It was the best of times, it was the worst of times

It may not be the very least favorite place in my world, but it comes pretty darn close.  This morning was my scheduled six-month check up/cleaning, and I was prepared for the usual tsk-tsking about the sad condition of my mouthful of teeth.  The hygienist never seems to come over to my side on the issue - why can't I just have fewer teeth?  In fact, why is it necessary for humans to be assigned a set of, what is it, 36?  Isn't there some redundancy in that?  Instead, what I hear is, I need to floss more, use a mouth rinse regularly, and stop eating Snickers bars as an apres-lunch (apres with that little backwards accent mark above the e) snack.  No, the hygienist did NOT say that about the Snickers bars; she doesn't know about them.

Deep breathing gets me through any sitting, but it doesn't work when my jaw is being pressed so hard that oxygen - my very good friend - concludes that there is no discernible pathway to my lungs.  Oxygen takes the high road, and I'm left with the choice of either passing out or most inarticulately communicating that, "ahhhng url reeeee!"  I choose life.

There is a most wonderful up-side to the dental chair. . . after the initial twenty minutes or so of jackhammering to remove plaque buildup.  One can become - by focusing on the fish mobile in the corner of the room - very reflective.  It begins by noting the fascinating differences between those vividly painted fish.  Before you know it, you're drafting thank you notes, deciding on a new color palette for your living room, heck, you're adding on an additional 500 square feet to your already sizable house, petitioning the Spanish government to accept your new word entry, saltacharcos (nm puddle-jumper) into the Diccionario Oxford de Español.  (Rather than engage in the lengthy explanation of how a word becomes accepted into the Dictionary, I may have grossly misled my students on that score.)

In any event, and despite all the efforts to rinse and spit and wipe with crinkly bib, I leave the dentist's office with that gritty feeling still in my mouth.  I'm confident, however, that everyone I acknowledge with my exaggeratedly wide, teeth-baring smile will observe how white and beautiful my teeth are.  And with all that time in the chair to reflect and sort things out, I cannot help but think: isn't life grand?!  So what if next month I have to return to have my cracked molar "assessed"?  That white-knuckled ride is a whole month away.

It's the best of what I do

If you call me. . . or appear on my doorstep this summer you'll find me wholly distracted by my re-discovered passion.  I am designing and making handbags.  Here's a recent one, made with fabric bought for me by Lindsey, free spirited younger daughter.  She found it at Windmill Fabrics in Chinatown.  The bag is modeled by its new handler, Tracy, good friend of Lindsey.

A syncopated life, an arrhythmic body

It's an unchallenged fact that I have no sense of rhythm.  It's fitting, too, (in a loosely-related way) that I, half the time, can't spell the word rythm correctly.  I am destined to spend a lifetime wondering about that damn h.  

The whole thing mystifies me, though, because there had seemed to be a legacy of musicality that ran through at least one side of the family.  Papa Joe, accomplished organist, choir director, and high school music director, took for granted that his children would absorb both his zeal and talent (if not his direct instruction.)  Nana Mae, too, sang with such joy, rather softly, yet without the timidity that generally characterized her.  St. Thomas Aquinas himself would not have an inkling that the woman who warbled "Amazing Grace" a solas in front of - or behind, as the case were, - a churchful of parishioners, was really a very quiet and most-unassuming woman.  While I have so many memories of the two of them, memories largely shaped by their shared life of domesticity (1777 South Street) and worship (St. Thomas Aquinas Church), the presence of music with its various accoutrements was a constant.  

When we urchins came onto the scene, we responded to a microcosm densely saturated with music at times sweetly pure, other times (specifically at 415 Titicut Street) harshly distorted through the simple act of turning the volume up. . . WAY up!  Formal music instruction occurred in isolated, small snatches - guitar lessons for Tom and me, violin much later for Bobby.

It wasn't until I was well into my thirties that I made a serious effort to explore my capabilities in music and dance.  (Dance?  Where did that come from?)  For four months I worked on a single song,  "Turn down the lights, turn down the bed, hmmm hmmm HMMM HMMM hmmm  inside my head.  La la la la-la, la LA la-la." (Sorry, Bonnie.)  That was the extent of my voice lessons. . . four months. . . one song.  As for dance, realization didn't happen quite so quickly; I believe I was in a modern jazz class, but I can't even say that with certitude.  Did I learn in six months to move with the music?  Not a bit!

Which all brings me to last night, the 22nd of July, my 33rd wedding anniversary.  I honestly DO love music, I just can't sing and I can dance even less than I can sing.  As I have taken a real liking these days to the small, but comfortable Blue Ocean Music Hall on Salisbury Beach, I once again purchased a pair of tickets, this time to enjoy the music of Johnny A, rather a renaissance electric guitarist.  It's impossible to say that his music bears a resemblance to any one artist, but I'd say his work is strongly influenced by legends Jimi Hendrix and Les Paul (think Jimi Hendrix meets Stevie Ray Vaughn meets Eric Clapton.)  We had a wonderful night, but my bobbling head would not coordinate efforts  with my tapping feet, as hard as I tried.  Even fixating on the drummer to pick up the beat had no effect.  I would get things going with my head, and - feeling that I was doing okay - I would add the foot.  And that's where everything dissolved into Central Body Awkwardness.  What an uncoordinated mess I am!  So, if a genie appears to me, I have half a mind to burn one of my three wishes on a body with rythm, er, rhythm.

Gotta love those adorable brown uniforms

Today the brown delivery truck streaked down our little street, giving a hail and hearty toot just before it backed into the driveway.  With years of contact with UPS, I recognized that characteristic approach; it wasn't our quiet, sweet courier this time.  It was Rob!  Rob who had been reassigned to another part of town, but who for years would bound out of his truck on arrival, attempting each time to win the affections of our socially bereft shelty, Tavis, before he took care of the business at hand.  I have to smile when I remember one particular afternoon when my arrival from work interrupted yet another try to befriend Tavis.  Rob was rolling on the ground pleading in a most earnest manner, while Tavis - at the end of his tether (in more than one way) - would not even look at poor Rob, eyes turning toward me with sadness and desperation, suggesting that this strange being was just not making any worldly dog sense.  It just wouldn't occur to Rob that anyone, including a dog, would reject his friendliness and charm.

Because of his constant good cheer and his pitiful efforts with Tavis, I will always be awash in happy feelings when I hear the UPS truck approach, even though it is now a rare occasion when luck will strike and it will be the ever-ebullient Rob in that adorable brown uniform who will leap from the truck.  Of course, these days he can't roll quite so effortlessly on the ground, what with his aching back and shoulder, and a strained forearm.  The smile, however, is just as broad and uplifting as ever.  It's a GOOD day!

It's surely summer

Although technically not a heat wave, as one of the past three days was only 88 degrees, it is a sangría evening.  Everybody should buy a sangría pitcher and start concocting.  (You'll want a pitcher that over time builds a history of flavors within its walls.)  There is no end to the variety of recipes.  Tonight:  Cava Spanish sparkling wine (vino español, como no,) muddled mint, sliced strawberries (oh, so sweet around these here parts right now), little bit of white grape juice.  That's all there is to it.  ¡Gózalo, amigo!

great book to kick off my summer

I love reading, but I am the slowest reader I know.  My favorite books as a child were "Misty of Chincoteague" and the Billy and Blaze series; admittedly, I was mainly fascinated with the illustrations.  The SRA reading program in third grade nearly buried me, as I languished in the color red or orange far longer than was considered "healthy" by my teacher.  Worse than the teacher's disapproval was the very public evidence of my failure to thrive.  Even casual visitors to the class could pinpoint who the strugglers were.  When I consider my entire third grade experience, I can only remember my SRA phobia; in fact, I don't think we did anything else in third grade; it can only be that the teacher neglected the other subjects that round out the third grade curriculum, subjects such as geometry, world history, and whatever else one should learn in third grade.  One simply could not fake it in the SRA program; the designers made sure of that by including something spirit-crushing called "comprehension".  As my anxiety grew over my constant companion Orange, my comprehension suffered further.  While I could recite for anyone the dictionary definition of any and every word in the reading selection, the words would not cooperate with me enough to provide a sense of understanding, and no one was standing at my shoulder asking me to define the word "abject" or its companion "misery."  Alas, reading comprehension has ever since been my achilles heel.

Which quite naturally leads to my recommendation for a good read.  I just finished "Unbroken" by Laura Hillenbrand, a jaw-dropping narrative about an American World War 2 POW.  It's the perfect antidote for anyone who doesn't believe in survival against all odds. You'll not get a thorough summary from me, of course, since I only understood 63% of what I read.  And if you ask me, "Why do you think Louie wanted to return to Japan after all the physical and psychological torture he suffered there?" I will have to turn the question around and instead give you a definition of "psychological torture."  (Just investigate "SRA Reading Program" for that.)

Whitey, your celebrity is costing us too much

Having heard that it is costing something like $20,000 a trip (maybe even $40,000 or $20,000,000, it's all the same to me) to transport Whitey Bulger to the courthouse each morning, I encourage us funders of this excursion to assert our creativity.  There are alternative solutions to using our Coast Guard; for example, let's bring the court personnel to the prison.  Or, let's utilize our high school tech ed classes to construct a highly re-usable, portable cell to place in a closet or some other small space at the courthouse in South Boston.  There have to be a multitude of other creative alternatives.  Ideas?