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Oh, oh, teh woe and joy. I'm going to work backwards, and fairly quickly, here, because I'm running on very little sleep and it's been since 4:30am EST that I got any.
Today was a day of being stuck on and off planes. We missed our flight last night that was supposed to go straight from Manchester to Baltimore to Houston. So we got to the airport at 5:45 to fly standby. Suffice it to say, we made five actual stops and one aborted attempt at landing in Chicago before we got home, and it took till after 6:30. Thus, I am beat.
But the night before, we unexpectedly stayed at Carol's house again, which was particularly fun after driving back to Manchester NH from Brownville, ME most of that day. Carol is exceedingly fun and intelligently silly, quite a nice change after the slightly somber and slightly closed minds of the relatives in Maine. Not that they weren't cool; Betsy, my father's cousin, and her sister Susan, seem like they'd be fun if their mom and uncle hadn't just died and been interred. And April, my father's sister, is a decent sort, a musician. I'd like to meet my dad's twin cousins Peter and Paul (I think Betsy's brothers), who are apparently wonderful pianists and singers and teach both. But that didn't happen this trip.
Over the few days we stayed at the 200-year-old Stickney homestead on top of Stickney Hill St. on Stickney Hill in Brownville, the overwhelming impression I got of the Stickneys, despite the fact that it was Wendell (my grandfather)'s interment and everybody was grieving for him, was that he didn't like them (or anybody) much and didn't have much use for them, and they understood that and kept to themselves. They, his brothers' offspring, lived down the Hill, and he couldn't be bothered to visit them when he was in Maine annually. I don't understand it, because they're quite interesting, and I rather wish I'd known them as thoroughly as I do the Reynoldses. But anyway, we didn't stay long, though we missed the plane anyway. It was a little throat-grindy seeing my father's grave there next to my grandfather's newly interred hole with no marker yet. And, as mama told me just before we left the cemetery, my little brother's in there too.
But before we left for Maine and people's painful lives and deaths, we stayed two nights and a day with Carol and Rick, rock-seller extraordinaire and fourth-generation master engraver. First night we'd got there after driving a few hours from Northampton, and called them for directions, to their delighted surprise. We'd fortuitously picked the two days in nearly the entire year that they had free; they were at fireworks just then in the next town over, but with a few phone-wrangling difficulties they showed up to take us to their house in the wilds of the New Hampshire hills. We crashed there in the upstairs of their very homey and fully-equipped, low barrel-vaulted barn (they're saving up to build a house, but meanwhile their barn is awesome), but not before seeing the slide show of the best pictures from their unbelievable VIP trip to Egypt (Carol's friend from the gift business world is very good friends with the Master of Antiquities there, so they got to special places for free like INSIDE THE GREAT PYRAMIDS OMG).
The next day, again with irrational felicity, they were going to the New Hampshire Craftsmen's Guild Fair. Even the traditional town Firemen's Breakfast with endless pancakes, eggs, bacon, corned beef hash, and juice cannot eclipse the day that was that fair. I can barely describe it to you, except to refer you to the description of the horse people's fair in Ghazal's Lament, and subtract a little exoticism. The booths that stuck in my mind (and my debit card, often enough) are the dichroic glass artists', the jewelers' (of which there were many), the raku tile artist's, the wooldyers', the blacksmith's, one woman's paintings of compost (surprisingly beautiful and touching), one photographer of polar bears in Canada, a leatherworker's who made Tibetan lambskin boots that turn your feet into Clydesdale fetlocks, silk painters', fudge makers', a potter's who made only clay torsos and heads of indigenous peoples of Asia and Madagascar with their tribal dress, a potter's who glazed her work the colors of anodized aluminum jewelry, the weavers', and the buskers' (Jolly Rogues, did Revolutionary stuff of 1600-1700 that sounded remarkably like Renaissance dance tunes). We all wandered around, together and apart, basking in the glory of craftness and fair, and Rick bought a peanut brittle that we sat around under the drinks tent and ate until we could get up and walk some more. It was a long and satisfying day, and yet it made me antsy. I had to make something.
Luckily enough, Carol has a mountain full of rocks, and Rick has a workshop full of equipment. So, in a style reminiscent of one of the very Zen booths of incense and candle holders at the fair, I (with Rick's help) drilled holes in five rocks and made candle holders, a vaseish thingy, and a shallow bowl. It's the most hands-on fun I'd had since blacksmithing with Virgilio. So now I have really cool rocks with holes in them. I know how dorky that sounds, but believe me when I say it makes me very happy.
Rick's son and his wife and three kids arrived early the next morning, so mama and I made tracks to Maine. But before we drove off, we had breakfast with them all. It was a happy little diner with big paper menus and crayons for the kids, so I drew, as I am wont to do. For some reason, the typical dragon I tossed off with the green, blue and orange crayons impressed the son's family so much they wanted to frame it to put in the kids' room. And then Rick's son remarked how close that dragon was to one he was planning to have tattooed on his back with his younger son's name on it. I asked what he'd want different, and then drew him that, on the back of another kid's menu. So, a man in New Hampshire may soon be walking around with an (RS)^2 dragon on his back.
It's odd, too, because they were little doodles I tossed off in a restaurant after weeks of ignoring my sketchbook for the most part. I didn't draw at Smith at all, but that may be because I was singing. :D
You can imagine how the concerts went, but Silly Seminar was overshadowed by lack of sleep, so I didn't catch much of the brilliance of the comedy besides Old Purcell Had a Farm and the barbershop harmony ode to Cape Cod. It did make for giggly lunches with Laura and Richard, who have to be the funniest people on earth, especially when combined with Phillip Cheea, a baritone freelancer about Alan's age. He and Franny and Christian and I seemed to make up the big kids' table at lunch, and we cracked each other up. In rehearsal, too, when we had nothing else to do, Phillip and Linnea's dad would tell stories about being Asian in New York. Hilarious stories. I got the good times I was looking for, even if the music didn't go as well as it might have, sometimes.
It was hard to say goodbye, once again, and I didn't even get to say bye to Todd in person, but I've recieved even more emphatic exhortations to stay in touch than I did last time, and Elliot told me to email him when I'd considered what kind of poetry I might like him to set as a song for me. That's an honor unlooked-for, as is Phillip asking me if he could use the Piazzolla arrangement. And I didn't really understand, but it sounded like Richard might want the Wind to sing my Piazzolla, too. Not that it's really mine, since it's just a transcription, but wow, would I love to hear it.
So, that's that, I and I'm beat, and I'm going to see Susan tomorrow and hopefully leave for LA within 24 hours.
Oh yeah, and Lisa's family got here this evening right after we did, because Charlotte's in a wedding in Houston. So we (David and Grandjo and mama and I) took Lisa and Carl and Paul and his wife and their one-year-old to the Chinese buffet for dinner, and it was fun.
Today was a day of being stuck on and off planes. We missed our flight last night that was supposed to go straight from Manchester to Baltimore to Houston. So we got to the airport at 5:45 to fly standby. Suffice it to say, we made five actual stops and one aborted attempt at landing in Chicago before we got home, and it took till after 6:30. Thus, I am beat.
But the night before, we unexpectedly stayed at Carol's house again, which was particularly fun after driving back to Manchester NH from Brownville, ME most of that day. Carol is exceedingly fun and intelligently silly, quite a nice change after the slightly somber and slightly closed minds of the relatives in Maine. Not that they weren't cool; Betsy, my father's cousin, and her sister Susan, seem like they'd be fun if their mom and uncle hadn't just died and been interred. And April, my father's sister, is a decent sort, a musician. I'd like to meet my dad's twin cousins Peter and Paul (I think Betsy's brothers), who are apparently wonderful pianists and singers and teach both. But that didn't happen this trip.
Over the few days we stayed at the 200-year-old Stickney homestead on top of Stickney Hill St. on Stickney Hill in Brownville, the overwhelming impression I got of the Stickneys, despite the fact that it was Wendell (my grandfather)'s interment and everybody was grieving for him, was that he didn't like them (or anybody) much and didn't have much use for them, and they understood that and kept to themselves. They, his brothers' offspring, lived down the Hill, and he couldn't be bothered to visit them when he was in Maine annually. I don't understand it, because they're quite interesting, and I rather wish I'd known them as thoroughly as I do the Reynoldses. But anyway, we didn't stay long, though we missed the plane anyway. It was a little throat-grindy seeing my father's grave there next to my grandfather's newly interred hole with no marker yet. And, as mama told me just before we left the cemetery, my little brother's in there too.
But before we left for Maine and people's painful lives and deaths, we stayed two nights and a day with Carol and Rick, rock-seller extraordinaire and fourth-generation master engraver. First night we'd got there after driving a few hours from Northampton, and called them for directions, to their delighted surprise. We'd fortuitously picked the two days in nearly the entire year that they had free; they were at fireworks just then in the next town over, but with a few phone-wrangling difficulties they showed up to take us to their house in the wilds of the New Hampshire hills. We crashed there in the upstairs of their very homey and fully-equipped, low barrel-vaulted barn (they're saving up to build a house, but meanwhile their barn is awesome), but not before seeing the slide show of the best pictures from their unbelievable VIP trip to Egypt (Carol's friend from the gift business world is very good friends with the Master of Antiquities there, so they got to special places for free like INSIDE THE GREAT PYRAMIDS OMG).
The next day, again with irrational felicity, they were going to the New Hampshire Craftsmen's Guild Fair. Even the traditional town Firemen's Breakfast with endless pancakes, eggs, bacon, corned beef hash, and juice cannot eclipse the day that was that fair. I can barely describe it to you, except to refer you to the description of the horse people's fair in Ghazal's Lament, and subtract a little exoticism. The booths that stuck in my mind (and my debit card, often enough) are the dichroic glass artists', the jewelers' (of which there were many), the raku tile artist's, the wooldyers', the blacksmith's, one woman's paintings of compost (surprisingly beautiful and touching), one photographer of polar bears in Canada, a leatherworker's who made Tibetan lambskin boots that turn your feet into Clydesdale fetlocks, silk painters', fudge makers', a potter's who made only clay torsos and heads of indigenous peoples of Asia and Madagascar with their tribal dress, a potter's who glazed her work the colors of anodized aluminum jewelry, the weavers', and the buskers' (Jolly Rogues, did Revolutionary stuff of 1600-1700 that sounded remarkably like Renaissance dance tunes). We all wandered around, together and apart, basking in the glory of craftness and fair, and Rick bought a peanut brittle that we sat around under the drinks tent and ate until we could get up and walk some more. It was a long and satisfying day, and yet it made me antsy. I had to make something.
Luckily enough, Carol has a mountain full of rocks, and Rick has a workshop full of equipment. So, in a style reminiscent of one of the very Zen booths of incense and candle holders at the fair, I (with Rick's help) drilled holes in five rocks and made candle holders, a vaseish thingy, and a shallow bowl. It's the most hands-on fun I'd had since blacksmithing with Virgilio. So now I have really cool rocks with holes in them. I know how dorky that sounds, but believe me when I say it makes me very happy.
Rick's son and his wife and three kids arrived early the next morning, so mama and I made tracks to Maine. But before we drove off, we had breakfast with them all. It was a happy little diner with big paper menus and crayons for the kids, so I drew, as I am wont to do. For some reason, the typical dragon I tossed off with the green, blue and orange crayons impressed the son's family so much they wanted to frame it to put in the kids' room. And then Rick's son remarked how close that dragon was to one he was planning to have tattooed on his back with his younger son's name on it. I asked what he'd want different, and then drew him that, on the back of another kid's menu. So, a man in New Hampshire may soon be walking around with an (RS)^2 dragon on his back.
It's odd, too, because they were little doodles I tossed off in a restaurant after weeks of ignoring my sketchbook for the most part. I didn't draw at Smith at all, but that may be because I was singing. :D
You can imagine how the concerts went, but Silly Seminar was overshadowed by lack of sleep, so I didn't catch much of the brilliance of the comedy besides Old Purcell Had a Farm and the barbershop harmony ode to Cape Cod. It did make for giggly lunches with Laura and Richard, who have to be the funniest people on earth, especially when combined with Phillip Cheea, a baritone freelancer about Alan's age. He and Franny and Christian and I seemed to make up the big kids' table at lunch, and we cracked each other up. In rehearsal, too, when we had nothing else to do, Phillip and Linnea's dad would tell stories about being Asian in New York. Hilarious stories. I got the good times I was looking for, even if the music didn't go as well as it might have, sometimes.
It was hard to say goodbye, once again, and I didn't even get to say bye to Todd in person, but I've recieved even more emphatic exhortations to stay in touch than I did last time, and Elliot told me to email him when I'd considered what kind of poetry I might like him to set as a song for me. That's an honor unlooked-for, as is Phillip asking me if he could use the Piazzolla arrangement. And I didn't really understand, but it sounded like Richard might want the Wind to sing my Piazzolla, too. Not that it's really mine, since it's just a transcription, but wow, would I love to hear it.
So, that's that, I and I'm beat, and I'm going to see Susan tomorrow and hopefully leave for LA within 24 hours.
Oh yeah, and Lisa's family got here this evening right after we did, because Charlotte's in a wedding in Houston. So we (David and Grandjo and mama and I) took Lisa and Carl and Paul and his wife and their one-year-old to the Chinese buffet for dinner, and it was fun.
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