Yesterday, with my trusty pocket book-sized umbrella, I made my way from my home to Harvard Square to attend a concert performed by Voices Rising, a women’s chorus. Believe it or not, I do travel for things other than vintage clothes and to locations other than New York City; it doesn’t happen a lot, but I do! Anyway, there was a strong attraction to this event besides the music; one of the Lovelies was a member of the group.
Last week, she sent an email telling us about her concerts. I asked around to see if any of the other Lovelies wanted to go with me; however, the weekend was one of high school graduations and other obligations for all. Not to be one to shy away from going to an event by myself (because I am f*cking awesome for going to New York City by myself, so says Marcia), I went online and purchased my premium ticket for their Sunday performance at a church on the corner of Massachusetts Avenue and Waterhouse Street. I didn’t have to buy a premium ticket, but when it came to the music of someone I adore, I wanted to be right there in the front row, so I wouldn’t miss a thing.
I emailed her and told her that I was coming to see her sing; she responded with, “Thank you, honey, you are the best!” This sounds kind of silly, but I love the way she calls me “Honey.” It’s so good to be someone’s “Honey,” especially when for so long, I had only felt like someone’s Honey placeholder.
Quite unlike my usual modus operandi, which is the one where I always seem to be running late, I left promptly at 12:30. The concert wasn’t until 2:30; however, for music events, err, unlike work, I don’t want to miss a thing. I took the T to the Harvard Square stop and got off; I was quite disappointed, because the ride was so short.
Like riding the Amtrak train, the T has the same effect on me. There’s nothing better than being forced to do nothing but relax in a small enclosed space while being gently rocked. It’s like a Valium, not that I’ve ever had one, on wheels. The next time I’m having a bad day, I think I shall hop on the T for an hour and see if that helps matters any; yes, I’m serious, and, yes, I probably will write a blog about that!
I made my way up to the street. When I reached the pre-street level, I had to laugh when I saw two young men sitting on the floor of the station, putting the world to rights while they both hovered over their laptops, which were plugged into the station’s wall. I should try that, and, yes, it could be another blog. I went up the escalator, whipped out my map, and within 10 minutes, I was at the church, albeit 45 minutes early.
I saw a few people at the door, and as I crossed the street, I tried to notice if anyone was entering for the concert. I didn’t see anyone, and as I approached the church, I heard singing voices. No doubt, they were squeezing in a quick practice; not wanting to be early, I had to regroup in order to achieve “just right” timing said Goldilocks.
I walked past the church and quickly looked for a Sephora or a Bath & Body Works on Mass Ave; however, there wasn’t a store in sight, only Harvard Law School, ho-hum. I saw a set of steps which led to the church’s side entrance. I decided that when life gives me extra time, it’s time to park my bottom on the nearest steps and pull out my notebook, in case anything intriguing should come to my overly prompt presence.
I sat down and blew air out of my mouth in the direction of my forehead, hoping to evaporate the literal sweatband that formed around my forehead. Feeling no coolness whatsoever from my do-it-yourself air conditioning efforts, I pulled out my notebook. I turned to a blank page, and just then, I realized that while I was on a trip doing something I loved to do, I was here alone yet again.
In the past, I had been both scrutinized (a tad) and lauded for my solo trips New York City by friends. As I sat on the steps biding my time until 2pm, which was the time I deemed “just right” for entering the concert, I could only write in my notebook, “Alone.” I loved my trips, but every once in a while, it was difficult not to feel alone I must admit.
Then, I scribbled down thought after thought. Of course, none of it was story material; however, it was all me material. I never thought of writing what I was thinking, but in about 20 minutes, I put my pen down, and I felt a bit better. As I sat there, a man walked by and said to the woman he was with, “Oh, this is it.”
I looked at my phone; it was 1:58. It wasn’t “just right,” time, but it was close enough. I shoved my pen and notebook back in my purse, got up, and walked down the steps. I followed the couple into the church, and I wasn’t alone anymore.
Once inside, I went to the ticket desk. I said, “I bought a ticket online,” and the woman behind the desk asked, “What’s your name?” I told her my name, and she dragged her finger down the handwritten list of names in front of her. She said, “Oh, a premium ticket!”
There was an extra emphasis on “premium.” I spent $30 on my ticket, which didn’t seem like a lot to me. In the scheme of things, I’d rather pay $30 to see the women’s chorus that featured my friend than to pay $330 to see Madonna.
I asked if I could seat myself in the church. The woman behind the desk said, “They’re still practicing.” Just then, I heard my Mom’s voice asking, as she usually did before a long car trip, “Do you have to go?” I then asked, “Where’s the ladies' room?”
She pointed to a door across the hallway; of course, someone had just opened and closed its door then. The woman behind the desk was aware of my bad ladies' room karma and said, “There’s also one upstairs, too.” I headed upstairs.
While in the bathroom stall, I heard the door to the bathroom open. Two women came in, and I instantly recognized one of the voices. I opened the stall door, and my friend was standing by the sink with her back toward me.
I instinctively poked my finger in her side, and she squeaked. Actually, it was really more of an “Eeeek!” She turned around, recognized me, and gave me a big hug.
The other woman said something like, “Oh, at least, you know her.” My friend thanked me for coming. Then she turned to the woman and said, “Who cares if I didn’t! She’s cute!” I laughed, and I smiled inside, because I was not only “Honey,” I was “Cute” now.
She mentioned that there were plans for dinner after the show and asked me if I wanted to join her and the group. I had made dinner plans with myself to go to my favorite place, the North End, in Boston for lobster ravioli. Though within a second, I said to her, “Sure!” because just then, it seemed like much more fun to be with her than to be alone.
I left and went down to find my seat. I gave my ticket to a woman standing by the door. She said, “Oh, a premium ticket. You can sit in the reserved area,” and then she handed me a wicker fan.
While old churches are beautiful, most of them don’t come equipped with air conditioning. It was about 90 degrees inside the church, and whatever makeup I had put on at noon had melted off and was now in a puddle on the set of steps to the church’s side entrance. Ironically, this house of worship was as hot as Hades.
I gladly took my fan and walked off to find the reserved area. When I got to the third row of pews from the the pulpit, I saw a sign that said, “Reserved ticket holders seating.” I sat down noting that while it was still early, I was the only one seated in the third row.
I thought the reserved area would be quite crowded. If you’re going to a show to see a loved one, wouldn’t you want to sit in the front row and pay $30 for it? Apparently, my thinking was a bit off.
By the time the show started, I knew I was going to be the only person in the third row. I don’t like to stand out in a crowd; okay, it really only depended on what the crowd was about. But, while loving the fact that I was right in the front row and could hear and see perfectly, I felt a bit vulnerable; it was only thoughts of “Perhaps everyone will think I’m the music critic for the Boston Globe” that made me feel less obvious.
When the concert started, the singers ran down the aisle and took their places on the risers in the pulpit. I felt badly about any “I’m so frickin’ hot” feelings I was having earlier when I saw that all the singers were dressed in black pants and long-sleeved shirts. My friend was near the end the line of singers when they entered, and her place was at the top of the risers; I had a great view even if I wasn’t a music critic from the Boston Globe!
The program was title “Shall We Dance? Songs with Swing and Spirit.” They opened with “Shall We Dance?” and were only accompanied by a pianist and a drummer. It doesn’t take much to move me, but when I heard them sing their opening number, “Shall We Dance?,” I wanted to cry; it was so beautiful.
Later my friend would apologize profusely to me because of the length of the performance. It was only two hours, and I was in heaven the whole time, which I told her. If only they piped in the Voices Rising chorus on the T and the Amtrak train; I’m sure Charlie would never get off because of the music not because of any fare increase.
Anyway, I was so pleased with myself earlier in the day because I had a) brought an umbrella due to intermittent thunder storms and b) was early to the concert. Ironically, as the concert went on, the length of the concert was not painful; it was really the church pews. Does anyone make a comfortable wooden pew?! Note to anyone attending a church concert: Bring a pillow for your bottom. Believe me, it’s much more important than an umbrella even if you're expecting torrential downpours.
At one point during the concert, the chorus sang “Rain Dance” by Karl Jenkins. They also sang La La La Koora and Dos a Dos; if you don’t have this CD, I highly recommend it. As they were singing the "Rain Dance," it thundered, the sky grew dark, the rain gushed down in buckets, and then the lights in the church flickered; I’m not a religious person, but God was definitely in the house then.
When the concert was over, I was walked out to the reception. My friend thanked me for coming and told me that there’d be a bit of clean up time before we could depart for dinner. Somewhere along the way, I revealed to her that I intended to ask her to go to dinner in the North End after, but I thought she’d most likely have plans that I didn't want to disturb.
When I said, “North End,” to her, her eyes were like the headlights on a car in high beam mode. She said that she’d much rather to do that than go to the group dinner. I asked her if she was sure, because I didn’t mind having dinner with her and the rest of the group; she told me that she’d really love to do the North End.
I had to laugh. In my quest to enjoy what I loved, I was so not alone today in her company. She had to help clean up, and I walked with her to her car, which was parked nearby, to put a few things in it. Once again, I said that I had no problem going to the group dinner; however, she was “North End or Bust!” just like I had been when I started my trip.
As we walked back to the church, she again thanked me for coming to hear her sing. She told me that I was the only person who had come to hear her. God does work in mysterious ways, and perhaps that day, she knew we would both be elated in the company of each other.
I wondered if in her quest to do what she loved, she had somehow felt alone, too, at times. Were we two people who had filled a gap for each other? Whatever, it was, we hopped on the T and ended up in the North End at a wonderful restaurant 30 minutes later.
We ordered food, a bottle of wine, and chatted. She talked about a failed marriage; I talked about a failing marriage. And, we both agreed that the heart goes where it wants to no matter what.
As we talked, it became ever so clear to me that no matter who you chose to love, we all have the same issues. My friend loved women; I loved men. Any relationship formed out of love, respect, and commitment was a relationship; and every relationship had its challenges.
As we laughed and talked, I realized again how much I loved this woman. We had been friends since the 6th grade when I ran her campaign for Student Council. Here we were at 48; neither she nor I were any closer to the loving relationship we wanted; however, we wallowed in our loving friendship as we shared our regrets, our fears, and our hopes over spinach sautéed with garlic and glasses of Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand.
Love is all around us. Yesterday, I found it with her at the corner of Massachusetts Avenue and Waterhouse Street when it wasn’t on Hanover Street in the North End. I love you, Honey. ♥
Happy Pride Week and I’m Proud of my Son Note:
This morning, I received a text message from Nathan. It said, “I offended a conservative Christian. If I’m crucified tomorrow, I’ll miss you.” I was concerned yet I couldn’t help but laugh; sometimes, I never know with Nathan. While he was shy, he had strong convictions when it came to politics, religion, social issues, and his root beer (i.e., there must always be some in the refrigerator). I wrote back, “What? You really have to be careful about what you say and to whom. Does this require some kind of apology without you backing down on your beliefs?” Having no idea what it was about, I found it hard to know what to say. Nathan responded, “Pshhh f*ck that. I’m gonna fight this one out. I’m sick of this crap.” I wrote back, “You will have to tell me about it later.” He said, “Fine. Sorry but I don’t like homophobes.” I responded with, “I’m with you there.” I always knew I taught my son well, but today, I felt I had taught him extra well. Always fight the good fight, Nathan.
End blog soundtrack (Karl Jenkins, Rain Dance):
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