This week, I’m preparing for my sixth musical at New Hartford High School, the third one entirely designed and run by a student crew. This is an abridged version of the letter I gave the crew, as they begin attending rehearsals.
We said our job was to raise a self-sufficient, contributing member of society; mission accomplished.
Recently, a friend ran into an old classmate, who said she remembered me from school. I looked her up on Facebook, and although the recent profile shot rang a bell, I couldn’t place her. That sent me back to a much earlier facebook, the 1987 FHS (Fairport, NY) Hourglass.
He awoke in the dark, instantly alert. Curious, he sat up and listened. The pale glow from the bedside clock blinked 3:48 am. The house was still; the neighborhood was quiet except for the rustle and last drips of rain through the trees and on the roof. Nothing else moved, but anticipation sparked the edges of his consciousness. What had called him?
There’s good in most people, wisdom even in a ballsy weasel. My father said shit that I remember every day; his bon mots comprise a not-inconsiderable legacy that I’ve passed on to my own kids over the years.
Frodo Baggins was a ruby Cavalier King Charles Spaniel with a bad eye, a bum shoulder and a heart so big it finally broke. He lived March 15, 2009 until October 22, 2016.
“The United States Postal Service offers the only legal method of shipping cremated remains domestically or internationally. When a family member assumes the responsibility of shipping a loved one’s cremated remains, they can trust the USPS Priority Mail Express® Service.”
Warning: This piece deals frankly with sexual topics, and might not be appropriate for all audiences.
Our mother loved music, and she loved weddings. I realized an event with wine and dancing was the perfect setting for her memorial. I asked the family for songs they associated with her. The initial list was long – more than forty tracks. My intention was to compress those to a 3-minute collage, but that first attempt was a jumble. Listening to the playlist over and over, I settled on twelve that seemed most representative.
On cue, I stepped onto the historic Stanley stage. Butterflies rose up…I could do this. I’d taped a few cheats to my handheld microphone – keywords for lines I tended to mix up. I never looked at them.