La Boheme 3 for 3 at the Met

Introducing people whom I love to The Met is an item on my bucket list that I am thrilled to check off over and over again.  And…it seems to be that La Boheme remains the perfect introduction when the stars are aligned.  It is not difficult to see this opera at the MET as it is has played consecutively fifty-nine seasons and has only been left out of nine seasons. This past November it was performed at the Met for 1,275th time.

The first time I introduced The Met to one of my best friends was also her introduction to Opera.  Not to be overshadowed by the incredibly powerful and beautiful composition of Puccini, the weather insisted on making its own music with torrential rain.  I love walking in the rain, even when dressed for the Opera.  But, there is rain and then there is RAIN.  This rain storm was as dramatic as any scene in an opera as it was accompanied by steady wind.  So…try to imagine two women dressed to the nines with umbrellas trying to make it to Lincoln Center in one piece.  Luckily, we were smart enough to wear walking boots and had our dress shoes in our bags.  Even luckier for me was the fact that my friend, Athena, is Greek.  It takes women made of tough stock like ours to be able to tolerate the pelting rain and get to the MET with determination and a little bit of panache and actually be willing to repeat the experience.  Upon arrival, the only difference between Athena and me was that she refused to change out of her boots and I insisted on putting on my evening shoes.  She looked a bit odd, maybe even eccentric, in her stunning black cocktail dress sporting riding boots, but not fazed in the least.  We laughed out loud when we were finally seated.  It was then, I realized why I am so incredibly connected to her.

She loved the experience, all of it, or so she told me.  The pelting rain, the umbrellas that blew inside out and had to be trashed along the way, the running, the laughing out loud and of course, Puccini’s powerful love story.

The first time I saw La Boheme, I realized that I was not very original as that clever young girl attempting to get the attention of an interesting, handsome man.  In the third scene of Act 1, Mimi, knocks on the door of Rudolfo’s apartment looking for a light for her candle.  What follows is a cat and mouse game between the two of them that took me right back to my first real interchange with the guy who was to end up becoming my husband four years later.

Mimi fell instantly in love with Rodolfo and wanted to extend her time in his apartment. As she was walking out the door, she lingered for what appeared to be on purpose and her candle went out. Conveniently, she had to come back inside for it to be re-lit.  In the process, she dropped her key.  He found it but pretended he didn’t.  Each one purposefully extending the time they were spending together.  Cute little ploys, but the arias they sing during this cat and mouse interlude are anything but cute.  They are dramatic, lyrical, beautiful and magical.

Clearly, there were no arias when Jerry and I first met.  We didn’t sing a single note.  But we did play a game of cat and mouse, all our own. I had a ride home from the church event we were both at but I pretended I needed a ride home.  He obliged.  On the way to my house, he asked me if I was a good typist as he could use some help getting his term paper typed.  His regular typist was unavailable, he said.  Of course, I could type, I told him.  I never typed ANYTHING in my life.  His typist was, in fact, available.  And so our story began.

This is what I love most about Opera.  It is life on steroids.  Throughout La Boheme, the love story of Mimi and Rudolfo weaves its way into the hearts of the audience.  The love story is not perfect.  It is turbulent.  It is fabulous.  It is heartbreaking.  It is real.  And in the end, Mimi dies inches away from Rudolfo. At the moment he realizes what has happened, he goes a little crazy with grief and sings out her name with such depth and power that it creates a visceral response for the listener.  It has the ability to bring anyone who has been inches away from a dying person right back to that moment.

I did not belt out Jerry’s name in the hospital room when he died. But, just like Rudolfo, my heart had been seared.  The cord that bound us was broken.  It didn’t matter that the tie was frayed and discolored or that it was sewn together in places with threads woven in blood, sweat and tears.  It was a cord that had our names engraved on it.  Jerry to Valasie 5.18.1969.  Valasie to Jerry 5.18.1969.  I wish I was as wise in 1969 as I am now.  I wish Jerry knew in 1969 what he came to realize later.  However, just like Opera is life on steroids…

“Life is amazing.  And then it’s awful.  And then it’s amazing again.  And in between the amazing and the awful it’s ordinary and mundane and routine. Breathe in the amazing, hold on through the awful, and relax and exhale during the ordinary. That’s just living heartbreaking, soul-healing, amazing, awful, ordinary life. And it’s breathtakingly beautiful.”

LR Knost

The Zipper and the Widow

There are plenty of aspects of widowhood and the single life that become evident rather quickly when you move from being a couple to being one of one and the subtle reminders…they are no less impactful.  The first time I tried to zipper up my own dress was one of those subtle reminders.

Quickly, it occurred to me that wearing any kind of dress other than a pull over or zipper on the side kind was going to be a challenge.  It is often difficult to manage without the zipper help and this is true for most women except the double jointed, gymnast type ones.  I knew that simple fact, but I always had a hand that was eager to help zip me up.  In fact, Jerry loved to feel needed. Since I didn’t ask for help with most other things, it became a ritual in our house.  If I wore a dress, he was my zipperer.  I took that simple act for granted.  I asked.  He delivered.  Now, when I zipper up my own dress, it never ceases to remind me that I am a widow…a single woman.  And I often fail at zippering it up.  I would say that half the time I go out, the zipper is somewhere around the mid-way mark.  Lucky for me, I am also a sweater girl.  The moment of truth becomes obvious when I take the sweater off as I almost always forget that I am not zipped up.  Fortunately, I am surrounded by good friends who don’t judge, but instead finish Jerry’s task for him.

Itty Bitty Tiny Zipper itty bitty you can hardly see it.

Itty Bitty Tiny Zipper Pull…so itty bitty you can hardly see it.

Such a simple thing, a zipper, and yet so powerful an image that moves one from two people, four hands to one person, two hands.  In the end, it isn’t about the zipper and the dress.  It is the hand I miss.

PS…Thank you Kay Unger for designing a zipper with a ribbon!

Best Idea Ever...a zipper with a ribbon pull!

Best Idea Ever…a zipper with a ribbon pull!

Lest we go MAD…

Opera is life on stage and if one wanted to see up close what a person gone mad looks and acts like, just buy a ticket to any one of the following operas:

  • Anna Bolena
  • Idomeneo
  • I Puritani
  • The Ghosts of Versailles
  • Wozzeck
  • Orlando
  • The Tsar’s Bride
  • Peter Grimes
  • Boris Godunov
  • Hamlet
  • Lucia di Lammermoor (the mother of all mad scenes)

The Mad Scene in Lucia di Lammermoor

It is not breaking news that Opera is life on steroids.  Betrayal.  Drama.  Intrigue.  Unrequited Love.  Suicide Pacts.  Death, Death and more Death.  Such a stark reality Death is that we have even personified it with a name and created a grim image to match.  There is no dearth of adjectives to describe Death.  It is feared.  It is indiscriminate.   It is relentless.  It is inevitable.

It has the power to make one go mad if this life is really, truly all there is.

We can be quite brave while healthy and strong.  Young and bold.  But as age takes away our vigor or life gets messy when we least expect it, more and more of us gravitate to believing in something, someone, someplace bigger than ourselves and the world we know .

Lest we go mad.

These past few weeks, the news has been filled with the death of two high profile young men, David Goldberg, 47 and Beau Biden, 46.  Last week, one of my best friends lost her not so high profile brother, Jim Lescher, 46.  Recently, Gonzaga College High School lost one alum, Neil York,  22 and one senior, Dom Pettey, 17.  Every minute of every day, there are people experiencing the death of someone they knew.  Famous.  Not so famous.  Infamous. Young.  Old.   In between.  No slowing down the clock.  No escaping the blinding pain of loss.

Reflecting on the death of her husband, Sheryl Sandburg writes in a facebook post, “I think when tragedy occurs, it presents a choice. You can give in to the void, the emptiness that fills your heart, your lungs, constricts your ability to think or even breathe. Or you can try to find meaning”.

When my husband died, my faith in God’s promise of victory over death kept me from giving into the void.  It reminded me to fully rely on God when everything beneath me was in perpetual motion and I just wanted to get off the roller coaster.  It reinforced the truth in my head and in my heart that I will see Jerry in a flash. That there really is life after death.

“It’s been a long day without you my friend
And I’ll tell you all about it when I see you again
We’ve come a long way from where we began
Oh I’ll tell you all about it when I see you again
When I see you again”

                  “See You Again” was written by Puth Jr., Charlie Otto / Cedar,Andrew / Thomaz, Cameron Jibril / Franks, Justin Scott

There is always a maker.  Everything we touch was made by someone’s hands in one fashion or another.  Why should we be any different?  Do I know what my God looks like or how he or she differs from yours?  I am not sure it even matters.  What I do know is that we were all created by God for a life such as this and for a place in paradise for all eternity that was freely offered to us and that THIS is not all there is.

Lest we all go mad.

You might reflect on this and conclude that belief in God is like hanging on to a binky.  A childlike attachment that one should outgrow.  We ought to realize, though, that children have a corner on imagination, freedom and unconditional acceptance based on intuition, instinct and the supernatural that they unwittingly, unfortunately leave behind in a hurried desire to grow up.

When I imagine passing from this world to the next, I often have this vivid image of God saying to me, “What is wrong with you people?  You leave kicking and screaming and I have to pry your fingernails to get you to let go when I have all THIS waiting for you!”  The Jersey girl in me would want to answer back, “You should have us emailed us a picture!”

And of course, since he is God and I am not, he will remind me that he sent plenty of clues long before I arrived at his doorstep.

Door #1…This is all there is

Door #2…”Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.  Surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever.”  NIV Psalm 23

I choose Door #2.

Lest I go mad.

Black is Black

In this case, Orange is definitely NOT the new black.  Black really is black, pure and simple.  Synonymous with mourning.  Grieving.  And has been since Ancient Rome and Greece.

The choice to wear black during the year following Jerry’s death wasn’t so I could pitch myself in some deep, dank well of sadness.  Rather, I chose to adhere to my own reformed version of the Greek widow’s standard issue because I came to quickly realize that there truly is a valid reason for wearing black.

Returning to the real world is a good thing.  Wearing black doesn’t hinder that process. However, what it does do is give the person in mourning the opportunity to slow the process down in a way that makes the sadness manageable.  And that is precisely what wearing black did for me.  In addition, it reminded me of my significant loss everyday for the three hundred and sixty five days I choose black.  That simple act of wearing black helped me understand and accept that my life, the life I had known for forty-four years, was gone as well. I wanted to face that, not run away from it, but at the same time I didn’t want that to stop me in my tracks.  Just wanted it to slow me down as I moved forward.   Each day that I went into my closet to pick something to wear did that for me.

Black is Black

The simple act of consciously choosing black helped me move one step closer to my new life.

Burying the totality of my loss by pretending that wearing purple or red and hoping that could possibly mean that I was moving forward would not work for me.  I needed to take one step at a time and I didn’t want to forget that I had lost my husband, even for a day.  It didn’t depress me to wear black.  It did bother some of my friends and irritated my son and daughter-in-law, but that was mostly about their issues with my wearing black.  Preferring me to look happy and wearing color might hurry things along.  That black, somehow, made me look sad.  Probably did. They loved me and wanted to erase the sadness for me.  I get that.  But I wasn’t in the business of making anyone feel better about what I looked like.  I was in the business of making myself comfortable on my path of healing my wounded heart and easing my sadness and the color black did that for me.

Martyrdom was not my mission, here.  There were days without Jerry that were so much easier than with him.  But there remain still those days that are hollow and empty because the parts of our lives that I loved the most are buried alongside him.

Black was my bridge to the future.  It took me from my deep, visceral sense of loss of the only adult life I knew to the place where I chose to remember only the best of Jerry and me.  Where I can think of him in ways that make me glad we were a family.  Where I can say that I honestly and truly miss that part of him.

Moving on…it is what widows must do.  And I have.  Yet I don’t want to forget this man and I am not eager to replace him either.  The color black helped me accept a new life where I can wear color and still have Jerry on my mind every now and then as I go about the business of moving on.

Popcorn meets Opera

My first experience with Met Live in HD proved to be more enjoyable than I had anticipated it would be and so it made perfect sense to feed my addiction in-between live performances with this format.

Since it was not nearly as difficult to secure a good seat the first time I went to “Opera in the Movies”, it didn’t seem necessary to arrive an hour earlier.  Life never stops providing me with opportunities for learning even the simplest of things.  This was no exception.

The first Met Live in HD performance was a Wednesday evening during a raging snowstorm.  The second one was a Saturday afternoon and the weather was perfectly clear.  By the time we arrived, my friend and I had only minutes to spare leaving the only available seats so close to the screen that we found ourselves looking practically straight up the entire time.  Additionally,  there was so much metal in every variety of form that it felt as if we were in the midst of a Panzer division, a description my friend, Herman, coined to describe being surrounded by walkers, wheelchairs and canes of every kind.  This is the Saturday afternoon crowd., I quickly discovered.  The “In Bed” by 8PM crowd.  The serious Seniors “Opera in the Movies” crowd.  Who knew?

It would be my friend, Cynde’s, first experience listening to an opera and I was curious whether she would want to leave at intermission or be intrigued enough to want to see another.  The opera was Prince Igor and it had been nearly a hundred years since the Met last performed it.  The composer is Alexander Borodin, who has been described as a weekend musician, composing music was his hobby.  He worked on the opera for eighteen years and upon his death it was still incomplete.  Two other composers finished the opera relying on Borodin’s notes.  I loved the mysteriousness that truth created for me.

It is a four hour, twenty-eight minute performance which is about the same length of time as Tristan and Isolde.  But for some reason, it didn’t feel like a four hour, twenty eight minute block of time.  Not sure if it was the venue, the time of day, the field of poppies or the opera itself. It kept my attention and my friend’s as well.  Human frailty is woven throughout Prince Igor just like every other opera I have seen thus far.  Betrayal.  Abuse of Power.  Pride.  Death.  Doubt.  Guilt.  Fear.  For a few of these experiences, all some people have to do is show up for work!

Two out of two so far and happy to report that Met Live in HD is worth every minute of the time you will spend experiencing it.  Oh….unabashedly, I bought popcorn this time.

Which Side of the Bed?

The BedThis is the kind of question you ask someone when you are moving in together for the first time.  For me, it was something I never gave much thought to after May 18th, 1969.

He chose the right side and, by default, I spent the next forty-four years sleeping on the left side of the bed.  It didn’t matter which room it was in…our room, a hotel room or someone’s guest room.  The sides never changed.  Not until May 14th, 2013.

When you have spent the majority of your life following a specific routine, the pattern of doing so leads you from feeling comfortable to being secure.  There is no reason to wonder why one sleeps on the same side of the bed night in, night out.  It just is.  Until one day, it is simply not the same with one side of the bed empty.  Don’t get me wrong.  It is great to stretch out across an entire bed every now and then.  To have it all to yourself is a luxury, indeed.  But the operative words here are “every now and then”.  When you get to choose for the shear thrill of being alone in a bed…that is one thing.  It is quite another when you have the whole bed to yourself every night and there is no option of ever turning around and seeing that person who occupied his side of the bed there in his spot ever again.

The first night I went to up to my room to sleep in our bed alone, I studied that bed before I decided which side of the bed I would sleep on.  I knew a few basic truths.  I did not want to sleep on my side of the bed and see the other side empty.  And, I for sure did not want to sleep on my side of the bed and turn around to see that I was sleeping next to a dead guy.  Either way was not going to work for me.  The solution was easy.  I changed sides.  I crawled into bed on his side and it felt comfortable, right and not so vacant.  At 62, I became a right side of the bed person.

I miss his presence in that bed and have come to realize that I always will.  His arm around my waist. His leg up against mine. His breath against my neck.  Our conversations before we fell asleep.

The only constant in life is change.

Who would have thought that having to decide which side of the bed one chooses to sleep on could be so significant.  Yet it is.

Opera Live in HD

When I first heard that you could go to one of several movie theaters to see an opera performed either live or an encore from the Met in NYC or Covent Garden in London, the first thought I had was. ’Wow, who would want to do that?”  I mean, really.  Opera is not just about the music.  It is about the whole experience and how can you possibly achieve that sitting in a movie theatre.  So, I tabled the idea until reality set it.  New York City is four hours away and there are a limited number of operas to attend in my local area. While this may be shocking to most people who find listening to opera distasteful, there are those of us who actually go into withdrawal between performances.  Okay, perhaps that is a bit of an exaggeration, but you get my point.

When my friend, Scott, texted me and asked if I wanted to see Rusalka on February 12th, Live in HD, I was in that stage of Opera withdrawal and quickly texted back a yes. It was a wintry, snowy Wednesday evening when we met up at Tysons AMC theatre for my first experience at opera in a movie theatre.

Casually mentioning that I was going to try this venue to my friend, Veronica, she told me to be sure to get there at least an hour early because it is more popular than I gave it credit for being.

Scott and I arrived a little bit early and there was hardly anyone there.  This just reinforced in my own mind my initial sentiments regarding opera in a movie theatre.  How awesome of a venue could this be when maybe there were twenty people max in the theatre?!

If I had bet someone that I would hate it, I would have easily lost. On February 12th, I discovered I loved opera even from a movie seat.  The screen is huge so you don’t miss any set details.  The audio from the Met is outstanding.  During the intermissions, you have the opportunity to listen to short interviews with the conductor, the main characters, the set designer as well as some commentary about the opera itself.

To make the experience more than just another night at the movies, I did wear a pretty dress:)  And I was fairly reverent when it came to eating in my seat; I declined buying popcorn.  It seemed so sacrilegious that I relegated myself to M&Ms and a bottle of water.  Most of the other twenty opera moviegoers didn’t seem to have the same constraints.  There were tubs of popcorn everywhere.

Scott and I had a wonderful evening.  It disputed my own pre-conceived notion and what I saw and heard was beautiful. Renee Fleming starred as Rusalka, the water nymph. When she sang “Song to the Moon”, I forgot I was at the AMC theatre in Tysons Corner and for a few minutes was transported to the Met.  All for $18.00.  Big win all the way around.

The schedule for 2014-2015 Live in HD is out already.  I am filling my calendar.  Life is so much more interesting when you don’t confine yourself to doing what you always have done otherwise you get what you always have gotten.

If Walls Could Talk

What a story they would tell!  From extreme joy to the depths of despair, the walls of 12200 Dark Star Court have seen it all.  But, I highly doubt the walls of Dark Star Court witnessed any more of a swing of emotions than many other walls as they eavesdropped on their occupants.

When the moment of separation from the foundation that housed my family’s history over the course of forty years finally arrived, it was hard to believe I was still standing.  I expected to wail.  I didn’t.  The certainty that I could not put one foot in front of the other to walk away was so real in my imagination.  In reality, I could.  A ritual helped make it possible; a plan of how and when I would say good-bye.  One that needed to be rehearsed utilizing a visual that was powerfully vivid in order for me to rest in the comfort of knowing that when that day arrived I could actually walk away.

The day before moving day was filled with getting ready for the movers.  Sleep was hardly an option.  Adrenalin was the order of the day.  By the time the movers arrived, I was too exhausted to think about the final goodbye.  It was incredibly busy from beginning to end.  And I am certain that if Lisa Bradford didn’t visit me the night before to add reality to my world and if Jerry and Petie Hebenstreit didn’t arrive in the AM to not only offer me a temporary home for the things that were eventually going to Wintergreen but also to move them for me and if my guardian angel, Deb Gorham, didn’t show up in a pickup truck and ask these priceless questions:

  • What has to go to the dump?
  • What has to go to a donation center?
  • Where is the big stuff you need to get to Wintergreen?.

and if Rick Morrow didn’t come by to look at the renovations I had made in my house and ended up helping Deb load her pickup truck, I am sure that I would have never been able to accomplish all that needed to be done.

If you ever doubted God’s providence, you shouldn’t.  He sends people to help you in exactly the way you need help the most.  He paves the way for things to go as you need them to.  Maybe not always.  Maybe only Sometimes.  Leaving my home without being crushed under the weight of sorrow was one of those “sometimes” for me.  I was grateful it wasn’t a “not always” time for me.

One of my oldest friends sent me a New York Times article, “The Memory Stone” written by Olivia Judson.  It is the last of an eight part series and centers around closing up her parents’ home.  It was perfect for me because it confirmed in my heart that when a house  becomes a home it evolves into something that is so much more that the physical structure.  There is energy in the air that holds memories long evaporated in our minds.  Security that protects us may be invisible but present nonetheless.  Each time you shake the outside and all that weighs on you as you cross the threshold of your home you have the opportunity to leave behind the world and its reality and focus on what matters most to you.  The events within a home are not always pretty.  Life really is a messy affair. Regardless, it is still your home.  It is where you seek refuge.  It is where you often find peace.   And if you are lucky, it is where you experience grace.

When it came time to walk through the empty, cavernous, echoing house on 12200 Dark Star Court, I used Olivia Judson’s stone idea.  She wrote of using just one stone as an anchor to gather her memories;  I chose a handful of stones that we kept on a shelf from places we visited on family vacations.  As I began my walk, I started on the lower level.   A storm was raging outside and even that was providential.  The thunder, lightening and pounding rain was as if God’s orchestra was playing just for me and me alone.  I held one stone in my hand as I entered the recreation room and closed my eyes to see and hear the most vivid memories of our family in that room… First, when it was just an ugly room and I used one of the walls to function as a tennis backboard.  Later when it housed my brother and his family as they were transitioning to Northern Virginia.  Next, when it was my son’s bedroom as we were then four generations under one roof.  There in that room, Jon told me his girlfriend was pregnant.  They were only sixteen.  Eventually that room along with the rest of the lower level was renovated and became the haven for Jon’s eldest son, Andrew.  With my eyes closed I could hear him laughing with his St. Andrew and Gonzaga friends.  The room next to it was first an office for Jon when he was in grad school, then an exercise room and eventually a room for Jerry’s caretaker.   The bathroom was a HUGE improvement over the previous one where we found a bat swimming in the original commode.  Yes, indeed.  In Jerry’s last months, the large shower and bench was perfect for his fragile health.  I could hear him saying as he often did, “Val, you did a great job on this bathroom.  It works perfect for me.”  Then my prayer closet I built under the stairs.  How I loved my quiet time there and the grace He extended me by always showing up even when I didn’t.

Next, I selected another stone and walked through my living room.  Oh…those dinner parties for fifty or more people, the belly dancer, Santa Claus, Christmas Carols, Andrew’s amazing chops on the piano, the Christmas tree, garlands on the fireplace hearth, presents being opened, tea parties for baby showers, introductions of missionaries to friends over coffee and then some crazy pyramid promotion by a member of one of my tennis groups (yes…obviously not one of my finest moments).

The dining room deserved its own stone as well.  It was the scene of many gatherings.  I loved to cook and Jerry loved to entertain.  We did a lot of that over the years.  Big buffet parties, small dinner parties, birthday parties with crepe paper that sometimes graced the dining room ceiling long after the party was over.  I mean long after.  Many of those holiday gatherings were happy times.  Not all.  There were those moments that were full of unmet expectations.  Times when the food didn’t turn out right.  Or a bit too many passive aggressive comments expressed.  Someone mad at someone else.  A day that fell flat.  But the scales always tipped in favor of the good times.

The kitchen.  Big stone for that room.  It was where everything happened.  Where Jerry would walk in from work and go straight to the kids to hug and kiss them; Jennifer just four and Jon an infant in his carrier.  It housed the kitchen table that was the spot of all our discussions about the day.  It was where things could go south in an instant.  I closed my eyes and felt and saw the scene of so many good times and some crazy ones too. A place where the range could stop working on the day you were expecting fifty people for dinner yet house a Bunsen burner to save the day.  A place where Jerry would grab me around the waist and nuzzle my neck at the sink while I washed the dishes. Sometimes I was receptive, other times not.  A place where I prepared food for family and friends.  Where my generous friends helped me make tiropeta, dolmathes, kourambiedes, koulourakia and spanakopita just to name a few. I appreciated the help and loved the fellowship.

The den became the spot where our family gathered to watch movies, TV shows, play games, share conversations, work and on occasion read.  A typical list of things people do in a den.  But they were our things and that made them more than just what they were.  In my mind, I could go right back to the time Jerry and the kids were laying on the floor watching Dracula and a bat flew out of the fireplace right in front of the TV.  Yes.  It did.  It is where I rocked my first grandchild to sleep.  Eventually, it was the place Jerry rested most of the day those last few months in a chair and ottoman that became his refuge.  And I, his companion,  listened to his breathing trying to process that one day it would be just me in a silent room.

Each of the bedrooms got their own stone.  Jennifer’s room was first hers and then I was lucky she was willing to share it with me when things were rocky between Jerry and me.  Next, it became a shelter for friends of ours that lost their home. Jon took it over, then Andrew.  My guest room was first Yaya’s room, then my Mom’s and then my room when I felt the need to run away.  Jon’s room became Andrew and Sarah’s room, then Andrew’s room and finally an office for me that I rarely used.  Last was my bedroom.  Yes…if walls could talk.  It was a wonderful, sunlit, big room that opened to a sitting room.  Over the years we changed the furniture around multiple times.  TV in. TV out.  Bed under the windows.  Bed on the big wall.  Kids showing up in the middle of the night to crawl into bed with us.  Jon banging on the door in the middle of the afternoon with his tonka truck trying to get into a locked room and Jerry telling him that we were working on his Christmas list with Santa.  I left those tonka truck marks on the door for a long time.  They were good for a smile.

The walk through the house was almost spiritual.  You see, the time between the dash 1974-2014 was grand in so many ways.  The grandness of it shone through the ugliness.  That too is providential.  And for that reason I was able to say,  “Thank You House for being such a perfect place for us” as I walked through each room. It gave us walls to enclose us and provided a safe place for us to be ourselves.  It was always warm and inviting, strong and protective.

My home housed our memories in every crevice, in every corner.  They floated in the air suspended for me to grasp at any time.  That night as I closed the door behind me, I took them all with me.  Every one of them.  12200 Dark Star Ct was God’s gift to us and so I will add, “Thank You, God”!

The Met at 63

Meeting the Met up close and personal was something I looked forward to ever since my grandson, Andrew, informed me that it was one of most famous opera houses in the world.  It was during the month of August and Austria was in the midst of its annual Music Festival.  The only Opera being performed during the time we were in Austria was in Salzburg and lucky for us, we were able to attend Falstaff while there.  By the time we arrived in Vienna,  a tour of the Vienna State Opera House was the only opportunity to see its magnificent interior.  And as they say, the rest was history.

In early January of this year, Andrew and I travelled to NYC to attend  our first Met performance; the anticipation excited me in a way that reminded me of my first date with Jerry.  In those early days of courtship, I was often in a heightened state of excitement; evidence that to every time there is a season.

Anxiety followed excitement…then and now:)  The NYC taxi driver didn’t know where the Met was.  How is that possible?  He drove us around and around within one block of Lincoln Center and by the time I ordered him to stop, I had only one dollar left to tip him and minutes to spare to get our coats checked and locate our seats.  The fact that they were awesome didn’t help relieve the stress that rushing produces.  And when the seats are that awesome you are often surrounded by seasoned ticket holders.  When I arrived at our row, I was in this fractured, frazzled state making me full of excuses which led me to share with my neighbors that I was thrilled to be at my first performance at the Met.  This led to one of them screwing up his face saying he hoped I wasn’t disappointed that the opera was being sung in English.  As if this was a mortal sin.  (By the end, I agreed with him)  Another neighbor, While seasoned was clearly not an Opera snob as she helped answer some of my very elementary questions without the whole “Eye rolling thing”.

Back to RUSHING.  It is not how you want to start anything, let alone your experience of something for the first time.

Tip #1:  Get to the Met at least  thirty minutes before the performance

I hate being late but find it is my typical MO.  Always trying to cram just one more thing in.  My husband was used to my showing up typically fifteen minutes later than I promised.  He even nicknamed me “The Fifteen Minute Girl”… always a head turner that guy of mine.  Being late for most things, while not an trait to aspire to, is not a life threatening one.  That being said, not being in your seat at the start of a performance at the Met feels like a one.  First, if you are late, you will have to stand until the next intermission.  You might not assume that is a big deal, however, when intermission isn’t for at least an hour and you are dressed to the nines in shoes that were never meant for you to stand in longer than five minutes, it has painful consequences.  Secondly, you just paid an obscene amount of money for your seat and now you are standing with those who purchased standing seats for the price of a shot of tequila and wearing shoes meant for standing.  You probably think that is what Andrew and I had to do.  We didn’t.  At least not this time.  But I am sure it will be one of my life experiences given my mismanagement of time.

The Opera was Die Fledermaus written by Johann Strauss and this particular performance was set at the turn of the twentieth century.  It premiered in Vienna in April of 1874 and is often the Opera that is performed the night of the annual gala for many opera houses.  The music has a lovely melodic tone and very easy to the ear, especially, for a Opera novice.  This is a sophisticated version of a madcap story laced with pretense and peppered with enough humor to lighten up the outcome of playing charades.  The plot was orchestrated by Dr. Falke, intent on revenging Eisenstein for a past offense .  Every year, Prince Orlofsky hosted a ball and agreed to let this year’s event be the stage.  Falke created the intrigue and each character unwittingly played a part in the Prince’s entertainment and Falke’s revenge.  The Eisenstein maid was introduced as a budding actress.  Eisenstein’s wife, Rosalinde, arrived disguised as a Hungarian Countess in an attempt to entrap her husband into flirting with her and confirm her suspicion that he was a wanderer.  Eisenstein arrived at the party having made a detour on his way to prison to serve a sentence of eight days.   His main purpose was looking for booty and, of course, he ended up flirting with the mysterious woman in disguise.  Sounds preposterous.  How many men say they are going one place but really are in another?  How many women are suspicious?  Opera is the mistress of reflecting life whether it be real or sub-conscious. The governor tasked with the job of taking the husband to prison that night arrived earlier at the Eisenstein house only to find Alfredo, Rosalinda’s ex-lover, there.  Alfredo was using his best asset, his incredible voice, to get Rosalinde to leave her husband.  Swoon.  Swoon.  Swoon.  That voice would work for me too.  In protecting his true identity when the governor arrived, he immediately pretended he was the husband, which ended costing him a night spent behind bars.  After delivering Alfredo to prison, the governor arrived at the party pretending to be a director and the maid latched onto him, right quick, hoping for an audition.  Yep, that happens in real life too.  Like in Cinderella, the clock tolled and Eisenstein knew he had to arrive at the prison as scheduled.

By the time he got there, Alfredo was singing up a storm and everyone came clean when they realized he was not the real Eisenstein.  Rosalinde, who was contemplating running away with Alfredo had to make a decision.   The choices made by the cheated upon spouse typically fall into categories:  Divorce, Restore, Quid Pro Quo.  Obviously, lots of factors come into play as to which choice one makes.  But for Rosalinde and Eisenstein, they chose Restore.

I loved the storyline, the music and the Met, but regardless, I still dozed off.  It was a just a few seconds here and there.  But how long doesn’t matter.  You just don’t want to be closing your eyes at the Met.  Ever.

Tip # Two:  Get a lot more sleep than three hours the night before attending an opera

To make matters worse, I was craving chocolate before midnight.  I have this fasting rule that involves only eating sweets on Wednesdays and Saturdays.  So you can imagine my immediate need when I realized I would not be out of my seat much before midnight.  Eating the chocolate was not my crime.  It was the fact that I ate it while the performance was going on.  You would think I committed a capitol crime.  When we left the Met, Andrew said “Don’t ever, ever, eat anything again while you are still in the opera house!”  Okay, Okay.  What is the big deal?  I had to listen to a lecture from this twenty-one year old about the inappropriateness of it all.  I now get it.  Totally.

Tip #3:  Don’t bring a stash of any food with you so you won’t be tempted

And lastly, I was so sure everyone, and I mean everyone, knew it was my first time at the Met.  Super self conscious is a good way to describe how I was feeling;  just like with my first kiss.

Andrew reminded me several times that no one was paying any attention to me:)  But I remembered how Jerry reacted to my first kiss and how self-conscious I was that I didn’t fool him.  New is often uncomfortable, regardless of the age.

Tip #4:  Get right back on the horse again

By the second time, you will feel like you know the basics about opera etiquette and teach a few people a thing or two.  Or you simply won’t care what other people think.  Just don’t let yourself become an Opera snob.

Tip #5:  Being an Opera snob so ruins what Opera is all about…LOVE

PS.  I was less self-conscious and slightly better with the second kiss:)  I am sure that will be the same for me the next time at the Met

HOME is where the HEART is

12200 Dark Start Court

12200 Dark Start Court

Growing up in New Jersey, families rooted themselves in houses. They turned them into homes almost instantly and moving up was a rare occurrence, if not non-existent. This, regardless of how small a house was.  They lived close to their family of origin and moving out of the area was virtually unheard of unless you were being deported or running away from the police.  In fact, one of the first requirements a father would have of the young man who was there to ask for his daughter’s hand in marriage was, “I will agree as long as you promise not to move her out of Jersey City.”  I felt certain that once we broke that pattern by moving to Northern Virginia we would move again and again.  We didn’t.

When Jerry and I purchased our first, and what has turned out to be our last house, we never dreamed we would make a life for ourselves in it for forty years.  A pretty house, it drew me in and became a home the minute we crossed its threshold.  Having absolutely no extra money those first few years reduced us to using our outdoor furniture as den furniture.  Seriously.  But none of that really mattered to us.  Often the reasons we loved our home were not clearly evident to us at the time.  We just knew we loved living at 12200 Dark Star Court.  Over the years, though, it became crystal clear what those reasons were and why we chose to live there for forty years.

Despite deep culture shock, we adjusted to the area and I was no longer willing to move.  Not even within the same zip code.  For me, my home became that safe place where I could feel a sense of warmth and security.  It was where we raised our two children, hosted parties for a myriad of reasons and entertained family and friends often.  It was my grandson, Andrew’s, favorite place just like it was mine.  It was where Jerry and I fought and made up.  Where we laughed and cried.  Where we realized our greatest triumphs.  Where we suffered our darkest moments.  It was where we created our life together as a family of four and it is where I am at this moment in time…a party of one.

Over the years, 12200 Dark Star Court served as a conduit for memories that are so vivid I can call any one of them up at a second’s notice.  Every room has a story to tell that spans almost a lifetime.

When I returned to my home the day of Jerry’s passing, I crossed that same threshold only to walk into a house.  It was as if time turned back the clock forty years and transformed my home right back into a house.   In many ways, that was a gift.

Leaving 12200 Dark Star Court was unthinkable before May 14, 2013.  Today, while it is bittersweet, it is the best, right decision to make and I am grateful that my sweet home has given me the gift of seeing it through different eyes.   A home is only a home when the people that matter to you live there too.  A home is where your heart is.

Besides…I didn’t want to be that widow down the street that the neighbor children talk about with references like, “No one has seen Widow August for years.  They say the house is haunted.  I dare you to break in and find out if she is dead or alive”:)