March 16, 2008

6:58 p.m.

Sling Me Some Pate, Alonzo

Beautiful gig in Lowville, which is pronounced to rhyme with boughville, not Bovril. The room in the historical society looks like a huge, lofty Wedgewood bowl, and a number of vintagely-dressed mannequins line the walls, along with other very old stuff. At the back is a hand-carried, elaborate funerary sleigh. (This is hard to describe so I won't.) Acoustics are great and the folks are friendly.

Carol had popped back from Florida and memorial preparations just long enough to do the gig; they'll go back tomorrow for the week. Somehow we got through it, after none of us having touched an instrument since Texas. I got lost a couple of times on the bass, forgetting big chunks of the chart and jumping ahead. Later I told Carol, "Playing the bass again was as easy as falling off a log... over and over and over again!" She was funnier than she's ever been; we had award-winning running gags going. Afterwards at this place we get to eat up all the leftover noshes and drink whatever wine is open. We sat and feasted, getting loose and talking about the a cappella album we ought to do, while eating far too much pate with craisins, hummus and cake along with our grapes and carrots.

They put us up in a nice B&B where I slept on the finest pillow I've ever experienced in my life. I ended up pulling another pillow switch, and struggling with some mighty conscience on the way home. After all, this wasn't a Motel 6 where the pillows are anonymous. This was a B&B where there are only a few rooms (granted, 4 pillows per room, of various types, so really, probably 20 pillows in the place) and a real couple running it whom we got to know a little. The night before it had seemed too embarrassing to go to our hostess and ask if I could buy a certain pillow from her, but in the light of day, looking down the highway, I thought that might have been the better option. I hoped she wouldn't notice when stripping the beds. The pillow I left was very similar to the one I took, and I put her zipper cover on it to hide the fact that the pillow itself looked different. What have I come to? I thought. I've become a criminal in service to my obsession with the perfect pillow! What made me feel worse was that they were obviously very religiously Christian, with iconography all over the house, long blessings at meals, etc. Our host, a small, older man with big round eyes and a long Amish-looking beard, and I had this funny dialogue about rhyming poetry vs. free verse. He is very averse to free verse, and wants all poetry to have regular rhythm and rhymes at the ends of lines. I told him I wrote free verse and that it was just another way to express, and he tried to backpedal some and I laughed and said he was entitled to his preferences. Then at breakfast they served johnnycake which, he explained, is a generally unsweetened cornbread and must be eaten a certain way: you slice it down the middle and open it up, then put butter on it, then pour maple syrup on it and perhaps rhubarb or apple sauce. We were obliged to follow his instructions in eating our meal. Thinking about all these rules and regs in his world made me worry that he went up and checked all the pillows after guests had left the house. I became concerned that he'd talk to the Historical Society, that I'd get a bad rep and we wouldn't be able to play in that town again.

Then again, I reasoned, if he's really a Christian and he goes up and discovers the pillow switch, maybe he'll forgive me.

********

The memorial book was a hit with Carol. It really did come out nicely even though I was rushed. She said let her know how much and I told her I wasn't going to charge her for it, at which she sobbed a little in that way she does right now at the drop of a hat, and we hugged and later she gave me a check for $100 anyway.

So sleepy on the drive home today that, once home, I ended up taking a nap from 5:15 to almost 6:30. On my new pillow, naturally. It was heavenly.

********

Because my mates are gone all week, and I'm on Spring break from my online class, I have a certain sense of relaxed relief. This in spite of needing to turn in another assignment on Friday, do last week's homework by Tuesday, audit two evening Reiki classes (so that I can observe how to teach it), memorize two harmony parts for Saturday and clean my poor, neglected apartment. It still feels like time off somehow. Taxes are done. My little rebate check from the government might offset what I'll have to pay. I have song ideas to develop. Life is good.

********

Here is your trivia for the day. When we drive out west on 90 into NY state, we pass signs for Slingerlands and Voorheesville. I've assumed these were originally Dutch settlements, and love seeing those signs and reading them out loud about four times each. I decided to look up the towns' histories, and here is what I found:

Voorheesville was a village that grew up at the crossing of four railroads seeking a way around the Helderberg Mountains. The hilltown of Voorheesville was named after railroad attorney Alonzo B. Voorhees, who had something to do with negotiating the crossing. Alonzo... Voorhees. I do have a sense of homogenization here. Dutch immigrant (son of Holland cheesemaker, makes-a Gouda in America) (sorry, you might have to read that again) falls in love with Spanish flamenco dancer, they have a son who founds a railroad crossing. It's very sweet when you think about it.

Slingerlands is a different story and far less romantic. Wikipedia says:

"Slingerlands was originally founded in the late 19th century as a leper colony, and so named for the bandages and slings the first residents wore in order to keep their appendages attached."

Yikes!