start him too young? Was he comparing himself to his brother? Had I been torturing my child? Was it all my fault?

I hugged him. I told him he didn't have to play piano. He didn't go near the piano for the rest of the week. I resolved to talk to his piano teacher.

Next piano day, I told his teacher we might need five or ten minutes to talk between the gents' lessons, while the boys played outside.

"I never want to play piano" gent waltzed in behind me after a short jaunt through the garden, bowed to his teacher and hopped up on the piano bench. He cheerfully played his pieces and practiced new things and giggled "Oops" when he made a mistake.

When his lesson was over, his teacher asked, "Is this a good time to talk?" And I replied, "Uh, I don't think we need to. It seems to have resolved itself."

During his brother's lesson, he drew Miss Melissa a picture. He's practiced willingly ever since.

---

I don't play piano. At all.

If you couldn't be there......

...or even if you were.



His younger brother refused to play in front of everyone, but he got a piano trophy anyway.

There are no strangers.....

There are no such things as strangers, only friends we haven't met yet. -- Anonymous

This week our Oregon Children's Choir hosted a children's choir visiting all the way from China. We volunteered to house four girls.

We were nervous:
Will they like us?
Will they speak English (They did, beautifully.)
Will they like our food?
Will they have fun?

What an wonderful adventure! The unexpected snow made it difficult for some families to meet the bus, so we brought eight girls home, scrambling at midnight for enough extra blankets and pillows to make up beds on the floor.

We all felt shy at first. Pets make good ice breakers. The cats, and even our excitable puppy Poppy, were oohed and aahed over. The boys were oohed and aahed over too. The oldest fine young gent found a fellow Harry Potter fan. Middle gent was delighted to suddenly have eight more big sisters in our house. Youngest gent was shy, but talked about the girls non-stop while they were gone, and even giggled a little when he got tickled on the belly. Our lovely ladies enjoyed their new friends too, although lovely lady with autism mostly hid in the basement playroom, as she felt very shy with all of the new people.

Highlights:

Hearing Chinese spoken in our home. Delightful.

Cheers when we served food from the Asian market.

Listening to the girls sing a Chinese song with our daughter.

Hearing the choir. We attended an evening concert, and it was absolutely wonderful.

Hugs. Hello hugs and goodbye hugs.

Isn't this what these kinds of exchanges are really all about? Meeting new people. Trying new things. Learning that a smile goes a long way. Making new friends.

It was hard to say goodbye after such a short time. I wasn't ready for the girls to go.

"Mom," five-year-old gent asked me tonight, "When are our Chinese girls coming back to our house?"

That's what the boys called them, "our Chinese girls," as though the girls somehow belonged to us. I suppose in a way they did. They stepped into our hearts when they stepped in through our door, just as though they were all a part of our family.

I told him that they were on their way back to China soon, and his face fell.

"But I want to play with them some more, Mom. I will miss them."

Me too, bunny.

"I know!" my little problem-solver says. "We can go to China tomorrow to see them!"

Dear young friends, you are in our hearts. If you ever make your way to Oregon again, you are welcome in our home, always.

Holy Infant, so tender and mild

Song of the Angels, Bouguereau, Adolphe-William (1881)

Whom have we, Lord, like you?
The great one who became small,
the wakeful one who slept,
the living one who died,
the king who abased himself to ensure honor for all,
blessed is your honor.

It is right that heavenly beings worship your humanity.
It is right that earthly beings worship your divinity.
The heavenly beings were amazed to see how small you became,
and earthly ones to see how exalted.

(4th century prayer, Ephrem the Syrian)

Suluhisha, Suhuliana

Suluhisha, suluhiana.
Suluhisha, suluhiana.
(Swahili: Make peace, make peace with each other. )

And when there's hope in our hearts,
The world can't stop what we start.
We are the children, the children of peace,
Seeking the pathways of love and harmony.
When one by one we stand up, and believe.
We can be the children of peace.

I will be the one to reach out my hand.

Suluhisha, suluhiana.
Suluhisha, suluhiana.

(from Children of Peace (Suluhisha, Suhuliana))

Last year I listened to a lovely lady's choir sing "Peace, peace peace on Earth..." and they brought the room to stillness. Everyone stopped to listen. This year, they sang another song of peace, during a morning church service, that nearly brought me to tears. Listening to the girls sing songs of peace, all of those beautiful young voices singing words of hope brings tears to my eyes. From last year's post:

'When these children sing "Let us all sing together of peace on earth," they still believe that peace is possible. They imagine still nights, and dream of people around the world holding hands and greeting one another with love. A choir made up of grownups with the finest of voices could never sing that song the way those girls did. Whatever challenges the girls may face in their individual lives it is likely that most of them didn't wake up in the morning to read a story in the paper about three little boys...little boys...blown up because their father works for a government with which the bombers disagree. (Why do I read the paper? Stories like this bring me to tears. "What's the matter, Mom?" asks the six-year-old gent. Do I tell? Or not?) Stories of poverty and famine and war from all across the world. Knowledge of the truly horrible things that human beings can do to one another. Once we grow up and start to see the world, I don't think we can truly sing the words "Peace on earth" without regret and grief mingled with our hopes for peace on earth, goodwill to all.'

I think about how precious these girls are, how lovely, how innocent. As we grow into adulthood, we become jaded by the world and the possiblity of peace seems to fade and grow dim. War, murder, bombs, guns, hatred all chip away at our belief that peace is possible. Thanks to God for these lovely young women, for their hope and belief in peace. Their hope revives my own hope. Their belief inspires my own belief. Not the naive hope that suddenly the world's leaders will begin speaking words of peace, nor the belief that the people of the world will put down their weapons tomorrow and embrace one another. But hope and belief that as long as we hold the dream of peace alive, practice peace in our daily lives, look for ways to promote peace we can make a difference. Even a small difference. It's better than giving up.

Our hopes for the world, for our children: Live in peace. Speak peace. Teach peace.

Make peace, make peace with one another.

Choir Trip: Sisters and John Day, Oregon

Three days.

The concerts were beautiful. Our host choirs and their communities welcomed us and fed us wonderful meals. Best of all, on Saturday we visited the John Day Fossil Beds National Monument. We picnicked at the Cant Ranch museum, with a lovely view of Sheep Rock. We met a real live paleontologist (that's him in the picture) at the Thomas Condon Paleontology Center and got to watch him painstakingly work at removing a fossil from a rock. We went on a nature hike along the Blue Basin trail, which has an up-close look at the greenish rock you can see in the hills and has partially embedded fossils covered with glass display cases and left for hikers to see. One of the parents along on the trip is a geologist, so we had a personal tour guide at the bus mike, in the museum, and on our hike. On Sunday we at our picnic lunch in the Painted Hills. Breathtaking.

I can't wait until the gents are just a bit older so that we can spend a few days hiking and studying the rich geological history in this area. I would travel across the world to see what we saw this weekend.

Thirty-some grade school choir girls.

Lovely young ladies, all. I was responsible for four of them. Honestly, when I first saw my list, I thought, "Oh boy." I got three pretty challenging girls, one of whom was mine. It was a perfect match. They listened, checked in, looked out for one another. What a treat to get to spend time with them.


Seven concerts.

I miscounted. There were eight concerts, six on the first day. The girls were pretty tuckered by the end of the day. All of the concerts were wonderful, but my favorite concert was the evening concert in John Day with their choir, the Little Singers. The girls were dusty from hiking, shirts untucked, hair unbrushed, clothes didn't match, but their voices were lovely and the audience was gracious and welcoming.

Eight concerts. The Oregon Children's Junior Girlchoir also has a marimba band made up of girls in the choir, and they play at every concert. The marimbas are a real crowd-pleaser. The marimba girls know three songs, and the marimbas are by nature repetitive. On Sunday, the bus driver told us a story: One year he took his teen daughter on a trip with a friend. Every time she saw a Wal-Mart truck, she'd say, "I looove Wal-Mart!" He told us that for weeks afterward when he was falling asleep he'd hear that little voice: "I looove Wal-Mart!" He asked the girls to guess what he heard in his head the night before: The marimbas.

I still have Gaudeamus Hodie playing in my head. (If you follow the link you can listen to the song, it's lovely and catchy.) I catch myself singing, "Oh, be joyful, Oh be jubilant" as I go through the day. Which isn't necessarily a bad thing to have playing in one's head, come to think of it.

Eight chaperones (including me).

I miscounted here too. I didn't count the choir director, the geologist parent, the dad who drove the truck with the marimbas (and who bribed his daughter with ten dollars if she didn't cry the second night, which was worth every penny), the choir administrator/head chaperone, the choir parent in charge of feeding the girls (a dad), or the tag-along mom. What a lovely group of men and women. Aside from one woman who apparently had no idea that my lovely lady has a disability, and therefore thought I just have a kind of bratty drama queen, and decided to kind of take me to task about it, we all got along very well. The head chaperone is just a gem of a woman. She was kind, firm, and fun with the girls and with the chaperones, and really made the trip run smoothly.

A big bus, equipped with a DVD player (thank goodness).

And a lovely gentleman of a driver. He's been driving a tour bus for thirty-eight years. At the end of the trip the girls sang to him, and he thanked them because he'd enjoyed the trip so much. We watched several movies. The trip ended in the middle of Daddy Daycare, a movie I had no interest in watching. Now I want to know how it ends, so we may have to rent it next weekend.

Two sleepovers, in sleeping bags, in school gyms with those thirty-some girls, some of whom have never been away from home.

My neck still hurts. Next year I'm chaperoning the trip with the older girls so that I can sleep in a hotel.

Lots of hiking and singing and giggling and watching movies and playing games.

It was fabulous. I was kind of dreading the trip, but the girls were lovely, the hiking was fantastic, and the concerts were wonderful.

Wish me luck. And that someone will bring me coffee in the mornings.

We got our coffee every morning and lovely breakfast to boot. And it was wonderful. I'd do it all over again. Maybe not next weekend, but I'd definitely be up for another trip with this group, anywhere. Only I'd bring my pillow and an air bed. And earplugs.

A Guitar for Christmas

Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Woman Playing the Guitar (1897)

Dad sent me a guitar for Christmas. I'd picked up his guitar this summer and plinked out a tune, and suddenly I missed playing after not even thinking about it much for years. When the package arrived, I knew what was in the box. I wish I could say that I am a good guesser, but I'm not-- he phoned to tell me that's what he'd be sending. I stuck the box under the tree anyway, wouldn't tell anyone what was in it. I'm a sucker for suspense and anticipation.

I love it. I played guitar...gosh, too many years ago when I count them all up. Funny, I still feel like I'm 25. Naturally, I've forgotten everything I'd learned so long ago. I'm starting over from scratch, but the feel of the guitar in my lap is still familiar. My fingers are sore, that's familiar too.

Fine young gent (6) and I have made a pact that we'll both practice daily, him on piano and me on guitar. I promised him I'd learn to play "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" so that we can play together. Modeling good practice habits will be helpful for this musical young gent.

Lovely lady (11) wants to bring her guitar from her dad's house. We can be practice buddies, she says. I've been looking for ways to spend time with her that honor her new "grown-upness" and that sparks her interest.

Music has always been important to my father. Not just passive listening, but actively making music. Some of my warmest memories are of family making music together, Dad on the guitar. My Irie sis has taken up guitar too. Playing guitar is like having a little piece of my family in my home.

And today, after knowing loving husband for quite some time, I found out that he played the guitar for many years, just plunking around for fun. Hmm, maybe I can talk him into getting his own guitar someday.

Thanks, Dad! (And you thought you were just sending me a guitar.)

Juan Gris, Violin and Guitar (1913)

Christmas Concert

I'm a musical gal, really. I often say cheerful things like "I enjoy all kinds of music," and mean it. I love Christmas music. I love concerts.

The tuba...not so much.

The lovely ladies had a Christmas concert downtown this evening at The Shedd, along with the Oregon Tuba Association and the wonderful Cascade Chorus. When I read that it was a tuba concert, I was actually kind of excited to hear something new and different. "Tubas. How fun!" I said.

Don't get me wrong, the tuba has its place. Like in a marching band. But a Christmas concert ensemble made up entirely of tubas and the like (I understand that there are actually different tuba-ish instruments, but my attention was already wandering by the time the guy got around to explaining them), just not my cup o' tea. The first song was entertaining, but one round of Deck the Halls with some oom-pah-pahs between verses, for laughs, was plenty for me, really. I found myself wondering things like, "Man, that guy's feet are really really big. I wonder what shoe size he wears?" and "I really like that lady's hat. I wonder if she knit it herself?" (which is what having knitters in the family does to me) and "When is this going to be over?"

Then the girls got up to sing. That was lovely. More tuba. The Cascade Chorus sang, which was wonderful. I got chills when they sang "O Holy Night." I noticed the directors of the two girlchoirs come and tap each of my daughters on the shoulder and take them out to the lobby. The girls came back, smiling. More tuba. Then a sing-along with the tubas. The tuba is a loud instrument, very nice for sing-along accompaniment. And it was over.

Turns out that the girls had been interviewed on television. The choir directors were asked to identify one girl in their choir who'd grown or made a lot of progress this year. They had no idea that the girls were sisters until the two got out to the lobby. We watched the interview on television a few minutes ago, and it was very sweet. The younger of the lovely ladies said, "I just think a happy thought and tell myself that they aren't really here to look at me, they just want to hear my voice." Which is almost exactly what I told her friend yesterday when the girl showed up to yesterday's concert wearing her Oregon Children's Choir polo instead of her dress uniform. It's so nice to know that sometimes it sinks in. The elder of the lovely ladies said that she loved singing and felt more confident with her voice so that she goes around singing all day.

Lovely step-lady's mom came to the concert, so they left together. Younger lovely lady and I went to the bookstore for a treat and some browsing, because (we both agreed) that nothing rounds out a nice evening like a trip to the bookstore. While there, we ran into lovely lady's good friend-- the friend's dad also feels that a trip to the bookstore rounds out an evening nicely, so we run into them from time to time. The girls visited for a bit, then off home to watch the news.

It was a lovely evening. I learned a lot, chiefly that while tubas are very nice, they are not for me, and that it's worth sitting through some well-played tuba-ing to hear my girlies sing.

Peace, Peace, Peace

Peace on earth, good will to all.

This is a time for joy,

This is a time for love,

Now let us all sing together

Of peace, peace, peace on earth.

(from Peace, Peace/Silent Night)

Last night eleven-year-old lovely lady's choir sang at a nursing home (or retirement community or assisted living facility or whatever it was called). The girls were relaxed and confident. They were only a few feet from their audience, singing songs that they love. And something magical happened. They forgot they were performing and they just sang together. Beautifully. Sweetly. Simply. "Peace, peace, peace on earth...."

The elderly woman next to me stopped talking. The staff stopped to listen. I had tears in my eyes. A woman sitting in the front row quavered "Beautiful. Beautiful," when the girls finished their song.

Why? Their voices were sweet and pretty, but not perfect, not professional, not angelic. And those sweet girls are no angels. They're just regular kids. Sweet and good and kind and snotty and thoughtless and rotten. Just like the rest of us.

But in that moment they sang of peace on earth and meant it. When these children sing "Let us all sing together of peace on earth," they still believe that peace is possible. They imagine still nights, and dream of people around the world holding hands and greeting one another with love. A choir made up of grownups with the finest of voices could never sing that song the way those girls did. Whatever challenges the girls may face in their individual lives it is likely that most of them didn't wake up in the morning to read a story in the paper about three little boys...little boys...blown up because their father works for a government with which the bombers disagree. (Why do I read the paper? Stories like this bring me to tears. "What's the matter, Mom?" asks the six-year-old gent. Do I tell? Or not?) Stories of poverty and famine and war from all across the world. Knowledge of the truly horrible things that human beings can do to one another. Once we grow up and start to see the world, I don't think we can truly sing the words "Peace on earth" without regret and grief mingled with our hopes for peace on earth, goodwill to all.

Did I say those girls aren't angels? Maybe they are, just a bit. Their choir director asked them to please visit with the audience for just a little while-- to say hello, and introduce themselves, and maybe tell a little about their lives. Those sweet girls, they were truly lovely ladies. Almost every single girl made a real effort to reach out and talk to the men and women in the audience. My lovely lady said that it was her favorite part of the whole visit. Even better than the cookies and card-making party afterward? Yes, she said. She was thrilled that she'd met a woman who is 93 years old. She wants to go back to visit sometime.

Peace and goodwill to all.

Tuesday Ten: Last Weekend

Ten Things I Did Last Weekend:

1. Bake and decorate a cake. Fine young car fanatic (remember this post?), now 6, decided upon a "car party." I suggested the race car cake, he suggested the activities: Watch the movie Cars, eat cake, and play with his Hot Wheels.




2. Plaster masks. Our latest art study. We'll be decorating these all week.








3. Yuletide carols being sung by a choir. Following lovely lady's Friday evening choir practice, the choir went caroling at the mall.








4. Saturday choir practice. No picture because I was too busy shuttling girls to overlapping practices in two different places.

5. Piano recital.








6. Errands. There were probably enough errands to write a "Ten Errands I Ran This Weekend" list, but I'll lump them all into one. I had to pick up pre-rehearsal snacks for 30 hungry girls, tights for the girls' choir uniforms, get an ornament for a choir party ornament exchange, find chocolate cookies and white candies for the cake, run to the grocery store between choir rehearsals for black nylons for the recital dress, art supply store for watercolor paper for a lovely lady so that she can paint a Christmas gift. I know I forgot a couple, but that's enough, isn't it?

7. Birthday party. Along with the actual birthday party, I had to rush home immediately after the recital to clean the house.








8. Concert. Oregon Children's Choir, Junior Girlchoir.
The girls sang beautifully, the marimba players were fun and energetic, the other choirs were wonderful, and the finale included all of the choirs and some local singers. Lots and lots of fun.

8 1/2. Run around like a chicken with its head cut off, looking for my car keys. It was time to leave for thirteen-year-old lovely lady's evening concert. I couldn't find my keys anywhere. I ended up taking my mother-in-law's car. Another mom cheerfully told me, "I'll bet as soon as you get home they'll be right there in plain sight." I replied, "I'll bet that when loving husband-with-his-cell-phone-off gets here, they'll be in his pocket." Right on cue, he walked up. Guess where he found my car keys?

9. Concert. Oregon Children's Choir, Girlchoir.
Wow. Lovely lady's choir worked through the problems they'd been having yesterday and gave an amazing performance. The woman next to me actually had tears in her eyes after the second song. All of the choirs were amazing. The Young Men's Ensemble blew me away. If you live in this area and get a chance to attend the spring concert or the big finale concert, do. They are that good.

10. Laundry, meals, childcare. Everyone wanted to wear clothing and eat food this weekend, and the youngest gent wouldn't change his own diapers or make sure he stayed away from sharp things and high places. Go figure.

Cristy's Busy Weekend.

Music

It thrills my heart and my ears to hear the lovely ladies and fine young gents singing all day long, humming their favorite tunes and making up their own songs-- at the table, in the car, as they play, at night as they drift off to sleep. Plinking on the piano, tapping the drums. Clanging through the house that's been transformed into a music parade route. Someone always making music.
Music was a part of my childhood too: Family sing-alongs, Mom on piano and Dad on guitar and the rest of us joining in with our voices; guitar lessons and choir; listening to Johnny Cash and Frankie Lane records; old-time fiddling get-togethers at the Grange; singing and humming through the day. We didn't just sit and listen passively to the radio, we made music. Music was a vital living enterprise.


Our visit to the east side of the mountains was filled with music. Backyard guitar, fiddles, voices in the warm after- noons. I got to sing with my Irie Sis, something I've never done before. (Click on her picture to read about her guitar adventure.) I think she's always been a little shy of singing where others can hear. What a joy to hear her voice; it's lovely. It was a treat to hear David and my dad play together, Dad on the fiddle and David on his guitar. Later, Megan and David playing together, singing and talking quietly.

I picked up Dad's guitar once everyone had left and plinked around. I haven't played since high school. I still remember how to play; I was able to pick out a new song by ear the first time I tried. I'm still surprised at how natural it felt and how much I've missed playing.

Music is rooted in my soul, along with books and gardens and forests. I passionately want for my children to understand that music is theirs; not just something that we can listen to, but something that we can create. Recorded music is such a blessing: Can you imagine not being able to hear Mozart unless there was a live performance nearby? Or not being able to hear Ella unless you were fortunate enough to have had the opportunity to attend a concert? The trade-off is that music has become a passive entertainment for so many people. When we can hear the most talented musicians in the world, our own singing and playing suffers by comparison, at least to our ears. Families rarely gather around the piano in the evening because they can watch American Idol instead.

Along with the kids, I sing all day every day. I love singing. But now that the baby isn't really a baby any more I find myself longing for...something...a new challenge (or the revival of an old one), something to fill that more-and-more-often empty space in my lap. Think it would be silly to ask for a guitar for Christmas?

Saturday

The oldest of the fine young gents, who's five ("Five and a half, Mom!"), and I went to a concert this morning. The Oregon Bach Festival offered a children's program entitled "Happy Birthday, Mr. Mozart". I expected something along the lines of a little music, a little information about Mozart, a little sing-along maybe. We got so much more. A pianist and an Emmy-winning storyteller put on a show that was engaging and entertaining for kids and parents. Not only did we get what we expected, we were treated to Lewis Carroll's Jabberwocky, learned a bit about recorders, and we heard an original poem and some really punny jokes. ("You think that joke's bad, but you'll tell it later," insisted the storyteller. I probably would if I could remember any of the jokes.) My wiggly gent was bouncing in his front-row seat, thrilled by the whole thing. So was I, for that matter. Thrilled, that is. Maybe I bounced a little too.

After the show we walked two blocks to the Saturday Market. We shopped a little (bought some tie dye, naturally) , looked a lot, and decided we were hungry so we headed for the food. It took two trips around, looking at each booth, before we decided that maybe my adventurous eater should try something different and something familiar. He ate all of the seasoned tofu, leaving me to snack on his chicken with rice. While we ate we watched a bad magic show on the stage. Ok, so the guy wasn't so bad, he just needed to work on his patter so that we'd be distracted from thinking about what he's really doing. But hey, I think figured out how to do that rope trick!

Across the street to the Farmer's Market for some berries. My gent was entranced by the guy playing cello on the street corner. Fascinated. We ended up sitting on the pavement listening, munching on mixed berries. I'm not big on sitting on the pavement on a hot day, especially in a skirt, but it's worth it to indulge this love of all kinds of music. Listening to a musician on the street corner is a different experience that hearing music on a CD or going to a concert. It's accessible in a different way. We sat and listened because I want my budding young musician to see that music doesn't always happen on a stage. Music isn't just for folks with recording contracts and agents. Music happens wherever there are musicians to make it. Well, honestly, we did stop to listen for those reasons too, but mostly because we were enjoying the cello. If I'd had a picnic blanket or a camp chair we might have stayed even longer.

Oh, and we bought flowers. Most often I walk by the beckoning flowers and think with regret, "Not today." Too frivolous. I can't eat them or wear them. This day we decided together that flowers will give us happy hearts. Especially golden sunflowers with cheery faces.

Once home the day turned into normal busy weekend family time. We went to a kid festival. It was a typical kid festival, hot and noisy, with crafts and bouncy castles and free prizes. The kids got to sit in a fire truck and a helicopter. That was way cool. Of course, I forgot the camera. Despite the missing camera we all had a fabulous time. We capped off the day with grilled steak and corn, backyard golf, and warm berry cobbler with vanilla ice cream.

Doesn't get much better than this.