From Agony to Ecstacy

Yesterday afternoon at 4:30 Pam and I left our hotel for a five block walk to the St. John’s and St. Peter’s church to hear the Westminster Choir in concert. 4:30 being the hottest time of the day in Charleston, by the time we arrived at the church we were covered in sweat. We handed over our tickets to the extremely tanned lady at the door and were told to walk up to the balcony, whereupon we were shocked to discover that we had no assigned seats. It was first come, first served and the only seats left were in tortuous wooden booths with seat backs at 90 degree angles complete with a sharp rail along the top that cut directly into your back. Even this would have been semi-tolerable if these seats had afforded us a decent view of the proceedings, but no…when seated we could see approximately zero percent of the choir. However, when standing we could catch brief glimpses of the top of Patrick’s head. Needless to say, having paid real money for these tickets, our anger gauge was rising along with the temperature in the building as the place became standing room only by the time the choir began their first number.

The choir began in the stairwells at the back of the auditorium, singing as if walled up in a tower. It required extra effort to hear the beautiful harmonies so everyone became silent, straining to hear. Then suddenly one of the most moronic ringtones in a universe full of such annoyances began blaring in the hall. (Think, computerized Barnum and Bailey circus music!) This despite an impassioned plea for all of us to silence our cell phones a mere five minutes before by a speaker trying to avoid this very type of thing. Anyway, it took this insufferably self-absorbed idiot an eternity to find and silence the phone, sending my already high blood pressure soaring.

Then something amazing happened. About the time I was prepared to storm the box office and castigate them for selling me a bogus seat and demanding restitution, the choir began to perform a song called “Alleluia” composed by a former member of this storied choir. The textured harmonies flowed through the building like a balm. I began to feel the muscles in my neck relax. The tension in my arms and back began to slowly uncoil. By the end of this beautifully performed piece, all was forgiven.

At the end of their magnificent performance, Joe Miller’s fabulous choir began an encore with the Sammy Fain classic, “I’ll Be Seeing You.” Many of the oldest members in the audience were crying. I was mesmerized. Once again, I bear witness to the power of music to transform the human spirit, in my case from surly anger and frustration to a place of peace and beauty.

Well done, Westminster. Well done.

I'm out.

Heading down to Charleston, South Carolina today. This is the sort of trip you take to celebrate your 30^th wedding anniversary when you’re trying to pay for your daughter’s wedding. I mean, your 30^th doesn’t come around every day. Some of our friends have gone to Greece or Italy or some other exotic place. No, we’re driving down to Charleston for four days because our son is down there so we’ll get to see him. A two-fer!

Of course, Charleston is no slouch. I have always wanted to go there and, from everything I’ve heard, it’s gorgeous. Patrick has fallen in love with the place.

Getting away from Richmond has become an obsession of late. Leaving Dad for four days brings a mixture of guilt and relief. Last night he knew who I was but spent most of our time together telling me about how the nurses were trying to beat him up.

Leaving Richmond will be easier than leaving everything behind. I will still have one eye trained on the stock market. My heart will jump every time I see the nursing home’s number pop up on my cell phone. Pam will still have wedding planning details and loose ends swimming around in her brain.

But here’s the plan. To the best of my ability, I’m going to concentrate on the beauty of this charming southern treasure. I’m going to enjoy the Spoleto festival atmosphere. I’m going to spend some time with my talented son and watch him perform in an opera and a choral concert and celebrate his 25^th birthday. I’m going to sightsee and eat fabulous food. I’m going to be eternally grateful for the privilege I’ve had to be Pam’s husband for 30 years.

I will leave it to the rest of you to sort out who’s to blame for Elliot Rodger’s murderous rampage, why the Veteran’s Administration treats our soldiers worse than the terrorists at Gitmo, and why the City of Richmond can’t agree on a new baseball stadium.

I’m out.

Wedding Planning Part VI

It’s probably time for me to update you all on all the Wedding News that’s fit to print. In horse racing parlance we have hit the three quarters pole, not quite the home stretch, and I haven’t yet gone to the whip, but at least I can see the finish line off in the distance.

Anyone who has gone through this wedding business will tell you that weeks go by, even entire months without a single bill. Then, all of a sudden like a freak tsunami wave, demands for payment arrive at a terrifying pace. The other day we got a call from our bank concerning a series of odd purchases that according to Wells Fargo were “unusually large and disturbingly frequent.” (Yeah, my sentiments exactly). And yes…we have a “wedding credit card.” I paid off the balance on the only credit card I have about a month ago and declared it so in an attempt to keep all this spending organized and in one place. Well, it’s “organized” and “in one place” alright, so much so that my bank feels concerned enough to issue a WTF warning!

Decisions are being made at a dizzying pace here at Nuptials City. In the past two weeks alone bridesmaid’s dresses were chosen, flower girl dresses purchased, center piece designs were finalized and the all-important meeting with the flower lady took place without incident. My living room is now packed ceiling to roof with the growing windfall of wedding shower proceeds, turning the entire right half of my house into some kind of Turkish Bazaar of love:Now, for the last three days and counting, my wife has been hunched over on the corner of our couch, sitting on her feet, (as is her strange habit), addressing 150 invitations…in calligraphy. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, as if she has nothing else better to do, Pam has decided that each invitation demands five minutes of ink-spewing artistry. I see her over there slaving away and I think of those horrible third world sweat shops:

Only, this pain is self-inflicted. Briefly she considered just slapping names and addresses on using regular pens and penmanship, and maybe knocking it all out in one afternoon assembly line style around the kitchen table. But that thought lasted about as long as my attention span at a soccer game. There was never any chance on earth that Pam wasn’t going to break out her Calligraphy pens for this project. It’s who she is and what she does. I got over it a long time ago. So, there she is like some medieval monk transcribing the Old Testament, all Memorial day weekend, while our daughter frolics at Virginia Beach with her best buds for a bachelorette beach weekend.

I’m only sorry I didn’t have six daughters.