Dear Will, I know it's been a tough week and you're under a lot of pressure between school work, choir commitments and college applications. I thought your audition of Marc Broussard's It's Almost Christmas song was amazing, especially when you sang it with your original partner Sarah Rexford (It's Almost Christmas - the prequel with Will in his PJs). I thought it was worthy of a featured spot in Warde's Carillon program, but it was not meant to be.
Will, you have an amazing voice. You would've killed it in my opinion. But your choir teacher chose the ensemble of the usuals -- her favorites that you can't seem to infiltrate. Let them sing their song, because they've earned a spot in her inner circle. Just make no mistake, you should've earned a spot too. As I said to you today, sucking up is a skill set that can get you somewhere -- in work for example or in high school choirs. But it's not a real skill set. Because it's founded on copying the behavior that someone else dictates to you, not following your own heart and thinking for yourself. Looking back at what happened this week, I would have given you better advice. First, your teacher made you change your partner because she wasn't in a school sanctioned choir. Second, she partnered you with a substitute not nearly as well suited as your original partner. Third, she pitted you against her choir favorites -- and then chose them.
Knowing what I know now, I would have told you to stick to your guns, stand by your original partner, and know that you probably had no shot because of the politics involved. But also know that high school is high school, and once you leave, merit and talent will be rewarded. Not always. Sometimes, the guys who sucks up wins. But the older I get, the less room I have in my life for people with that skill set, and the more room I have for people with actual talent. People like you. Love, Mom
Our son won a
music scholarship through a town scholarship committee. It was sort of
surreal because our long-time neighbor gave him the award. But she had
to act all casual and didn't tell us before hand. So it was a complete
surprise.
As
a researcher, I am naturally curious. I looked into the memorial
scholarship. It’s a memorial for a young guy who sadly died at age 20
back in 1989. I can’t really figure out what happened — I think because
newspapers were not online yet. His name was David John Nogan. I
did find that he died here in Connecticut, but he was born in Louisiana
where Will is going to college. And on his headstone are two carvings,
one of a guitar and the other a peace sign -- two symbols I associate
with Will. We’ve pledged to go and leave something at his grave site
here in Fairfield -- maybe Mardi Gras beads and flowers for
David John Nogan. We want to say thank you for the generous scholarship
before Will leaves for Loyola. But how weird is that? From one young
man at the end of his life, to another young man just beginning his.
From Louisiana to Connecticut and back.
Maybe everything just flows.
This is amazing!In the days after, Will received an email re: the scholarship as follows:
Hi Will,
I am the Vice President of Scholarships for the High School Scholarship Foundation of Fairfield. My husband and I were having dinner tonight at the Old Post Tavern and we struck up a conversation with a lady dining alone who, it turns out, is Assistant Professor of Music and Director of Bands at Loyola University New Orleans College of Music and Fine Arts. She grew up in New England and was visiting her mother who lives in Fairfield. I mentioned that we had given a scholarship to a Fairfield Warde graduating senior who was going to major in music at Loyola, gave her your name and suggested she look at your performance of Hey, Stranger on YouTube.
She said you should contact her if you have any questions before you leave for New Orleans and offered to help you adjust when you get there by introducing you to other students in your situation so that you can begin to build your network. It’s a great city to be a music major!
Just tell her that you are from Fairfield and that you were given her contact information by the lady who ate dinner next to her at Old Post Tavern. That should jog her memory. She was very sincere in wanting to help you.
Her contact information is:
Dr Serena Weren Phone: 508-865-2027 Email: sweren@loyno.edu 6363 St. Charles Avenue Campus Box 8 New Orleans, LA 70118
My friend Julie and I had a pretty funny conversation this afternoon, or it seemed funny to us. Through crackling cell phones we had a series of "old people" exchanges as follows, "I'm hot," I yelled. "What?" she yelled back. "I'm hot," I yelled. "What?" she yelled back.
This went on for at least a minute. A glimpse of things to come.
At the same time, Will, my son was trying to tell me something about his scholarship money from Loyola in New Orleans. Some extra financial aid had appeared out of nowhere. A gift from the heavens. Great. Fantastic. At last, we can relax.
Then I opened the mail. You, Will, have 8 absences, of which you are only allowed 12 in English for the entire year. Or you lose credit and I don't know, maybe lose your biggest scholarship opportunity at Loyola. That's $15,000.
I panicked. I got mad. It's like all the stages in Death and Dying by Kubler-Ross. Really panicking because it is frightening trying to get a kid into college these days and then figure out how to pay for it.
I'm trying to be Irish Zen like my friend Lou Lou Mulderrig or my other friend Mike Casey. Just breathe, take it easy and know everything will be okay. But that's not really how I tend to think. I tend to think the worst, predict the worst, fret about the worst case scenario that I know lies just around the bend. Until the worst case scenario happens, and then my thinking switches into another level of panic something like, "What if this is it?" I've experienced these moments under positive circumstances, for example when you see a landscape like parts of Texas and Louisiana, or pretty much anywhere on the Pacific Coast Highway. It's overwhelming, the feeling of smallness and finite and wow. This is really it. And sometimes it happens in an emergency room, when I see my son attached to tubes and oxygen meters. Or when the vet finds Daisy, our beloved Doodle, has swollen lymph nodes. Or when, or when. It happens all the time.
Bargaining kicks in. Dear god, I will do this thing, if you'll do this one for me. And the one thing becomes another, and another, until I would sell my soul to have one more chance. As I sit here thinking about how to tell Will that the absences in English could sink his ship, I try to also think of what I would say if I had one last chance.
"Dear Will," I hope I would say. "It has been my great honor and pleasure to be your mom. You have a kind heart, a wonderful curiosity, a strong body and voice, a magnetism that could work in your favor if used wisely, an oblivious in the clouds nature that I think has to do with the music in your head, crazy confidence, less than exceptional work ethic and organizational habits. You would give a friend your last dollar and way too much of your time, so choose them wisely."
You asked me today how Dad and I raised an awesome kid like you -- not your words but I won't repeat them because you're a teenager and sometimes you say stupid stuff.
I think your dad and I made conscious decisions about choosing each other and not making the not-so-great relationship decisions we'd made in the past. We avoided certain patterns that were not healthy for either of us. We also discussed up front very important issues like how to discipline, how to talk to you, what to do about media (or too much of it), getting outside to build strength, what was important for your development. Most importantly, and THIS IS SO IMPORTANT, we wanted to keep an honest, open relationship with you. So we made a decision early on that if you told us the truth, we wouldn't punish you. From what I've seen with your friends, this has sometimes been perceived as a positive and often times a negative. Some parents don't want to know what's happening. We do.
Full circle back to my typical worst case scenario thinking. You can't miss any more classes Will or you'll risk your scholarship, or worse, graduation. I'mseeing Poseidon Adventure scenes now in my head - the old one with Shelly Winters.
But what's really important is to put this in context. I need to spend more time thinking like it's my last chance. When I think that something is finite, when we're in the ER with you because you've been bitten by a dog, fallen down a water slide, are overcome by asthma, then I start to think clearly about what is important.
Dear Will. It has been my great honor and pleasure to be your mom.
(NBThis is one of my favorite videos of you singing at Greenfield Hills Congregational)
Social media is a weird thing. It puts so many words out there and we think the words don't matter or connect the dots, but they do. Facebook algorithms are tracking us, and we say, "Oh it's fine, I have a tin foil hat or I'm not on Facebook." What we write on social media is revealing who we are. I recently met with a young classmate of my son's for a job shadowing program through their high school. These kids seem so poised. Emma seemed so poised. I don't know if that is because I was a nervous wreck as a child or if there really is a big difference between millenials and me. When I was a junior in high school, I was working at various menial jobs and babysitting. I was killing it babysitting. Thank you to Mr. and Mrs. House on Rice's Lane in Westport, who not only had the world's easiest baby but they also had awesome snacks. Represent Camp Mahackeno! But I was otherwise trying like hell to hide who I was. I don't know if it was the times, or it was just me. My job shadower Emma was entirely prepared for our meeting. We had to push it a few times because she had so many things on her plate like AP exams and varsity sports. When we finally met, what I came away thinking was that kid is exhausted. She kept yawning when we were talking or actually trying to stifle yawns. I assumed boredom, and it may in fact have been boredom, but she later said she learned a bunch from talking to me. So I'm going to say 50% boredom, 50% exhaustion from all the testing and sports etc. Emma brought some writing samples for me to review, and as I read them I began to get a better picture of who she is. She's a nonconformist, she's a romantic -- I mean she must be right to want to pursue a career in writing? I thought wow, I am really beginning to see who she is. She is revealed. Then today I was thinking well I'm still a huge secret except for my blog and my Pinterest boards and my Twitter feed. Who am I kidding? All will be revealed through our writing. And now our writing and our words are pervasive on social.
On August 30th of 2012 my son started high school. He is a freshman. This reminded me of a funny story that I've often told, but never written. It was my first day at a new middle school in Westport, CT. Here goes. When I was in the 7th grade, we moved mid-year from San Marino, California to Westport, Connecticut. I suppose in some ways the two towns are similar, but geographically they couldn't be further apart. One is in sunny Southern Cal, the other in frosty New England. The fact that we moved to Connecticut during what is now known as "the Blizzard of 78" only exacerbated the situation. My mom is an adventurous sort so she decided to take the train cross-country. The trip took her about 3 days as I recall. Then it took another day or two to get from the City to Connecticut because of the blizzard conditions. Normally my mom would get us ready for our fist day of school. In this instance, my dad had to stand in. We did not have appropriate clothing for the East Coast. I had some cool Vans and OP shorts, but those shorts weren't going to help me now. My dad decided to take us to the Army/Navy store in downtown Westport to buy us clothes for the first day of school. Interesting choice. I would say Guy Choice. He also cut my brother's hair. My poor brother. At least he was still in elementary school. I remember wearing my new camouflage painter pants and a dark brown jacket to my first day of 7th grade. I could have gone hunting later and passed stealthily through the woods without detection.
Thank god we were moving from California with our camo clothes. There was a certain mystique about California girls that I vaguely recall being associated with episodes of James at 16. When I walked past the office in my new school, a fellow student winked at me. Marlon Acuna you know who you are.Thankfully the Connecticut kids were able to look past my camo suit. Or maybe they just couldn't see me? Some of the kids did pick up on my fading Texas accent. Born in Arlington, TX. That's right. I grew up surrounded by cowboys like my Uncle David.
"What's a pin," they teased. A pen is a writing implement. A pin is something with a sharp point. Thank you for that insight. I really appreciate it. I learned to say ten not tin, and you guys not y'all. And a new one the kids in Connecticut were using - coming with? Meaning will you be joining us? Even Texans know you don't end a sentence with a preposition, y'all.
As I was wandering around the Internet looking for the perfect image for this blog, I stumbled upon Camoformal.com. That's right people. You can get hitched wearing a camouflage wedding dress. This is the most awesomest website in the WORLD. Makes me want to get married again so I can wear these...
PS. I think this foot model has mosquito bites from sleeping in the woods all night.
I'm exaggerating.
I'm not dying. I mean I am technically -- but not right now. So this is just my
high-larious death blog, sure to win over readers and the other 99.99999% who
have absolutely no idea who I am.
Today my doctor told me I
have high blood pressure. Now I have a couple of theories about that. One is
that I don't like my doctor and going to see her makes my stress level go up.
The other is my stress level is already pretty high, so it could be that she's right.
I'm not on medication or anything. Yet.
I have to start regularly
exercising again and drinking water (blech). I don't like water. I'm sorry. I
think it's because in the South, water comes in glasses filled with shaved ice
like a snow cone. Now that's a water.
For a youngish person, I am
sort of obsessed with aging. When I was in high school, I had a job working at a
nursing home for retired Jesuit Priests. The Campion Center in Weston,
MA. According to their website, they are now a Renewal Center. I guess the
priests have to go elsewhere when they retire. It's funny to me that all these
places are now called some BS name like assisted living or skilled nursing
center.
Here's a good BS name for a retirement home. Putnam Ridge Rehabilitation Center. Tagline: A Refreshing
Alternative. Or the Country House in
Westchester. Website copy: Our beautifully appointed and spacious common areas
provide an elegant backdrop for a vibrant and refined lifestyle. Really?
When I worked at the Campion
Center, I figured out that older people are exactly the same as
younger people. Some are grouchy, some are letchy, some are kind. Some are
forgetful, some remember everything. Some hide whiskey in a pickle jar in their
closet. "Oh Father Hegerty," I would say, "I think I can tell
the difference between vinegar and whiskey."
But the body fails us all,
eventually.
This week I received the
first email from our high
school reunion committee. Get psyched for our 30th it said. Mmmm. That
really doesn't seem possible. I don't think it could be 30 years since I
graduated from high school. Next year my son will start high school. A
frightening proposition. Other friends have kids starting college. Even more
frightening. It appears I am getting older in spite of my absolute conviction
that I cannot be 30 years past high school days.
I have decided to remain calm
about this high blood pressure diagnosis. I took my blood pressure
this morning on a home machine. It was actually low - like 100 over 70 (my
original theory about hating my doctor may be accurate). I've been drinking
plain, non-snow cone water per my
doctor's instructions. And before work, I took my dog Daisy for a walk. I was
feeling pretty smug about the whole getting old thing. What am I thinking? I'm not getting old.
Then I called my dog Nancy.
"Hey Nancy," I said to her. She looked up at me like, "Who the hell is
Nancy? I'm Daisy, old lady."
Yesterday I went to the gym for the first time in about a month. I've been dealing with contractors and sending out work samples to prospects. So I let the gym slip.
I was looking for inspiration or motivation, reasons why I should go to the dreaded gym. One of my facebook friends said simply, "Get your butt down there." That's really all it is. Making the time. And overcoming my fear of swine flu stagnating on the treadmill. Also avoiding the various rush hours from the mommy brigade arriving promptly at 9am to the swingers who start showing up around cocktail hour.
Where to find inspiration? Typically when I wake up, at least these days, my brain starts in immediately. A flurry of bad thoughts about I gotta do this and I gotta do that. What, another load of laundry? Please let the dishwasher be empty. When are the sheetrockers coming? I have to get out before they arrive.
Mainly I have to get out of my house by 8:30 to avoid conversations with my general contractor. In an earlier blog post, I referenced a typical conversation I have with my GC.
Fred: "Yeah I was on this job and the homeowner was like all pissed off because these other guys came in and it's all FUBAR'ed and now I gotta fix it. That's what they all say to me, 'Freddy, make it go away.'"
Me: "Uh-huh."
Every time he saves the day. It's amazing.
Except for that time last week when he dropped his table saw in my garage. Then the saw fell into some metal object that then fell on my scooter and cracked the fender. Here's what my scooter looked like before: Oh there was also that time when he knocked himself out with our garage door. Still not sure how that happened.
My mom says I should be patient with these guys because they have hard lives and they aren't as fortunate as I am. They drink too much. They're divorced or in some kind of murky relationship with their kid's mom. Fred's got a girl. They've been together 7 years. I think he likes his dog more than he likes his girl. His face lights up when he talks about his dog Deak. His girl, not so much.
But I digress. Inspiration, inspiration, looking for inspiration. I went to Dunkin' Donuts to get my morning coffee and I ran into one of the guys in the klatch. There are two guy klatches at this Dunkin'. I don't know why the image persists of women sitting around gossiping over coffee when all I see are man klatches.
This guy is in the older guy klatch. (He sits with the guy who hoards napkins.) Normally we exchange hellos but he was running late and didn't see me waiting for my coffee. As he was chatting with the Dunkin' lady he asked her how to translate "beautiful but cold day" into Spanish. Something about fria. He repeated the phrase twice with a big smile on his face, happy to be learning something new.
As I pulled out of the Dunkin' parking lot, I saw a group of high school girls running down the street-- a local high school cross country team I am assuming. One girl was about 20 feet behind everyone else. All the other girls were running in a pack in front of her. She was a little bigger than the others, but not much. Normal by most standards. But the other girls were thin and tall with perfect pony tails swinging in the wind as they left her in the dust.
What I noticed about the lone girl running behind was that she didn't look downtrodden. She actually had sort of a grimace on her face, a look of determination. This girl was running her own race.
You actually can learn something new everyday. You can be running dead last and that's okay. Inspiration. I found it at Dunkin' Donuts of all places.
