Oh, for a babbling brook

The weatherman says we’re heading for a high temperature of 98 degrees today. I shuffled our morning schedule so that Dillon and I were on the Canal Trail by 7 a.m. It was already warm and humid, but not unbearable like it will be later. When we got back home, Dad was outside. He had the sprinkler going to water his new sod.

As soon as I walked in the door, I heard a piercing whistling sound coming from the water pipes. He waters frequently, but I’ve never heard that obnoxious whistling before. I’m surprised every dog in the neighborhood wasn’t howling in protest because you could hear it clear out into the yard.

I went back outside and asked how long he planned to water. “A long time,” came the reply. “Well, you’re going to have to turn the faucet so that the water runs faster or slower, but it can’t keep flowing at that level because it’s making a whistling sound in the house and I’m not going to be able to stand it for long,” I informed him.

He gave me a disgusted look. “How will I know when it’s not making the noise any more?” he griped. Was he kidding? “Don’t worry, I’ll let you know,” I assured him. He made some adjustments and now I can hear the water flowing, but it’s no longer whistling like a steam kettle.

Whoever decided that the sound of flowing water was soothing, never lived with my father.

Memorial Day

Yours has the suffering been, The memory shall be ours.
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


We who are left how shall we look again
Happily on the sun or feel the rain
Without remembering how they who went
Ungrudgingly and spent
Their lives for us loved, too, the sun and rain?
~Wilfred Wilson Gibson

Stars and Stripes Forever

Don’t you just love the beginning of a 3-day weekend? So much time and so many possibilities. I’m having family over for supper tonight. Yesterday I had so much fun at Dollar Tree and Walgreens picking out red, white, & blue, stars and striped themed goodies to decorate with. I got a little carried away.



I needed one more set of red, white & blue twinkling lights to finish wrapping the railing on the back porch. Then there was an extra set of red, white & blue stars to hang over the pass-through between the den and kitchen. I already had one set strung between the porch pillars. The stars on the wreath in the hall light too. Dad just shook his head. “I like lights!” I informed him. “I can tell,” he laughed.


I own a set of everyday red plates and blue-stemmed glasses. I unearthed an old blue plaid tablecloth to throw across the dining room table to give it a picnic look. Some metallic wire garland and flags perked up the chandelier. I couldn’t resist the flag-theme maze puzzle toys, useless, but fun favors and if the conversation lags, we can have a contest to see who gets their ball all the way through the maze first or throws it across the room in disgust.



It just so happens that I own enough patriotic music CD’s to play all evening. I’m not sure that patriotic marches are good for the digestion, but I enjoy them. Can you tell that I love a theme? I had a hard time resisting the LED stars and stripes paper lanterns, but came home with more star-shaped balloons than I really needed. On the other hand, can you ever have too many balloons? I also picked up a handful of small American flags that made a simple centerpiece once I dropped them into a blue-patterned drinking glass and wrapped the base with more metallic star garland.

I’m pleased with the results. I’m no Martha Stewart, but we’re coordinated (possibly over-coordinated) and festive.



Dillon has no objections to wearing a red bandanna and Dad has on his stars and striped suspenders. Anchors Aweigh!

We live to serve

Uncle Thomas called last night to say that he and Joan were going to be coming this way today and would be stopping by to visit Dad. I guess he learned his lesson last time when he came with no advance warning and had so much trouble getting Dad’s attention to let him into the house.

They came while I was at work. When I got home, I noticed a Season’s Greetings Christmas glass sitting on the kitchen counter. “Why did you give them a Christmas glass?” I asked. “I didn’t,” Dad replied. “Thomas told Joan to go get him a glass of water. I pointed at the cabinet and that’s the one she came back with. I wondered why she didn’t just tell him to get it himself,” he laughed.

I wondered why she didn’t just tell him to get it himself? This from the man who won't make his own sandwiches or doctor his own wounds? And he couldn’t do better than just point towards the kitchen cabinet where I store the glasses? My grandmother ruined her sons.

Really?

I went outside yesterday to track Dad down to tell him the library had called and was holding a book for him. He gave me a distracted, “Okay,” and then began his first full sentence with the dreaded, “Nancy, I want to show you something.” I followed him across the yard to one of his precious Japanese maple trees. He pointed to the base of the trunk. “You need to ease up when you’re mowing around here. See where the bark has fallen off? The tree can’t take too much of that.”

I haven’t hit that tree this summer. I pointed out that the grass around the trunk was all grown up, a pretty good indication that I hadn’t mowed there. “I stomped it down,” was the reply. Why? Now I will admit that I have bumped the tree with the lawnmower in the past. Given that he’s planted things so that there’s a damn obstacle course to mow around, and I’m usually in a hurry, that happens. It’s not like I do it on purpose. Except for the times, I intentionally and repeatedly mowed down an azalea.

Needless to say, I didn’t appreciate the suggestion. So, I made one of my own. I suggested that if I wasn’t mowing the grass to suit him, he could start paying someone to do it. Last summer not only was I the one providing the labor, I was also the one filling the gas can. I then went back inside to finish cooking lunch, regretting that I’d ever tried to be nice and let him know the library had a book for him. Next time he tries to walk near that tree, he’ll need a scythe to hack a path.

I told him about three weeks ago that I didn’t think the smoke detector worked. I suggested he pick one up at Lowes and replace the old one. He grimaced, as usual, but did return with a new smoke detector. He set the bag down on the couch and as far as I could tell, it stayed there. I pointed out that it wasn’t going to be of any use still in the package. He just laughed and continued to ignore it. Every time I passed that couch and saw that bag still sitting there, I got annoyed.

This morning, the handyman called to say that he’d be over at lunchtime to clean the gutters. I gave Dad the news and suggested that if he didn’t want to install the smoke detector, Donald could do it. He laughed and said, “It’s been up for a week now.” “Then why is the bag still on the couch?” I asked, already knowing the answer. “I wanted to see how long it would take you to notice.”

I don’t know why he gets his kicks out of playing these games. He knows it annoys me. And it’s not like there won’t be payback. I can forget to tell him the next time the library calls. I can stop telling him when something he’d like to see is going to be on tv. Since the N&O stopped printing a tv section and the TV Guide channel went digital, he no longer has access to tv listings. I can be too busy to make him a dessert. I can cook all those new pasta and stir fry recipes I’ve been wanting to try, but know he won’t like. I can serve him nothing but pimento cheese sandwiches for supper for the next week. I don’t even have to think hard to come up with ways to make his life less pleasant.

It’s not like asking for a new smoke detector was an unreasonable request. I didn’t repeatedly hound him about it. He can be such a pain in the ass. It's no wonder most widows don't remarry.

Summer Magic

I didn’t get up until 7:30 a.m. yesterday. That’s late for me. Dad wasn’t sitting in his chair reading the newspaper, so I figured he’d overslept as well. When it got to be practically 8 a.m., I started to get worried. He never sleeps that late. I finally cracked his bedroom door and peeked in. I was relieved to see that his bed was empty. Then I discovered that his car was missing as well. He’d started his yard sale expedition early.

I happened to be glancing out the window when he got home. I went to open the front door for him. He was wearing a pair of jeans, held up by suspenders, with the legs rolled up at the hem. He looked like a little hobo. His pants hit around the ankle even when they’re not rolled up. Rolled, they resembled the boy-friend style jeans that are currently popular for girls.

“Why are your pants rolled up?” I asked when he got inside. “Because I went out to move the hose before I left and the grass was wet.” “And you couldn’t roll them back down after you finished moving the hose?” “I didn’t think it mattered.”

Later that morning, he’d changed to his work clothes, a different pair of jeans and a long-sleeved white shirt. I told him I was going to the nursery in Littleton and asked if he wanted to come along. “Do I need to change first?” he asked. “No, we’re just going to the nursery, why would you need to change?” “Well these clothes are dirty.” They may have been, but at a glance they didn’t look dirty. “They’re fine. We’re just going to buy plants,” I said. “Well sometimes you have strange ideas about what to wear,” he grumbled.

I don’t consider wearing clean, hole-free, well fitting clothing that’s appropriate to the occasion, to be a strange idea. However, when you’re just going to a plant nursery that’s pretty much in the middle of nowhere, I don’t think work clothes are inappropriate. Fashion crisis settled, we went and bought hanging baskets of dragon-wing begonias, a purple-flowered plant that I love but can’t identify by name, and tuberous begonias.


The yard’s looking good. It smells nice too. The gardenia bush at the end of the porch is blooming and the fragrance is wonderful. My mint plants are flourishing so my ever-present glass of water has mint leaves providing a lovely, refreshing flavor. The hummingbirds have found the feeders and I saw my first lightning bug the other night. It must be summer!

Better mind your manners

Apparently, there was an epic battle waged between man and snake in my backyard yesterday while I was at work. Dad said he went out the garage door and saw what he thought was a big piece of plastic lying in the yard. Upon closer inspection, he realized it was a big black snake stretched out in the sun. The snake didn’t move until Dad got close, then it coiled, raised its head, made a striking motion, and stuck out its tongue at Dad.

That was a mistake. When I was little and stuck my tongue out at Dad, he gave me a spanking. He whupped the snake’s butt too. I survived to tell the tale. The snake didn’t.

Dad began by whacking the snake with a hoe. Twenty whacks later, he’d bent the hoe, but the snake was still wriggling. Then he bashed its head several times with an iron pipe. He was pretty sure it was dead by that point, but when he threw it over the fence, it was still moving in what must have been its death throes. Dad was sure it couldn’t have survived the injuries he’d inflicted.

When I got home and was led over to inspect the corpse, it was unmoving and covered with flies. It was also resting just beyond the gate on the other side of the fence. “It can’t stay there,” I informed Dad. “Why not?” “Because it’s going to start to smell and it’s right where Dillon and I walk. I’ll have to pull Dillon away from it every morning.” You’d think with all that space back there, he could have thrown it somewhere else. “Well where do you want it?” “Further away from the gate,” I replied. He said he’d move it later.

This morning when Dillon and I walked back to the gate, I was pleased to see that the snake was gone. When we got back, Dad was working in the yard. I walked over and asked him jokingly if the snake had come back to life and slithered off or if he’d moved it. “Neither,” he replied. “Well it’s gone,” I said in confusion. “Didn’t you move it?” “Nope. I went out with the pitchfork to move it and it was gone. Something else must have gotten it last night.”

“What would take a snake?” I asked. “I don’t know, but it’s gone,” he said. I’m not sure what makes me more nervous, the thought of the snake or the creature that took it away.

For the record, we normally don’t kill black snakes because they are harmless and eat mice and rats. This snake wasn’t a rat snake or king snake, it was a black racer. They also eat mice and rats and other snakes and small mammals, but unlike the black snake, they’re aggressive. So is Dad when he’s provoked. Sticking its tongue out at my father was a big mistake.

Cleaning is hazardous to my health

I like living in a clean, neat home. I don’t enjoy the process involved in making it clean and neat. Therefore, I generally subscribe to the lick and a promise method. I do the bare minimum to avoid the health department tacking up a notice of condemnation. The dust you could write your name in on the tabletops and the cobwebs in the corners provide mute testimony to my efforts or lack thereof.

I much prefer walking the Canal Trail with Dillon or shopping. Activities that rarely ever lead to crippling injuries, unlike my experience when cleaning house. The four times I’ve broken bones in my foot have all been cleaning related injuries. The first time, I ran into the bedpost while making the bed and broke my little toe. The second time, I was taking out the trash in the dark wearing a pair of thin-soled leather flats, stepped on a tree root, and broke a bone in my foot. The third time, I was cleaning up after a meal and ran into a stoneware plate sitting on the floor and broke a toe.

After the third incident, I pretty much stopped going barefoot in or out of the house. I wear bedroom shoes or tennis shoes assuming that they’ll protect my toes from knocking into things and have thick enough soles so that I won’t step on something wrong. I didn’t take into account falling objects. Yesterday I was moving some framed doilies that have been propped against the wall in my study. In the process, I dropped one on my toe. Judging from the pain upon impact, the lovely shade of purple now gracing the top of my foot, and the twinges when I move the toe, it’s broken.

That’s what I get for trying to straighten up. I should have just gone shopping. Perhaps for a pair of steel-toed work boots. Something my wardrobe is currently lacking and I’m obviously sorely in need of.

Sunday morning

Dillon wound up with star-shaped dog biscuits. Not because I decided on star-shaped, but because I can’t find my handbell-shaped cookie cutter. I wasted quite a bit of time, and a lot of temper, searching for it. It sat on top of the printer in my study for a long time after I first bought it. Then I thought I’d finally moved it to the kitchen where it belonged. I searched everywhere it should have been at least three times and came up empty. I’m still annoyed. I can’t imagine where the stupid thing could be.

There was one parking space open against the curb in front of Oscar’s this morning. That meant parallel parking between two cars. Dad manages the feat almost every Sunday morning, but sometimes the spaces are bigger than others. Several people were standing on the sidewalk chatting, so they got to witness Dad’s efforts to park. I personally never parallel park in front of an audience.

He succeeded on the third or fourth try. He claims he can’t judge the distances as accurately these days. That being the case, maybe he should park in the lot? Since he went over the curb at least once, if I’d been one of the gawkers, I’d have at least moved to the relative safety of standing behind the heavy wooden bench that’s set in cement. They apparently had faith in his abilities or were just too lazy to move.

Oscar’s is a typical old-fashioned greasy spoon diner. Dad doesn’t like his food greasy, so before eating, he pats the fried potatoes between two napkins and then wipes the grease off the plate around the fried egg and bacon. He even pats down the two fried potato slices he forks over to me every week. He also complains that the silverware is too thin. Still, he likes Oscar’s and it’s his choice.

Last week he complained about how greasy the food was and how the size of his fried egg kept shrinking. I suggested that he consider ordering two fried eggs. He said he was thinking about doing that in place of the fried potatoes. I thought about it a minute and pointed out that if he were going to change his order, we’d need to phone ahead.

Since we always order the same thing and sit at the same table every Sunday, Joanne, our waitress, puts our order in as soon as she spots us parking or coming in the door. I guess that’s why my eggs were cold this Sunday. It took Dad so long to get into that parking space that the plate probably sat on the counter for a while.

Saturday this and that

These lady slippers grow wild under the pines in our backyard. They've bloomed out now and this picture is from last year, but I think they're so pretty that I couldn't resist sharing.

The smoke from the fires in Dare county, which is over a hundred miles away, has even reached our town. You'd think the whole town was on fire. The smell is awful. I'm not sure if Dillon and I will be walking this morning or not.

I don't have to cook today. The Lion's Club is having their BBQ plate sale and New Hope Methodist Church is having their last Brunswick Stew sale until September. Yay! I may be baking though. I need some more chocolate chip pumpkin bread and Dillon's supply of apple cinnamon dog biscuits is almost gone. I'm undecided whether to make star-shaped cookies for Memorial Day or handbell-shaped cookies.

Speaking of handbells, our choir director forwarded an image of a handwritten thank you note she received from one older member of the congregation who enjoyed our recent concert. Southern ladies can be so gracious. How sweet was that to take the time to write a thank you note to the choir director? Funny how such a simple act can make the recipient feel so good.

Dad's gone to the farmer's market. I'm so glad they've opened back up. They don't have many vendors these days, but Dad enjoys checking out what they do have on Saturday mornings. He asked last night if there was anything in particular that I did or didn't want. I told him he could buy whatever he wanted. "Well, I know we don't need okra," he said. He bought okra last week and I still haven't cooked it. I was really kind of hoping he'd have forgotten. I love fried okra, but it's a pain to cook, so I have to be in the mood and I haven't been.

Since they're predicting thunderstorms for this afternoon, I'll be sticking close to home. Maybe I'll even get the Easter decorations packed up. I'm getting a little tired of all the bunnies. Hippity hoppity, Easter's gone away.

I love spring

Spring, the Sweet Spring

Spring, the sweet spring, is the year’s pleasant king,
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing:
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The palm and may make country houses gay,
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay:
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
In every street these tunes our ears do greet:
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to witta-woo!

-from Summer’s Last Will and Testament by Thomas Nashe (1600)


Spring is my favorite season. The birds are singing, trees and grass are green again, flowers are bursting into bloom, and the fragrance of wild honeysuckle perfumes the Canal Trail. I have no idea what the name of this white-flowered bush is. I think I may have found it last spring during an internet search, but it didn't stick in my brain.

Regardless of name, it's my favorite and it's huge! Dad, the perpetual party pooper, insists that I need to decide between the bush and the tree. According to him, one or the other needs to be pruned. I will admit that the bush is decidedly one-sided, leaning forward in search of sunlight. But so far, both seem to be surviving and thriving, at least to my eyes. He just can't seem to resist the urge to chop off yet another branch. I've warned him to leave them alone. He'd better listen.

Dogs are amazing

I'm currently reading Through a Dog's Eyes by Jennifer Arnold. Much of it is familiar, but I'm learning some new things about man's best friend as well. It's an interesting, quick read.


War Dog, a photo essay by Rebecca Franzel, is amazing. As the author states, there's a reason they brought one to get Osama bin Laden.

Happy Mother's Day

Mother to Son
By Langston Hughes 1902–1967

Well, son, I’ll tell you:
Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
It’s had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.
But all the time
I’se been a-climbin’ on,
And reachin’ landin’s,
And turnin’ corners,
And sometimes goin’ in the dark
Where there ain’t been no light.
So boy, don’t you turn back.
Don’t you set down on the steps
’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.
Don’t you fall now—
For I’se still goin’, honey,
I’se still climbin’,
And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

Happy Birthday, Linda

Hard to believe she'd have been 51 today. This picture was taken on her 6th birthday.

I would like more sisters, that the taking out of one, might not leave such stillness.
-- Emily Dickinson

Baby, it's cold outside

When I got up this morning, the indoor/outdoor thermometer read 70 degrees inside and 48 degrees outside. That’s downright chilly! So I was surprised to see Dad wearing only a short sleeve cotton shirt and no jacket when he came back inside from fetching the morning newspaper. “Don’t you think you should have put on a jacket?” I asked. “It feels like winter’s back,” he groused with a smile.

He sat down to read his paper. I kept thinking about that short sleeve thin cotton shirt. This is a man who wears long sleeve denim shirts in the summer when working outside and flannel drawers year-round. “It’s only supposed to get up to like 70 today. Why are you wearing a short sleeve shirt?” “Because it’s what I put on a day or so ago.”

Of course, that makes sense. NOT. “Given that I know you have a closet full of shirts and I wash laundry fairly frequently, I really think you could put on a long sleeve shirt even if it is out of sequence,” I informed him. I swear his mind hums along on its own frequency.

Giddyup

At work on Tuesday, we took a field trip to a nursing home to witness the signing of a power of attorney. Nursing home and hospital trips are always depressing. The gentleman that we were visiting was mentally competent but physically frail. When we entered the room, he had a western playing on the tv. It took a minute for him to locate the remote, it was hidden under the bedcovers, to turn the tv off. I noticed that he was watching the TVland network, but didn’t recognize any of the characters on screen.

Dad’s a big fan of westerns, so that night I told him that obviously some westerns were on weekday afternoons on TVland. He perked up with interest. “Do we get that channel?” he asked. “Yes, we get that channel,” I informed him. I’ve given him a printout of the channel line-up on more than one occasion, but he still seems unaware of what channels we do and don’t get.

Later that evening, I checked the tv listings. That’s something else he declines to do. I don’t know quite how he finds what he watches on tv. I guess he’s like a lot of men and simply scans up and down the channels. A waste of time in my opinion because it always seems to be commercials everywhere when I’m channel surfing. Gunsmoke is on from 12-2 and Bonanza is on from 2-5 every weekday on TVland.

I gave him the happy news at lunchtime yesterday. “And no, I don’t know what channel number TVland is. You’ll have to find that out for yourself.” He promptly named the channel number. “I checked yesterday.” As soon as lunch was over, he headed out to his room saying, “I’m going to see what Marshal Dillon is up to.” When I came home, Bonanza was blaring away.

He obviously spent the afternoon catching up on his westerns. Apparently, he was so intent on not missing anything that he used my bathroom in the hall instead of his own in his bedroom. I know this because I practically fell into the toilet since he forgot to put the seat down. That’s the thanks I get for opening up a whole new world of reruns.

That's a scary thought

The plumber arrived just as I was getting ready to leave for work. He went down to the basement and the first thing he discovered was that there was no power going to the hot water heater. He and Dad found that the circuit breaker had tripped. That's never happened before. I left as they were headed back to the basement.

When I got home tonight, I asked Dad if we now had hot water. He said yes. "Well what made the circuit breaker trip?" I asked. The former owners had a timer attached to the water heater. Not a timer like you buy at Walmart, but an industrial type timer in a metal box hardwired to the hot water heater. I haven't used it in years because inevitably I'd want hot water during one of the off periods. I had unscrewed all of the metal trips and left the timer permanently in the on position.

Apparently sometime last night or this morning, the timer shorted out. The box is black and the cardboard piece that had the on and off directional arrows is scorched black as well. That's what tripped the circuit breaker. Thank heavens it didn't catch anything on fire. It's pretty scary to consider what might have happened.

The plumber disconnected the timer and wired the water heater back up. Everything seems to be functioning properly now. Dad is relieved that he's off meal duty and I'll be back to cooking tomorrow. I made him go pick up lunch today because I wanted to be home if the plumber called, which he did as soon as Dad left. All's well that ends well, but the whole thing is scary when you really think about it.

I don't want to travel in a covered wagon either

The good news is, I don’t have to cook lunch today. The bad news is, the reason I’m not cooking lunch is that the hot water heater died. Dad didn’t understand the connection between the two events. He acts as if I’m trying to unfairly capitalize on the situation. I guess it’s unlikely that someone who never cooks or washes a dish would understand that hot water is a prerequisite for sanitary dish washing.

Unlike the women on Bonanza and Gunsmoke, I lack the pioneer spirit and don’t plan to heat pots of boiling water on the stove to perform the task any more than absolutely necessary. It’s bad enough that I’ll have to go that route in order to take a shower and wash my hair in the morning. I’m not a fan of bracing cold showers. I like luxuriating under a blast of steamy hot water. So, I’ll be bringing a roasting size pot full of water to boiling and then taking it into the bathroom to mix with pots of cold water to pour over my head. Gee, I can’t wait.

At least it’s spring, so I won’t be doing it in a cold room. When the last water heater died, it was in the winter. That makes taking a cold shower even more unpleasant. Of course, a cold front is scheduled to come through tonight, so it’s not like it will be summer weather tomorrow, but I’ll take what I can get.

In the meantime, I’m not cooking again until the hot water heater is fixed or replaced. The situation acquired a whole new sense of urgency when I explained that to Dad. He doesn’t mind bird baths, but he doesn’t like anything interfering with a cooked meal appearing on the table at 12 noon.

The show must go on

The rehearsal went fine, so I guess we should have known that the performance would be a disaster. We had our spring concert at church yesterday afternoon. The Monday and Wednesday bell groups and the choir all performed.

Jane meticulously choreographed the program. Every participant received their own personalized set of printed instructions telling us where to go when and what instrument we needed to pick up and where it would be located. You’d think with all of that attention to detail, we’d have been able to pull it off without a hitch. You’d have been wrong.

It really wasn’t Jane’s fault. The last instruction she gave, before she ended the rehearsal and dismissed us prior to the performance, was for the Monday bell group to check that our bells were in place and ready to go. Since bells were changing hands frequently between pieces, this was important.

We each checked our own bells. We forgot that Sara had already gone downstairs to oversee the final preparations for the tea we were hosting after the concert. No one checked Sara’s bells. That proved to be a critical oversight.

Both bells groups and the choir assembled in the narthex. We lined up in order and processed into the sanctuary singing the opening hymn. Mission creep has set in. Jane has gradually taken me from ringing bells to shaking maracas and now to singing with the choir. I’m a little scared of what else she may have up her sleeve.

We sat in the right pew in the correct order. We checked our folders for the next set of instructions. When Jane hurried down from playing the organ in the choir loft and turned to us, smiling and giving the order to rise, we filed up to the bell tables in perfect order. We raised our bells and began to play the first piece.

Sara was standing beside me. Her first note was jarring. She had obviously rung the wrong bell. That’s unusual because Sara is in both the beginner and advanced groups and is not prone to making mistakes like that. After ringing a second wrong note, there was a conspicuous silence coming from that direction.

I didn’t have time to look over and see what was wrong. I had to keep mentally counting time and following the sheet music in front of me. I went to reach for my B flat bell and discovered it wasn’t where it should have been. Now we were not only missing Sara’s G, but my B flat as well. The situation was getting dire. It’s really obvious when a bell isn’t played at the correct time.

I quickly glanced down at the table, frantically searching for my bell, which was there when I checked prior to the concert. It was on Sara’s side of the table. That was the wrong note I’d heard earlier. She’d played my bell instead of hers. I grabbed it, ready to resume playing. Of course, by that time the music had transitioned back to B natural, so I dropped the bell back on the table and grabbed the right bell.

By this time, I was having to bite my lip to prevent myself from laughing. It was just turning into a comedy of errors. One thing I’ve learned since beginning to play the bells is not to take myself too seriously. I’m going to make mistakes, but the world isn’t going to end. Besides, as I told Leigh before we began, most of the congregation is old. They probably don’t hear well.

The piece finally came to an end. I leaned over to Sara. “Are you missing a bell?” “Yes,” she hissed back. “My G is gone.” Sara wasn’t finding anything funny in the situation. She tends to take her bell playing seriously. Jane went down to the other end of the tables, picked up the G and brought it to Sara. Jane was still smiling. Sara was not.

I was really kind of surprised that when Jane realized Sara wasn’t playing at the beginning of the piece she didn’t stop, find the bell, and then have us start again. There was a glitch in one of the advanced group’s pieces as well. Jane’s husband, Rob, told her after the concert that he kept waiting for her to stop and have them start over. “I don’t like to stop,” she told him. “But there were obvious silences when no bells were ringing,” he told her. “I don’t like to stop,” she repeated. Keep calm and carry on, the show must go on.

One of the advanced group’s pieces called for an optional percussion accompaniment. I was drafted to play the maracas. Trust me, the local Mexican restaurant will not be calling me to play in the mariachi band for Cinco de Mayo. I pretty much do my own thing and hope it jives with the bells. I’m sort of like a windup toy. Once I get started, I keep moving at my own speed, regardless of external influences. That’s not a good trait for a member of an ensemble. I just keep smiling and shaking and try to end at the same time as the bells.

The main percussion was supplied by something similar to claves. A wooden tube mounted on a wooden handle is struck by a wooden stick. Jane played that part in rehearsals and her daughter, Joanna, played it during our one performance at a church service. Tom was drafted to play it for the concert.

He didn’t attend rehearsal so Sunday was his first time playing with the group. When he came to stand beside me, I told him not to rely on my rhythm or speed because I always seemed to be going at a different tempo than the rest of the group and I didn’t want to be responsible for leading him astray.

He did fine during our one run-through before the performance. But during the concert, he started having some difficulty with the mounted tube. He’d bang on it and it would start to spin. That’s not supposed to happen and it makes it difficult to maintain a steady beat. During sections where he wasn’t supposed to be playing, he kept trying to twist the tube back onto the handle. That didn’t seem to be working either.

I was still shaking away on the maracas, so I couldn’t get a good look at what he was doing, but there was obviously an instrument malfunction of some sort. Once again, I had to struggle to contain my laughter. Hopefully, the congregation thought I had a big smile on my face because I was enjoying the performance as opposed to choking back hysterical laughter.

Dad asked if anyone in the audience noticed the equipment malfunction. “I’m sure they did,” I told him, “because two men came up with Tom after the concert was over and they were examining the claves very thoroughly.” Jane and Joanna never had any problem with them, so I don’t know what he did wrong. Thankfully, we made it to the end of the piece without the tube spinning out into the congregation like a propeller, which had seemed like a definite possibility at one point.

It was the most entertaining concert I’ve ever been a part of. I enjoyed myself and despite the miscues and mistakes, the music was beautiful. One member of the congregation told Jane afterwards, “You probably don’t realize how much better the bells sound now than they did the last time. There’s a noticeable difference.”

I’m sure he was trying to pay us a compliment, but I was left wondering exactly how bad we’d sounded last time. Especially in view of all the things that went wrong this time. Our Christmas performance was actually much smoother.

I’ve learned to just go with the flow and enjoy myself. Our congregation is small and mostly elderly and uniformly gracious. One lady made a point to come up to me during the tea afterward to compliment me on my shaking of the maracas. I guess there’s something to keeping a smile on your face and powering on regardless.

I do feel badly for Jane when we mess up. Despite her good humor and smile, I know it does matter to her. She does the best she can with a bunch of amateur volunteers and no matter what, the show goes on.

I told Dad he didn’t have to attend and he obviously took me at my word. There was a Yankees baseball game on Sunday afternoon. He stayed home to watch the game. He missed a good time.