Trying to avoid thinking of my new blisters, I let my imagination go while I was working. I started by daydreaming about how wonderful all of this was going to look when I was done with it. I picture great bunches of gladiolus all over the place, and oooh, wouldn't a flowering fruit tree look nice over there, and won't the yard look nicer without that fence, and that dead tree, and that big hole, and that bald spot.
Then on my 500th heavy rock, I remembered the movie Far and Away, in which Tom Cruise starts out as a potato farmer in Ireland. The train of thought chugged out of the station again; wow, I would love to see Ireland, but hate to have to farm there. I then studied my filthy, broken fingernails, and leapt to "how come Tom Cruise is still sexy when he's really really dirty?" Then I started wishing I were Nicole Kidman, and realized that I was on a pointless daydream.
Flicking the latest tortured earthworm from the end of my shovel, I sang my entire repertoire of campfire songs to myself.
Soon I was an archaeologist, digging up some interesting signs of my property's previous owners. I found an old wagon wheel, a stirrup, and a horseshoe. I also found what I assume is an old bong, although how it came to be buried next to my shed, I have no idea. There was a tiny Coca Cola bottle that dates pretty far back in the logo's history, and an old skeleton key, which doesn't fit any of the old locks on the house. I checked.
By the end of the weekend's work, I was dully trying to figure out just what happened to make my yard such a mess. As best I can guess, the house was originally built as a farmhouse , before the suburbs began encroaching upon it. There was a cabin-style home on the property as early as the 1860's and the current house was built in 1920. I don't think landscaping was considered terribly important to farmers in any of those time periods.
Then as far as I can tell, someone sprinkled grass seed all over the place, and let it go. The house itself is surrounded by deep beds of stones, which appear to have been piled there and then slowly sank into the soft soil and were covered with grass. I want to plant bulbs all the way around the house. Hence my rock-digging obsession.
I also planted grass this weekend, but I don't have great confidence that it will grow as I would hope. I have seen signs that the local squirrels are really enjoying my donation to their diets. *sigh*
I'm also now providing free housing for a family of small birds. They have a beautiful song, and are lovely to look at, so I'm not complaining... however I'm going to have to get used to the idea of keeping my Christmas wreath up for the rest of the year. It has just started to turn a sickly yellow color, and I was going to take it down when I noticed the nest, perfectly settled into the lower curve of the inside of the wreath. It never occurred to me what a perfect spot such a wreath provides for little birdies. In the back of my mind I have toyed with the notion of swapping out the old wreath for a fresh one, and moving the nest, but I've abandoned the idea since there are little eggs in the nest, and I wouldn't want the mother to be frightened away.
So I suppose I'm building up good karma for living in harmony with mother nature; feeding squirrels and housing birds. Then again, I just unearthed half the geological components of my yard, so that probably balances out my harmonious deeds.
Friday night I miraculously made it to my concert on time. Actually, it wasn't so miraculous; I purposely drove 90 MPH the entire way there, and that's the only reason I successfully made call. From the terrified looks of my fellow drivers I gather that northern Michiganders aren't used to seeing stressed-out handbell ringers driving their bright red minivans like that, so I went 65 MPH the whole way home to make it up to them.
The concert went well, despite the stress of getting there. It's been a while since I rang a full-length concert, and I was pleased to basically know what I was doing. There is an exception, though. We are performing a piece called "Reflections of the Plains", which is fairly complex, and contains three contrasting movements. I had only played two of those movements before, and that was quite a while ago in a rehearsal. The third movement was quite difficult, and I was sightreading it in front of the audience! Not good. If I had known we were going to play it, I might have taken a look at it before showtime. Ah, well. Thank heavens for Mrs. Harrington.
Mrs. Harrington was my piano teacher when I was a kid. Actually, I started lessons with her in 1st grade, and quit in 11th grade, so I guess that's ten years of lessons! How time flies. Anyway, Mrs. Harrington insisted that every one of her students learn music theory to a rather extreme degree. It went beyond basic note-reading; we learned composition, styles of different composers, and all of the symbols you can think of, plus some that are never used anymore. We had ear-training (which teaches you to recognize intervals when you hear them) and we had hands-on training playing all the scales, arpeggios, and so on. We took written and performed theory tests every year at festival competitions, and were expected to get 100 percent on them.
Most valuable to me, though, was the lesson I hated most at the time. We practiced sightreading, practically every week. Mrs. Harrington emphasized the necessity to play it correctly the first time through, with as many of its dynamics as possible, and the proper tempo and phrasing. We learned to read ahead of where we were playing, and to hear the music before we set fingers to the keyboard. I detested it at the time because it is a real mental struggle, and failure comes as often and as easily as success.
But it saved my butt on Friday, because once you can sightread on one instrument, you can do it on another. This isn't the first time Mrs. H. has rescued me, either. One year a friend of mine was competing for a music scholarship, and her accompanist got sick at the last minute. I sightread that in front of 500 people, and ever since then I've been grateful to Mrs. Harrington for making me work so hard.
She also introduced my mom to my stepdad, for which I am eternally thankful, too.
I didn't get home on Friday night until after 1:30 AM, and Forest got home from Chicago around 5 AM. We both pretty much cuddled and slept until he had to go to work, and that's when I started digging rocks. It was sure beautiful here on Saturday. I enjoyed getting some sun, soaking up the earthy scents, and working up a sweat in the line of honest labor.
At the end of the day, I used some of my newly-acquired rock hoarde to put a nice ring around our bonfire pit, and Kirstin and I sat outside and cooked our dinner over the fire. Hot dogs never taste so good as when they've been roasted that way. Our meal consisted of two hot dogs apiece and a bunch of s'mores. I lost count, but was having too much fun to care. While we ate the sun set, and the fire kept the chill away. Kirstin went in to take her shower, and I sat next to the fire, spreading its coals and waiting for it to die down.
It was one of my most peaceful times in recent history. Everything was quiet, and some brave young crickets were starting to chirp in the distance. The darkness blocked my view of the neighbors' yards, and my world was limited to myself, the fire, and the surrounding earth and sky. I sat there, cross-legged on my soft blanket for nearly an hour until only the small coals were glowing a dull, cool orange. I don't remember thinking anything in particular, but that's the beauty of a campfire for me. It quiets my thoughts, and has done since I was tiny. It's not a time of discovery, or reflection, or great introspection. It's just a time of stillness. Peace.
I went inside and realized that I smelled of earth and woodsmoke, but didn't particularly mind it. I miss those smells all winter long. When Forest came home we read books for a while (I finished my Lois McMaster Bujold book and he started rereading Ender's Game) and went to bed rather late, but weren't sleepy yet. Happily, we have ways of dealing with that. Hee hee.
Sunday morning Kirstin had to be at church at 7:30 AM for Palm Sunday. She sang in three services! I was very proud to get her there 10 minutes early. Maybe I'm starting to get the hang of this 'being on time' thing. I've been on a roll lately. I went back to the house and snuggled back in with the oblivious Forest until I, too, had to go to a ridiculously early church thing. I was playing bells at University United Methodist Church, where I went during college. It's always fun to go there, because the faculty from the music school tend to be in the choirs, playing the organ and so on. Good music is the only reason I ever attend church anymore. While I was out, Forest went to work, so when I got home, it was time to dig again.
Toward the latter part of the afternoon I was tired of digging, dirty, and wanting a break. I thought Kirstin would enjoy a movie, so we went to seeMy Dog Skip. I was suprised; it was a really good movie. No joke. I know, everyone is tired of movies about dogs. This one, however, deserves to be seen. It was the first movie I have ever taken Kirstin to see that was about real life. It was set in the 40's, so we watched it with Kirstin's grandparents in mind, since they would have been a little younger than the kids in the movie. It was really not so much about the dog as it was about how a little boy grew up. The dog was basically his best friend, and was a source of wisdom and companionship for a lot of years.
We both cried at the end of the movie, and it gave us a lot to talk about, which was the best part. Kirstin and I both agree that we'd like to see it again, but we would probably cry again, too.
After the movie we went up to the Store to visit Forest and his dad, and had dinner with them. Kirstin has developed a somewhat disturbing habit of calling Forest's dad 'grandpa', probably because Forest's mom encourages it. We let it slide, though, since Chuck's policy seems to be to accept it without flinching. Kirstin wanted to help out at the store, so she swept everything and stocked napkins. Soon it was time to go, and I realized how little Forest and I have seen of each other lately. This week and weekend will be a welcome change. I miss my honey. It was hard to leave.
Upon getting home I decided to try to replace my broken light fixture. After an hour of pulling fuses I found the right one to cut power to that room, and started work. Forest came home and I was still trying.
We went up and read a chapter of Kirstin's book to her, Forest doing all his funny voices. Kirstin informed him flat out that she wanted him to be her step-dad, and asked him if he would. He gracefully shrugged, and said we'd have to wait and see how things turned out. Thank heavens he's not the sort to flip out under pressure.
Soon enough it was bedtime, and I still wasn't finished with that light fixture. Unthinking, I left the fuse out and went to bed, there to snuggle and read myself to sleep.
This morning I kissed sleeping Forest, and left home a few minutes early, dropped Kirstin off, and was early to work. That's always a good feeling. Soon after, though, Forest called to ask me where the missing fuse was. Apparently I had inadvertently cut power to our refrigerator, and left it to warm up overnight. I wasn't too happy about that. Why on earth would my fridge and the dining room light be on a fuse together, when there are three fuses dedicated to the kitchen?
I begin to see the merits of planning and building one's own house.
I'm really hoping this week goes by quickly. Forest and I are planning on going to the Sheraton early Saturday afternoon, and spending a night in the hot tub, and paddling around in the pool. A little relaxing getaway like that once in a while is great for us, and we're making a concerted effort to make sure it happens, shooting for once a month or so. It's particularly nice the night before a family holiday, since it slows things down mentally for us, and since hotel check-out time usually coincides with the time my family is in church. We did it for Thanksgiving last year, and it was just really nice. This Easter we're going to my grandma Ruth's for Easter dinner, and though I offered, we don't even have to bring anything. Such luxury!
After that, we're probably going to Forest's grandma's house to play football with his family. Kirstin is with her dad that day, so it's just the two of us, and the Store won't be open, so we both have the day off. Pretty cool if you ask me.
I need to find out if Forest wants to do Easter baskets this year. I've always done them in the past, but it seems sufficient to me to just go to the hotel instead.
