My wife and I had an opportunity yesterday to travel back about a decade or so, thanks to my daughter's thoughtfulness. In light of the slate grey skies and fog and rain, it was nice to be warmed by memories of how things were and, sometimes if you're lucky, can still be.
Michelle is a music major at Eastern Connecticut State University in Willimantic. After having driven back and forth for a semester earlier in her academic career, she has opted in recent years to live on campus and come home on weekends (I've often theorized it's my scintillating wit and erudite sense of humor that draws her home, but I also have it on good authority, that it's her mother's new washing machine and dryer as well as how her mom dotes on her when it comes to meals. You say tomato and I say tomatoh and Dan Quayle says Murphy Brown.
My children are amazing--I helped make them so I may be a little biased, but trust me on this-they are incredible. Michelle's brother, Patrick, can draw, paint, sculpt, use charcoals, photo media--I guess he'd be called a visual artist. I cannot draw a conclusion, so he has his talent from his mom I have to assume and that's the case for Michelle the musician. Michelle can pick up an instrument, any instrument, and play it and get music to come out of it. Except, technically, a piano--she cannot pick one up. Rather she sits down and it makes music.
I used to love when she was in elementary school, all the violin recitals and the consolidated school orchestra projects--not because I can't get enough of Peter and Wolf (because I actually can) but because I marveled listening to my daughter make musical instruments I can't even pronounce make music. I attended I have no idea how many orchestra recitals when she was at Norwich Free Academy and even went to the marching band performances after she joined that organization because she wanted to learn to play the French horn and it came with a uniform.
I've had trouble always accepting my children are now adults--actually they have the trouble of gently reminding me because I don't see them that way. You'd think their size might be a visual hint for me, but I am thick if nothing else. In recent years, Patrick has his own life in his own household and we see him on a regular though not especially frequent basis. Michelle, when she lived at home, used to practice the viola (which I like more than the violin because I think it sounds warmer--my daughter finds comments like that unhelpful) but, most weekends all she brings home now are laundry baskets and NO instruments.
I did not know she was learning piano until she called us earlier this past week to tell us she was taking part in a 'brown bag concert' on Friday sponsored by the ECSU music department. She would play a short piano piece for classmates and teachers and wanted us to think about coming. My rehab from Total Knee Replacement is progressing well--not DWTS well, but good enough to get around without falling down a lot or grabbing my left knee and screaming, so we were honored to be able to watch and listen. And we were very proud even though it was a little warm in the theatre (we got to sit on the stage as there were only five performers and everything took less than twenty minutes) and when she was done, I realized my eyes were sweating just a little bit. I don't think she saw that--otherwise I may not be invited to another performance.
We all went to lunch in the Student Center (can you say 'fish out of water'? I knew you could) where I accidentally lost my cell phone and realized it after my wife and I had driven home and were in our kitchen. Like lightning, my wife called my cell and when someone answered she told them to take the phone to the campus bookstore where she'd retrieve it. They had no idea who she was and so, of course, they did exactly what she told them. It's worked for me for almost thirty-two years (I have the advantage of knowing who she is, but still ....)
We climbed back in the car, took Route 2 to 32 and headed toward Willimantic by way of Route 87 through Lebanon and on to Route 289 beyond the town. When you stay on the 289, near Village Hill Road there's a farm on your right heading towards Willimantic where someone raises llamas.
I'm never sure for what purpose--is it llama mmilk they're after? Perhaps it's the ffur or the hhair? Could it be the ppoop? And why are they on a farm in sort-of-Willimantic, CT? It's not like we're the Andes, right? (or would that be Aandes?) I got to see these animals four times yesterday, twice coming and twice going, and they were just grazing in the far corner of a fenced-in field in the mist and wind (sort of ruining my 'raised for ffur' theory as I suspect they might smell a bit like a wet ddog, if you follow my drift) except for another bunch of llamas who were having a lie-down perhaps because all that grass grazing had worn them out. It wasn't the nicest of days yesterday what with the rain and the fog and the wind-so I was happy to see they were wwarm. They might have even been sweating a little bit-but I'll never tell.
-bill kenny
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