Random Detour

Notice there's been nothing going on at this blog lately? My mind has taken a break. I am in receive-input mode, with no signs of emerging anytime soon. I am reading, living, absorbing experience, but I don't seem to be processing it into anything meaningful or creative. No output. 

But this morning as part of my intake, I was reading the blog my daughter Miranda writes, and lo and behold, in a post called "Flashback" I saw a mention of me. Well, actually it referred to  "my mom", but I know I am the mom she means, and I've been tagged. I am supposed to choose the tenth photo in my "first" folder of photos, post it, and write about it, and I figured that's not a bad idea for getting jump-started when you're dormant, blank, and blah. 

Naturally I wasn't sure what my "first folder" of photos was, since my i-Photo files are all in a jumble, but the first coherent folder in the line-up happened to be something called "East Coast trip" and I decided that was as good as any; even if it was not literally the very first folder I ever put together, it is from about seven years ago, which seems like another era. What you see above is the tenth image the folder contained. It's not a particularly good one, but let that be proof that I played fair and selected what happened to be there. 

The picture was taken in Philadelphia during the time when Monte and I were traveling with Miranda to look at colleges. I don't think she ever seriously considered Philadelphia as one of her choices; mostly we went to visit the fellow with the red hair and little round eyeglasses in the far left of the picture: Scott Wagner. He had been Miranda's violin teacher in Santa Barbara, and not only was he a wonderful musician, he was also funny and exuberant and playful. I remember waiting sometimes for lessons to be over, and I'd hear not just strains of music, but giggles and talk of books or interesting places to visit. Scott knew that music required discipline and practice, but he saw no reason to take the joy out of it. Along with music, he served up enthusiasm and delight. Miranda loved him. 

So in addition to our Boston and New York itineraries, there was a train trip to Philadelphia that winter. Scott lived in an old brownstone house downtown; a narrow arched window looked out onto the church across the street, and there was a clay pot of miniature daffodils on the sill. A Curtis Institute graduate, Scott was part of Philadelphia's chamber orchestra and played viola for the opera company. One night we went with him to the opera and then on to a restaurant with a group of young singers who sang at the table, their voices astonishing, and the more wine they drank, the more they sang. Afterwards, we walked home across a park filled with moonlight and snow. 

And I mean snow! The East coast was getting plenty of it that winter. There we are the next day, still filled with child-like wonder and surprise, stomping around in our floppy winter clothes, crunching through that nice crusty top layer and leaving deep footprints. It's that bright, blue-sky, unequivocal kind of cold, and our cheeks almost sting, but we're being silly and having fun. Monte is wearing his familiar black cap, smiling broadly.

And that young girl with the long dark hair and the red and yellow scarf and oversized bag filled with books? She is on the cusp of leaving us. She is scouting out the possibilities, confirming her desire to try living life elsewhere, testing the waters, testing the snow. 

I could never have imagined how soon this would all seem long ago.