Homer and his Ukelele

Why, when we are planning to get together with family and friends, do we always need "something to do?" Remember when you went to college and you stayed up til 4:00 in the morning doing nothing but talking with the people who happened to get placed in the same dorm as you did? You found yourself pontificating on Kurt Cobain being a hero for our times and why organized religion is anti-productive (he's not and it's not, but you were 18 and questioning everything). There was something about that moment in the common area of the dorm, shared with new aquaintances, deep into the night, where people expressed themselves and you felt part of something new and yet familiar all at once.

I have early memories of standing around my mother's parlor grand piano, which was passed down to her from my opera-singing and composing great grandmother Grace. Mom would play and we would sing, harmonize, laugh, roll our eyes, and encourage impromptu solos from each other. At Christmastime, we would gather with my parents' best friends and Mom would put down her glass of wine to come over and jangle out some beautifully cheesy Christmas songs, like "Twas the Night Before Christmas" and "Up on the Housetop." My sister and the kids of their friends seemed embarassed but I secretly adored these moments of communal performance and shared creative expression. (I do not think it a coincidence that my sister, embarassed to sing impromptu at 12 years old, now heads up an organiztion that uses artistic challenges to bolster creative courage in girls and women.)

My mother didn't invent this family music time, either. Her earliest memories are of sitting in her parents' living room, watching their friends pour each other bitters or coffee while one of their best friends, Homer, played his ukelele and everyone sang and danced. And my mom's dad, Paul, would dance with the women since he was the best dancer of the group. I think my mom misses Grandpa Paul the most when she recalls these memories of seeing her father swing her laughing mother around the room while people clapped and sang. She was a little child, peering into the life of her parents, and learning how families and friends actually meant something to one another.

Does this sound cheesey to you? It's not to me. For the past few years, I've been craving more home time and less party time. More countryside and less subway ride. More Homer, and less American Idol. Real time, not reel time. This is why we do not have TV.

This is also why we will be purchasing a real piano in the next few months, despite the furniture designer lady who said, "Why don't you just get an electronic keyboard? They are easier to maintain and are essentially the same thing." I no longer take advice from that woman. The "same thing?" Great Grandmother Grace must have been rolling in her grave. More on the imporance of pianos in a future post.

Besides those great late night conversations in the dorm, my favorite memory of college was the night my choral group went ice skating/hay riding/apple cider drinking and there ended up being an impromptu bonfire where bongos were brought out of people's trunks and guitars were borrowed at a moment's notice and Indigo Girls songs were sung and someone did a bold verion of U2's "Pride in the Name of Love" and it all ended way too soon for me.

And Saturday night, a new favorite memory was made as Mike and Alec came over to unveil their new music video and drink hot chocolate and ended up sitting on my daughters' child-sized chairs with their guitars and played a brilliant version of Dave Matthews' "Seek up" as well as some John Mayer and other original material, and Scott and I warmed ourselves under homemade quilts stiched by my sister and our friend Sasha, and we had to pause several times in fear of waking the kids, and I harmonized and our laughter drifted it's way into the middle of the night before people returned home. But I secretly hoped that Grace would be awoken by the soothing strains of guitar and hushed laughter and that we would find her at the foot of the stairs, listening and peering into our lives, the very incarnation of my mother as a young girl. May my children know from my actions what I think of time spent with family and friends.