Legacy

Mom called. "Lori, that concert at The Bass Hall? The one I've been telling you about is on July 9th. Would you like to go with us? I know how you love choir concerts." A quick scan of my limited schedule and I quickly said, "Sure, I'd love to go." I had no idea what I was in store for me, certainly not what I'd anticipated.

I speak with Mom several times a week and I hear details of her life and her friends' lives on a regular basis. The choir story of Joyce's son Carlton did pique my interest primarily because it resonated with some of my own experience with reuniting last summer with my high school choir. Still...how good could a choir be from Wichita Falls? Especially with old folks like Carlton? (who, to be fair, is just a few years older than me.) I can't really tell you how big Wichita Falls is. I just know that it's been wiped out several times by terrible tornadoes. It's probably not much bigger than Highland Village, and I'm pretty sure Tommy Tune escaped from that town to make his mark on Broadway. I also know that Michelle Davis got a lifetime Sonic sticker on her car for lifetime 1/2 price drinks from Wichita Falls. THAT is impressive. 

We agreed to meet in Fort Worth for dinner before the show. I had just spoken with Dad on the cell phone they now keep on during waking hours. I was walking from the parking garage and saw them a block ahead of me. 

No. 

They're too old. My parents are younger. Wait. 

Yes. 

It had to be them. 

And yet, it looked like Granddaddy and Memo, silver hair without a hint of the colors of youth. There was Dad, always the gentleman, street side walking slowly beside Mom. Even three years after her fall(s), she walks with a limp, particularly in the evenings after a full day of standing and moving around. 

When did they get old? 

I realized in that moment that regardless of how bad this concert was, the real value of the evening was time shared with aging parents whom I cherish. (Can I say that I finally consider that my Memo is old at 97? Mom and Dad are only in their 70's.)

I was reminded of the event title only when handed a most impressive all color 8 1/2 x 11 multi-page program: Legacy. Impressive.

As the night unfolded I learned something about legacy. Much more, I was drawn into the power of human connectedness, the power of shared lives, dreams, goals, and music.

I read parts of my program. Legacy Choir of Rider High School in Wichita Falls, Texas consisted of around 200 adults ages 34-60. Together with their beloved director, whom they still referred to as Mr. Cowan, these people gathered once a month for 15 months to learn and rehearse music. There was even a group that met on the East coast monthly to practice. Impressive.

The choir entered Bass Hall from the rear and filled the gaps in the auditorium aisles. Matching tuxes. Matching dresses. Black. (No blue tuxes or giant blue velvet bow ties. Improvement noted.) They all dropped some coinage. Impressive.

The line of men standing in front of me were all holding hands before they began singing. Hmmmm....Texas? Carlton? Former goat roper, now airline executive, holds hands with his peers? Because of Texas, I was impressed. 

I was shocked and delighted when I heard their first few notes soar throughout that magnificent hall. I could hear individual voices because of proximity during that first song. I took note that, like my choir, there were a few "stars". For the most part, they were just people with average voices that when trained well have the ability together to transcend their individual talent.It was a choir, not individual voices. Impressive.

In various ways we learned about their director. A choir director who insisted that everyone in that room was an equal? Who referred to the choir as a family in High School? One who would require members to hold hands during concerts? The WHOLE concert? Impressive. That the kids complied? Very impressive.

I was so glad to be a part of the multiple ovations. Most of all I was honored to stand witness to legacy. I was delighted to honor a man who believed that making music is more than just singing or playing correct notes. Stetsons off to a man who dared in the 60's and 70's in Texas to make boys hold hands?! He is but one of many directors in Texas who carved out a place, a room  where creativity, music, and acceptance were safe havens for so many who might otherwise have lost their way during adolescent years. Choir rooms or band halls were places where even those of us who may have appeared confident on the outside felt better, at home.

I knew, without prompting from the director, that what happened for this Legacy choir was extraordinary. When these adults sang lyrics they memorized long ago-- life and experience, pain and mortgages, children and loss all contributed to their sense of knowing. The collective support and love felt both now and then combined with music, talent, and hard work was visceral to those of us who were merely spectators.

I plan on purchasing the CD once it's available. I will also keep watch for the documentary that someone is producing as well. Will I listen to it and marvel at the professional quality? Probably not. What I will listen for and remember is what it means to be a legacy. Will anyone in Minnesota, or Washington, or even Kenya ever know or care about Mr. Cowan or Carlton or Lori? It's doubtful, most improbable. However, does it matter that Mr. Cowan spent endless hours teaching, researching music, listening to the endless, weekly love stories gone badly, year after year after year? Does it matter that Carlton, a goat-ropin' cowboy wanted to sing and learn more? Did it matter that Anne Goetsch said, "Of course you're going to be the accompanist!"?  I know it matters. The hundreds of people in Bass Hall that night resoundingly said, with thunderous applause, it matters. 

Mr. Cowan has his thousands who have experienced his legacy of life and love of music. Carlton made the trip from DC every month for rehearsal. I met his college aged son, an award winning filmmaker already. The arts are part of his legacy as well. Me? I was aware of the legacy of my parents--the legacy of sacrifice for family. Dad driving half way across Houston everyday, so I could continue to attend KHS. They were willing to pay for voice lessons and piano lessons, so that I could do what I enjoyed. Was I ever going to be a diva on stage or a broadway star? Nope. Not even close. They hear me now singing along with the radio, or while I set the table for Thanksgiving dinner. They cried along with me as I tried but couldn't finish singing at Dado's funeral. They contributed profoundly to my passion for music and beauty. Their support then and now matters immensely. 

Do the arts matter in school today? Anyone at Bass Hall on July 9, 2011 would shout out, "YES!" What else would motivate such commitment from busy-addicted people to slow down enough to perform a concert once? They remembered and experienced again that being accepted matters. They experienced that learning to be family did matter and is a transferable skill. They remembered what it's like to work together to make one chord, one phrase, even better. Perfect. They had the chance to say the things they wished they'd said to the director that never even crossed the mind of a self-absorbed teenager. Life was hard then. It's hard now. The performers and their audience experienced beautiful music. Music transports us to places where life is better, if even for a moment. Always has. Always will.

Heavenly Patterns

I was focused on getting her pool shoes to the house before ABC left with her Dad for their annual July trip to Boerne. Driving past my neighbor's home, my eyes and my heart were quickened by a sight I've never seen before.

My neighbors are elderly. I often see their grandson, probably in his 30's mowing their very large lawn and the larger, adjacent empty lot. He was in shorts and shirtless. Certainly not newsworthy. What caught my eye was his son, probably 4, also in shorts and shirtless. He was pushing the fertilizer spreader. His face was a portrait of fierce determination. His hair was soaked in sweat and he had the same crinkled line between his brow as his father. How I wanted to pull out my camera and capture this father/son dual effort of service. Lest, I earn a crazy stalker, paparazzi reputation in my hood, I refrained.

My restraint was mostly because I wouldn't have been able to capture the most charming aspect of my snippet of life this morning. The little boy was trotting along in the most haphazard pattern. So much so, that I wondered at first if he was being chased. I slowed and watched. No. He was just pushing, with wild abandon and without any thought to what might happen after his work was complete.

I immediately admired the father. How wonderful for him to say, "Yes, son, I'd love for you to push the fertilizer spreader." Wheels. Gears. Noises. Awful smells. Perfect little boy toy. I was grinning ear to ear on my drop off at the mailbox with Annie Beth. She had brought out some of her art to show me and gain deserved accolades. We share a love for creating and for praise.

I pulled into Peggy and Jack's drive to turn around and see the progress of my young laboring friend. I began to visualize my elderly neighbor's yard after watering. I wondered if, perhaps, Dad had not loaded the spreader with fertilizer. I slowed once again and noticed, that, yes, fertilizer was making it's way in rapid fire patterns across the pale, green landscape. I loved the father at that instant. He knew exactly what his son was doing and allowed him to be absolutely lost in the joy of four year old work.

A series of pictures is nestled inside my own brain right now.
1. Little shirtless boy pushing his big boy spreader complete with fertilizer in streaks and circles and lightening bolt patterns across his great grandparent's lawn.
2. The knowing grin I shared with the Dad as I passed the second time.
3. The possibility of taking a picture of the lawn after rain and without fear of being arrested for stalking.
4. The possible, inevitable pattern seen only from above and afar by a select few, for a brief time.

My best guess is that only a few of us could know what that lawn would look like next week without the inevitable intervention from a loving father and responsible grandson, who understands the value of work and the joy of laboring alongside loved ones.

I said aloud, "Lord, thanks for a reminder."

I wonder what the patterns of my wild, often erratic, sometimes lethargic work look like from above? I'm grateful for a Father who invites me to work alongside Him, even when He knows I'll make a big ol' mess in the process. Then. He takes my messes and uses Living Water for growth and life, transforming them into beauty.

Being Found

I'm still skeptical of blogging. It's an odd medium, really. I remember going to great lengths to hide my thoughts in my yellow,velvet book, appropriately titled, "My Diary". It had that great little lock and key--which was no hindrance to an ornery older brother with a bobby pin snatched from my bathroom! Hiding it proved ineffective as well. Two reasons: 1. It leaves a lump under the pillow 2. User memory deficits.

I worked so hard to hide the realities of my 8 year old world. There was the utter humiliation of hearing my poetry recited down the hallway, "Roses are red. Violets are blue. Cameron Schetter, I love you." Each post thereafter, carefully embedded in unsuspecting sentences were his special greetings, "Scott stinks." "Scott is a PIG!!!!!!!" My favorite, "Scott bites his toenails!!!!!!!" Whether my ninja defensive tactics were successful, or he quit out of sheer boredom, who can ever tell? Because, by the time I actually wrote anything of substance worthy of amateur extortion, both he and my sister, who didn't cop to her habits until adulthood, had quit reading my spiral notebook journals. Carol Hudgins is MEAN and wears glasses!!!!! that are ugly!!!!!!!

Justice is important to me.

So, why in the world, would anyone be marginally interested in my thoughts now? Isn't blogging just a publishing of my journal? I get that my mother would want to finally have full permission to read and discuss my issues openly now. Did anyone else figure out that when you were setting the table for dinner and your mom sheepishly asked,  "Sweetie, is there anything you want to talk about? " It wasn't because she was clairvoyant? I understand why my friends from out of town might want to see what color my hair isn't or is-depending on perspective. But why would I even want a stranger to read my thoughts and mock or interrogate me? And so I had no real plans of joining the bandwagon.

What I did discover was that my handwriting, abysmal, even in the graded years is no longer discernible, especially by me. I began using the computer several years ago to journal. I found that keeping the files readily available, organized, and accessible was a challenge. Not enough to lose sleep over; yet, I do go back and read my thoughts, my bad poems. The stones of  my life. Markers of where I've been and where I want to be.

Late to the party, I had started reading a few blogs and noticed that the format was logical and easy to follow. "I will use this format for my writing/journaling ideas." Feeling quite pleased with myself, I set up my blogspot. Ignorant about most settings, and with no need or desire to explore the parameters, I simply started. It was liberating to know that when I couldn't figure out how in the ham sandwich to fix the font back after I'd pasted in another one from Biblegateway, it didn't really matter. This was for me alone. I've learned to be more comfortable with my limitations and the realities of learning--mistakes are part of learning. I am not anonymous about being a recovering perfectionist.

As is always my pattern, I had a couple of weeks of jotting and scratching on paper/phone and nothing on the blog. Who cares? It's mine alone.

My dear friends Ryan and Lindy are here from Houston to see Next to Normal. (scratch to self...blog about N2N) We were all comfortably doing our own thing on our laptops in the coziness of Ebby. (my apartment..worth a post as well.) The soundtrack was playing on Lindy's laptop. Ryan was watching a movie at the dining room table with his headphones on. In my ritual spot on the peeling, leather loveseat, I had just hung up the phone with Gay. I'd called her to appropriately scold her for asking a complicated question in her post and not providing an answer. I decided to open up my blog and think out loud about the question she posed. "How do we guard our hearts?"

Whatever the landing spot is called popped up on my screen and I was confused to see that it looked different.
                                    And how in the world did Lindy get her picture on my blog?
Wait.
           She's following me.???
                         I haven't told Lindy I had a blog.
                                                                           Screeeeech moment.
And in a flash, my old tapes started running. "Was there bad poetry?"
          "Was my punctuation correct?"
"Blast! I wish I'd fixed that font problem."
"Why didn't I research and follow through with hiding it from others???!"

I'd been found.

"Lindy, how in the world did you find my blog?" L-"You posted a comment on Gay's blog and there is a link to your blog on your comment. I have quietly been reading your posts while sitting across from you. I tried to comment, but it never would allow that. You must have set it up that way?" Me- cackling first, "Who knows what I did, I just started filling in boxes and started!!"

I'm smiling now because in the conversation that followed, I realized that being found by my thoughtful, intelligent, loving friend was not frightening or threatening. Her blog, a highlight in my day now when I get the message there is a new one, is a favorite. Why? It's a reflection from the mind and soul of a person whom I treasure. We share life in a consistent and intimate way through keystrokes anyway. Her reading this was simply a more organized way of telling her what I'd say to her anyway.

I could figure out how to change the setting for privacy. I'll leave it as is. Being found by a beloved confidante and affirmed is a mingling of our lives in another way that helps her know me and I her. Keys are gone. Hiding isn't necessary. And ninja techniques aren't required. Lindy, I love and I adore you. Thank you for finding me.

Safety is a new frontier for me.

How odd. Maybe I learned something about guarding my heart without setting out to do so in this post?