The New Normal

Six months ago life changed.

It took years to build to a crescendo. The illusion of time. Days long, years short. Then high school's senior year hit in a whirl. That senior photo session at Cathedral Park set off a sprint that never abated. College visits, music auditions, essays, scholarship applications, exams. Graduation. Celebration. Summer work. A frenzy to get the dorm list purchased.

Labor Day Weekend appeared out of nowhere. The SUV was packed to the roof. A rush out the door at dawn. Coffee for the drive north.

To the unknown.

Oh the emotions of that day!

We landed at the residence hall with all of the other university families, the car overstuffed with furnishings and gear, our hearts over spilling with a weird mix of love, pride, hope, melancholy and trepidation.

The tasks of the day were a refuge. We poured ourselves into industry. Wrestling stocky bed frames into the right position. Stowing gear. Hanging hooks, shelves and posters. Filling drawers. Figuring out the closet. Filling in the blanks of life with the new roommate's parents in between heaving furniture into place. A fine sweat lining the middle aged brows.

The afternoon gave way to evening. A graceful university picnic on the endless lawn as long shadows fell. Dad and I maximized the excuses to hang around for as long as was socially acceptable. (No, it was past acceptable actually.) Then we shot a photo outside the dorm as the sunset colors swirled like the pastel mother-of-pearl in an abalone's shell. 

Under the darkening sky we hugged the man-child goodbye. Then we pointed the car south and drove home. Lumps in our throats, the tears flowing. What trenchant babies, we. But .... the heaviness of loss is so real. The person we left on the residence hall steps is not the same person who will return home some future day. 

A huge stage of life cannot so precipitously shift without impact. The tectonic plates have heaved into a new position. The world is arranged differently now. 

The heartache hung around for weeks. Yea, months. And each time Son has come home for a weekend or a school break, his new leaving brings all of the feelings rushing back to the fore.

How is he doing, you ask? Who, him? Oh he's fine!

He has taken to university like a bird flown out of the nest, soaring on the upward draughts. Classes? Loves them. Loneliness? Never. On the first weekend of orientation he met a girl. She's become his girlfriend. She's beautiful, intelligent, kind, down-to-earth. Lovely. He has taken a campus job. His music is moving forward. Mozart, Beethoven all played with even greater technical skill, yet more nuanced feeling. He texts. Emails. We Face Time.

He is doing it. And ... so are we. 

Here at home the piano keys are silent. The bedroom empty. The Smash Bros video monitor is gone from the wall. The always-neat bedspread rumpled from Luna who lays on it to be close to his scent. No need to stock up on macaroni and cheese, pasta or sliced turkey for lunch. But mostly, the piano keys are silent. The air that was filled with his music is still.

I love him so much it hurts. Can he feel it? My care reaching through the distance? Willing him safety, peace, soul-rest, success? Love. So much love. 

There are gifts to be sure. Hubby and I find ourselves alone again, looking at each other across the table like long-lost lovers, friends. Oh! It's you! We have time to communicate more frequently, to connect in a deeper way. Oh yeah.... I like you. I remember now.

And our absent boy has not left a perfect void. There is a beautiful young man in his place. Ready for the next phase of life. Happy. Comfortable. Industrious. Focused. He will develop and grow. He is strong and capable. Has a good North Star. We can trust him with his own beautiful life.

What Life is About

On December 18, forty four year old Diana passed from this life into eternity in her sleep. She had worked in her classroom that day like so many others. Her mom shared some things she had said in the days leading up to that Friday. She may have been ready for the passage. But we weren't. The loss of Diana struck a heavy blow to my spirit. She had been my friend for the previous fifteen years. Her sparkling mind kept me sharp.

Three years ago she asked me what my advice to my 14 year old self would be.

Here's what I wrote to her in October 2012.

Advice for my 14 year old self:

·        Trust yourself. Listen for God’s still small voice. Follow the things that bring you peace – deep peace in your soul.

·        Enjoy what you have – even, and especially in terms of what you have physically. You only get one body, face, mind, spirit, personality. Take care of them. Love them. Use them well but do not abuse them. And expect that they will change through time. You will only realize what you should have been thankful for in some cases after it is gone. So when you are tempted to wish your nose were different, instead be thankful you don’t have wrinkles on your forehead yet. When you wonder if your face is pretty, be thankful that your joints work perfectly and do not ache. If you think your thighs are fat now, sister…. it could be worse. And likely sooner than you think. So appreciate the gifts of the present and be a good steward of everything God has given you.

·        Work is God’s gift to man. Choose your work wisely. Choose something that employs your greatest gifts and brings you the most joy. Once you have found your calling, keep it in its place. Work can be a joy, but it is not all there is to life. Ever.

·        The most important decisions happen in life when you have the least experience with life. Choose these with the greatest care, listening only to the truest intuition of your heart:  your spiritual compass, your life’s work, your life’s partner. If you know a choice is the right one, have courage and follow through with it.  If you pay the price to choose well when you are young, you will enjoy no regrets when you are old.

·        Life is a journey, a process. Do not neglect savoring the every day passage of time. One day it will be gone, fragile as a mist, a vapor. So make it beautiful and create something good. Show love and kindness to others. Love is what it’s all about.

Animal Magnetism

Do you ever put people in dog breed categories? She's as yappy as a Chihuahua. What a feisty little Dachshund! If he weren't as stubborn as a Bulldog...

What would I be? German Shepherd all the way.

Contemplative. Fiercely loyal. Protective. Smart.

Always running scenarios through my head with an eye for keeping my loved ones safe from harm.

Playful. Thoughtful. Not impulsive. Perimeter check? Total on it. (Long before it even crossed your mind.) I'm a planner. Big time.

Bathroom accidents are for tacky little dogs. Clue-less types. Urinate in a public space? I would rather die than lose my privacy or my dignity.

I do leave messes... the chewed up things no one is supposed to chew. (I can't help myself. I have some obsessive compulsive tendencies.) I can occasionally track in mud. (Oops - did I really leave that trail?)

If I don't get daily exercise (or the exorcising of my mind), we all suffer.

I'm intense. Not easy to live with. Not easy to understand. And yes, I whine. I have so much to tell you that you cannot understand. And thanks to my perceptive nature, I understand your limits. So I can tell when the whining is getting to you and I stop. Sigh. And plop down on my bed (or sofa) with a grunt to go back into myself and my thoughts.

I love you. I never want to be away from you for long. (What would you do without my protection and care?)

I have an odd duality. I can appear intimidating to those who don't know me well. Maybe it's my watcher stance or the piercing gaze. But I am a softie at heart. Unless .... you threaten my people. Then I am scarier than you even ever knew. So there you have it. Do the right thing and we'll be copacetic.

Social events are okay in moderation. I generally hang out on the sidelines for a while, sizing up the energy before I enter in. Crazy extroverts can make me nervous. Or they can be my best friend. It's sort of a case-by-case thing.

In social situations my engagement can be full throttle. But later I spend a lot of time just snoozing, one-eye-open. "Chillin' with my peeps at home." I sort of have two speeds: fast and off. Some of my friends never seem to need downtime. Labs, Whippets, zany Boxers and some mixed breeds. I love lairping around with those guys. You see me rassling and chasing at the dog park, you would almost think I'm an extrovert too. But once we get home I collapse; recharge needed. Social types are fun. Nothing like a good old romp with them. But ooh they wear me out. I need generous hours of quiet time to recover from all that fabulous crazy.

One of my favorite pastimes is being outside at home and staring at nature. I notice every dragonfly, the deer tiptoeing through the wood, a jet streaking silently across the sky. I also love sitting at the front room window and watching who is walking by the house or coming to get the mail.

Food? Meh. There are a lot of things I simply can't eat. And there is nothing I won't sniff and approach with skepticism before I eat it. We both know I have digestive issues that can make life hard for all of us from time to time. So stop pushing that ghastly kibble my way. How does anyone eat that and live?

Motorcycles mesmerize me. Oh the dreams of wanderlust! The lure of the open road! I love car rides, feeling the breeze, smelling the luscious scents; thrilling to the joy of going somewhere, anywhere, with you. Sometimes I sit up front so I can be sure you haven't lost your way. If you forget to make a turn, say, to the dog park, I will let you know. You may get lost in the space in your head and need a copilot who never stops thinking.

I have the fullest imagination, but there is no place I love more than my home. Which is, of course, wherever YOU are.

Encore Les Americains

This week a terrorist with a Kalashnikov automatic rifle and three hundred rounds of ammunition was subdued in a closed train carriage in France. By three young Americans on holiday.

Headline: America Saves France. Again.

While French authorities (train personnel) ran away from the violence and locked themselves into a compartment, three American babies ran towards the threat and took the bad guy down.

It is occasion to be thankful for American stand-bys like tackle football, rugged individualism, violent video games and the American Armed Services. I can assume some or all of these influences were mixed into the crucible that shaped instincts so deep they caused these young men to run into danger without an instant of thought.

The boys are childhood friends, aged 22. One is a senior at Sacramento State University in California. One an Air Force pilot. One in the Oregon National Guard.

The French president made a statement thanking these young heroes for their "quick thinking action" that saved everyone from "a drama". One of the heroes was cut in the face, neck and hand. Two people were wounded - at least one of them shot. A drama? Sir, no one can save the French from their drama. What these brave American babies did was to save your lives.

The terrorist? A Moroccan national living in Spain who had traveled to Syria to fight with ISIS. His family and friends are in shock and disbelief that their peaceful "good guy" had this in him. Well, he did.

Until he was tackled, beaten unconscious, hog-tied, and held on the train platform until the French police arrived.

This is the face of America that rarely gets press. Three brawny, courageous, humble young kids who just did what needed to be done in the face of fear and terror. Yeah - one is black. The one in university. And ... no thug accent or ghetto affect. The two white guys? Guess what! They are neither mass shooting murderers nor pedophiles. They aren't backwoods hillbillies with mullets and bad grammar. Three handsome, strong, uber-normal young men wearing basketball t-shirts and soccer jerseys. Thinking about something besides themselves.

Sadly, this story seems as much an embarrassing reveal of French cowardice as it is a triumph of American gusto. I'm more Francophile than Francophobe. I was, once upon a time, an enthusiastic teacher of French. I try to be a humanity-phile, always looking for the best in everyone. But negative stereotypes exist.. and they come from somewhere. The French are lampooned as utterly lacking in courage. Or as sniffing snobs looking down their nose at the rest of the world. Cowardice and arrogance - a pathetic combination.

When a situation creates a searing portrayal that confirms the worst traits attributed to a culture, it's hard to resist believing it. Mes amis, I am your cheerleader. But when you act with craven cowardice, the whole world blushes. And I can't defend you. Fortunately for all, someone else did.

Requiem for a Routine

On Wednesday, my final copy of The Oregonian was delivered. I will miss reading the newspaper.

Even though it has dwindled down to nearly nothing over the past four or five years. Even though the quality of the writing has suffered and the editorial choices gotten worse. The dying of print has saddened and irritated me, and yet in my codependent way I have continued reading it because I could not pull myself away. The occasional tasty crumb was better than doing without.

I have read the newspaper daily, or on as many days as it has been delivered, for the better part of four decades. I love the exposure to a wider world and the stimulation of being informed about current events - both locally and in the greater community. I love the simple ritual of sitting in my soft sofa nest, feet up on the leather ottoman, coffee cup at my side, settling in for a good read.

The landscape is familiar. The Internet is a vast, roiling, living tessellation of knowledge, splitting like cancer cells faster than we can know. It has captivated society's open-mouthed stare. Why sit and read a stodgy old newsprint when you can google what you need to know? There are limitless websites catering to every taste and concern. You can read until your eyes shutter. Or better yet, listen to podcasts, watch YouTube. What could print media offer that would begin to compare?

The old fashioned print newspaper, delivered right to a person's front door, has served as a concierge. A boutique service, local and unique as the DNA of a region's soil.  It has been a curated blend of writing that is refreshed daily, spilling out a new combination of news, opinion, analysis, entertainment and learning day after day after day.

I remember when the Los Angeles Times was a journalistic feast. Every. Single. Day. I remember when The Oregonian had actual meat and muscle on its bones.

Nevermind, there's a good film showing tonight where they hang everybody who can read or write. Oh that could never happen here! But then again it might...

Yesterday I heard a woman call in to a radio talk show. She said, "And I turned on the news to see if we're still alive..." I like it. Well, the TV news might tell you if you're still alive. But the daily newspaper reassures you that you still have a brain. And a working one at that. I will miss that regular check-in.

It's the college costs of course. Canceling the $48 we pay every eight weeks for The Oregonian delivery is just another nickel in the stack meant to add up so we can send that fat check to Pacific Lutheran University several times a year. It is a painful little sacrifice. A symbol of our resolve. And the pathway has been well paved by The Oregon Media Group. It has weaned us well.

Disappearing news. Almost no commentary. Features AWOL. In depth stories? *crickets* The physical publication is a shadow of its former health and heft. The 2013 formatting change is awkward, rendering the publication difficult to read. Both the size and the bizarro nesting of sections make for constant distraction. Did I mention that now the paper is only delivered four of seven days? While the delivery price has increased? They could not have shown me the door any more expertly, now could they have?

So I bid adieu to the front page assault on public schools. To head-scratching decisions to hide a fascinating crime story on the innermost page and reduce its human interest and pathos to one or two tell-nothing paragraphs. Goodbye to endless drama about marijuana's legalization and the sweep of gay marriage across the country and world. To a school shooting here and a beheading there. Adios to the tattling on political wrangling and chicanery, tawdry wickedness in high places. To the stories about the police, who it appears can do nothing right. And the coverage of movies and television fare that has never made sense to me. (Reading the news to find out what I am choosing not to watch on TV?)

But that's just the bitterness talking. I will dearly miss Joseph Rose, Carolyn Hax, the Beaverton Leader. The poor, now emaciated Home and Garden Section, the Food Day recipes that still shine despite their rare appearance. I grieve the loss of the People's Pharmacy and Ask Amy's wisdom. My beloved Comics page. I long ago cried my tears over the layoffs and goodbyes to Margie Boule, Dylan Rivera, Chelsea Cain, Dulcy Maher, David Biespiel and other fine writers.

The Oregonian's Travel features have propelled me to visit Crater Lake, the Wallowas, Oahu and the Oregon Coast. How many restaurants did we come to love after reading about them first in A&E? How will I know know when Death Cab for Cutie is in town? Or which Oregon Symphony concert is a must-attend? Which of the best-sellers is the one to read next? I will not be the same for missing out on local news. I love the political commentary spanning the length of the spectrum, and always read most or all of the letters to the editor. A pulse upon the world. One I don't want to do away with.

So boo hoo!

When the most thorough news is produced by the Daily Mail UK, the degeneration is clear. The quotidian standard of literacy has diminished in an alarming slide. The societal attention span shrunk to the length and content of a TV soundbite or a Twitter dispatch. Even since turning our collective back on paper, the erosion of verbiage continues online. We are abandoning online articles, blogs and email for Instagram, Snapchat, Pinterest and Twitter. Words? Not necessary!

The literary air is getting thin and I just threw away my busted oxygen tank. Evolution is moving too fast for me.

First to fall over when the atmosphere is less than perfect. Your sensibilities are shaken by the slightest defect. You live your life like a canary in a coal mine. You get so dizzy even walking in a straight line.

Mexiquito

Friend Raqui planned and hosted an amazing girls' week in Mexico, on the appropriately named island of Isla Mujeres, to celebrate her mid-century mark. She chose four close friends to invite on the adventure.

So on Saturday, June 27, I arose before dawn to start the odyssey of international travel. I had packed carefully and determined what would be carried on the plane and what checked. The curb-side dispatch went off mostly without a hitch. Oh, I was running off into the glass revolving door without my precious carry-on, yes. But Hubby's shouts from the drop-off lane called me back to retrieve that essential bag. At PDX I waited in an anxious herd of fellow travelers to check in at automated kiosks braced for the new hidden cost du-jour.

I had researched the Boeing 737-900. The general consensus online was that I was in for a long distance shot in a plastic human-cattle-car. I had sprung for the extra fee for more legroom. But that would be cold comfort as the seat-width promised to make intimates of the strangers with whom I would share the experience. No remedy for that.

I read Into Thin Air on the iPad, perused the Hemispheres magazine, drank my tonic water in a plastic cup with my elbows tucked in, and presently we landed in Denver. The tchotchkes have different geographic names, but the basic formula is the same airport to airport. I wandered around, happy to be "seeing" Colorado. Eventually we reboarded for the next leg of the flight to Austin. In Texas the gift store scene had the cowboy Texas twang. I ate a great sandwich with a gluten-free bun from Thundercloud Subs, and presently was back on trajectory to Mexico.

Upon exiting the plane you know you are in Mexico. Instantly. A wall of humidity pushed its way into the enclosed jetway... a jetway that is somehow flimsier and more rinky-dink than stateside passages. As we rolled our luggage up the ramp and into the Cancun airport, the noises were another giveaway. Shouting, music, loud talking in Spanish.

Oh we North Americans live sheltered antiseptic lives!

My arrival was flooded with emotion. It evoked other places, moments and landings in my life. The early adventures, starting when I was young. My quiet, strong, intrepid way of wading into epic situations with mostly bravery and the occasional flash thought of "What have I gotten myself into?" And, why?

A key change this time, full more than a decade since my last visit to Mexico, was my sense of calm. Gravitas. You don't reach your fifth decade without gaining a little bit of Who-wants-a-piece-of-me?-presence. I felt a tad more in control. More able to handle whatever came my way. Knowing Spanish is far from necessary in Cancun, but it helps a person feel as if she will be less likely to be taken advantage of.

I bought my taxi to and from the airport for what seemed like an exorbitant $630 pesos (about $50). Actually, the taxi would have been crazy expensive - I purchased the colectivo for that.

The interesting mishaps began right off the bat. I was sent to the end of the line of vans. As the driver hefted my suitcase into the back luggage hold, I said, "Va a Puerto Juarez, no?" He looked up at me, surprised. "No ma'am.  This is a private party charter." Oops. There I was, cluelessly horning in on some American family's 50th anniversary vacation trip.

The next van I tried was full. I went back to start. Eventually I found myself squeezed into the front seat in too-close quarters with an Asian guy from Toronto whose luggage had been lost. The AC was on fire hose mode. The music on full blast as well: obnoxious dance music with thudding bass sung by some pop princess with a bubblegum voice screaming vapid lyrics. Yep. Mexico.

As I pulled the door closed to seal myself in I thought, "How am I going to get the seatbelt on without accosting this guy's private space? Oh wait. It's Mexico. I don't have to put on the seatbelt. Actually there probably isn't even a seatbelt to put on at all. And with any luck at all, Toronto guy will take this reality in stride." And he did.

The driver took just about everyone else to their destinations in the Hotel Zone first. I enjoyed every moment of the "tour". I had a front row seat, cool air blowing into my face and the understood silence of strangers. The kids in the back exclaimed every time they caught a glimpse of the ocean or a pool. But that just added to the fun. By then even the music was okay with me.

At some point in my van tour, Raqui texted me. "Where are you?" I told her the ferry dock to Isla was our next stop. I bought my ticket as the 7:30 ferry was pulling up to the pier.

By the time we were on board the heaving, bobbing two-story behemoth, the sky had darkened to steel and a strong warm wind whipped my hair into an airborne cork-screw. The ferry's powerful engines shook the undulating floor. I stashed my luggage in the hold and ascended to the top deck, texting Hubby about the impending hurricane that was surely bearing down.

It was on the ferry that being in Mexico sunk in even further. There was an enterprising street musician who had set up his portable amplifier and electric guitar. He serenaded our twenty minute passage with popular Spanish rock ballads sung at top volume. His voice was rich and resonant. The ferry seats and audio equipment were faded, worn and tattered by the daily beating of the salt air and sun.

I thought of a conversation I had overheard on the plane between a Texan guy and another norteamericano. They discussed the merits of different high end ear buds. Bose earphones work best to reproduce the clarity and dynamics of classical music. Some other brand captures the bass of more upbeat music like country or hip-hop.

Music, you see, at top volume, had been my companion for the whole of the trip. It's just that we private solitary individualists tunnel into our own private spaces as we listen. So while my plane-mates rocked out, I was surrounded only with the buzz and whine of the Boeing's engines and my faraway thoughts. We like our space. Our choices. Our taste. Our unique capsule of personhood and all the sensory input that goes with it. Love it.

But Mexico! Glorious Mexico is collective, communal, extroverted, crowded, ingenious, sensory, rigged together and affectionate. There is nothing private about it.

So I listened to this street kid in his shabby clothes as he filled the air with the thrill of a throbbing beat. The world became his smooth voice, the wind, the waves, the boat's vibration, an endless horizon, bands of turquoise below us, the smell of salt, the little Mexican girl in the seat in front of me taking selfies from every direction... and I breathed in love for the whole scene.

Oh Mexico... sounds so sweet with the sun sinking low. Moon's so bright like to light up the night. Make everything all right.

First Gig

Today's post is one of those accountings that had to mellow and age before I thought about posting it here.

April 12, 2015

Son performed his first paid concert yesterday. He played for an hour at the Rock Creek Retirement home on an amplified grand piano perched on an elevated stage in the dining room.

At first there were only one or two residents listening. As the hour progressed, the parade of slow walkers shuffled by and the dining room slowly filled with old folks – tall, short, fat, thin, male female, each a character of his or her own. Our friend Marita (who is a resident, and was key in getting Brett there) sat and gave us the running commentary. “He’s gay.” “That lady is 93 years old and sharper than sharp.” “She’s the village gossip.” “That one is never happy with anything.  She can’t find a thing she can’t complain about.” “This one is my best friend.” “He supposedly has a girlfriend.  I can’t imagine how lonely that lady must be to put up with him.”

You could tell that even the first one or two audience members were attentive and mesmerized. Their feeble hands clapping after every piece. Their faces warm and alive. Eyes sparkling with approval.

We sat on a sofa in the hallway where we could see the full scale of the scene. A tall thin old guy did slow circles in his walker. He had a permanent scowl – an expression of deep umbrage – etched upon his face. Tall, lean, bald and permanently peeved, Mr. Grumpy shuffled in and out of view in a regular orbit. His young Filipino nurse followed a few feet behind him, trying without much success to guide him to his room or some other place where he was supposed to be.

Marita said, “Mr. Grumpy likes the music.  That’s why he keeps coming back here.”

About 45 minutes into the playing, Mr. Grumpy detoured from his circuit to approach me. His eyebrows and eyes were still frozen into an expression of outrage, but in response to my smile, his mouth briefly flashed a grimace – a clear Mr. Grumpy show of friendliness.

He said, “There’s not a one in here has more than a third grade education.” Then he stared at me.

“Oh?  That’s too bad,” I smiled and nodded sympathetically.

“Not a one. You won’t find anyone here with more than a third grade education.”

“Oh, I’m sorry about that.”

“Well, except for the pianist. You can tell that pianist is educated. Not a single other one here has any education at tall.”

“The pianist is my son.”

“You should be proud. You can tell he has an education.”

At this point Marita was telling me to tell Mr. Grumpy what I do for a living.

“I’m a school administrator.”

“A principal? Then you can tell – no one here has more than a third grade education.”

“Well, you seem like an educated person.”

His scowl turned more pronounced.  “If I were educated, I wouldn’t be here!”

Oh my.

As the time moved on, the dining room filled. Among the later arrivers was a man who sat near the front and was so animated by the music he nodded his head and moved his hands to the beat. When Son’s fingers would play a complicated run, this man would look at his table mates and mouth, “Wow!”
  

One of the earlier audience members had to leave the room. (Probably a bathroom call.) As he passed us by in his walker, he said, “He’s good.  This one’s good.”

When the concert ended, Son stood up to descend the stage stairs. The room exploded in applause. One sweet little lady came up to him. She clasped her hands in his and said, “You are a star. You are a star.”

I said, “This is his first concert.”

She said, “He is going to be a star and I just know it. Honey, where did you study?”

“Sunset High School. I’m a senior.”

She said, “I thought surely you were from Julliard. You are a star. Please come back. We love you.”

Son was sweaty and tired. He had had a few stumbles on notes – which captivated his thoughts. The most eventful thing for him was that he experienced the thing all performers do sooner or later. He had a moment of, for lack of any better term, “stage fright”. His brain completely gave out on him. Playing one of the most complex Beethoven pieces, which is also one he knows the very best back to front, his mind suddenly went blank in the middle of the third movement. He simply lost it. Since he plays completely without a written score, he had no external scaffold. No way to access the melody. He tried, fumbling around, but it was gone. Eventually he went on to another piece. 

In the car on the way home, I told him the stage fright thing happens. He was lucky it happened with this wonderful audience of adoring older people whose hearing is far from great. Also, most non-musical people would not really notice if a piece fell apart like that.

He asked how to handle it. I told him that if he is performing in a formal concert he will usually have to play one piece which he will know so well it won’t disappear on him. Part of what happened here was that he had been playing for a while under the pressure of live performance and each piece is incredibly complex.  His brain was on overload.

I told him that pianists who are playing many pieces to fill an hour or more are expected to fill the air with music – not play any one piece perfectly as written.  In this case, he can find a way to resolve the chord progression musically and exit the piece – something he well understands how to do. It was a good experience for him to have that happen. I recounted the time that stage fright happened to me. I was playing the piano for the production of Godspell at the Metropolitan Theatre in downtown Medellin, Colombia.  It happened during the piece I knew by far the best. Suddenly I lost the connection. The piano went silent. Dancers, electric guitar, drums played on…. but the piano stopped. It was mortifying. You never forget it.

When we got home, Marita called. “Rave reviews!  Rave reviews!  The manager told all the people who were asking about that pianist that they could thank Marita for bringing him here.  They asked me, ‘Who were they?  Are they your relatives?’.  I wanted to tell them, ‘Yeah.  They are my brothers and sister in Christ.  But I just said they are my friends.’  Rave reviews.  Tell that boy he got rave reviews.  They want him back.”

So there you have it.  Son earned his first pay yesterday.  He’s official.