Los Angeles, California (duh...)
Someone has pointed out to me that I have been beating the "some come through in extraordinary ways" thing to death with a stick (see previous posts. Lots of previous posts). I suppose that speaks to how much that sad experience continues to affect me. As far as continuing to remark on it, well, frankly, repetition could easily be my middle name. However, even I can recognize that enough is enough (at least for now). So, with a nod to those who know who they are (and how much they are appreciated)... I will do my best to try to move on.
Did you read the book Under the Tuscan Sun, or see the (guilty pleasure) movie of the same name? While not recommending either, I am reminded, and I may have written before (again, with the repetition/middle name) about my philosophy, that if you get one good recipe out of a cookbook, it was worth the price (if you are one of us who actually does pay for your books, and if not, shame, shame). Anyway, there was one worthwhile thing that I got out of either the book or the movie (details don't matter here). It was that you start in one place, in your home or rental, and make it yours. You polish, you bring flowers to that space, you prop up that special photo in that special frame, next to the candle. You start.
I have a decently-sized property and it is a lot to manage. And I want it to look feed-my-soul beautiful. Especially in the summer. So this past weekend, I worked hours and hours, pruning, cutting back, planting and encouraging my garden to bloom. It was backbreaking work, literally cutting through thick stems and hoeing through hard ground. But at the end, I sat on the tile steps in my courtyard, sipping ouzo and surveying all I had done. I started with a not-so-small place and made it... better.
Gardening is a metaphor for life and relationships. Are you a garden or a gardener? It is also a hands-on connection to the earth. Not a millenialbabble connection but a real connection. A dirt under your fingernails, your own fresh herbs in-your-pasta connection. I am not young, and my muscles revolt at this kind of labor, but my soul revels in it. For, in Scarlett O'Hara-fashion, this is my land. My home. The place I share with the people I love.
Brendan and Diana will join me here for a long weekend later this month. It will be their first summer visit in five years, and I have been planning our weekend for several weeks now. It will include Joel, and, with Joel, a night at a Cuban restaurant. The following weekend, Lynnette will be here. We had a 90-minute conversation this morning, even though she is in Prague, and I am in Encino. She has been in Europe forever, and I miss her, and look forward to her visit. There will be double-twelve dominoes in June.
Joel's birthday is in early July, and he will commence a week's vacation. We'll be spending Fourth of July with Connie and Curt. But, besides that evening, we will mostly hang out here, relaxing by the pool together. And, of course, there will be dancing in July.
Karen and Greg (Greg = we were outlaws together) will be here for a weekend in mid-month and we will celebrate Bastille Day together. So, certainly, there will be brie and good bread in July.
After nine very hard years, the coming summer lands on a lighter heart, finally. This was kicked off in a stellar fashion by the Hollywood Bowl concerts in May. And, by the way, the Sheryl Crow/James Taylor concert was enjoyable. But I woke up the next morning, and went immediately to my Paul Simon playlist. That Paul Simon concert was, for me, simply the toughest act to follow. I continue to listen, and learn from his music which was in the background of my life for so many decades. What a gift to come to the party, even if so late in the game...
Summer and all it brings is on its way. If you live in Southern California, take in the light, and the cool June mornings. But, wherever you live, relish in being barefoot and candlelit with good friends (and good wine). After all, this will be the first summer of the rest of your life...
Thanks for reading, etc....
June 25, 2018
May 30, 2018
The Sound of Silence
Los Angeles, California
I lied. I wrote that Eight was the penultimate post. And, at the time, I thought it would be. I signed off, even thanked the girls and my guy. But guess what? I'm not done here. I've been in a whirlwind of activity, seeing friends from out-of-town; house projects, so, alas, I haven't really launched the new writing project, and I keep writing posts in my head. So, for now, I've pulled Eight off my blog. It will be back, later. But for now...
I've always been a bit of a Springtime freak. Hills are green; flowers are blooming; everything and everybody looks a bit fresher. Baseball is back. Well, sorta. Though I have been an LA Dodgers fan since my college days, I finally threw in the towel on Dodger Stadium. I made the decision last year. It is just too fu#%ing LOUD. I figured out, a season or two back, that the only respite from the noise was in the club level seats. But it still assaulted you when you walked in. Announcers for opposing teams were commenting on it. In fact, a LOT of people were commenting on it. Even on TV, or over the radio, the stadium sound system was disconcerting. And, as more than one person lamented on social media sites, the strident screeching of those young women announcers who interacted with fans and players before and during the game: Painful. So, I decided to make the jump to Spectrum so I could watch the games at home. And then, I just . . . didn't. The season started and Joel and I watched a few games which were provided on TV locally (with copious Spectrum commercials), but then we just kinda lost interest...
So, I got to thinking about all the money we were saving while not sitting up in the club level at Dodger Stadium, and decided to look at some other things to do. And through this circuitous route, we ended up at The Hollywood Bowl last week, on Sandra's birthday, seeing Paul Simon in concert on his farewell, Homeward Bound Tour. And it was one of the best concerts I have ever attended. I've seen the Beatles. I've seen the Stones. I've seen Pavarotti. Who knew Paul Simon would be SO stellar in concert? Well, probably a lot of people but not me. I was never really a fan. But about a year ago, insomnia drove me out of bed into the den and while surfing around TV, I found his Concert in Hyde Park. Afterwards, it became the first complete album I downloaded into my iTunes library (I have since downloaded a cast recording of Candide, but back to Paul Simon). I listened to it enough to want to see him in concert, especially when he announced it as a farewell tour and I saw the venue was The Bowl.
It was a cloudy day and an overcast night. We had great seats, bought a bottle of Santa Barbara County pinot noir, and watched the Bowl fill with what mostly looked like 50-year high school reunion attendees. I remarked to Joel that this is where the last of Woodstock has come to gather (or wither). I don't think he got that. But we were both certain that the four pot-smokers sitting alongside us were grandmothers. We played Older or Younger, a game where I point out people to Joel and he lets me know if he thinks they are older or younger than me. It's a nasty game that really appeals to my darker side and puts Joel in a precarious position, requiring diplomacy. But as we sipped our pinot and the sky deepened, my dark side dissipated. The concert started with no announcement, just Paul Simon strolling onstage while playing his guitar and singing America. That was followed by twenty-five more songs, with the best saved for last: American Tune; Late in the Evening; The Boxer (my favorite), and The Sound of Silence within the sequence of the three encores.
The next day I found a website called setlist, which listed all of the songs played for each night of concerts. Utilizing the Hyde Park album and then downloading the songs that weren't duplicated from that concert, I recreated our concert on a playlist. And that has been the soundtrack in my house throughout Memorial Day weekend and ever since. It's gotten me away from NPR, any thought of TV, and is certainly more evocative than the sound of a crack of any bat, Dodgers or otherwise. I've been in concert afterglow. And that is a special place to reside.
Tomorrow night we head back to the Bowl to see James Taylor and Sheryl Crow. Great seats again, and another bottle, probably of pinot. My friend, Holly, and I saw James Taylor last summer in San Francisco. What a great memory we made of that weekend! Everything we did was perfect, from the hotel to the restaurants, to the Summer of Love exhibition at the De Young museum in Golden Gate Park, and, especially, the concert. You don't expect every weekend away to be that stellar, any more than you can expect every concert you attend to be one of the best ever. Last week we were lucky. But, regardless, I am looking forward to sitting with Joel, sipping our wine, and looking out for those pot-smoking, J Jill-wearing grandmas. I have been reminded that these exquisite memories made are what makes life worthwhile. I had forgotten that for quite awhile while struggling to stay above my own personal undertoad (reference John Irving's The World According to Garp). But tomorrow I will be mindful, joyful, and very grateful, that as spring begins to give way to summer, I will spend the evening with Joel, hearing good music, under the stars. There won't be Under African Skies, but there may be Mexico. Fingers crossed...
Thank you for reading my blog. It ain't over till it's over...
I lied. I wrote that Eight was the penultimate post. And, at the time, I thought it would be. I signed off, even thanked the girls and my guy. But guess what? I'm not done here. I've been in a whirlwind of activity, seeing friends from out-of-town; house projects, so, alas, I haven't really launched the new writing project, and I keep writing posts in my head. So, for now, I've pulled Eight off my blog. It will be back, later. But for now...
I've always been a bit of a Springtime freak. Hills are green; flowers are blooming; everything and everybody looks a bit fresher. Baseball is back. Well, sorta. Though I have been an LA Dodgers fan since my college days, I finally threw in the towel on Dodger Stadium. I made the decision last year. It is just too fu#%ing LOUD. I figured out, a season or two back, that the only respite from the noise was in the club level seats. But it still assaulted you when you walked in. Announcers for opposing teams were commenting on it. In fact, a LOT of people were commenting on it. Even on TV, or over the radio, the stadium sound system was disconcerting. And, as more than one person lamented on social media sites, the strident screeching of those young women announcers who interacted with fans and players before and during the game: Painful. So, I decided to make the jump to Spectrum so I could watch the games at home. And then, I just . . . didn't. The season started and Joel and I watched a few games which were provided on TV locally (with copious Spectrum commercials), but then we just kinda lost interest...
So, I got to thinking about all the money we were saving while not sitting up in the club level at Dodger Stadium, and decided to look at some other things to do. And through this circuitous route, we ended up at The Hollywood Bowl last week, on Sandra's birthday, seeing Paul Simon in concert on his farewell, Homeward Bound Tour. And it was one of the best concerts I have ever attended. I've seen the Beatles. I've seen the Stones. I've seen Pavarotti. Who knew Paul Simon would be SO stellar in concert? Well, probably a lot of people but not me. I was never really a fan. But about a year ago, insomnia drove me out of bed into the den and while surfing around TV, I found his Concert in Hyde Park. Afterwards, it became the first complete album I downloaded into my iTunes library (I have since downloaded a cast recording of Candide, but back to Paul Simon). I listened to it enough to want to see him in concert, especially when he announced it as a farewell tour and I saw the venue was The Bowl.
It was a cloudy day and an overcast night. We had great seats, bought a bottle of Santa Barbara County pinot noir, and watched the Bowl fill with what mostly looked like 50-year high school reunion attendees. I remarked to Joel that this is where the last of Woodstock has come to gather (or wither). I don't think he got that. But we were both certain that the four pot-smokers sitting alongside us were grandmothers. We played Older or Younger, a game where I point out people to Joel and he lets me know if he thinks they are older or younger than me. It's a nasty game that really appeals to my darker side and puts Joel in a precarious position, requiring diplomacy. But as we sipped our pinot and the sky deepened, my dark side dissipated. The concert started with no announcement, just Paul Simon strolling onstage while playing his guitar and singing America. That was followed by twenty-five more songs, with the best saved for last: American Tune; Late in the Evening; The Boxer (my favorite), and The Sound of Silence within the sequence of the three encores.
The next day I found a website called setlist, which listed all of the songs played for each night of concerts. Utilizing the Hyde Park album and then downloading the songs that weren't duplicated from that concert, I recreated our concert on a playlist. And that has been the soundtrack in my house throughout Memorial Day weekend and ever since. It's gotten me away from NPR, any thought of TV, and is certainly more evocative than the sound of a crack of any bat, Dodgers or otherwise. I've been in concert afterglow. And that is a special place to reside.
Tomorrow night we head back to the Bowl to see James Taylor and Sheryl Crow. Great seats again, and another bottle, probably of pinot. My friend, Holly, and I saw James Taylor last summer in San Francisco. What a great memory we made of that weekend! Everything we did was perfect, from the hotel to the restaurants, to the Summer of Love exhibition at the De Young museum in Golden Gate Park, and, especially, the concert. You don't expect every weekend away to be that stellar, any more than you can expect every concert you attend to be one of the best ever. Last week we were lucky. But, regardless, I am looking forward to sitting with Joel, sipping our wine, and looking out for those pot-smoking, J Jill-wearing grandmas. I have been reminded that these exquisite memories made are what makes life worthwhile. I had forgotten that for quite awhile while struggling to stay above my own personal undertoad (reference John Irving's The World According to Garp). But tomorrow I will be mindful, joyful, and very grateful, that as spring begins to give way to summer, I will spend the evening with Joel, hearing good music, under the stars. There won't be Under African Skies, but there may be Mexico. Fingers crossed...
Thank you for reading my blog. It ain't over till it's over...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
About Me
- Bronte Healy
- California, United States
- Once, I came up with this brilliant idea (well, I thought so, anyway) that the key to happiness was to concentrate on three things -- to choose three interests, then focus and funnel your energy into that trio. I was an English major in college and have always written in some shape or form. So, my first choice was writing. I've always kept journals, and have also written plays, novels, poetry, and shopping lists. I do have a day job. It deals with numbers (assets and finances). Go figure. I went to college at a California University. I live in California, Los Angeles, but not downtown. No children, and sadly, between dogs at the moment (dog person, not a cat person). Enough info? I was going for just enough to not be a cypher, yet not enough to entice a stalker. And, I started my blog after being dragged, kicking and screaming, to do so. Blogs! Read about ME here, right? But I have been advised that this is a way to write regularly, and to put your writing OUT THERE. So, here goes. My name is Bronte Healy. Thanks for reading my blog.