Today was a good day. Visits in the morning and afternoon from good friends. And an afternoon-long cuddle with my big girl, watching “Emma” (the newest PBS version—great one!). Last night was hard—lots of nausea and heartburn—but today was better. I ate, drank, peed (lots and lots), and generally felt better in both spirit and body.
The hospital is beginning to muffle since it is evening, but the hums remain. The floor never sleeps. I want to begin reaching beyond my boundaries, but am a bit unsure how to do it at the moment. I think the shock is beginning to wear off, but the reality of the duration remains. I keep the mantra in front of me…this is a curable disease with an incredibly long treatment. I am so grateful for the prayers of His people. In fact, I have never been so grateful. On the card I received from a good friend today is a verse from Psalm 18:2: “The LORD is my rock, my fortress, and my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge. He is my shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.” Amen
Monday, May 17, 2010
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Silence
Silence
Hospital sounds are constant—machines hum and beep, air filters buzz, soft shoes of nurse’s swish quickly to patients. There is no overt silence. However, there is silence in my head as I begin to fully understanding the whirlwind of the past week. Last Monday, I felt awful and went to the doctor, and I had blood work done. By Wednesday, I was at Lowell General, with a bone marrow biopsy scheduled for the following Tuesday, and on Tuesday after the bone marrow, Blake and I found ourselves speeding down to Mass General (with a small stop in between to tell the kids) with a diagnosis of Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia (ALL).
My first chemo treatment began on Thursday—the big guns—with a follow-up on Friday. No hair loss as of yet, but I am assuming that will come. My treatments and blood counts are neatly scheduled on a calendar next to my bed, and I am trying to look at them only briefly to remind myself of what comes next.
What is most humbling is the hearts of our family and friends. When we were admitted, and I could not stop crying, the admitting nurse, a lovely and extremely capable woman named Meg, said that though I have the diagnosis, our family has the disease—and that extends to our dear, dear friends as well. The notes and calls and encouraging little gifts (meals for the family, iPods with hymns, clean underwear, loose, comfy sweatpants, books to fill the mind) and the prayers—especially the prayers—are the strength for us as we start this triathlon.
So I am now waiting for my husband—my own dear soul mate—to come and visit me as well as our Lizzy and her dear friend Meg. I am listening to the silence and I know how very rich I am. How blessed.
Zephaniah 3:17
Hospital sounds are constant—machines hum and beep, air filters buzz, soft shoes of nurse’s swish quickly to patients. There is no overt silence. However, there is silence in my head as I begin to fully understanding the whirlwind of the past week. Last Monday, I felt awful and went to the doctor, and I had blood work done. By Wednesday, I was at Lowell General, with a bone marrow biopsy scheduled for the following Tuesday, and on Tuesday after the bone marrow, Blake and I found ourselves speeding down to Mass General (with a small stop in between to tell the kids) with a diagnosis of Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia (ALL).
My first chemo treatment began on Thursday—the big guns—with a follow-up on Friday. No hair loss as of yet, but I am assuming that will come. My treatments and blood counts are neatly scheduled on a calendar next to my bed, and I am trying to look at them only briefly to remind myself of what comes next.
What is most humbling is the hearts of our family and friends. When we were admitted, and I could not stop crying, the admitting nurse, a lovely and extremely capable woman named Meg, said that though I have the diagnosis, our family has the disease—and that extends to our dear, dear friends as well. The notes and calls and encouraging little gifts (meals for the family, iPods with hymns, clean underwear, loose, comfy sweatpants, books to fill the mind) and the prayers—especially the prayers—are the strength for us as we start this triathlon.
So I am now waiting for my husband—my own dear soul mate—to come and visit me as well as our Lizzy and her dear friend Meg. I am listening to the silence and I know how very rich I am. How blessed.
Zephaniah 3:17
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Graduation Day
The sun is just beginning to set over the Charles River--it has been a beautiful day for a graduation. Lizzy has completed her four years at Gordon with honor and distinction. We are so incredibly proud of her. She is a beautiful woman—inside and out—and has worked tremendously hard, but has had some incredible experiences along the way. Friends who will be her soulmates forever, an Italian countryside imprinted in her heart, and the poise and confidence of a woman on the cusp of an incredible adventure. This is her day—and hers alone.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Of Snow Days and Jury Duty
The jury summons arrived months ago, but I had ignored it until my good husband gently reminded me that I really needed to tell my colleagues that I would not be in school on February 10—and maybe even a day or two after that. I had never actually been seated on a jury, but he had been on one in federal court that had lasted several days. So I knew that was a definite possibility. On Monday, I finally made the arrangements.
The alarm clock jolted me from the bed at the usual time, and I lay staring at the ceiling for my usual five minutes, convincing myself that getting up really was in my best interest. Adding insult to injury, school had been called off the night before—local meteorologists gleefully proclaiming an icy daytime deluge. Grumbling and groaning, I rolled out of bed, grabbed my fuzzy pink robe, and clumped downstairs. Jim, David, Dan and Sarah did not move.
I tentatively called the courthouse emergency hotline.
Maybe courthouse would be closed in anticipation of the coming snowstorm.
Maybe there would be no cases to hear.
Maybe pigs would fly.
The gravelly voice on the phone reminded me that my presence was required—and we don’t have $2000 to pay the no-show fine. So I resigned myself to the inevitable. At least I could wear my comfy jeans and sneakers.
The courthouse to which I was summoned was a 40 minute drive with no traffic, and since there was no traffic because of the snow day, I arrived 45 minutes early. So I bought some coffee, and shivered on the courthouse steps until a court officer took pity on me and let me in.
The jury pool room was on the third floor. It was a long, narrow room lined with dusty books—files of cases and precedents. The TV was on, ostensibly to entertain us. The room steadily filled until twenty-one potential jurors sat docilely waiting. A tentative conversation here and there interrupted the quiet.
“Where are you from?”
“Cambridge.”
“I work in Boston.”
“I’m a teacher”
“I'm an engineer.”
Finally, the judge came in to address us, a solemn African-American gentleman regal in his black robes. The thank-you-for-doing-your-duty speech was punctuated with an attempt to make us smile. Then he disappeared to sort through the list of potential trials for the day, we watched the required trial video, and we waited again.
At 11:00 the court officer formally called us into the courtroom. It was smaller than any courtroom I had ever been in—there were just enough benches for the jury pool. The trial would involve domestic assault and battery on a pregnant woman, and we were introduced to the witnesses. The defendant was a young man dressed in a wrinkled dress shirt and pants; the plaintiff was also young and sat clutching her knees with red hands. Both were frightened. The other people sitting with the plaintiff sat red-eyed and silent.
Six of us were called to sit in the jury box. Then the lawyers and the judge weeded us out. I was the third one dismissed.
When the selection was finished, we rejected ones walked back into the jury room to gather our bags and coats. There were a few “nice to meet you’s,” but for the most part, we hurried out, anxious to get away from the rawness of the courtroom.
The snow had just begun to fall when I climbed into my car and drove out of the lot. Part of me was relieved that I had again avoided the inconvenience of a jury trial. Part of me wondered about the drama being played out in the courtroom.
I arrived home in time to enjoy the second half of the snow day, and to write this post.
I’m glad that my jury duty is now completed—at least for the next three years. I’m also glad that justice has no snow days.
The alarm clock jolted me from the bed at the usual time, and I lay staring at the ceiling for my usual five minutes, convincing myself that getting up really was in my best interest. Adding insult to injury, school had been called off the night before—local meteorologists gleefully proclaiming an icy daytime deluge. Grumbling and groaning, I rolled out of bed, grabbed my fuzzy pink robe, and clumped downstairs. Jim, David, Dan and Sarah did not move.
I tentatively called the courthouse emergency hotline.
Maybe courthouse would be closed in anticipation of the coming snowstorm.
Maybe there would be no cases to hear.
Maybe pigs would fly.
The gravelly voice on the phone reminded me that my presence was required—and we don’t have $2000 to pay the no-show fine. So I resigned myself to the inevitable. At least I could wear my comfy jeans and sneakers.
The courthouse to which I was summoned was a 40 minute drive with no traffic, and since there was no traffic because of the snow day, I arrived 45 minutes early. So I bought some coffee, and shivered on the courthouse steps until a court officer took pity on me and let me in.
The jury pool room was on the third floor. It was a long, narrow room lined with dusty books—files of cases and precedents. The TV was on, ostensibly to entertain us. The room steadily filled until twenty-one potential jurors sat docilely waiting. A tentative conversation here and there interrupted the quiet.
“Where are you from?”
“Cambridge.”
“I work in Boston.”
“I’m a teacher”
“I'm an engineer.”
Finally, the judge came in to address us, a solemn African-American gentleman regal in his black robes. The thank-you-for-doing-your-duty speech was punctuated with an attempt to make us smile. Then he disappeared to sort through the list of potential trials for the day, we watched the required trial video, and we waited again.
At 11:00 the court officer formally called us into the courtroom. It was smaller than any courtroom I had ever been in—there were just enough benches for the jury pool. The trial would involve domestic assault and battery on a pregnant woman, and we were introduced to the witnesses. The defendant was a young man dressed in a wrinkled dress shirt and pants; the plaintiff was also young and sat clutching her knees with red hands. Both were frightened. The other people sitting with the plaintiff sat red-eyed and silent.
Six of us were called to sit in the jury box. Then the lawyers and the judge weeded us out. I was the third one dismissed.
When the selection was finished, we rejected ones walked back into the jury room to gather our bags and coats. There were a few “nice to meet you’s,” but for the most part, we hurried out, anxious to get away from the rawness of the courtroom.
The snow had just begun to fall when I climbed into my car and drove out of the lot. Part of me was relieved that I had again avoided the inconvenience of a jury trial. Part of me wondered about the drama being played out in the courtroom.
I arrived home in time to enjoy the second half of the snow day, and to write this post.
I’m glad that my jury duty is now completed—at least for the next three years. I’m also glad that justice has no snow days.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Just Sayin'
The phone was blessedly quiet tonight after the election frenzy. No one called us to vote for them. No baseball stars, daughters, presidential emissaries, or wives of deceased senators. It was lovely! Now we wait for reality.
Just sayin'
Just sayin'
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Making the Grade
This blog was begun for a course on blogging that I took as part of a graduate program in which I'm enrolled. The end of the course fell just before Christmas--ergo, the month-and-a half-long silence while I waited for my grades. Their arrival has insured that my employer will reimburse the cost of the class. So I will continue using this blog to share some thoughts that someone somewhere may find helpful, funny, or even annoying. I will continue even though my initial experience in the blogging class was less than auspicious.
I had set out early for the first one, and I sat down in the empty classroom, smug in the knowledge that I was the first to arrive. Other students trickled in and began chatting. Suddenly, I realized that they were talking about whether or not they would be expected to actually speak Arabic throughout the whole course.
I looked at my neighbor: "This isn't the blogging course, is it."
"No--sorry! This is Arabic."
"This isn't even _______Hall, is it."
"No--it's _____________."
I gathered my laptop, computer, and my pride, and scuttled out of the room.
When I arrived at the correct place, the room was almost full. I squeezed in around a table too small for the number of students surrounding it. The instructor, a perky woman young enough to be my daughter, was already talking. She has a rather successful blog that focuses on her family, though it also touches on politics, travel, cooking (she has some great recipes!), and in general, how life happens.
Many of the students subsequently dropped the course. We were left with fourteen. As the trees in the quad lost their leaves, and snow began to cover the paths, we wrote--about our lives, about narcissism, about what makes writing funny, understandable, readable, significant. We practiced the craft of blogging—a more journalistic discipline than blogging's more formal antecedent, the personal essay. We also read deeply—Borges, E. B. White, Woolf, Dillard, and Vidal. We listened to technology gurus and legal experts. And we began to glimpse each others' hearts—the lovely Chinese woman whose childhood as a "lost girl" broke my heart, and whose artistry is exquisite; the military wife with edgy comments and a Texas drawl; the young man, the only one in the class, whose wry comments and slow grin made me smile.
My classmates were all younger than I, all at different life points and experience. However, as we wrote and tentatively began to allow the others to read our words, we began to relax, to laugh. Our instructor's warmth and wit shaped our discussions, and as a result, our writing was sharpened.
The class ended with a series of workshops where we read and reviewed each others’ blogs. Since I am a grammar Nazi, I knew that the structure of what I wrote would not be questioned, but the critique of the length and vocabulary was a humbling reminder of both my age and my profession (when I tell people that I am an English teacher, they tell me their horrific “English teacher stories").
So perhaps no one else will read what I write—or perhaps many will. Let me know if I have “made the grade” for you!
I had set out early for the first one, and I sat down in the empty classroom, smug in the knowledge that I was the first to arrive. Other students trickled in and began chatting. Suddenly, I realized that they were talking about whether or not they would be expected to actually speak Arabic throughout the whole course.
I looked at my neighbor: "This isn't the blogging course, is it."
"No--sorry! This is Arabic."
"This isn't even _______Hall, is it."
"No--it's _____________."
I gathered my laptop, computer, and my pride, and scuttled out of the room.
When I arrived at the correct place, the room was almost full. I squeezed in around a table too small for the number of students surrounding it. The instructor, a perky woman young enough to be my daughter, was already talking. She has a rather successful blog that focuses on her family, though it also touches on politics, travel, cooking (she has some great recipes!), and in general, how life happens.
Many of the students subsequently dropped the course. We were left with fourteen. As the trees in the quad lost their leaves, and snow began to cover the paths, we wrote--about our lives, about narcissism, about what makes writing funny, understandable, readable, significant. We practiced the craft of blogging—a more journalistic discipline than blogging's more formal antecedent, the personal essay. We also read deeply—Borges, E. B. White, Woolf, Dillard, and Vidal. We listened to technology gurus and legal experts. And we began to glimpse each others' hearts—the lovely Chinese woman whose childhood as a "lost girl" broke my heart, and whose artistry is exquisite; the military wife with edgy comments and a Texas drawl; the young man, the only one in the class, whose wry comments and slow grin made me smile.
My classmates were all younger than I, all at different life points and experience. However, as we wrote and tentatively began to allow the others to read our words, we began to relax, to laugh. Our instructor's warmth and wit shaped our discussions, and as a result, our writing was sharpened.
The class ended with a series of workshops where we read and reviewed each others’ blogs. Since I am a grammar Nazi, I knew that the structure of what I wrote would not be questioned, but the critique of the length and vocabulary was a humbling reminder of both my age and my profession (when I tell people that I am an English teacher, they tell me their horrific “English teacher stories").
So perhaps no one else will read what I write—or perhaps many will. Let me know if I have “made the grade” for you!
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Thanksgiving Tradition
Over the river and through the woods…
After crawling from Massachusetts to New Jersey almost twenty years ago, taking seven hours for a four-hour trip, Blake and I decided that we would never travel on Thanksgiving again. We would create our own tradition, and we began inviting people to our home who had nowhere else to go for Thanksgiving. We have had anywhere from our immediate family to twenty-five people bulging the sides of our modest home.
…to grandmother’s house we go!
Three years ago, that all changed. My parents could no longer take care of themselves, so we moved them to a small apartment attached to my sister’s home in rural Pennsylvania. Since then, Thanksgiving has been spent with my sister and her family so we could have some holiday time with Grandma and Grandpa. Because my brother and his family also join us, all of the cousins have a chance to reconnect as well.
The horse knows the way, to carry the sleigh through the white and drifting snow—oh!
Wednesday morning, Blake and I arise at about 3:00AM to pack the car for our trip. We cram five duffel bags into the back well of our mini-van, and hold the well shut with the cooler full of pie fixings, cinnamon buns, dinner rolls for Thanksgiving dinner, and bagels and cereal boxes for when the kids get hungry in the car. Fortunately, though clouds filled the night sky, they suggest rain—not snow.
Over the river and through the woods…
At 4:00, we rouse our five sleeping kids. They drag themselves and their stuff to the car, climb into their predetermined places, cover themselves with fleeces, and continue their sleep. Seven large bodies now fill the car and steam the windows. It is astounding how many cars are already on the road at 4:30 in the morning! Fortunately, we sneak through the hot spots, Worcester, Hartford, the Tappan Zee Bridge, without hitting rush hours.
The kids wake up in New Jersey. David, our middle son, rubs his eyes, and begins talking to no one in particular.
“Where’s the bridge?”
“What bridge?” Lizzy is already awake.
“The big one.”
“We crossed it an hour ago.”
“You mean we’re in New York?”
“No—New Jersey. Almost Pennsylvania.”
“This has been a really short trip”
“You were asleep, dope!” Sarah chimes in.
“Can I have a cereal box?” Daniel comes out of hibernation and is sniffing for some food.
We cross the border into Pennsylvania and stop for a potty break. The kids roll out of the car, unfolding arms and legs, stuffing pillows and bags back into their seats so they don’t fall onto the damp pavement.
Blake buys coffee for himself, Lizzy and me, and we resume the trip. Everyone is awake (sort of), so we click on the James Taylor CD—one of the few artists that we all love. It calms the grumpies, and we settle back for the last leg of the journey. We smile at the passing signs: Kutztown, Virginville, Gouglersville, and the Fruitville Pike.
…till Grandmother’s cap I spy!
We pull into my sister’s driveway at about 11:15. The trip is faster than usual. We climb the back steps and meet my sister on the deck for hugs with the usual jokes about lead foots and early mornings. We all gently hug Grandma and Grandpa, their fragile frames smaller than our last visit.
Hurrah for the fun! Is the pudding done?
The kids disappear with the cousins. My sister and I begin the preparations for the feast. The house begins to smell of Thanksgiving spices.
Hurrah for the pumpkin pie!
I don’t know how many years it takes for a new tradition to be established. I know that the kids now say that this trip is ours, but I wonder how many more traditions they will have. And whether the pie will taste the same.
After crawling from Massachusetts to New Jersey almost twenty years ago, taking seven hours for a four-hour trip, Blake and I decided that we would never travel on Thanksgiving again. We would create our own tradition, and we began inviting people to our home who had nowhere else to go for Thanksgiving. We have had anywhere from our immediate family to twenty-five people bulging the sides of our modest home.
…to grandmother’s house we go!
Three years ago, that all changed. My parents could no longer take care of themselves, so we moved them to a small apartment attached to my sister’s home in rural Pennsylvania. Since then, Thanksgiving has been spent with my sister and her family so we could have some holiday time with Grandma and Grandpa. Because my brother and his family also join us, all of the cousins have a chance to reconnect as well.
The horse knows the way, to carry the sleigh through the white and drifting snow—oh!
Wednesday morning, Blake and I arise at about 3:00AM to pack the car for our trip. We cram five duffel bags into the back well of our mini-van, and hold the well shut with the cooler full of pie fixings, cinnamon buns, dinner rolls for Thanksgiving dinner, and bagels and cereal boxes for when the kids get hungry in the car. Fortunately, though clouds filled the night sky, they suggest rain—not snow.
Over the river and through the woods…
At 4:00, we rouse our five sleeping kids. They drag themselves and their stuff to the car, climb into their predetermined places, cover themselves with fleeces, and continue their sleep. Seven large bodies now fill the car and steam the windows. It is astounding how many cars are already on the road at 4:30 in the morning! Fortunately, we sneak through the hot spots, Worcester, Hartford, the Tappan Zee Bridge, without hitting rush hours.
The kids wake up in New Jersey. David, our middle son, rubs his eyes, and begins talking to no one in particular.
“Where’s the bridge?”
“What bridge?” Lizzy is already awake.
“The big one.”
“We crossed it an hour ago.”
“You mean we’re in New York?”
“No—New Jersey. Almost Pennsylvania.”
“This has been a really short trip”
“You were asleep, dope!” Sarah chimes in.
“Can I have a cereal box?” Daniel comes out of hibernation and is sniffing for some food.
We cross the border into Pennsylvania and stop for a potty break. The kids roll out of the car, unfolding arms and legs, stuffing pillows and bags back into their seats so they don’t fall onto the damp pavement.
Blake buys coffee for himself, Lizzy and me, and we resume the trip. Everyone is awake (sort of), so we click on the James Taylor CD—one of the few artists that we all love. It calms the grumpies, and we settle back for the last leg of the journey. We smile at the passing signs: Kutztown, Virginville, Gouglersville, and the Fruitville Pike.
…till Grandmother’s cap I spy!
We pull into my sister’s driveway at about 11:15. The trip is faster than usual. We climb the back steps and meet my sister on the deck for hugs with the usual jokes about lead foots and early mornings. We all gently hug Grandma and Grandpa, their fragile frames smaller than our last visit.
Hurrah for the fun! Is the pudding done?
The kids disappear with the cousins. My sister and I begin the preparations for the feast. The house begins to smell of Thanksgiving spices.
Hurrah for the pumpkin pie!
I don’t know how many years it takes for a new tradition to be established. I know that the kids now say that this trip is ours, but I wonder how many more traditions they will have. And whether the pie will taste the same.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Quality Tuesdays
Spending one-on-one time with any of our five children is difficult. David, our middle child, particularly suffers from our frenetic juggling act. His two older siblings are graduating—one from college and the other from high school; his younger two siblings are twins, a fact that inherently brings unintended notoriety.
That’s why I love Tuesday nights.
We arrive home from school and after-school activities at about 6:30. After eating dinner and getting a bit of work done, David and I climb into the car, this time, he carries his violin. We drive our way through city streets and a shopping plaza, around a rotary and into darkened, woodsy, suburban roads. It winds past homes with large yards and up a steep hill to the large white colonial that is home to the Suzuki school David has attended since he was six.
He is now fourteen.
He trots into the house, and I follow at an appropriate mother distance. We leave our shoes on the plastic mat provided and pad into the practice room. David opens his violin case, and I settle into a chair for a half-hour to listen to him play, and more importantly, to observe my son.
Jess, his teacher, is twenty-something with the stance of a dancer. She knows him well—he has been coming to her for violin lessons for seven years (his first year was with another teacher—Jess’s partner in a small store, Bridges and Bows, that sells string music, accoutrements, and rents and sells instruments). She has become extended family.
David is presently working on “Scherzo” by Fritz Kreisler. He has just started the piece, so his progress is tentative. Her comments gently tease him; he knows what to do, but he poses teenage angst. She is a good teacher, and he responds to her direction. He has a great ear, so he has never squawked or sawed, and the sounds roll over me and make me smile. He stands with his violin tucked under his chin. His head is buzzed for wrestling season and a smattering of teenage scourge dots his forehead. His voice is low; he sings bass in the chorale. (His older brother’s friends call him “pocket bass” because from their lofty position as seniors, they deem him adorable enough to put into their back pockets.) I begin to see a young man emerge from the string bean (he is 5 feet – 5 inches and only weighs 100 pounds—I know, it’s not fair!)
The lesson ends with a perfunctory bow. David packs up his violin, and we pull on our shoes. We walk out into the night, down the sidewalk to the stone lot where we left the car. Very few cars interrupt the drive home—it is late and very dark. We don’t talk on the drive except a short exchange as we get back into the city.
“I love you, David.”
“Love you too, Mom”
My day is now complete.
Additional note: No—I am not being paid by Bridges and Bows, but I most certainly am happy to shamelessly advertise for them!
That’s why I love Tuesday nights.
We arrive home from school and after-school activities at about 6:30. After eating dinner and getting a bit of work done, David and I climb into the car, this time, he carries his violin. We drive our way through city streets and a shopping plaza, around a rotary and into darkened, woodsy, suburban roads. It winds past homes with large yards and up a steep hill to the large white colonial that is home to the Suzuki school David has attended since he was six.
He is now fourteen.
He trots into the house, and I follow at an appropriate mother distance. We leave our shoes on the plastic mat provided and pad into the practice room. David opens his violin case, and I settle into a chair for a half-hour to listen to him play, and more importantly, to observe my son.
Jess, his teacher, is twenty-something with the stance of a dancer. She knows him well—he has been coming to her for violin lessons for seven years (his first year was with another teacher—Jess’s partner in a small store, Bridges and Bows, that sells string music, accoutrements, and rents and sells instruments). She has become extended family.
David is presently working on “Scherzo” by Fritz Kreisler. He has just started the piece, so his progress is tentative. Her comments gently tease him; he knows what to do, but he poses teenage angst. She is a good teacher, and he responds to her direction. He has a great ear, so he has never squawked or sawed, and the sounds roll over me and make me smile. He stands with his violin tucked under his chin. His head is buzzed for wrestling season and a smattering of teenage scourge dots his forehead. His voice is low; he sings bass in the chorale. (His older brother’s friends call him “pocket bass” because from their lofty position as seniors, they deem him adorable enough to put into their back pockets.) I begin to see a young man emerge from the string bean (he is 5 feet – 5 inches and only weighs 100 pounds—I know, it’s not fair!)
The lesson ends with a perfunctory bow. David packs up his violin, and we pull on our shoes. We walk out into the night, down the sidewalk to the stone lot where we left the car. Very few cars interrupt the drive home—it is late and very dark. We don’t talk on the drive except a short exchange as we get back into the city.
“I love you, David.”
“Love you too, Mom”
My day is now complete.
Additional note: No—I am not being paid by Bridges and Bows, but I most certainly am happy to shamelessly advertise for them!
