Tag Archive | dad

Music at the Museum

Different segments of the arts often intertwine. Music, paintings, sculpting, words used in both poetry and prose… they all influence each other. Many times an author has a “Play List” included in their Author Notes, and our words are often bound with a work of art on the cover.

The Haggin Museum often has a music program held in the room with the thirteen naked ladies. (I don’t know the name of the painting, but suffice it to say that it is a hallmark in my life, is much prettier than “thirteen naked ladies” implies and I have postcards and the magnet of it.) The first time I went with my father, it was for a talk on the Stockton Opera by Jaffe, with musical selections on the piano as well as a soloist.

My father cried. Happy tears.

We went yesterday to hear the Divertimento String Quartet. The first selection that they played was everything I imagined: so light and airy that if you closed your eyes you could see the pretty girls dancing across polished wooden floors.

The second piece…not so much.

The piece was played well, but I have to say I’m glad that Velickovic gave a little talk about it  before hand, explaining the strife and anguish, the political climate of both the country and the composer at the time it was written.

Because that piece took my anger and amplified it right out of context.

Have I mentioned lately that I have anger issues?

We ended up leaving, right after the second piece was finished. It had nothing to do with the performance, but I had to pick my son up from his other grandparents and quite frankly my father could tell I was ready to pop a cork.

At the first movement washed over me, I thought of scenes such as to be found in swords and sorcery. As it escalated, so did my pissed-off-itude. I started thinking of the piece I kept starting to write, what I wanted it to be and what it keeps ending up being. And until yesterday, I have to tell ya, I had no intention of every really writing it.

It’s a rock opera using Bon Jovi songs. Originally intended as The Mommy Monologues,  I was going to talk about raising my little ray of sunshine.

The best intentions…

It keeps coming out as the Meth Monologues. As in my husband was a meth addict and I’m still pissed off not only at him but also at myself and want nothing more than to beat the crap out of something. I have always dealt with my anger through my writing. Always.

Still, I have tied my fingers into knots, trying *not* to write that story.

There are a million reasons why it’s not a viable project: I’ve never written a play, could never in a million years get the permissions needed to stage it, and even if I did it would be too hurtful to ever allow my son to see it.

It’s not a viable project.

But apparently, it’s what I need to write. I’m tired of keeping the crap  inside, battering at my fingers every time I sit down to write.

Maybe then I can start to forgive myself.

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Sodden Sunday

Sunday, we went over to Dad’s after church.  The reason was so that we could do laundry over there (we had the quarters– just not the stuff you need to get it clean LOL. And yes, we’re adjusting to a new kind of budgeting hehehe).

Ray had a blast.

And so did Dad, methinks. I know I enjoyed the heck out of it.

Dad has an old fashioned back yard. There’s a concrete deck, but there is a ton of yard. AND an old fashioned sprinkler! Ray ran through it, played T-Ball in it’s spray, romped, rocked and rolled all the way through the day.

Oh yeh. We kind of took over his back yard with some out door toys for Ray. T-Ball set. Soccer ball. Not too much.

The thing he love love loved, though… Was the sprinkler.

My favorite picture of the day is of Ray, grinning at me, eyes kind of crooked, water running from his chin like drool, hair completely plastered to his head. But oh, the fun he had been having!

His shorts got so wet they kept falling off. His diaper got HUGE with water. And he didn’t really care. He had the time of his life. We watched him go at it from a respectably safe distance, laughing and talking and having a grand old time.

He also got an Oreo cookie, ice cream, and lots of treats from Grandpa. Ray fell asleep on the way home, snoring almost the whole way.

That is what Sunday’s are for. Thanking God that you have a family that you enjoy, and that enjoys you.

P4M Bomber

Or was it a bomber? A lot of sites are saying that it was a spy plane, too. In talking with my dad the other night, he started telling me stories about the P4M that he flew in.

It was one of his favorite planes. He got so animated talking to me about it. About how his “skipper” used to race fighter piolots. And doing “mock” attacks. And generally just told me about a time in the world where the men were just grown different.

They Grew Bigger than life.

I’ve listened to stories from my father before. Maybe I wasn’t paying attention before. But this time I heard the lilt in his voice, the upbeat it took on while reminising about a great time in his life. So I went and googled it.

It was a nice looking bird.

It’s amazing the things you pick up on if you just listen with both your ears and your heart. It doesn’t even take a whole lot of heart to hear it in their voices, either. Just a little bit, and you can make a huge difference in their lives.

We found a picture of the plane that one of his friends flew in (Also a P4M but it was a -3, instead of a -1) and emailed it over. We spoke of model airplanes, and that specific plane.

What a great day.

Wyn

Dad, Unplugged

Dad Un Plugged

 

(Written Wednesday, 4-1-09)

 

So a weird thing is happening, and I thought it was just me. Turns out it isn’t. Dad has a very twisty sense of humor coming out. I rather like it. I can see now where my brothers get their sense of humor. Cuz I could never figure it out before.

 

Like yesterday. I called him and was sick sick sick with allergies. And he mocked me. Didn’t even TRY to make me feel better, oh no…  This man whom I adore did his level best to make me feel WORSE! And I love it!

 

“Oh, you’re sick? We’re having home made cinnamon rolls. Your sister is making them for me. They are yummy and delicious. Don’t you wish you were here?” And on and on. I love it.

 

The men in my family have a tendency to e on their wives personalities to a certain extent. They are still themselves, but censored through their wive’s eyes.I think Dad may have been a bit that way too. Or I’ve forgotten what he was like growing up. I think that might be more it than anything else.

 

I remember when I first started driving I had borrowed Mom’s car o drive over to TG&Y. When my friend and I pulled up at the house, before we even got out of the car, he started carrying on about what had I done? There was a huge dent in the car and how could I show my face at home again after doing that to my mother’s car? He was so convincing that both of us believed him! And I knew, KNEW, that I hadn’t been hit or in an accident or anything else.

 

Twisty sense of humor indeed.

 

Unplugged and uncensored.

 

There are stories that I could tell. Just from tonight! But I won’t. I will say that he never said anything that was truly out of bounds. He is a minister after all!

 

Tonight was fun. If I hadn’t mentioned it before let me tell you. Went over to Dad’s after work with Ray. We rode with Auntie Beth. I had a blast! Watching my son run around, breaking the ice between family members… Listening as he laughed with my brother, Professional Mr. Grumpy Pants (my brother Leonard)Mr. Grumpy Pants trying to get Ray to point at my sister and Ray kept pointing up in the sky like he was looking for Superman.

 

My son is my Little Ray of Sunshine and I love him to pieces.

 

He’s got a little bit of Grandpa’s deviltry in him, too.

 

Ahhh….. Boys.

Best Preacher Ever Heard

I love going to church and having my brother there. I feel like such a kid, giggling and behaving inappropriately… Which was the case today.

Until he began speaking.

I’ve listened to him preach all my life, and I have to tell you that he is one of the best speakers I’ve ever heard. When he speaks of God, I can feel the Spirit move through the room. When he exhorts us to go out into our neighborhoods and live among them, to be Christian not only at church but in our homes and to our next door neighbors, it makes me want to jump up and cook dinner for a neighbor.

Or go upstairs and find out what’s really going on at 3 in the morning that sounds like a couch is being thrown around… or a person. Of course, when I told him of that plan, he immediately put the kabosh on it. Send Brian, or talk to the manager (which was my plan in the beginning). It’s too dangerous for a woman to go upstairs and intercede between people she doesn’t know.

That’s the daddy part of him talking.

Didn’t I mention that part? The best speaker that I’ve ever heard (and I’ve heard some great ones, including Joyce Meyers live in San Jose), and I’m lucky enough to talk to him on the phone any time I need to. I have been blessed to have his counsel, on matters large and small.

Like hurt feelings within the church. Yeh, I got my feelings hurt. On behalf of my son. And it’s pretty silly, and I know it it…  I am ferocious when it comes to protecting Ray, but I need to reign it in. EVERYONE at that church loves him, and I know for a fact that the person who hurt my feelings adores Ray. Take a breath, he advised. Maybe I’ll check it out when I see them next. But how you’re taking it is not how it was meant.

I know he’s right. I could see it as soon as we hung up. That’s one of the things I love about talking with him. He doesn’t brow beat you into believing in things his way. He just puts you on the path, and if you falter the kick in your pants is a small one.

Blessings.

Wyn