I recently received a "forward" email which might have been the best "forward" I have ever received. I normally delete such forwards but since it was from one of my cousins, who never sends them, I thought I should take a look. It was called 'Hilarious Thoughts of the Day' and it was right, all thoughts were indeed hilarious. One thought said, "I totally take back all those times I didn't want to nap when I was younger." Could this be any more true? I would give my right arm if I had someone every single day tell me it was time to take a nap and MAKE me sleep for a minimum of an hour each day. I can only imagine how much more productive I would be instead of completely crashing on the couch from exhaustion when I get home at night. This "thought" provoked me to think of other things I didn't want to do when I was a child, and now as an adult, wish I still had the chance.
The other day I was driving home from work, and on the radio came 2 songs in a row where I started playing the "air drums". Come on, don't tell me you never play the air guitar or just completely rock out to music while in the car! I laughed at my head banging drum playing and thought that maybe I should take music lessons again, maybe the guitar because I'm pretty sure my husband couldn't stand me playing the drums. This in turn reminded me of the days when I took piano lessons. I realized this was one thing I wish I wouldn't have given up when I was a child...piano lessons.
You see, my mother signed my brother and I up for piano lessons. I don't remember exactly what ages we were, I would guess somewhere around 3rd and 5th grade. I also don't remember whose idea it was, I am thinking it was my mother's. Our piano teacher was the music teacher at the high school where my mother taught. His wife was not only a teacher at the high school as well, but my mother's closest friend. So I think teaching piano was an experiment for this man, and my brother and I were the guinea pigs.
Mr. Bourquein, that was his name. It even sounds horrible, doesn't it? I was completely petrified of him, he was probably the coldest and most awkward mentor I have ever had in my life. Our lessons were on Monday evenings at his house at 5:00 pm. My brother and I would each make a mad dash to the piano once we got home from school on Mondays, because of course neither of us had practiced a minute of our "lessons". We always had some sort of silly paper work to do as well. My mother would scold us for not doing it in advance and I would always argue that I thought piano lessons were supposed to be fun, not "work".
My brother would go first. My mother and I would drop him off and then run a few errands before she would bring me back a few minutes before it was my turn. I remember walking into their house and feeling uncomfortable while I waited for my brother to finish his lesson. Their yappy dog, Charlie, would be there barking and biting at my ankles. (The dog was so putrid that I even remember his name!) My brother and I laugh to this day at how bad he played the piano. I would cringe as I sat in the chair waiting for him to finish while he pounded slowly away at the keys. For a teacher, Mr. Bourquein wasn't very patient. I would snicker while watching him get upset with my brother's lack of improvement.
Then, much to my chagrin, it was my turn. He would review my paperwork and inevitably make corrections on all of my mistakes. Some times he would even have me take it home and redo it! The nerve! I have to admit, I wasn't bad at the piano, I wasn't good either. I was tolerable, certainly no piano recital winner! Hell, Mr. Bourquein didn't even suggest me entering in a recital! Once the 30 minutes (which always seemed like 3 hours) were over. I'd walk out of their house to find my mom and brother waiting for me in the car where we would then head to McDonald's for dinner. And all was better until next Monday......
A year or 2 passed and much to Mr. Bourquein's dismay (insert sarcasm here) my brother quit taking piano lessons. Of course I begged my mother to let me quit, but she said no. As time went on, I found that I rather enjoyed playing piano, but only enjoyed the songs I knew. So my mother convinced Mr. Bourquein to let me start practicing/playing fun songs and not Beethoven or Mozart. Reluctantly he agreed and my next lesson I brought my Beatles book to class. The first song I learned to play was "All my Loving" which to this day is one of my least favorite Beatles songs probably due to the fact that I had to play it over and over again until perfection. Over the next few years my repertoire included The Beatles, solo Paul McCartney, solo John Lennon, Simon and Garfunkel, CATS the musical, and Phantom of the Opera. I found myself liking playing the piano and I soon became the entertainment at family gatherings and of course Christmas where my mom, uncle, & grandpa would stand around the piano singing Christmas carols.
I don't know why I stopped taking piano lessons, probably because I outgrew it and thought it wasn't cool anymore. I would still sit at the piano and play a few songs here and there, but never continued practicing. A few years ago my father sold the house that I grew up in. Along with the house, he sold the piano. At the time I didn't have any place to put it, but it still made me sick knowing the new homeowners had MY piano. Were they ever going to stand around it singing Christmas Carols, use it for entertainment while someone belted out 'Bridge Over Troubled Waters', play it while trying to re-enact Paul McCartney's concert version of 'Hey Jude'? At least I have the memories if not the piano. Now my husband and I own our own home with a room just waiting for a piano. His parents have a beautiful baby grand sitting in their living room, covered with dust and family pictures. Not one person uses it and I'm just waiting for the day when they offer it to us. Because then I'll be able to play again. More importantly I'll be able to force my children to take piano lessons, have them quit, and regret it when they get older.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Bacardi & Me
After reading the title of this blog, you might think I am going to be writing about my addiction to alcohol, particularly rum. No, actually I'm writing about my dog, Bacardi. She is an 11 years and 9 months old yellow labrador who is the love of my life. She got her name by default the day my parents brought her home. My mom, dad, brother, cousin and his now wife, and I were sitting in our dining room one Friday evening staring at this little creature who was the most adorable thing ever, trying to come up with a name to suit her. Annie! No. Delaney! No. Maggie! No. The name calling continued until my father couldn't take it any longer and decided to get us all drinks. My mother requested a rum and coke and being the alcoholic family that we were, we of course had about 7 different types of rum to choose from. When asked what kind of rum my mother wanted she simply replied, "Bacardi". And at the very moment, as if on cue, our cute little munchkin dog lifted her head and looked up at my mom as if to say, "I like that name. It suits me." And so we named her Bacardi.
I could tell you one disaster story after another of Bacardi's "childhood", but I'm not going to do that. Anyone who has had an animal, in particular, a dog, knows what puppies do. I, however, want to discuss my recent fear of her dying. I moved out East 7 years ago, and Bacardi made her move out East a few short months after that. So while, the family still considers her our dog, I selfishly claim her as my own.
This October, marks the 8 year anniversary of my mother's death. Brain tumors took over her mind and she started to treat Bacardi like her own stuffed animal. Bacardi followed my mother everywhere. Bacardi particularly liked when my mother would have popcorn (which became her daily snack) as she couldn't grasp onto the handful she would try to put in her mouth and inevitably, the majority of the bowl would end up on the floor and then in my dog's mouth. Each night my Dad, Bacardi, and I would make the trek up the steps with my mom to put her into bed. Bacardi would jump up on the bed with my mom, stay there until she fell asleep and would return back downstairs with my Dad and I as if to tell us, "It's ok. She's asleep now." We had a large window in the front of our house, where my dog would rest her head and watch for us whenever anyone would leave the house. The day my mother died, and the funeral home took her away, Bacardi sat at the window all night long, resting her chin on the sill waiting for my mother to come home. She never did come home and to this day I wonder if Bacardi has memories of my mom. They say dogs have no memory, and in a small way, I'm kind of jealous. However, in turn, I hope she didn't forget about her all together.
Bacardi and I have a morning ritual, Monday-Friday I wake up with her and let her outside, she barks at the door to let me know she's ready to come inside and then she runs into the kitchen where her morning breakfast awaits her. On the weekends, it's my turn to sleep in where my husband lets her out and feeds her. When she's done with her breakfast she runs back up the steps, pushes open the door to our room and lays on the floor next to me on the bed. When I finally wake up, she'll sit by the bathroom door while I brush my teeth and then once she sees I'm ready to make my way downstairs, she runs down the steps, sits in our living room where she makes a barking/howling noise as if she is announcing my arrival. She then sits on her hind legs in what we call her sitting pretty position and I scratch her chest until her eyes start to close. I laugh every Saturday and Sunday morning when she does it. It's my favorite part of the weekend.
The other night I watched 'Marley and Me'. I had read the book awhile ago, loved it, and decided to watch it on screen. My husband refused to watch it with me because he knew I would be a crying mess. I secretly think it's because he knew he would cry too and didn't want to in front of me. As I knew I would, I balled my eyes out at the end, watching Marley get old, because it's some of the same aging stages Bacardi is going through. In my blur of tears, I looked down and noticed Bacardi had her chin resting on my leg and those big brown eyes looking up to me saying, "It's okay, mom. Don't cry!" After the movie was over, I sat on the floor petting my big mutt's belly while her head rested in my lap. I whispered to her that she wasn't allowed to die, and I'm pretty certain she agreed.
My heart breaks for her every night as she tries to climb the stairs with me on my way to bed. A few times she'll trip and fall and my heart breaks even more. We try to get her to stay downstairs instead of battling the steps, but I'm certain she would much rather struggle getting up the steps than sleep in the living room without us. There are times when she surprises me and has the energy of a 6 month old puppy. When we walk her, people stop to tell us how beautiful she is, and are shocked when we tell them her age. They say, "but she looks so great!" It's hard to believe she's almost 12. We have been through so much together, death, moves, divorces, marriages, all good times and bad. It doesn't matter what kind of mood I'm in, I know my dog loves me. When I'm outside for 30 seconds getting the mail, she greets me with the same excitement as when I come home from a 10 hour work day. They also say a dog gives unconditional love, and that Bacardi indeed does. To experience that on a daily or even hourly basis is extraordinary. I guess that's one of the reasons why I'm so scared of her dying, I know I'm not going to get that kind of love elsewhere.
I'm going to have to start training my husband the way I trained my dog.
I could tell you one disaster story after another of Bacardi's "childhood", but I'm not going to do that. Anyone who has had an animal, in particular, a dog, knows what puppies do. I, however, want to discuss my recent fear of her dying. I moved out East 7 years ago, and Bacardi made her move out East a few short months after that. So while, the family still considers her our dog, I selfishly claim her as my own.
This October, marks the 8 year anniversary of my mother's death. Brain tumors took over her mind and she started to treat Bacardi like her own stuffed animal. Bacardi followed my mother everywhere. Bacardi particularly liked when my mother would have popcorn (which became her daily snack) as she couldn't grasp onto the handful she would try to put in her mouth and inevitably, the majority of the bowl would end up on the floor and then in my dog's mouth. Each night my Dad, Bacardi, and I would make the trek up the steps with my mom to put her into bed. Bacardi would jump up on the bed with my mom, stay there until she fell asleep and would return back downstairs with my Dad and I as if to tell us, "It's ok. She's asleep now." We had a large window in the front of our house, where my dog would rest her head and watch for us whenever anyone would leave the house. The day my mother died, and the funeral home took her away, Bacardi sat at the window all night long, resting her chin on the sill waiting for my mother to come home. She never did come home and to this day I wonder if Bacardi has memories of my mom. They say dogs have no memory, and in a small way, I'm kind of jealous. However, in turn, I hope she didn't forget about her all together.
Bacardi and I have a morning ritual, Monday-Friday I wake up with her and let her outside, she barks at the door to let me know she's ready to come inside and then she runs into the kitchen where her morning breakfast awaits her. On the weekends, it's my turn to sleep in where my husband lets her out and feeds her. When she's done with her breakfast she runs back up the steps, pushes open the door to our room and lays on the floor next to me on the bed. When I finally wake up, she'll sit by the bathroom door while I brush my teeth and then once she sees I'm ready to make my way downstairs, she runs down the steps, sits in our living room where she makes a barking/howling noise as if she is announcing my arrival. She then sits on her hind legs in what we call her sitting pretty position and I scratch her chest until her eyes start to close. I laugh every Saturday and Sunday morning when she does it. It's my favorite part of the weekend.
The other night I watched 'Marley and Me'. I had read the book awhile ago, loved it, and decided to watch it on screen. My husband refused to watch it with me because he knew I would be a crying mess. I secretly think it's because he knew he would cry too and didn't want to in front of me. As I knew I would, I balled my eyes out at the end, watching Marley get old, because it's some of the same aging stages Bacardi is going through. In my blur of tears, I looked down and noticed Bacardi had her chin resting on my leg and those big brown eyes looking up to me saying, "It's okay, mom. Don't cry!" After the movie was over, I sat on the floor petting my big mutt's belly while her head rested in my lap. I whispered to her that she wasn't allowed to die, and I'm pretty certain she agreed.
My heart breaks for her every night as she tries to climb the stairs with me on my way to bed. A few times she'll trip and fall and my heart breaks even more. We try to get her to stay downstairs instead of battling the steps, but I'm certain she would much rather struggle getting up the steps than sleep in the living room without us. There are times when she surprises me and has the energy of a 6 month old puppy. When we walk her, people stop to tell us how beautiful she is, and are shocked when we tell them her age. They say, "but she looks so great!" It's hard to believe she's almost 12. We have been through so much together, death, moves, divorces, marriages, all good times and bad. It doesn't matter what kind of mood I'm in, I know my dog loves me. When I'm outside for 30 seconds getting the mail, she greets me with the same excitement as when I come home from a 10 hour work day. They also say a dog gives unconditional love, and that Bacardi indeed does. To experience that on a daily or even hourly basis is extraordinary. I guess that's one of the reasons why I'm so scared of her dying, I know I'm not going to get that kind of love elsewhere.
I'm going to have to start training my husband the way I trained my dog.
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