Happy Halloween

We moved to Asheville on Halloween. Craig and I ate candy from the plastic jack o lantern we placed on the dashboard of the small U-haul truck that carried everything we owned and pulled the blue Tercel away from the Gulf Coast, across the Deep South into the mountains of western North Carolina. After driving what now seems a most circuitous route, we parked in front of our rental in the dark greeted by a gust of wind that sent a rush of dry leaves noisily down into the park across the street. No ghosts or ghouls roamed the streets of our neighborhood and although we hastily flipped the switch to the front porch light, no trick-or-treaters knocked to partake in the remnants of the candy that had traveled with us.

By the time we purchased the house down the street we could at least count on our neighbor Sara to stop by and show off her costume on her way to a party or at the onset of a trick-or-treating run with friends. Miren and Lise came along before the neighborhood began changing into the family friendly place that it is now where most of the houses have lighted porches on Halloween and most of the children we see are familiar faces that splash in the pool with us in summer, bike around us in the park and fill our streets with noisy play.

Craig’s mom usually makes the children their costumes, happily agreeing to both traditional and bizarre requests. She started with a devil costume that all three wore for their first Halloween outing that is comical in its disproportion to the babies that wore it. We put the devil hat on Rem the other day as we unpacked our Halloween boxes and when he saw the horns he began mooing like a cow (they are very big). Memorable costumes have made their way to parties and street gatherings as well as the neighborhood runs including Lise as a vampire with a bat-winged cape and a skeleton with an oversized skull . Miren’s bride of Frankenstein almost surpassed her fortune teller with a glowing crystal ball that rested on an attached table. One of my favorites was the evil stepmother from Snow White in her hag disguise with a hump and basket of apples. Miren had to explain herself to almost every person we encountered. Lise made a lovely toddler Tinker Bell to Miren’s Peter Pan and last year had a sidekick of her own when she and Rem dressed as pirates.

The children sometimes embrace the macabre and Craig and I enjoy helping them complete those characters. Last year Miren paraded as a rotting corpse in an old black velvet dress of mine that we cut to reveal skeletal body parts. Craig accounts for much of the vision for their requests and my talent for theatrical hair and make-up surprises all of us. This year Lise challenges me to create the snake-laden head of Medusa. Miren gave up scary in order to keep in character beyond tonight into long, dreary winter days as she becomes Jane Austen’s Elizabeth Bennett. I imagine she will have to explain herself to more than a few people tonight. Rem will sport a yellow hat and a monkey in honor of his favorite TV, storybook and all around fictional character, George. Happy Halloween everyone!

My Favorite Place, My Favorite Season, My Favorite People

Autumn: A Backdrop to Soccer

We are in the throes of soccer season at our house. Water bottles and athletic bags packed with cleats and shin guards, under armor and club sweat shirts wait at the back door each day for our daily trip to John B. Lewis Soccer Fields for one or another’s practice. Luckily, as autumn breezes in, the fields are privy to a glorious backdrop of gentle slopes that boast yellows and reds amid deep greens. The hours spent waiting and watching allow me the pleasure of observing the setting sun’s playful changes to the trees creating its own artwork of varying impressions of the same setting by manipulating the light.

Not all of the days unfold as the blissful picturesque tokens of autumn and Rem and I (and usually one sister) spend endless minutes that spill into hours sitting in the van. Rem traces racing raindrops down the windows with his fingers. Smudges will show up later, in the glint of the sun, as varying streaks in the lower halves of most of the van’s windows. He jumps from seat to seat and occasionally has to be rescued from the back of the van when he overzealously catapults himself over the back seat. I read books and hope for a parent to wander by, seeking company to help pass the time more quickly.

This week, however, boasts quintessential fall days complete with great dips in temperature at night to warm, sunlit afternoons. The pleasant practices encouraged our spontaneous trek back to the soccer fields last night to cheer Craig along during his over-40 game under the newly lit fields. Lise found a friend to kick around with at an empty goal while Miren quietly critiqued the play on the field as we snuggled under a blanket. Rem ran around us in circles stopping long enough to declare his Papa “one of the boys”. He then played with the blue Ikea bag that held our blankets and hats, hopping around like he was in a sack race, sitting in a “bowl of soup” and then running with the bag over his head, much of it dragging across the pitch as he squealed with delight.

Rem became infatuated with the referees at Miren’s last soccer game, especially with the line judge. He found Lise’s discarded bandana near our chairs and followed the line judge’s movements along our side of the field. He whipped the bandana to his right and then ran along the line near where the young man stood. Someone located a stick and tied the bandana to it so that the bandana more closely resembled the flag. Thrilled, Rem even began calling off-sides.

“What are you doing, Rem?” amused parents asked. Rem turned to them with an aggravated look.

“I’m not Rem. I’m the man!” His voice was as severe as his face. He turned back to the game.

Luckily, the line judge thought Rem’s actions funny and found us after the game to show Rem the real flag and let him play with it. For once, Craig and I could easily keep an eye on Rem and enjoy Miren’s game. I’m thinking of buying him a brightly colored striped shirt so that I can tell him that he’s the ref for the rest of the season.

Movie Madness

I am a classic movie fan from way back. I used to stay up late with my grandparents on occasional sleepovers at their home and watch their old favorites while they offered commentary that included recalling the particular theaters where they originally saw the films and who they were with. Young pictures of my grandfather reminded me of Ronald Coleman in Lost Horizon. His singing mimicked Bing Crosby, only with a New Orleans accent. My grandmother favored Vivien Leigh, in serious dramatic roles like That Hamilton Woman and Waterloo Bridge while my grandfather preferred Claudette Colbert and lighter fare like It Happened One Night and The Bride Came Home.

My mother took my younger siblings and me to screenings of old movies at the Saenger Theater in New Orleans during summer film festivals in the off-season of Broadway runs. We loved the upscale lobby and plush, albeit empty seating in the theater. The lights dimmed to reveal a lit night sky painted on the ceiling above us as the old organ rose from the floor near the stage. The organist played music from the film before the curtain rose on elaborate musicals like My Fair Lady, biblical epics like The Ten Commandments and painful politically incorrect films such as Song of the South.

I periodically review the movie guide for the classic movie channels and DVR interesting ones that I later introduce at family movie nights when nothing current looks appealing or appropriate. The index of classic films that revolves around in my head seemed innocent and refreshing. Perhaps I lumped them all into the same category as The Wizard of Oz and the Sound of Music because now, thanks to my children, I am viewing these old movies in a new light (and not all of it is good).

“My friend loves Audrey Hepburn,” MIren told me recently on a rainy week-end evening. “Did she do anything other than My Fair Lady, where I know she didn’t really sing?” (They do know their musicals).

“Do anything else? Audrey Hepburn? Are you kidding?” I check the DVR. Love in the Afternoon and Roman Holiday sit in quiet anticipation among a host of black and white movies.

“Let’s pop some popcorn.”

“Are these people in black and white?” Lise asks entering the living room with pillows and a blanket. “The movie is black and white, yes,” I answer. Lise rolls her eyes. “It just makes the movie so boring,” she complains. Happy that she is participating I overlook the dramatic eyes and negative comment.

Moments later, Lise is watching Audrey Hepburn, a young cellist in Paris, with rapt attention. The actress is young, beautiful and full of expression. I smile at Lise’s enjoyment and wait for Maurice Chevalier to break into song (of course he doesn’t, this isn’t Gigi, it’s Love in the Afternoon but he’s always the same character to me). Suddenly an aging Gary Cooper fills up the screen. He’s ruggedly handsome as the wealthy American playboy. His unapologetic and systematic approach to women in the early stages of the film is palatable only because he is Gary Cooper. That is, until Audrey Hepburn becomes the target of his affections.

Lise laughs at the escapades of the two characters as first, Audrey Hepburn rescues Gary Cooper from being shot by a jealous husband. I then find myself hoping that Lise misses the innuendoes, the smoking jacket Gary Cooper suddenly wears as Audrey searches for discarded shoes and clothes about his hotel room. He’s got to be almost sixty and she looks, at most, twenty. Lise remains un-phased, fully enjoying the game that Audrey Hepburn plays on the single, womanizing old guy as they literally make love every afternoon. I can’t believe Maurice Chevalier’s wide, approving, smile as his young daughter, not even out of pigtails (she sports some in the movie), heads off into the sunset with this guy who’s older than he is. And who has been the subject of most of his private detective cases involving jealous husbands. Why isn’t this the movie I remember?

“Great choice,” Lise compliments seriously at the end.

Within days I try my hand at another Audrey Hepburn film. Roman Holiday unfolds just as I expect and I sigh with relief. Audrey makes a lovely princess, poised and sheltered but eager to experience life on her own. The city of Rome serves as the backdrop for the brief interlude that she spends with the secretive journalist who recognizes her without letting on. Miren sits up, and incredulously interrupts the film.

“So this guy, he’s just going to keep lying to her?”

“Well, that’s the premise. You see, he knows who she is but he’s acting like he doesn’t. ”

“So that he can expose her! And she’s falling in love with him.”

“Right.”

“But she doesn’t know he’s lying to her.”

“No, that’s the point. He falls in love, too.”

“But when does he tell her the truth?”

“Keep watching.”

And then later. “He’s such a horrible man! I can’t believe he lied and they took all of those
pictures. And then he kissed her. I’m glad they can’t be together.”

“But Gregory Peck is so much more appropriate than Gary Cooper was,” I say defensively.
Lise pulls herself away from the movie and into our conversation. “They can’t be together?” she asks in disbelief.

“Well, no,” I explain. “She goes back to her life and he goes to his.”

“You said it was a romantic comedy.” Lise responds accusingly.

“It is. Didn’t you laugh?”

“But they’re not together? How can that be? If they were in love they’d be together. The whole
movie was just a waste of time!” I pause, unsure if Lise refers to the characters or to the time we just spent watching the movie.

“I’m glad they’re not together,” Miren interjects. “He’s just a big liar. And his friend was nicer, anyway.”

“But he’s Atticus Finch!” I’m still promoting Gregory Peck. The girls give me a deserved confused look and, shrugging their shoulders, leave the room.

It takes some time before I am willing to try another film. Casablanca isn’t easy to pass up and once again we find ourselves settling in for the evening. This time Craig joins us. But he falls asleep before Ingrid Bergman even appears on screen. Claude Rains is magnificent and Humphrey Bogart is typical Bogart.

The girls stop asking questions and begin to follow the story line. Bogart, distraught and disheveled, fills up the screen, the dark shadows swimming around him as he sits with a bottle and shot glass in front of him. He has just seen Ingrid Bergman for the first time since she left him waiting at the train station in Paris. His face is full of emotion as a cigarette burns between his fingers and he throws his head down onto his arms.

“Did he just die of lung cancer?” Lise asks in the silence. “Because he’s been smoking since the movie started. Is he dead?”

“No, he is NOT dead,” I tell her. I think about it for a moment. Bogart hadn’t been the only one smoking. All of the characters have smoked at least ten cigarettes a piece and we are only fifteen minutes in. I count cigarettes through the rest of the film.

I will try again. And I’ll find that either the kids or I have distorted in some way each movie that we see. But I have to admit that I never laughed so hard (or at all) during any previous viewing of Casablanca and I look forward to the unexpected in the next classic movie I introduce to my gang.

Music to my Ears

I’m sitting at the dinner table in front of the computer organizing a volunteer list for a school fundraiser. Miren hastily removes the remnants of dinner from the table as she sings the alto part from a piece her class is working on in chorus. The periodic clang of dishes falling into the dishwasher and the careless toss of the flatware into the dishwasher’s basket punctuate the repetitive phrase, “Lift up your voice, alleluia, raise your song to the glorious sky”.

I begin to compose an e-mail to my list of volunteers, orange juice and muffins on my mind when Lise begins her evening piano practice. Smiling, I pause and filter out the kitchen noise to enjoy the piece that Lise clearly also enjoys. She plays it through three times. Not only is the piece lovely but it is underscored by her desire to practice and her interest in learning to play the piano. She no longer needs me to direct her to practice or to oversee her efforts. The next piece must be new. The notes come slowly and insecurely. The beat is unsteady. This I know not because of an acute perception on my part but because of the continuous “one, two, three, four” that resonates from upstairs. Craig counts aloud as he strums the guitar on beats two and four, changing chords on every fourth beat.

If determination plays a factor in mastering an instrument then Craig will soon serenade us with intricate arrangements of campfire favorites in no time. Currently, however, Craig has reaped the benefits of only two guitar lessons and I am enjoying his adeptness at chord changes and steady beats.

The computer cursor blinks in anticipation but the screen remains blank as I struggle through the cacophony of music coming from all areas of the house. And not to be outdone, Rem rides through the house on his push car (his “vroom”) shouting his latest favorite Kindermusik song, Lukey’s Boat. He’s well versed in the first two lines but attempts to venture past “Aha, me boys!” somehow circles him back to the beginning. What impresses me is Rem’s persistent contentedness in singing two lines over and over again. Without pause. With amazing projection.
I no longer listen with admiration to the layers of musical aspirations floating through the house but only hear the collective symphonic result: NOISE!

Many times I have pondered how my life’s moments would benefit from a musical score that could follow me around. Not necessarily original compositions (I’d find myself arguing to the air with things like: A country song at the birth of my baby? Really?) I often thought Brahms a fitting accompanist to my life. I’d even go for the too-familiar pieces (but not the lullaby). I would happily walk through the park with Rem to one of the appropriate Four Seasons by Vivaldi.

A musical score could change the current mood of the entire family. Chopin’s nocturnes infusing the air around us would bring a contemplative joy to all of our faces as we folded laundry or prepared dinner. A passing kiss in the doorway just as the piano and strings first begin to crescendo in Rachmaninoff’s Rhapsody on a Theme by Paganini would certainly heighten our more amorous meeting that evening when the entire piece would play.

Who would not like to hike down a footpath along a rambling stream in the Smokies to Copeland’s Appalachian Spring? (IPods do not have the same affect.) A lecture to the children about recent behaviors with Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata building in support might instill a severity to the situation that the Dragon Tales theme song playing on the television set fails to impart. Joplin’s Maple Leaf Rag, I am certain, would accentuate Rem’s off beat exuberance in his daily play. I’d certainly enjoy his marches around the park with a pinecone and a stick in his hands more with John Philip Sousa blaring around us.

Sometimes I try to create such an atmosphere. I am not above kitsch, especially at Christmas and I insist on directing scenes for our family to partake in. We decorate the Christmas tree with the lights dimmed, a fire blazing in the fireplace, hot apple cider sending bursts of spicy scents toward us from the stove and a carefully chosen score. Something like Bach’s Christmas Oratorio. Within minutes Craig needs more light to see what he’s doing and the kids beg for Burl Ives wishing them a "Holly Jolly Christmas.”

One by one the family members move on. The kitchen is tidy and a book calls to Miren. Lise closes her music books and stacks them messily on the piano before heading to the shower. Rem drives by an empty clothes basket and decides to make a fire. The concentration of finding toys, clothes and temporarily abandoned materials (like school books, cell phones, wallets and car keys) and throwing them into the clothes basket silences his circular singing. Even Craig’s chord strumming ends. He’ll no doubt want to show me his sore fingers.

A musical score does play through the course of our day. Sometimes in the lyrical conversations, the rise and fall of voices; in the adagios and allegros of everyday life; in the beautiful pianissimo of a moon-lit deck at mid-night. It’s not quite what I imagined and at times is almost unbearable in terms of decibels, but the layers are beautiful and if I compile this into a larger piece of music – the composition certainly reflects our current family life and the music resonates with life, our life. The bonfire topples. Craig’s footsteps sound on the slate stairs. I finish my e-mail.