We live in a racing town, but we’ve only been to the track a couple of times. The first time I went I was without Elihu, and I bet on “Those Were the Days” (a nod to the song my son and I used to sing as we walked the Saratoga streets in the summertime) – and I won. My latest trip to the track didn’t involve betting, but I got to sing a tune with a local band. And that was a win for me. Not a big deal in reality, but symbolically it had meant something to me. After seven years here, I finally got to sing with some trad musicians. A slow start to what I have a hunch will be a fast-tracked year for us here in Greenfield. The Studio has come a long way and will make its debut in the end of September. And as unprepared as I may feel about it, my twelve year old son is soon to start seventh grade, and that alone means big changes are underway. I feel a sort of subterranean rumbling in my life at the moment…. I can’t cite any one thing in particular, but rather it’s an amalgam of many small changes that contribute to this swelling of possibility that I feel underfoot. I still feel I have no idea what it is that I’m doing, or quite understand where I’m going – how my life will look in a year’s time. But a tiny voice tells me things will be very different. Sometimes I feel like nothing’s really changed over the past few years here in my small country life, but a snapshot from just one year ago this time shows otherwise.
This week we released our wild-caught captive frogs, we enjoyed a night of beautifully performed music and gave away a whole lot of old stuff that’s been cluttering up our garage for a long time. Trepidation always gnaws at me as I move through my days, but still, I can’t help but feel like I’m making headway here. Headway towards just what, exactly? Thing is, I really don’t know. It just feels like we’re at the starting gate, and the gun is about to go off…
Although it’s a pretty penny to get into the box section, this gal talked her way in effortlessly. I meant to show Elihu the elegance and thrill of the ‘other’ side of the track; private boxes, computer monitors, $25 flutes of champagne, and high-stakes betting. I’ve been told that the money the ‘downstairs’ folks bet is often called ‘stupid money’, because the bets are made based on the names of the horses alone (look at me, case in point!) and it’s the stupid money that funds those who know what they’re doing. The folks who sit here.
Ah, but this is why we’re here. Sang ‘I’m Confessin’ (for the first time in over seven years!) at a bright clip, forgot a line but filled it with the usual shtick, and enjoyed myself more in those two minutes than I have in a loooong time.
The power went out one night. Threw most of my neighbors into a tizz. Me, I spend some time enjoying my piano. I positively reveled in the first-ever black of night outside my door. Gone were the annoying and ever-present ‘dusk to dawn’ lights that country folks often like to install by their garages, and which prevent true night from ever falling.
Certainly not! It’s the work of a very industrious wasp whose labor I’ve watched for weeks. I don’t really want to share my chair with her, but how an I undo all of her domestic efforts? I can’t. This chair will remain unused til next year. (See how she carries that grass while in flight! I for one am very impressed.)