Lento

The envelope with all our season tickets is empty. It’s not only the school year that is winding down; like all arts organizations, the assortment of orchestras that Number One Son and I play in are either preparing or have presented their final performance of the season. In practical terms, that means a lot of logistical planning, trying to make sure performers get to their call and audiences make it to curtain time.

Last weekend was a schedule-bursting combination of all-day Waldorf Sixth Grade Medieval Games (archery, jousting and the like) and the final concert of the Seattle Youth Symphony. We also had tickets for Seattle Shakespeare Company’s School for Scandal, Little One had an invitation to see Everyone Knows what a Dragon Looks Like, and a Number One Son had a cello lesson, which served to fill any breathing room.

I had spent a few days last week reading up on feeding oneself well on a budget, a reaction to hearing that the Governor of Oregon was going to try to feed himself on the amount allowed by food stamps in his state. The irony of this was not lost as I produced my credit card to pay for the first of four restaurant meals Friday afternoon. Piatti provided the setting for a leisurely al fresco lunch with the other field-tripping Momma, Wilde Rover in Kirkland was the scene for our pre-theatre supper (I had salmon salad at both: the Irish pub’s meager, vinegary offering paled next to the well-executed Italian version). Saturday was a combination of Trader Joe’s munchies eaten at a picnic table in Ravenna Park and a garlicky plate (or two) at Nikos Gyros down the road from the cello teacher’s.

By Sunday, I simply wasn’t hungry anymore and Number One Son was looking tired. We grabbed a quick bite before his final concert and headed to Seattle once more (we’d take the bus but for the cello…). Concert behind us, hot sun above, we drove up the ramp of the parking garage, headed for home. But the boys were hungry and not looking forward to sweltering on the ride home (did I mention that our old car has no air conditioning?). Straight instead of left, up the Ave to the Burger and Kabob Hut for milkshakes.

We slurp our way happily home, and as we approach our off ramp, we note a semi pulled over on the freeway shoulder. It is stacked high with huge cardboard containers of watermelons from points south. I think of how the heat made us swelter the day before when we were stuck in traffic, and I think of the route they must have taken, nearly the full length of Interstate 5, through my old home town of Redding, where cars routinely overheat from the blast furnace temperatures of the North Valley. The truck driver has clearly missed the exit for the Safeway distribution center, and the watermelons will have to drive a few more miles to reach their penultimate destination. I resolve to wait a few more weeks before indulging.

Our sixth grade string ensemble (of which I am a member, being an honorary sixth grader) is going to be performing the Jig from Holst’s St. Paul Suite on Friday. It’s a lively piece, packed with intricate harmonies. One of the ways we rehearse is to slow it down to about one-half tempo and play very softly. This allows us to really listen to each other, to really hear the music. When we speed up again, all the pieces fit together better. If we neglect this exercise or aren’t conscious throughout, the result is not nearly as satisfying.

Yesterday afternoon, with the sky painted Northwest grey once again, I put on some music, and put together a pot of soup. Bacon and lentils and barley and kale, simmering slowly for a few hours. A pan of fresh cornbread and some sweet butter, and a bowlful of fresh sugar peas from the school garden. We slow down to really live, so that when we speed up, the pieces fit together better. If we neglect this exercise or aren’t conscious throughout, the result is not nearly as satisfying.