Opera was never something I was interested in. Actually, I didn't like it at all, at least what I had seen on television. The singing was funny and sounded like screeching to me, and it was also done in another incomprehensible language. When I was younger, I thought it was for stuffy, old, rich people. It was also an activity I could hardly afford.
Then I started relearning the piano, and my teacher introduced me to the Sonatas of Mozart. I thought his music and genius was intriguing, so I started reading books about his life. Then one day as I was walking by the Opera House on my way home from singing at the Cathedral, I noticed a bill board advertising Don Giovanni, one of Mozart's operas. It also intrigued me that he wrote operas and I knew from my readings that he liked Opera Buffa--comedies. I was curious, so I called for tickets, only to find out they were sold out. My only chance to hear it was to get "Standing Room Only" tickets. Early the next morning I went to the Opera House early in the a.m. and was the fifth in line. It was almost like waiting in line all night to buy rock concert tickets. We all sat on the floor chatting until the box office opened. I proudly secured my $10.00 ticket and returned that evening to wait in another line in the same order that we bought our tickets. I felt very special when the usher let us in early and we scoped out our spots in the back of the Orchestra Section. I stood for three hours in pain and didn't quite understand the plot, but I was hooked.
Next, my husband and I went to Opera at A.T.&T. Park on a warm, balmy evening to see "Lucia di Lammermoor" on the big screen under a beautiful full moon. It was enchanting. They had a promotion to receive a discount on another ticket to an opera production, so I took advantage of the low price to see another Mozart opera--"The Magic Flute." Since that time four years ago, I've been seeing a few operas each year.
This year I was talked into buy four tickets and told I shouldn't miss the renowned soprano Renee Fleming in "Lucrezia Borgia." I totally forgot the date of "Lucrezia Borgia" and missed seeing the opera in my expensive Orchestra section seat, but they nicely gave me a "standing room only" ticket for the last performance. I jokingly told everyone I paid $230.00 to stand and watch the opera. I enjoyed all of them, including the free ticket for the rehearsal of Don Giovanni, but I especially enjoyed seeing "Carmen" on the night before Thanksgiving.
I'm not very knowledgeable about the nuances of opera, and the plot can easily be found on websites, but I can describe how I felt and reacted to "Carmen". I have wanted to see it since I heard the music, maybe because it has a "Spanish" flavor.
According to the Opera magazine "Encore", Carmen is one of the most-recognized operas due to the music. I went to the preconcert talk, where Marcia Greene described the theme music and how it appears several times in different tempos and sounds--sometimes loud, sometimes soft, fast and slow. I tried to listen for the theme, which was supposed to occur before Carmen's entry, but I was too busy watching the performers, reading the script and listening to the singing.
The stage settings were of a stone-looking wall, which changed shape for each location. The street scene in the beginning was so lively with children scampering about being mischievous, proper nuns strolling by, and men watching the women. The music made the scene very energized as we waited the arrival of "Carmen." I wasn't disappointed when she entered flirting with the men and singing her very familiar aria.
I felt chills in my whole body when "Anita Rachvelishvili" sang as Carmen. I also liked the soprano, Sara Gartland, portraying Micaela, a sweet, pretty, very balanced young woman. I can't understand how Don Jose could go for the narcisstic, manipulating but addicting gypsy. But that's opera.
I really thought this opera was awesome--I was spellbound and felt involved in the story, and when the arias were sung emotion welled up inside of me. That's how I know the performance was good. And it wasn't just the main characters that enthralled me. I was very impressed with the professionalism of the children from the Boys and Girls choruses and I loved the adult chorus--who had to act besides sing. It was really a very wonderous production of sights, sounds, and story.
I really hope to follow up with a recording on my I-phone so I can listen to the music again. I guess I've turned into one of those "stuffy, old, rich, people,' but I can't be too stuffy if the opera made me sing and dance all the way home and for two days afterward. I guess I've changed my mind about opera.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Surfing event
Ocean Beach was an amazing site today. The weather was sunny and balmy with clear skies and a slight breeze. I had decided yesterday when I read the morning newspaper that I should check out the surfing event that is supposed to be occurring in our very own city. It seemed so unusual to me that a world-wide surfing contest would be here. Our beach is often filled with surfers testing the waves, but never have I heard of a competition right under my nose.
Yesterday in the late afternoon I walked down to the highway by the beach and headed North to the site of the event. Sure enough--there was a huge tent on the beach and lots of young people streaming home before sunset on bikes, on foot, on skateboards. There was also a lot of automobile traffic headed south from Land's End--maybe checking out the site.
Today, I wanted to see for myself up close what was happening. At 2:00 I had an urgency to leave my house, so I dropped what I was doing, picked up my cell phone, a few dollars, my cap, and sunglasses and headed out the door towards to the beach. At first I walked on the promenade path, but when I reached Noriega Street, I decided to cross the highway and walk on the beach. I paused a moment on the sanddune to look at the sparkling ocean view and then I decided to venture down the steep sandy hill, stepping very carefully so my shoes wouldn't fill with sand. When I reached the bottom, I went right to the edge of the water where the incoming tide makes the ground harder and easier to walk on. I walked slowly, not knowing what to expect when my destination was reached. It was such a beautiful day to just watch the seagulls soaring in the sky and the little plovers walking briskly and then stopping to eat a morsel they found. I stopped to pick up a shell and examined it for perfection, since it's difficult to find a whole shell due to the churning water breaking them. People with dogs passed me by going south and other people walked briskly North, in the direction I was headed.
Finally I saw the tent up ahead and a throng of people standing close to the water's edge. Other people were sitting in chairs further away. There were also a few huge cameras set up in the sand pointed out towards the surf. I stopped and asked people questions--some kind of silly, but I was looking for information. One young man explained that there were two buoys and a boat out in the ocean and between them is where the surfers were coming in. I looked in that direction and I saw a huge wave and a little figure on a surf board emerging from under the crest. He righted himself, disappeared as the wave came crashing down, and then appeared again upright and came gliding into shore. I heard the crowd give a resounding ovation. The man next to me said, "I think that was 'Slater.' I think he just won his 11th World Championship." I remember reading something in the newspaper, but had no idea I would actually see the event.
Next a young woman with a little girl playing in the sand talked to me. She said that they were going to give "Slater" an award after the current heats. So I walked up to the tent area where people were gathering in front of a stage. I was close enough to see a man in an orange shirt emerge from the curtain amid cheers from the crowd. A man with a microphone talked to the gathering and gave Kelly Slater a huge trophy, which he accepted graciously. He spoke a few words but seemed a bit tongue tied. Later on the evening news he was able to talk a little more to a newscaster. I tried to get a photo with my new I-phone, but unfortunately I was too far away for the camera. What was amazing is that I was able to see him myself with my "new" eyes, after my cataract surgery last week.
I was so happy that on this awesomely beautiful, warm tropical-like autumn day I was able to be present at this historic event. Today made up for the long, dismal summer of depressing fog.
The surfing will continue on until Nov. 12, but I'm not sure how long the weather will hold up. Supposedly, rain is forecast for Friday and the weekend. But that's the way it is here in "my fair city by the Bay."
Yesterday in the late afternoon I walked down to the highway by the beach and headed North to the site of the event. Sure enough--there was a huge tent on the beach and lots of young people streaming home before sunset on bikes, on foot, on skateboards. There was also a lot of automobile traffic headed south from Land's End--maybe checking out the site.
Today, I wanted to see for myself up close what was happening. At 2:00 I had an urgency to leave my house, so I dropped what I was doing, picked up my cell phone, a few dollars, my cap, and sunglasses and headed out the door towards to the beach. At first I walked on the promenade path, but when I reached Noriega Street, I decided to cross the highway and walk on the beach. I paused a moment on the sanddune to look at the sparkling ocean view and then I decided to venture down the steep sandy hill, stepping very carefully so my shoes wouldn't fill with sand. When I reached the bottom, I went right to the edge of the water where the incoming tide makes the ground harder and easier to walk on. I walked slowly, not knowing what to expect when my destination was reached. It was such a beautiful day to just watch the seagulls soaring in the sky and the little plovers walking briskly and then stopping to eat a morsel they found. I stopped to pick up a shell and examined it for perfection, since it's difficult to find a whole shell due to the churning water breaking them. People with dogs passed me by going south and other people walked briskly North, in the direction I was headed.
Finally I saw the tent up ahead and a throng of people standing close to the water's edge. Other people were sitting in chairs further away. There were also a few huge cameras set up in the sand pointed out towards the surf. I stopped and asked people questions--some kind of silly, but I was looking for information. One young man explained that there were two buoys and a boat out in the ocean and between them is where the surfers were coming in. I looked in that direction and I saw a huge wave and a little figure on a surf board emerging from under the crest. He righted himself, disappeared as the wave came crashing down, and then appeared again upright and came gliding into shore. I heard the crowd give a resounding ovation. The man next to me said, "I think that was 'Slater.' I think he just won his 11th World Championship." I remember reading something in the newspaper, but had no idea I would actually see the event.
Next a young woman with a little girl playing in the sand talked to me. She said that they were going to give "Slater" an award after the current heats. So I walked up to the tent area where people were gathering in front of a stage. I was close enough to see a man in an orange shirt emerge from the curtain amid cheers from the crowd. A man with a microphone talked to the gathering and gave Kelly Slater a huge trophy, which he accepted graciously. He spoke a few words but seemed a bit tongue tied. Later on the evening news he was able to talk a little more to a newscaster. I tried to get a photo with my new I-phone, but unfortunately I was too far away for the camera. What was amazing is that I was able to see him myself with my "new" eyes, after my cataract surgery last week.
I was so happy that on this awesomely beautiful, warm tropical-like autumn day I was able to be present at this historic event. Today made up for the long, dismal summer of depressing fog.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Our speaker
At the meetings, he was alway attentive but very quiet. I also was quiet, taking notes and observing, but not really understanding what the board was discussing. I didn't speak up because I didn't know anything, but I felt that he didn't talk because no one gave him any assignments or asked his opinion. I knew, however, that as an American of Japanese descent, he did have something to say. He must have had a story. One day, coming home from our meeting, I encountered him on the bus. We had a little conversation and he told me he wrote poetry and a little about his life. I was intrigued, but I didn't see him again.
Then, the October bulletin came out, and I learned that our very own Hiroshi---poet, playwrite, author, and a resident of this "sanddunes" neighborhood--was going to be giving the talk at the last meeting of the month. I definitely wanted to be there.
When he got up to speak, he came alive, standing tall and smiling, His wife sat in the audience smiling proudly. He spoke hesitantly but articulately of his childhood and his three--year experience in a "Japanese Internment camp" in Tule Lake in Northern California. While he spoke I felt a surge of emotion welling up inside of me. It was another of the many injustices I've been learning about that occurred in the 20th century. Only this injustice of removing all the Japanese Americans was done by our country.
I only gradually learned about our treatment of the Japanese during WW II during a time of "racial prejudice, war hysteria, and a failure of political leadership." (Hiroshi's words.) I was born two weeks after the bombing of Pearl Harbor and my mother often talked about having to fix my "formula" in the dark during the sirens and blackouts that happened in the middle of the night. As the weeks rolled on, there were photos of us in our sunny backyard having a party. One of the guests wore a sailor uniform. Later when I was a little older and playing in the street, we pretended we were bombing "Japs." I had no idea what a "Jap" was, but there must have been a lot of biased remarks from adults for us to be talking this way. Much later as an adult, I learned of the "camps" when in August 10, 1988, the U.S. government apologized for the earlier treatment of American Japanese and awarded each survivor with $20,000.
As Hiroshi was reading from his book of poetry "Ocean Beach" I was touched by his earthy tone. They were of every day experiences that made me chuckle a bit, thinking of similar situations in my children's or my life. He also wrote passages about his days at Tule Lake which painted a personal, human picture of the people's spirit. At the end he told us that he really "appreciates the freedom of movement, the freedom of thought and the freedom of choice."
I was glad to hear him speak so eloquently of a time that should never be forgotten in our history. During the dark times of World War II and all the injustices to so many millions of people, we should never forget that our country was not without sin.
(I didn't do complete justice in this blog post, because it was very difficult for me to express my feelings, but I tried. Thank you for your understanding.)
Then, the October bulletin came out, and I learned that our very own Hiroshi---poet, playwrite, author, and a resident of this "sanddunes" neighborhood--was going to be giving the talk at the last meeting of the month. I definitely wanted to be there.
When he got up to speak, he came alive, standing tall and smiling, His wife sat in the audience smiling proudly. He spoke hesitantly but articulately of his childhood and his three--year experience in a "Japanese Internment camp" in Tule Lake in Northern California. While he spoke I felt a surge of emotion welling up inside of me. It was another of the many injustices I've been learning about that occurred in the 20th century. Only this injustice of removing all the Japanese Americans was done by our country.
I only gradually learned about our treatment of the Japanese during WW II during a time of "racial prejudice, war hysteria, and a failure of political leadership." (Hiroshi's words.) I was born two weeks after the bombing of Pearl Harbor and my mother often talked about having to fix my "formula" in the dark during the sirens and blackouts that happened in the middle of the night. As the weeks rolled on, there were photos of us in our sunny backyard having a party. One of the guests wore a sailor uniform. Later when I was a little older and playing in the street, we pretended we were bombing "Japs." I had no idea what a "Jap" was, but there must have been a lot of biased remarks from adults for us to be talking this way. Much later as an adult, I learned of the "camps" when in August 10, 1988, the U.S. government apologized for the earlier treatment of American Japanese and awarded each survivor with $20,000.
As Hiroshi was reading from his book of poetry "Ocean Beach" I was touched by his earthy tone. They were of every day experiences that made me chuckle a bit, thinking of similar situations in my children's or my life. He also wrote passages about his days at Tule Lake which painted a personal, human picture of the people's spirit. At the end he told us that he really "appreciates the freedom of movement, the freedom of thought and the freedom of choice."
I was glad to hear him speak so eloquently of a time that should never be forgotten in our history. During the dark times of World War II and all the injustices to so many millions of people, we should never forget that our country was not without sin.
(I didn't do complete justice in this blog post, because it was very difficult for me to express my feelings, but I tried. Thank you for your understanding.)
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Language
When I was a child, my district was very homogeneous. Of course, I didn't realize that my neighborhood was not ethnically diverse. The people I saw in school, church, and in the playground were just people. I did realize that people had nationalities, and we were always asking each other, "What nationality are you?" Most everyone's ancesters were from Ireland, France, Italy, Germany, and other European countries. We would also play at being English or French, using fake accents while we played our imaginative games. I also remember having conversations with other kids about there being other races of people--like "yellow, red, brown, and black." We were terribly naive back in the '50's. We were not taught much back then about the world, and we figured that all these other people lived somewhere else, but we weren't sure where.
I also was not exposed to other languages, even though my own mother spoke Lithuanian. Since she came out West in the 1930's, there were no Lithuanian groups out here, and no one even knew what a Lithuanian was, so my mother had no one to speak to in her language. Occasionally, she used a phrase or two to reprimand us or to say something like, "Shut the door," but she never talked to us so that we could learn to speak Lithuanian. My brother and I just thought the language was a bunch of funny, old words.
As my brother and I grew up and I moved to my own home in the same district, the neighborhood and the city slowly began to change. New immigrants were coming to America, especially from all the war-torn areas. I really never even noticed when my neighbors began to change, but our city is now very diverse. There are also noticeably many different languages spoken. Since the changes happened very slowly, I've just adjusted to the changes and the diversity seems very natural. However, a few weeks ago, I received an e-mail with a disturbing chain letter--one of those messages that you are supposed to pass on. Only I didn't pass it on--I disagreed with the content.
The message was a movie clip entitled, "Theodore Roosevelt's ideas on Immigrants and being an American in 1907," and it was out of context. It said, 'In the first place, we should insist that if the immigrant who comes here in good faith becomes an American and assimilates himself to us, he shall be treated on an exact equality with everyone else, for it is an outrage to discriminate against any such man because of creed, or birthplace, or origin. But this is predicated upon the person's becoming in every facet an American, and nothing but an American. . ." Then it goes on, "We have room for but one flag, the American flag. . .We have room for but one language here, and that is the English language. . ." I realize that in 1907, there were a lot of problems in the world, and especially in Europe, sending a lot of new immigrants here, and that President Roosevelt's words were meant for his time. We continue to have immigrants coming here due to many hardships in the world, but I think these words are not appropriate now. I hope that we are more knowledgeable and more accepting of one another's differences.
The other evening at the opera, I sat next to a woman with her niece. She spoke with a Russian accent, and told me the little seven year old was able to speak three languages--Italian, Russian and English and was fluent in all three and was also learning Hebrew. I thought this was so amazing as I'm trying to learn my mother's Lithuanian language during my retirement and find it so difficult. Then I read an article about "Bilingualism in American" by Perri Klass, M.D. "New York Times News Service.
Reference http://www.bendbulletin.com/article/20111 . It said, "An estimated 9 percent of American adults are bilingual as opposed to 50 percent in Europe." Americans do not seem to be open to other languages. It also talked about how learning language skills helps people's higher level cognitive ability. In other words, speaking more than one language helps you with problem solving. How could anyone argue that we should only speak English.
Of course, new immigrants would benefit from learning our official language so that they can participate in the government and their community and not feel isolated. I believe most new citizens do learn and speak English, but I don't think hearing a foreign language in a new immigrant should make Americans angry. It is difficult to become fluent in a new language unless you learn it at a young age, and eventually the new immigrant's children will all acquire English. I really don't think speaking or not speaking English is an issue.
So my contention is that this article I received on e-mail is propaganda trying to get a reaction from a reader who might be fearful of immigrants. I hope Americans are able to discern the truth and not be intolerant of foreign language speakers.
Thank you for listening--I was really troubled by the anger directed at me when I said I disagreed with the article. I said, "I am an American of Irish/Lithuanian descent and I think everyone should speak two languages." Is that such a terrible statement?
I also was not exposed to other languages, even though my own mother spoke Lithuanian. Since she came out West in the 1930's, there were no Lithuanian groups out here, and no one even knew what a Lithuanian was, so my mother had no one to speak to in her language. Occasionally, she used a phrase or two to reprimand us or to say something like, "Shut the door," but she never talked to us so that we could learn to speak Lithuanian. My brother and I just thought the language was a bunch of funny, old words.
As my brother and I grew up and I moved to my own home in the same district, the neighborhood and the city slowly began to change. New immigrants were coming to America, especially from all the war-torn areas. I really never even noticed when my neighbors began to change, but our city is now very diverse. There are also noticeably many different languages spoken. Since the changes happened very slowly, I've just adjusted to the changes and the diversity seems very natural. However, a few weeks ago, I received an e-mail with a disturbing chain letter--one of those messages that you are supposed to pass on. Only I didn't pass it on--I disagreed with the content.
The message was a movie clip entitled, "Theodore Roosevelt's ideas on Immigrants and being an American in 1907," and it was out of context. It said, 'In the first place, we should insist that if the immigrant who comes here in good faith becomes an American and assimilates himself to us, he shall be treated on an exact equality with everyone else, for it is an outrage to discriminate against any such man because of creed, or birthplace, or origin. But this is predicated upon the person's becoming in every facet an American, and nothing but an American. . ." Then it goes on, "We have room for but one flag, the American flag. . .We have room for but one language here, and that is the English language. . ." I realize that in 1907, there were a lot of problems in the world, and especially in Europe, sending a lot of new immigrants here, and that President Roosevelt's words were meant for his time. We continue to have immigrants coming here due to many hardships in the world, but I think these words are not appropriate now. I hope that we are more knowledgeable and more accepting of one another's differences.
The other evening at the opera, I sat next to a woman with her niece. She spoke with a Russian accent, and told me the little seven year old was able to speak three languages--Italian, Russian and English and was fluent in all three and was also learning Hebrew. I thought this was so amazing as I'm trying to learn my mother's Lithuanian language during my retirement and find it so difficult. Then I read an article about "Bilingualism in American" by Perri Klass, M.D. "New York Times News Service.
Reference http://www.bendbulletin.com/article/20111 . It said, "An estimated 9 percent of American adults are bilingual as opposed to 50 percent in Europe." Americans do not seem to be open to other languages. It also talked about how learning language skills helps people's higher level cognitive ability. In other words, speaking more than one language helps you with problem solving. How could anyone argue that we should only speak English.
Of course, new immigrants would benefit from learning our official language so that they can participate in the government and their community and not feel isolated. I believe most new citizens do learn and speak English, but I don't think hearing a foreign language in a new immigrant should make Americans angry. It is difficult to become fluent in a new language unless you learn it at a young age, and eventually the new immigrant's children will all acquire English. I really don't think speaking or not speaking English is an issue.
So my contention is that this article I received on e-mail is propaganda trying to get a reaction from a reader who might be fearful of immigrants. I hope Americans are able to discern the truth and not be intolerant of foreign language speakers.
Thank you for listening--I was really troubled by the anger directed at me when I said I disagreed with the article. I said, "I am an American of Irish/Lithuanian descent and I think everyone should speak two languages." Is that such a terrible statement?
A wonderful day.
On Friday, I awoke to a beautiful, summery morning in October. At 7:00 the temperature was already warm and the air was still, leaving a fresh smell from the ocean that reminded me of a morning I walked on the beach on Maui. I was energized and ready to start my day.
It was the day the EOC group I joined decided to have their "Eating Out" experience. Eight of us women met in West Portal for lunch at the "Cafe for all Seasons." It is a restaurant that has been around for awhile and has tasty food and a pleasant atmosphere. (I'm not a food critic.) A friend organized the event, and most of us didn't know each other, but we all started talking and listening to each other's stories. It was like we were old friends. All the women seemed to have a lot in common, loved to travel, and went to music and drama performances. They were very stimulating and energetic women, and I learned a lot from them.
Almost everyone ordered salads--shrimp and avocado; calamari; and a cheese-topped salad, which were served with french bread. I think we were talking so much I didn't pay attention to the food, but my shrimp and avocado salad was very filling and delicious. Then a couple of women ordered desserts which they shared. The pumpkin pie with a syrupy topping was very rich, and the apple cake looked good but I didn't taste it. All of a sudden, someone said, "Look out the window!" Across the street in a three story building, there were two women in red dresses with green (or blue) hair dancing on the balcony. They were the "Trolley Dancers" which I later learned were dancing downtown at different locations on the weekend. On the way back to my car, I heard some drums and stopped at a Martial Arts school to watch the "Lion Dancers" practice and perform for a small group.
My afternoon was fun and full of unexpected surprises. The day ended with another surprise. As a I looked out my back window facing the ocean, the horizon was a bright, scourching red, with a ceiling of flaming clouds topped with grey. It was one of those beautiful sunsets that mostly happen in the fall.
It was the day the EOC group I joined decided to have their "Eating Out" experience. Eight of us women met in West Portal for lunch at the "Cafe for all Seasons." It is a restaurant that has been around for awhile and has tasty food and a pleasant atmosphere. (I'm not a food critic.) A friend organized the event, and most of us didn't know each other, but we all started talking and listening to each other's stories. It was like we were old friends. All the women seemed to have a lot in common, loved to travel, and went to music and drama performances. They were very stimulating and energetic women, and I learned a lot from them.
Almost everyone ordered salads--shrimp and avocado; calamari; and a cheese-topped salad, which were served with french bread. I think we were talking so much I didn't pay attention to the food, but my shrimp and avocado salad was very filling and delicious. Then a couple of women ordered desserts which they shared. The pumpkin pie with a syrupy topping was very rich, and the apple cake looked good but I didn't taste it. All of a sudden, someone said, "Look out the window!" Across the street in a three story building, there were two women in red dresses with green (or blue) hair dancing on the balcony. They were the "Trolley Dancers" which I later learned were dancing downtown at different locations on the weekend. On the way back to my car, I heard some drums and stopped at a Martial Arts school to watch the "Lion Dancers" practice and perform for a small group.
My afternoon was fun and full of unexpected surprises. The day ended with another surprise. As a I looked out my back window facing the ocean, the horizon was a bright, scourching red, with a ceiling of flaming clouds topped with grey. It was one of those beautiful sunsets that mostly happen in the fall.
Friday, October 7, 2011
A Change in the Air
There is a definite change in the season. The days are getting shorter, with the evening darkness starting close to dinner time. After a few days of warm weather, dark clouds gathered in the sky and there were intermittent showers with some heavier rain and wind two nights ago. This morning the the sun is shining, but there is a chill and the air feels crisp and clear. On the coast, however, is a layer of fog hiding the ocean waves.
Bright orange pumpkins are appearing everywhere in empty lots used for pumpkin patches. My local garden shop sent out a flyer that it is time to plant onions and garlic. My mail is full of requests for charitable donations for Thanksgiving. All around the neighborhood are announcements of festivals. The pace is picking up.
The other day, when the view of the ocean was crispy clear, a huge air craft carrier could be seen on the horizon sailing northward, making it's way into the Bay. Then yesterday, after a loud screechy roar was heard overhead, black sleek planes streaked across the cloudy sky giving an ominous feeling after the morning showers.
What was happening--are we being invaded? These signs bring back memories. Oh yes--I remember. It's October and the beginning of Fleet Week and acrobats by the Blue Angels. Maybe I'll check it out this weekend on the Bay.
Bright orange pumpkins are appearing everywhere in empty lots used for pumpkin patches. My local garden shop sent out a flyer that it is time to plant onions and garlic. My mail is full of requests for charitable donations for Thanksgiving. All around the neighborhood are announcements of festivals. The pace is picking up.
The other day, when the view of the ocean was crispy clear, a huge air craft carrier could be seen on the horizon sailing northward, making it's way into the Bay. Then yesterday, after a loud screechy roar was heard overhead, black sleek planes streaked across the cloudy sky giving an ominous feeling after the morning showers.
What was happening--are we being invaded? These signs bring back memories. Oh yes--I remember. It's October and the beginning of Fleet Week and acrobats by the Blue Angels. Maybe I'll check it out this weekend on the Bay.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
My free concert experience
To my dear Blog--I need someone to talk to. Here is my story.
This weekend was the free Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival in Golden Gate Park. Since I haven't been able to attend the many community events in my neighborhood in the past months since I started this blog, I decided it was my duty to experience this free concert. I love music and singing, and I thought bluegrass was something I would enjoy. After I sang in the choir this morning, I left my car in front of church and walked a short distance to th 41st Avenue Entrance.
It was a warm, sunny day after the fog burned off and the park was especially beautiful. As I headed up the paved path crunching on fallen euchalyptus leaves, I could hear the water rushing in the pond next to me. The branches of the trees hung over the road giving a feeling of protection. Younger people were passing me by since I must have been walking slowly, but I eventually reached the Polo field. I could hear two sets of bands, so I was undecided which way to go. I followed other people up a path, which brought me to a garbage dump--it was all the garbage from the festival, neatly sorted and packed into recycling, compost, and garbage, but there was a horrible stench. I covered my nose and thought how horrible and wasteful our society is, producing so much garbage.
I came upon one of the six band sites--it was the "Arrow Stage", and the meadow below was enmassed with bodies listening to the "Devil Makes Three." I was up on a ridge looking through a chain-linked fence, so I could hardly make out the musicians playing. I concentrated on the crowd, which resembled a living entity of round bobbles in bright colors bouncing up and down to the beat of the music. It sounded like bluegrass, since they were playing banjos and the singing was a bit grungy.
Next, I walked up the path and out to Kennedy Drive where most of the bands were. I heard that the "Blind Boys of Alabama" were playing at the Bango Stage, so I went there not knowing anything about this band. Their name sounded bluegrassy. I was wrong--they were more gospel or something and apparently well-known and won a lot of awards. I stood there for over an hour. At first I wanted to leave, but with each song I felt compelled to stay. I even sang with them and swayed to the beat. The crowd below was quiet at first, but at the end, the whole field was jumping with hands waving over head as these "blind boys" played very intense sounds for over 15 minutes.
I continued up the drive to the next stage which was small--the Porch stage. Just a few people were watching, and the band looked like one I'd like to hear. They were the Swanson Family Band from Florida. I really enjoyed their down-home music and was planning to stay. All of a sudden I had an urge to check for my keys to my car. I looked into my purse and there were the keys, but no wallet. I was in shock--everything seemed irrelevant. I looked around in disbelief, but no wallet. I kept opening my purse, checking the pockets and just couldn't understand what had happened, so I decided I'd better leave. I called my husband to tell him and to have him put a stop on my debit card, and then I started walking the twenty blocks back to 41st Avenue. I passed lots of people who seemed to be having fun--families with kids, babies, and dogs; old guys with beards ; girls in hippy dresses, police officers standing in groups watching the crowds. The bands kept playing as I walked by, but it all seemed so unimportant now. I felt so stupid that my purse was gone and while I was walking, I tried to rehash what I had been through. I decided I must have been pick-pocketed (or purse-pocketed), but I couldn't remember at what moment my purse suddenly became lighter.
Anyway, it's over. My husband was upset with me, but he did fix things by calling the credit card company and making the police report. My son told me not to dwell on it, but to learn from this mistake. My other son said he was sorry and wished he had been with me. I did decide to change the way I do things:
1) Only bring what's necessary with me in the way of credit cards and I.D.
2) Act like I'm traveling and wear my important stuff on my body.
3) Make a list of all the numbers on my cards.
4) Go to festivals with someone else.
5) Be mindful.
I think I should also stick to performances at the Opera, Symphony, Ballet, and S.F. Performances.
Thank you for listening.
This weekend was the free Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival in Golden Gate Park. Since I haven't been able to attend the many community events in my neighborhood in the past months since I started this blog, I decided it was my duty to experience this free concert. I love music and singing, and I thought bluegrass was something I would enjoy. After I sang in the choir this morning, I left my car in front of church and walked a short distance to th 41st Avenue Entrance.
It was a warm, sunny day after the fog burned off and the park was especially beautiful. As I headed up the paved path crunching on fallen euchalyptus leaves, I could hear the water rushing in the pond next to me. The branches of the trees hung over the road giving a feeling of protection. Younger people were passing me by since I must have been walking slowly, but I eventually reached the Polo field. I could hear two sets of bands, so I was undecided which way to go. I followed other people up a path, which brought me to a garbage dump--it was all the garbage from the festival, neatly sorted and packed into recycling, compost, and garbage, but there was a horrible stench. I covered my nose and thought how horrible and wasteful our society is, producing so much garbage.
I came upon one of the six band sites--it was the "Arrow Stage", and the meadow below was enmassed with bodies listening to the "Devil Makes Three." I was up on a ridge looking through a chain-linked fence, so I could hardly make out the musicians playing. I concentrated on the crowd, which resembled a living entity of round bobbles in bright colors bouncing up and down to the beat of the music. It sounded like bluegrass, since they were playing banjos and the singing was a bit grungy.
Next, I walked up the path and out to Kennedy Drive where most of the bands were. I heard that the "Blind Boys of Alabama" were playing at the Bango Stage, so I went there not knowing anything about this band. Their name sounded bluegrassy. I was wrong--they were more gospel or something and apparently well-known and won a lot of awards. I stood there for over an hour. At first I wanted to leave, but with each song I felt compelled to stay. I even sang with them and swayed to the beat. The crowd below was quiet at first, but at the end, the whole field was jumping with hands waving over head as these "blind boys" played very intense sounds for over 15 minutes.
I continued up the drive to the next stage which was small--the Porch stage. Just a few people were watching, and the band looked like one I'd like to hear. They were the Swanson Family Band from Florida. I really enjoyed their down-home music and was planning to stay. All of a sudden I had an urge to check for my keys to my car. I looked into my purse and there were the keys, but no wallet. I was in shock--everything seemed irrelevant. I looked around in disbelief, but no wallet. I kept opening my purse, checking the pockets and just couldn't understand what had happened, so I decided I'd better leave. I called my husband to tell him and to have him put a stop on my debit card, and then I started walking the twenty blocks back to 41st Avenue. I passed lots of people who seemed to be having fun--families with kids, babies, and dogs; old guys with beards ; girls in hippy dresses, police officers standing in groups watching the crowds. The bands kept playing as I walked by, but it all seemed so unimportant now. I felt so stupid that my purse was gone and while I was walking, I tried to rehash what I had been through. I decided I must have been pick-pocketed (or purse-pocketed), but I couldn't remember at what moment my purse suddenly became lighter.
Anyway, it's over. My husband was upset with me, but he did fix things by calling the credit card company and making the police report. My son told me not to dwell on it, but to learn from this mistake. My other son said he was sorry and wished he had been with me. I did decide to change the way I do things:
1) Only bring what's necessary with me in the way of credit cards and I.D.
2) Act like I'm traveling and wear my important stuff on my body.
3) Make a list of all the numbers on my cards.
4) Go to festivals with someone else.
5) Be mindful.
I think I should also stick to performances at the Opera, Symphony, Ballet, and S.F. Performances.
Thank you for listening.
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