Caleigh O'Shea's Blog, page 26

Debbie On Stage

What we remember from childhood we remember forever — permanent ghosts, stamped, inked, imprinted, eternally seen. ~Cynthia Ozick, American writer

I’ve long been fascinated by the theater.

The excitement of opening night, the pageantry, the costumes and props, the music — all of it struck me as a mystery that somehow came together to please both audience and troupe.

When I was a working journalist, part of my “beat” was reviewing local theater productions.

Realizing that these were amateurs doing plays strictly for enjoyment, I couldn’t bring myself to pan even the most awful performer. And seeing the productions first — before opening night — made me realize how lucky I was to live in a community that valued the arts.

Going back farther, when I was in high school, many of my friends were involved in drama club. I was far too shy to appear onstage, but I volunteered to be part of the backstage crew.

Helping paint backdrops, selecting accessories, and moving furniture between scenes satisfied my need to be with my friends and gave me a sense of belonging.

And that was enough.

Until one summer, when I went to band camp out of state. Every evening’s activity was scheduled with an eye to entertaining and educating youngsters from junior high through high school age.

One night, we kids were to perform a series of one-act plays for each other and our counselors, and I was chosen to appear onstage.

How it happened, I don’t recall. I do know I didn’t volunteer.

Our skit was taken from a long-ago ad for Shake ‘n Bake chicken, and I played the little girl. The one who “helped.”

Looking back, I imagine it had a LOT to do with my (then) Yankee accent being such a foreign thing to my fellow campers’ Southern ears.

We rehearsed over and over, making sure I had just the right twang. That we all were enunciating clearly so folks in the back rows could hear.

And that night, we were seated at a table, just like in the ad. The “mom” said her line about only using Shake ‘n Bake, I shook my pretend bag, and we sat down to dinner with the “dad.”

He bragged on the fried chicken, and just as I started to say my one line, the electricity went off.

We froze in darkness.

Counselors scrambled for flashlights and tried to keep the littler kids from panicking.

Just like in real theater, the show must go on, so with flashlight in hand and upturned toward my face, I finally got to say my line.

It got the giggles it was intended to, too.

Pandemic Limericks

Adversity introduces a man to himself. ~Author Unknown

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No adversity or social distancing here — I’m just a Robin looking for my lunch (and maybe a mate!)

There once was a germ so scary

We saw it afar and grew wary.

We learned it could kill

And that gave us a chill.

We couldn’t afford to tarry.

We scrambled for supplies at the stores

And hastened to lock our front doors.

We washed our hands clean

And watched as the scene

Unfolded across our land’s shores.

Suddenly new terms arose

Coined by those who were pros —

Social distancing,

Economic dwindling.

Anxiety abounds, panic grows.

‘Is this the new normal?’ we ask

As we fasten our protective mask.

Working from home,

Protecting our genome,

What a time-consuming task.

It bears repeating, this refrain.

The truth is oh, so plain —

Our hands we will wash.

This germ we will squash,

And then we can live again.

Wascally Wabbits

We are going to have peace even if we have to fight for it. ~Dwight D. Eisenhower, American army general and 34th president of the U.S.

Anybody who knows me knows I love bunnies.

Just not in my flowers.

When Dallas was a pup, I started encouraging him not to bother the rabbits who’d invariably put nests of babies in our yard.

Dallas watched the nests with curiosity, but he was exceptionally gentle and never poked at them.

Sure, he enjoyed chasing the parents, but the babies he left alone.

And now it seems word has spread that Dallas is gone, so our yard has become a haven of little hoppers.

You might recall a couple of years ago that a friend gifted me some Sedum. It’s a lovely pinkish-purple perennial flower that attracts butterflies and hummingbirds, and I’ve been pampering it.

After transferring it in three batches from a big pot to a sunny spot in the backyard, I put two fences around the area to protect it from pests and weather:

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All safe and secure, right?

Imagine my surprise when I noticed a HUGE bunny skulking around the backyard, pulling up mouthfuls of grass, and carrying them off.

Hmm, what’s it doing? I wondered, wandering out to check.

Lo and behold, Bunny was inside the fence with my Sedum. And when it saw me, it leaped over both fences and sprinted off to safety.

I checked my flowers and found a large hole right at the base of one.

Furious, I repaired the damage and went back inside.

The rest of the day, off and on, I watched, and I’m pretty sure Bunny was watching me back.

As the dinner hour drew nigh, the bunny again approached my Sedum patch.

And again, I chased it off.

How do I protect my growing Sedum from these wascally wabbits?

Then I hit upon an idea.

It will be about two months before I can put out flowers in pots, so I grabbed the three rubber snakes and two spinner-things I use to discourage nesting birds.

And I decorated my Sedum plot thusly:

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Don’t judge — I’m doing the best I can!

We’ll see if it works.

In the meantime, Bunny needs to realize I’ve got LOTS of time on my hands.

This coronavirus pandemic has quarantined most of us at home, and I’m a writer, deep in the weeds of penning my novel (and thus easily tempted away from my desk!)

Wear Some Green

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

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May love and laughter light your days,

and warm your heart and home.

May good and faithful friends be yours,

wherever you may roam.

May peace and plenty bless your world

with joy that long endures.

May all life’s passing seasons

bring the best to you and yours!

— Irish blessing

The Dreaded Audition

The two hardest things to handle in life are failure and success. ~Author Unknown

We have a new director for the final half of this semester’s symphonic band (something to do with scheduling, we were told).

At our first practice, she began by praising us for our performance at the previous night’s concert.

So far, so good.

And then the you-know-what hit the fan.

She told us flute players that we would spend the first part of rehearsal playing sections of two of the pieces from our concert for an objective grad student.

So we could be seated in the “best lineup possible” for our spring concert’s sound.

Um, no. That’s called auditions.

And none of us ever anticipated that!

I had a million objections flying through my brain:

Auditions and/or chair assignments are a first — to my knowledge — for this band
None of the other sections had to try out
I haven’t been playing as long as all the other flute players
I’d already had a miserable week, losing my beloved dog
My new flute was in the repair shop, leaving me with only a backup
We didn’t have time to practice first
I don’t particularly like surprises of this nature

She sent us into the hallway, where we were to wait outside a classroom. When the first girl went in, the rest of us listened to determine which parts of which pieces we’d be playing.

And they weren’t awful.

Though, I confess, if I’d had my case and coat, I’d have packed up and walked out without auditioning.

Because I get so nervous over stuff like that, that I find playing at all a challenge.

It’s the main reason I opted out of majoring (or even minoring) in music at university.

There’s something about being on stage, playing a solo in front of judges, that wrecks my confidence.

And ability.

The next day, we received seating assignments, and they weren’t pretty.

One girl moved up five seats; another moved up three. One moved down two; two others moved down three. I only moved down one, and at least I’m not seated last.

I probably shouldn’t agonize over this, but I’ll always believe a good director works for cohesion in a band, not pitting one player against another. Or one section against another.

Walking out is still an option.

An enticing one.

But I’m not a quitter.

Guess I’ll postpone judgment awhile.

Note: The coronavirus pandemic has caused the college under whose jurisdiction our band meets to suspend in-person classes indefinitely. Don’t know how they plan to do band practice online.

Not Crazy — Just Grieving

When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.  ~Kahlil Gibran, Lebanese-American writer and poet

Fuzzy thinking, decisions must wait,

Novel on hold, can’t concentrate.

Don’t want to design or even to write,

I tell you, my friends, I’m really a sight.

Time creeps along slowly, day becomes night,

I see no way to get rid of my plight.

Temper flares, angry words spill out.

I know I’m a mess and that’s without doubt.

Aching heart and buckets of tears.

‘Is this her new life?’ everyone fears.

No, I’m not crazy, just suffering through grief,

Not forever, I hope, but probably not brief.

No wonder they say that grieving is rough,

But sorrows convince you you’re really quite tough.

Find things you enjoy and take your sweet time

To mourn the departed, perhaps with a rhyme.

Get back into life with things you like best.

Count the blessings with which you’ve been blessed.

Time heals all wounds, or so my dad said,

Tears can be healing, after they’re shed.

Be kind to yourself when all’s said and done.

Recall pleasant memories with that special one.

Lean on family and friends for a while.

Before you know it, you’ll find you can smile.

Can once again get enjoyment from life,

Find hope and happiness after the strife.

Everyone knows that grieving is rough,

But surviving shows you’re really quite tough!

Note: I’m hanging in, my friends. Thanks for your concern and prayers. For those who don’t know, I had to have my beloved Sheltie Dallas put down last week. I miss him every day.

Run Free, Dallas

Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole. ~Roger Caras, American wildlife photographer and writer

From my last post, you know that my beloved Sheltie Dallas was escorted to the Rainbow Bridge on Monday afternoon.

What you can’t know is how much I miss him.

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Me and Dallas on Saturday, Feb. 29, 2020

Part 1:

Back in April 2019, Dallas was diagnosed with early-stage kidney disease.

We tried him on the kidney diet food, designed to nudge his kidneys back into service and prolong life, but he refused to eat it.

We transitioned him back to the food he’d done so well on, and things looked good.

Until they didn’t.

Sometime after Domer returned to the Windy City following Christmas holidays, Dallas took a turn for the worse.

He distanced himself from the family, staying outside in all kinds of weather for long stretches. He grew disinterested in playing ball or riding in the car. He suffered more bouts of diarrhea and developed an aversion to dog food.

I blamed it on his being hard of hearing. On being a senior pup. On being bored with me spending so much time writing. On his becoming a finicky eater.

But my beautiful boy, who’d always been a chow-hound, kept losing weight. He’d lost one-fourth of his body mass, and his entire back end felt bony to the touch.

I tried walking him on the treadmill to build up muscle mass, but it didn’t work. We started feeding him “people food” to stimulate his appetite.

I reluctantly let him stay outside, hoping the fresh air, sunshine, and long naps would bring health back. And I re-doubled our cuddle time, morning and evening, certain that things were changing for the worse.

When you’re as close to a dog as I’ve been to Dallas for 13 years, you know when things aren’t right.

On Saturday, he was refusing food altogether. I took him to the vet, and they gave him an appetite encourager, which seemed to work. He ate lunch and dinner both Saturday and Sunday.

But Sunday night was rough. He splatted on the floor and couldn’t get his back legs working. I picked him up, told him it was okay, and took him to bed.

He was restless all night, flopping around and unable to get comfy. Eventually, he woke me early to go outside. Twenty minutes later, I got him back in.

Then he stopped drinking water.

Part 2:

I reconsidered my decision not to test his kidney function and had the vet run it on Monday.

By noon they called back to let me know his levels were way worse.

They could infuse him with liquids (a two-day stay in the hospital that might, or might not, accomplish anything).

Or we could put him down.

He wasn’t going to miraculously heal on his own. This we knew.

Now, I’d discussed euthanasia with the vet before. How I value quality of life over quantity. How I didn’t want to keep Dallas here just for me. How I’d rather put him down a day too soon than a week too late.

It’s time, we agreed.

With heavy hearts, Dallas and I returned for the procedure.

We were escorted to the “Comfort Room” — quiet, windowless, with an immense puffy sofa.

I sat down and pulled my perfect angel onto the sofa with me, laying his head in my lap. Crying all the while, I talked to him and stroked his beautiful fur.

The vet explained the two-step procedure: one injection to relax his muscles and make him sleepy, and the next injection to stop the heart.

After discussing the after-arrangements (cremation), the vet gave Dallas the first injection and left us alone for a while.

We cuddled. I cried. I reminded Dallas of happier times — so many wonderful memories! I told him he’d been the best dog in all the world and I loved him with all my heart.

I assured him the end wouldn’t hurt. And I urged him to run free. To find all the pups and people he’d known and loved during his lifetime.

And to wait for me.

When the vet returned with the second injection, I asked her if it was too late to change my mind. She assured me I’d made the best decision for Dallas, that he was dehydrated and ready to go.

Within seconds after receiving the second injection, Dallas quit breathing.

“He’s gone,” the vet whispered, tears in her eyes, too.

The end came too soon, as endings often do.

We were allowed to sit together for as long as I wanted (more tears, more Kleenex, more comforting and encouraging words), and eventually, I let them know they could take him away.

Life goes on, and my tears continue to fall. I feel like someone ripped my heart right out of my chest. This pain will last a long time. Thank you for reading this and being friends to me and Dallas.

As a well-spent day brings happy sleep, so a life well used brings happy death. ~Leonardo da Vinci

R.I.P. Dallas

You think dogs will not be in heaven? I tell you, they will be there long before any of us. ~Robert Louis Stevenson, Scottish novelist

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Nov. 28, 2006 – March 2, 2020

Good dogs never die

They live in our hearts always

Wish mine was here though.

 

Note: “Now I know I’ve got a heart ’cause it’s breaking.” Quote from the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz

Sunday’s Gem — Pearl

Look deep into nature, and then you will understand everything better. ~Albert Einstein

Pearls are formed when something (like a grain of sand) irritates an oyster’s soft inner body, prompting it to secrete a substance called nacre. When layer upon layer of nacre builds up around the irritant, a pearl comes to be.

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An Akoya cultured pearl oyster. Image thanks to www.gia.edu

Pearls differ from many gemstones in that they’re formed organically — kind of a fluke, really — whereas stones like diamonds and emeralds are mined from the earth. Pearls need no special cutting or polishing to enhance their lustrous beauty.

Pearls are found around the world. Once, the Persian Gulf with its natural oyster beds was the center of the pearl trade. However, in 1894, a man named Mikimoto created the first cultured pearl by manually entering an irritant to force an oyster to form a pearl, forever changing the industry. Akoya Pearls are to this day valued for their luster and colors.

Still classified as a gemstone, Pearl has been prized for millennia. Used in jewelry at least as far back as ancient Greece, Pearl symbolizes purity, innocence, and faith.

Thirteenth Century explorer Marco Polo reportedly gave Mongolian emperor Kublai Khan a 575 carat pearl. Prince Phillip II of Spain in the 16th Century gifted his bride the pearl called La Peregrina, which Richard Burton gave his wife Elizabeth Taylor in the 1960s.

Pearls were the favorite stones of Marilyn Monroe, Grace Kelly, Audrey Hepburn, and Jackie Kennedy. And lest you think Pearl is only a gem for old ladies, consider how today’s style icons such as Kate Middleton, Angelina Jolie, and Sarah Jessica Parker are rocking pearl jewelry!

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This 17″ A+ graded South Sea Pearl necklace with 18kt white gold and diamond accent is available at Sidney Thomas for only $35,000!

Pearls are about two percent water and have a hardness of about 3 on the 1-10 Mohs Scale. That means you should store them separately from other stones, keep them away from chemicals, and avoid extreme heat (so they won’t dry out and develop hairline cracks).

The traditional birthstone for the month of June, Pearls are popular gifts for brides. Oddly, they’re not typically worn by men, though that’s not always been the case. In fact, ancient kings wore ropes of pearls as a symbol of their wealth, and knights in the Dark Ages wore pearls on the battlefield for safety.

Pearls come in shades of white, cream, brown, black, pink, gold, and blue. They’re touted as digestive aids, skin beautifiers, hormone regulators, and stress level reducers, among other claims. Pearl is believed to attract prosperity, abundance, luck, and wealth.

Pearls are said to balance all Chakras, but are most directly associated with the Third Eye, Sacral, and Crown.

Note: The claims here aren’t meant to take the place of medical advice. They’re based on folklore and other sources, and likely “work” best if one’s belief is strong enough!

Playing Music

If a composer could say what he had to say in words he would not bother trying to say it in music. ~Gustav Mahler, Austro-Bohemian Romantic composer and conductor

Dallas here.

She hasn’t written about it in a while, but Mama is still playing flute.

In fact, she plays nearly Every. Single. Day.

If she’s not practicing songs for symphonic band in the fall, winter, and spring, she’s practicing for community band in the summer.

Or for her individual lessons.

Scales, duets, something called long tones, triple tonguing, and so on.

Now, with a concert in just two weeks, she’s really stressing.

I’ve heard her complain about these songs — too many fast runs, challenging rhythms, odd key signatures.

But she’s getting better (so her teacher says).

I wouldn’t know.

I used to love listening — and singing — when The Kid brought his trumpet home.

We’d hop on the daybed together, he’d blow a note or two, and I’d toss back my head and sing like a bird.

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Matching your tune, Kid, and it’s thrilling!

But I was a young’un then.

Mama says maybe I liked a brass sound better than a woodwind sound.

Because I’ve never sung to her flute.

Not once.

Still, it seems to me that silence is better than a noisy protest.

Like this doggo that Mama thinks is hilarious.

Hmph. The poor thing’s ears are probably hurting from all that din!

Anyway, my favorite spot these days is lying beneath Mama as she practices. I’m more comforted by her presence than I am by the music she’s playing.

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Me “listening” to Mama play flute (that black line on my bottom is the leg of her music stand — my tail is way prettier than that!)

You see, I’m 13 now (officially a “senior pup”), and I have a bit of trouble hearing.

Even a high-pitched flute.

Mama says I’ve got selective hearing because the minute she picks up the rattly bag of cookie-treats, I come a-running!

Gee, Mama, don’t you know even senior pups never lose their entire sense of smell?