Grain & Flame
I kept telling my friend Nic that he was making a terrible choice not coming to Baltimore this weekend, and in lieu of his terrible choice, I decided Friday afternoon to make an excellent one; I left work early. It was only about an hour early, but it felt pretty great. (Holla. Nic, you should be making excellent choices like me.) After work, I had time to take a little nap, which was really needed because, for some reason, my body hasn’t really taken kindly to waking up at seven recently. My bank account was ready to come back to the office, but I’m pretty sure that my body and brain weren’t quite up to speed. So, I gave myself a little respite made myself a delicious little dinner with that squash I acquired at Fran’s house. I thought, “oh, look how good I’m being to myself and my body.”
It was the only kind thing I did for my body all weekend.
Both Friday and Saturday nights I was celebrating: First Rachel’s birthday (yes, cake, and it was cake and ice cream at the same time, and probably not like any other ice cream cake you’ve ever had.) And then, Mr. Riddle’s going away party (where every ex-boyfriend over the last six years was present. This is more of a strange fact than a commentary about the event. It sounds far more uncomfortable then it actually was.) Saturday, I don’t remember what I was celebrating, but I was celebrating it real good. We ended up at a lesbian bar dancing. My thighs still hurt. Russell insists this because I kept “droppin’ it like it was hot” in my stilettos. I guess you know it was a good weekend when you still hurt from dancing on Monday.
But there were other incredible things that did not involve intoxicants and I feel like I need to mention them for two reasons. 1. They are probably far more interesting to read 2. They are probably far more interesting in general.
Saturday morning, Helena and I greeted our hangovers by rushing to Fran’s house at 9am. The three of us were going to go to her luthier friend’s house in Catonsville. He was this incredible man who builds chellos, violins, and violas by hand. He and his wife were both musicians and raised three boys who are all principal players in orchestras around the world. Helena and I were proud when Fran (who was wearing pants with sheep on them) introduced us as her “friends.” For a while, we sat sort of awkwardly in their living room as they talked about concert music in this very familiar and (unbeknownst to them) intimidating way. I was the only person in that room who had not studied music formally. As a matter of fact, I don’t even really listen to it very often, and I’m pretty sure that my limited knowledge of indie rock would be lost on the conversation. With a few dumb jokes and a couple good questions, it somehow all ironed itself out. He showed us his workshop and a recently carved scroll for the neck of his next viola and seemed excited to tell us about each step of this venerable tradition.
His shop was built onto his house and was incredible. It was fully of tiny, unidentifiable metal tools, the smell of maple and lacquers, instruments hanging from the ceiling, and a that sort of cascading light that summer mornings have through large dusty windows. One of these large windows faced his wife’s garden, which was covered in blooms and busy with beauty.
A goldfinch tried to perch on a stem of a tall flower. As it drooped Helena exclaimed in laughter and sympathy, “Oh, look, that little one, can’t seem to find a proper place to perch.” We stopped the lesson for a moment as we all watched this tiny bird fumble. And all shared a little glee from his misfortune and triumph. I loved the concept of this woman, on her knees, in the garden, glancing over at her husband hunched over his workbench as they both shared their time together though this lovely window. Their lives made so much sense together. They were retired and lovely, sharing both their independence and companionship.
The luthier was proud to show us the wood he traveled the world to find. He held it in his arms like a child, showing us how the grain of the wood is best in mountains in Romania, because the growth each tree is constant and slow. He turned over a violin - one made in Japan - and showed us the tiger-like stripes that the wood made on the back. He explained that this was the flame of the wood. Each tree is exposed to different elements and viruses when it’s growing and it affects the design of the piece of wood. The flame of the wood is marked in a different direction than the grain and gives the wood character.
He let Helena play his own viola and she trembled a little as we both were so incredibly aware with how much attention, care and measured patience he took to birth that very instrument. Together, on the way home, we imagined him making a viola for her and writing her name, or a poem, or a line of notes from her favorite concerto on the inside – like a secret tattoo for her little masterpiece, to show that it was hers before it was even born. Ah, what a whimsical day.
It was the only kind thing I did for my body all weekend.
Both Friday and Saturday nights I was celebrating: First Rachel’s birthday (yes, cake, and it was cake and ice cream at the same time, and probably not like any other ice cream cake you’ve ever had.) And then, Mr. Riddle’s going away party (where every ex-boyfriend over the last six years was present. This is more of a strange fact than a commentary about the event. It sounds far more uncomfortable then it actually was.) Saturday, I don’t remember what I was celebrating, but I was celebrating it real good. We ended up at a lesbian bar dancing. My thighs still hurt. Russell insists this because I kept “droppin’ it like it was hot” in my stilettos. I guess you know it was a good weekend when you still hurt from dancing on Monday.
But there were other incredible things that did not involve intoxicants and I feel like I need to mention them for two reasons. 1. They are probably far more interesting to read 2. They are probably far more interesting in general.
Saturday morning, Helena and I greeted our hangovers by rushing to Fran’s house at 9am. The three of us were going to go to her luthier friend’s house in Catonsville. He was this incredible man who builds chellos, violins, and violas by hand. He and his wife were both musicians and raised three boys who are all principal players in orchestras around the world. Helena and I were proud when Fran (who was wearing pants with sheep on them) introduced us as her “friends.” For a while, we sat sort of awkwardly in their living room as they talked about concert music in this very familiar and (unbeknownst to them) intimidating way. I was the only person in that room who had not studied music formally. As a matter of fact, I don’t even really listen to it very often, and I’m pretty sure that my limited knowledge of indie rock would be lost on the conversation. With a few dumb jokes and a couple good questions, it somehow all ironed itself out. He showed us his workshop and a recently carved scroll for the neck of his next viola and seemed excited to tell us about each step of this venerable tradition.
His shop was built onto his house and was incredible. It was fully of tiny, unidentifiable metal tools, the smell of maple and lacquers, instruments hanging from the ceiling, and a that sort of cascading light that summer mornings have through large dusty windows. One of these large windows faced his wife’s garden, which was covered in blooms and busy with beauty.
A goldfinch tried to perch on a stem of a tall flower. As it drooped Helena exclaimed in laughter and sympathy, “Oh, look, that little one, can’t seem to find a proper place to perch.” We stopped the lesson for a moment as we all watched this tiny bird fumble. And all shared a little glee from his misfortune and triumph. I loved the concept of this woman, on her knees, in the garden, glancing over at her husband hunched over his workbench as they both shared their time together though this lovely window. Their lives made so much sense together. They were retired and lovely, sharing both their independence and companionship.
The luthier was proud to show us the wood he traveled the world to find. He held it in his arms like a child, showing us how the grain of the wood is best in mountains in Romania, because the growth each tree is constant and slow. He turned over a violin - one made in Japan - and showed us the tiger-like stripes that the wood made on the back. He explained that this was the flame of the wood. Each tree is exposed to different elements and viruses when it’s growing and it affects the design of the piece of wood. The flame of the wood is marked in a different direction than the grain and gives the wood character.
He let Helena play his own viola and she trembled a little as we both were so incredibly aware with how much attention, care and measured patience he took to birth that very instrument. Together, on the way home, we imagined him making a viola for her and writing her name, or a poem, or a line of notes from her favorite concerto on the inside – like a secret tattoo for her little masterpiece, to show that it was hers before it was even born. Ah, what a whimsical day.
posted by j-e-s-s-i-c-a at 9:41 AM
3 Comments:
Where is nick moving??
Jessica G.
nick is moving somewhere in the middle of america, that i remember thinking at the time, "oh, i'll probably never visit you there." with AmericaCorps to help build houses.
I feel like I've learned something key from your blog today. So, I've stopped being a lame-o and I made an awesome decision to go on a day trip for the sunday that I wasn't in Baltimore.
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