I believe in sharing. In theory, anyway. Which is why I'm barking at everyone I talk to today, why I'm muttering moody epithets to myself as I stomp around the house completing jobs, why I have been unsurprised to find myself visibly scowling each time I passed a reflective surface. I'm just sharing my cranky state. The weather stinks, it's mid-winter, I panicked this morning and canceled plans thanks to overly zealous weathermen, and now I have probably missed a perfectly good, sunny afternoon when I might have been out gallivanting... Huff, sigh, groan, growl.
It's been that kind of January, hasn't it?
Anyway, since I've been so eager to share my annoyance, frustration, and irritation with anyone who's willing to tune in, I should (on the flip side) also share something positive and delightful, to make up for my curmudgeon-ness. So, I will.
I had an absolutely fabulous time yesterday afternoon, in spite of snow and slush and icy gusts. My best little guy and I had a date—at the symphony.
Now, we don't go there often, although I'd love to. We've enjoyed the Pittsburgh Youth Symphony Orchestra several times, because it's fun and inspiring to see youngsters playing those instruments with such skill and aplomb. Plus (perhaps I should mention this little tidbit) the PYSO performances are usually free. Yep, gratis. That's double-plus-good for us.
But yesterday's show was a special treat, one that we'd been hoping would come around someday. You see, my son and I are huge John Williams fans. Yes, the John Williams who writes movie music. The true deserver of the moniker America's Composer. I love Copland too, people, but I think JW has him beaten. I do. Who cares what motivated the composition? Does it really matter that it was written to accompany scenes of a film? To me, that makes it even more awesome in a way. I know how it feels to paint a picture that I have chosen to render—and how much more difficult the task becomes when it must be made to order for someone else's preferences...
Anyway, when we heard about this show, even my husband looked pointedly at the two of us JW admirers, and suggested that we go. It was decided. And since my best big boy would be coming back from a weekend out of town on the day of the matinée performance, we decided that only Mom and Son would partake. Then, my charming kiddo stepped into the amazing kid arena by declaring he'd contribute allowance money to the seat purchase so we wouldn't have to sit in peanut heaven. So—I knew without a doubt that he really wanted to go.
We bought the tickets online, and waited for the big day. Which was yesterday, as you know. Even before we got inside the venue, we were met in the lobby by a brass ensemble's swelling performance of the Superman theme, and the music just got better and better. The concert was commanded by resident conductor Lawrence Loh, a gifted, youngish fellow who is also a self-proclaimed JW junkie. He was a perfect choice for the day, introducing each piece or even particular scene with gusto, background information, and an occasional prop or outfit. Loh morphed into a Jedi knight with light saber in hand for Star Wars; then, Professor Dumbledore himself used his "wand" to lead the symphony in selected Harry Potter musical selections. Loh was a fantastic master of ceremonies and maestro, and the perfect choice for such a rousing collection of memorable, heartwarming, bewitching tunes. He made no excuse for Williams' soundtrack niche, acknowledging only his greatness and genius. That gorgeous music filled Heinz Hall's soaring arches and intricate corners, and not a single classical music snob could be found. The adoring audience thanked both conductor and composer with rapt attention, roaring applause, and not a single peep from a cell phone.
The best part of the day occurred to me halfway through the first half, as I sat alternately wiping the corner of my eye (the opening notes of Jurassic Park) and grinning foolishly (Hedwig's Theme): I realized, with quiet shock, that I was sitting perfectly still. I wasn't wiggling a leg, or drumming a finger, or twitching my knee. I was just sitting. I was completely in the moment. Maybe that doesn't sound like such a big deal to you, but for me? A B-I-G D-E-A-L. I cannot sit still easily; long car rides are torture, meetings used to make me alternately yawn and weep, even long movies have become challenging. It just feels like a waste of time, my mind wanders, and my body yearns to move busily about, engaging in restless activity after restless activity.
But yesterday? That music washed over me with a physical presence, a calming aspect that I haven't experienced for months. It was splendid.
And now it's a precious memory. I wish I could have bottled the moment, the scene itself—not just the sounds, but also the smells and sights of that wonderful snapshot. And I wasn't alone. Everywhere around me, people were smiling. I haven't seen that for a long time.
Thanks, Lawrence. Thanks, John. For those two hours, I was completely at home right where I was. What a rare treat.
Showing posts with label concert. Show all posts
Showing posts with label concert. Show all posts
Monday, January 27, 2014
Monday, August 24, 2009
"Met an old student on the city street" *
Last Friday found the boy and I in the city for a free concert that didn't end up happening. Which was a bit disappointing. But the sun shone, people bustled, various construction projects raged (as is standard in the city)... and once we'd finally found over-priced parking, we observed humanity in all its lovely, hideous, often inappropriately clad forms. (The poor dress code of today's workers is fodder for another, much longer post.)
As the kid and I stood beside the supposed concert location, awaiting any sort of hopeful development, we were pleasantly surprised to see my cousin walking down the street, on the job, on the phone, co-worker beside him—amused smiles and waves were exchanged as he hurried on to his next assignment. More people made their way past, some scurrying, some meandering, most simply walking at an average pace. One young woman caught my eye; she was oddly familiar, petite and fair, with clear eyes that brought me back to another period in my life, a much earlier time that I'd all but left behind me. She studied me for a moment as she moved by, I gave her a glance but tried not to stare, and as she continued down the sidewalk I wondered to myself if perhaps, just perhaps, that was a former student that I recalled well.
She came back. As soon as I saw her turning, I knew it was her. She asked me if I'd taught school—I asked her if her name was A. We giggled a bit, now that we were certain, and proceeded to catch up on what had happened in the past 15 years. I introduced her to my son, she told me about her two little ones, we chatted like two moms (which we were). She asked me what my last name was now, and I told her—and then giggled again. "Do you even know my first name?" She remembered it, although I'd never permitted the kids in my classes to use it.
She had always been an absolute delight, in class and out. I was pleased to have run into her again, to see how she's grown, to see the more polished, educated, settled woman she's become. As we talked, it occurred to me that the last time I'd really spoken to her, it had likely been about an assignment, a term paper, a book we'd been reading as part of literature class. She'd been hanging around with her friends back then, in a cheerleading outfit, discussing games and practice and dances and dates. Now here she was, married, a mother, a professional person working downtown. With some quick comparisons, we realized that we are both right now in our same decade of life.
That was the part that blew my mind. Because I'd started teaching right out of college, and in upper grades no less, only about 6 years separate me from this charming young woman who once was my student. It hits me, that moment, what totally different people we are now from the children we were then, not just because we're older but because she is no longer my subordinate. I am no longer assigning her chapters or essays. We are on the same playing field, comparing notes.
And it was so nice to see her. But a tad disconcerting. I felt old. I am old. She is not yet old, but she's not a kid, either. And although we must look at least somewhat the same as we used to, we're so removed from those roles of the past that aside from physical similarities, I wonder if there are any other recognizable characteristics that remain.
People from your past. They surely do make you ponder, don't they?
* Any one else remember that Dan Fogelberg song about bumping into someone he knew?
As the kid and I stood beside the supposed concert location, awaiting any sort of hopeful development, we were pleasantly surprised to see my cousin walking down the street, on the job, on the phone, co-worker beside him—amused smiles and waves were exchanged as he hurried on to his next assignment. More people made their way past, some scurrying, some meandering, most simply walking at an average pace. One young woman caught my eye; she was oddly familiar, petite and fair, with clear eyes that brought me back to another period in my life, a much earlier time that I'd all but left behind me. She studied me for a moment as she moved by, I gave her a glance but tried not to stare, and as she continued down the sidewalk I wondered to myself if perhaps, just perhaps, that was a former student that I recalled well.
She came back. As soon as I saw her turning, I knew it was her. She asked me if I'd taught school—I asked her if her name was A. We giggled a bit, now that we were certain, and proceeded to catch up on what had happened in the past 15 years. I introduced her to my son, she told me about her two little ones, we chatted like two moms (which we were). She asked me what my last name was now, and I told her—and then giggled again. "Do you even know my first name?" She remembered it, although I'd never permitted the kids in my classes to use it.
She had always been an absolute delight, in class and out. I was pleased to have run into her again, to see how she's grown, to see the more polished, educated, settled woman she's become. As we talked, it occurred to me that the last time I'd really spoken to her, it had likely been about an assignment, a term paper, a book we'd been reading as part of literature class. She'd been hanging around with her friends back then, in a cheerleading outfit, discussing games and practice and dances and dates. Now here she was, married, a mother, a professional person working downtown. With some quick comparisons, we realized that we are both right now in our same decade of life.
That was the part that blew my mind. Because I'd started teaching right out of college, and in upper grades no less, only about 6 years separate me from this charming young woman who once was my student. It hits me, that moment, what totally different people we are now from the children we were then, not just because we're older but because she is no longer my subordinate. I am no longer assigning her chapters or essays. We are on the same playing field, comparing notes.
And it was so nice to see her. But a tad disconcerting. I felt old. I am old. She is not yet old, but she's not a kid, either. And although we must look at least somewhat the same as we used to, we're so removed from those roles of the past that aside from physical similarities, I wonder if there are any other recognizable characteristics that remain.
People from your past. They surely do make you ponder, don't they?
* Any one else remember that Dan Fogelberg song about bumping into someone he knew?
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Straight outta Seinfeld
There are many aspects to Pittsburgh area living. There are disadvantages and disadvantages, opportunities to grow and learn as well as opportunities to have your purse stolen or be harangued by a crazy person. You can drive past the theatre (that’s “re” at the end, not “er”—as IF) and be surrounded by the cultured and privileged few in furs and heels, but you can also drive past a pyrohi festival or a bunch of people tailgating somewhere and see the very common masses.
Saturday was a day for the masses, I’m afraid.
I planned to meet my gal pal and take a nice, long walk after lunchtime. We consulted our schedules, consulted various other schedules (OK, no baseball game, we’re safe), and decided the North Shore would be an optimum place; it’s in the middle, there’s a fairly new bike and walking path, the views are lovely but we’d avoid the nonsense of parking too close to the big arts festival.
We confirmed the time and I began the short drive. Why so much traffic? Boy, was the arts fest really this popular? We always go on weekdays… I continued on my trek, and then the cell phone rang. My friend was sitting in the Fort Pitt tunnel, not sure why… We decided to keep the plan but see what developed. Five minutes later, it all became clear to me. People were partying in the stadium parking lots, grills going full tilt, country music blaring, there were hundreds of Y108 signs (a local country station—no, I’m not a listener)… It suddenly hit me that there was a B I G concert today. I had a vague recollection of seeing Kenny Chesney’s name in the paper that week. Bet it’s him, I thought.
I called my pal, who still sat hopelessly in the bowels of the tunnel. I told her the sad news while she watched the other, non-concert-bound lane move past her, and we made the revised decision to hit the South Side instead. North, South, who cares? They both have trails now, and on Saturday, only one neighborhood featured a bunch of sweaty, scantily clad people drinking heavily and singing along to a country crooner.
(On a side note, I’m biting my tongue here because I could easily write an entire column on the hideous nature of many concert-attendee outfits. I saw far too much flesh that should not be revealed in the light of day. I saw cute ensembles that had to be 2 sizes too small for the unfortunate people wearing them. I saw sizeable portions of female rears peeking out, and enough cleavage to swallow a small town, and orange-peel skin gone wild. I won’t go on—there’s no need—but much of what was exposed in those hot, sunny lots was darned unpretty. Sadly, no one there was peddling any shame.)
So, on I drove, south this time, crossing two more bridges and finding my slow but steady way to the new meeting place. A-ha! A parallel parking place, with time left on the meter—I snagged it, slapped sunscreen on my pasty arms and legs, and scurried to meet the friend. We hit a restroom (always a must after 45 minutes of car time) and then found trail access and got moving. It’s a decent trail, albeit a tad hard to follow at times and poorly marked; we talked and visited and stepped out of the way of the hundreds of mad bikers speeding past us like the slow-moving scum we were. After what seemed like a mile, we surmised we were close to the busy part of Carson Street. Hey, let’s leave the trail for a bit, hit Carson, and get a water. What a great idea!
We came up right by Bruegger’s, and popped in to accomplish our simple task. Not so simple, apparently. Three people were in front of us in line to pay; they were together, had their order on the counter, and the front one, the only fellow among them (I use the term loosely), was throwing a hissy fit right there. Yes, I mean hissy fit. I was more masculine than this guy. He and his two older female companions were dark-skinned, probably Hispanic; as his voice rose, his accent became more pronounced.
“I am going to make a scene and be rude as s*** because he threw a pickle at me!” This spoken in the petulant manner of a wronged man-child. “I’m not paying for this sandwich because I didn’t want the pickle and he put it on there anyway!”
Now the manager (a.k.a. alleged pickle-thrower) stepped up to the cash register and stood next to the girl who was cashing folks out. “I'm the manager, and you cannot use foul language here! That is unacceptable and you need to leave the store! Please leave here right now.” What made the whole exchange so comical was the fact that as effeminate as the tantrum boy was, the poor store manager was every bit as much so. One was dark and street-wise; the other was slight and fair and, at this point, absolutely indignant at the behavior exhibited by the Mexican thug.
“You need to apologize to me for throwing the pickle!”
“I did not throw a pickle at you! You’re crazy!”
As they continued to shout at each other with increasing emotion, the other folks in the store looked around in disbelief, and my friend and I looked at each other, stifling laughter at the absurdity and wondering silently if we should take our water search elsewhere. The cashier had stood without comment next to the manager, but now she motioned for us to step forward while the argument went on. There we stood, paying for a bottle of water while the crazy border family stood right next to us. It was an awkward moment; I could sense the acute embarrassment of the two women. Finally, as the girl made change for us, the ladies turned and left the store, minus their sandwiches and their spoiled girly man. We followed them shortly, and as we exited, the crazy Mexican guy tried to coerce us into involvement in the bedlam. “He just admitted he threw the pickle. Did anyone hear him admit that?”
I could feel him looking at us as we passed, and I said, “No.”
He began to rant again, and the thought crossed my mind that perhaps he was unhinged or armed or something, but by then I was reaching for the door handle and we were stepping into the bright, logical sun. As we made our way back toward the trail, we started to talk about the ridiculous scene we’d witnessed, but my observant friend hushed me when she saw we were walking right past the two women who’d fled the place in shame. There they stood, waiting at the car, avoiding our gazes just as we avoided theirs.
Yet the beautiful day took away our need to rehash the silliness. We talked briefly about how thankful we were that we don’t have that kind of anger, what a shame it is that young, green people end up in management positions and have to deal with such moments, and—most of all—how amazing it is that God loves everyone. And then, we were back on the trail and moving on to better, more productive topics of conversation.
You see how multifaceted this city is? Where else could you get stuck in a huge city traffic jam but be surrounded by people wearing ten-gallon hats, micro-minis and boots? Where else could you park in front of BCBG Maxazaria, then practically get knocked to the ground by people zipping along on bikes in outdoor gear? Where else could you walk past picnics and filch blackberries from wild bushes while gazing across the river at giant coal barges, expensive sport boats, and jet skis? And where else could you step in to buy a bottle of water and instead experience the drama of witnessing two flamboyant young men shout at and threaten each other over what may or may not have been a thrown pickle?
Quite a day, all in all. And the weather was wonderful—thankfully, it was only stormy in that bagel shop.
Saturday was a day for the masses, I’m afraid.
I planned to meet my gal pal and take a nice, long walk after lunchtime. We consulted our schedules, consulted various other schedules (OK, no baseball game, we’re safe), and decided the North Shore would be an optimum place; it’s in the middle, there’s a fairly new bike and walking path, the views are lovely but we’d avoid the nonsense of parking too close to the big arts festival.
We confirmed the time and I began the short drive. Why so much traffic? Boy, was the arts fest really this popular? We always go on weekdays… I continued on my trek, and then the cell phone rang. My friend was sitting in the Fort Pitt tunnel, not sure why… We decided to keep the plan but see what developed. Five minutes later, it all became clear to me. People were partying in the stadium parking lots, grills going full tilt, country music blaring, there were hundreds of Y108 signs (a local country station—no, I’m not a listener)… It suddenly hit me that there was a B I G concert today. I had a vague recollection of seeing Kenny Chesney’s name in the paper that week. Bet it’s him, I thought.
I called my pal, who still sat hopelessly in the bowels of the tunnel. I told her the sad news while she watched the other, non-concert-bound lane move past her, and we made the revised decision to hit the South Side instead. North, South, who cares? They both have trails now, and on Saturday, only one neighborhood featured a bunch of sweaty, scantily clad people drinking heavily and singing along to a country crooner.
(On a side note, I’m biting my tongue here because I could easily write an entire column on the hideous nature of many concert-attendee outfits. I saw far too much flesh that should not be revealed in the light of day. I saw cute ensembles that had to be 2 sizes too small for the unfortunate people wearing them. I saw sizeable portions of female rears peeking out, and enough cleavage to swallow a small town, and orange-peel skin gone wild. I won’t go on—there’s no need—but much of what was exposed in those hot, sunny lots was darned unpretty. Sadly, no one there was peddling any shame.)
So, on I drove, south this time, crossing two more bridges and finding my slow but steady way to the new meeting place. A-ha! A parallel parking place, with time left on the meter—I snagged it, slapped sunscreen on my pasty arms and legs, and scurried to meet the friend. We hit a restroom (always a must after 45 minutes of car time) and then found trail access and got moving. It’s a decent trail, albeit a tad hard to follow at times and poorly marked; we talked and visited and stepped out of the way of the hundreds of mad bikers speeding past us like the slow-moving scum we were. After what seemed like a mile, we surmised we were close to the busy part of Carson Street. Hey, let’s leave the trail for a bit, hit Carson, and get a water. What a great idea!
We came up right by Bruegger’s, and popped in to accomplish our simple task. Not so simple, apparently. Three people were in front of us in line to pay; they were together, had their order on the counter, and the front one, the only fellow among them (I use the term loosely), was throwing a hissy fit right there. Yes, I mean hissy fit. I was more masculine than this guy. He and his two older female companions were dark-skinned, probably Hispanic; as his voice rose, his accent became more pronounced.
“I am going to make a scene and be rude as s*** because he threw a pickle at me!” This spoken in the petulant manner of a wronged man-child. “I’m not paying for this sandwich because I didn’t want the pickle and he put it on there anyway!”
Now the manager (a.k.a. alleged pickle-thrower) stepped up to the cash register and stood next to the girl who was cashing folks out. “I'm the manager, and you cannot use foul language here! That is unacceptable and you need to leave the store! Please leave here right now.” What made the whole exchange so comical was the fact that as effeminate as the tantrum boy was, the poor store manager was every bit as much so. One was dark and street-wise; the other was slight and fair and, at this point, absolutely indignant at the behavior exhibited by the Mexican thug.
“You need to apologize to me for throwing the pickle!”
“I did not throw a pickle at you! You’re crazy!”
As they continued to shout at each other with increasing emotion, the other folks in the store looked around in disbelief, and my friend and I looked at each other, stifling laughter at the absurdity and wondering silently if we should take our water search elsewhere. The cashier had stood without comment next to the manager, but now she motioned for us to step forward while the argument went on. There we stood, paying for a bottle of water while the crazy border family stood right next to us. It was an awkward moment; I could sense the acute embarrassment of the two women. Finally, as the girl made change for us, the ladies turned and left the store, minus their sandwiches and their spoiled girly man. We followed them shortly, and as we exited, the crazy Mexican guy tried to coerce us into involvement in the bedlam. “He just admitted he threw the pickle. Did anyone hear him admit that?”
I could feel him looking at us as we passed, and I said, “No.”
He began to rant again, and the thought crossed my mind that perhaps he was unhinged or armed or something, but by then I was reaching for the door handle and we were stepping into the bright, logical sun. As we made our way back toward the trail, we started to talk about the ridiculous scene we’d witnessed, but my observant friend hushed me when she saw we were walking right past the two women who’d fled the place in shame. There they stood, waiting at the car, avoiding our gazes just as we avoided theirs.
Yet the beautiful day took away our need to rehash the silliness. We talked briefly about how thankful we were that we don’t have that kind of anger, what a shame it is that young, green people end up in management positions and have to deal with such moments, and—most of all—how amazing it is that God loves everyone. And then, we were back on the trail and moving on to better, more productive topics of conversation.
You see how multifaceted this city is? Where else could you get stuck in a huge city traffic jam but be surrounded by people wearing ten-gallon hats, micro-minis and boots? Where else could you park in front of BCBG Maxazaria, then practically get knocked to the ground by people zipping along on bikes in outdoor gear? Where else could you walk past picnics and filch blackberries from wild bushes while gazing across the river at giant coal barges, expensive sport boats, and jet skis? And where else could you step in to buy a bottle of water and instead experience the drama of witnessing two flamboyant young men shout at and threaten each other over what may or may not have been a thrown pickle?
Quite a day, all in all. And the weather was wonderful—thankfully, it was only stormy in that bagel shop.
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