After the Ball Is Over

Yesterday, it rained. The day before yesterday it rained. The day before, the day before…

Today, it has rained a total amount of 0.54 inches since Midnight.
Our creek is beginning to race and to rise

Looking upstream west to east                                                    Looking north, behind the house toward bend to west.               

Looking north, downstream toward our property line. Image on right is blow up of image on left.
All images from 1045 today.

We left for Asheville about 1615 yesterday. The large concentration of rain had shifted eastward during the early afternoon. We drove over the passes with the wipers on intermittent and the defroster blowing cold air into the passenger cabin. As I mentioned, one of the few faults I’ve noted with the Pathfinder. The trip went smoothly. The mountain sides are spectacular in any light but sunlight would have made them much more so. At several points we were above the cloud deck and glad for tail lights on other vehicles. But still, not a bad drive. We managed to find a parking garage near our target restaurant. We were a few minutes early but decided to go ahead and begin a leisurely dinner. Our hope for guest, David Gans, was unfortunately delayed and didn’t get to Asheville in time to do anything but sound check before performing.


The restaurant “Wasabi” http://www.ichibanwasabi.com/pdf/wasabi_go_menu.pdf was nearly empty when we walked in just before 1800. We joked about not needing a reservation after all; but were assured we had done the right thing making one. We were quickly seated and began the always fun process of choosing sushi and sashimi. We settled on a house special roll, “main street roll,” that was beautifully presented. We ate it slowly, commenting on how great it tasted and how well presented it was. Neither of us recalled that we were carrying cell phones with cameras. By the time we added some sashimi – tuna & yellow tail, a spicy tuna hand roll, and a piece of sushi with uni for each of us, dinner was well underway. We kept a lookout for David but by this time didn’t really expect to see him walk in.


We knew we had a long night ahead of us and were still hungry. The restaurant was filling up rapidly by 1830. We ordered dinner, shrimp and vegetable tempura for me and nabe yake soba for Gloria. In a classic loss of situational awareness, when the waitress asked if I wanted soup or salad, I asked, “What’s the soup?” Quickly realized that there was no option but it was too late to say anything but “Oh, yeah!”

Dinner was delicious. We did realize we could photograph it and even on a cell phone camera image it is obviously well presented.

 

We brought home about half of each dinner. We’ll dine on leftovers quite happily tonight.


From the restaurant to the dance location, our trusty Garmin GPS took us through Asheville. Both of us read maps quite easily and quite well; but I must admit that a GPS can really cut confusion in unfamiliar cities and towns. We arrived in time to find parking within a short walk, paid our admission and Gloria left to change into her new skirt and the shirt she had chosen for the evening. We managed to find a place to sit along the wall beside the band. Changed shoes, stored our gear, and waited for the beginner session to end and the dance, proper, to begin. Gloria took the opportunity to see if her friends in the band, “Wild Asparagus,” would recognize her. It pleased her no end when they did. She started the dance with a huge smile on her face.

She also ran into an old friend from her DC dancing days, Bruce Henderson, which made it even more fun for her. She has always had fun introducing me to old friends. With rare exception, I’ve always enjoyed meeting her old friends.


To save her knee from too much damage she’s only dancing every other dance. It’s hard for her to sit out a dance but she did well last night. My knees are not much better than hers so I took advantage of the off dances to pay close attention to the band

“Wild Asparagus” http://www.wildasparagus.com/about.html is a great band for Contra dancing. They bring tremendous energy to the dance, are master musicians, and routinely improvise while playing traditional Celtic and other Contra dance music. A band that plays only a predetermined set list in exactly the same manner each night – akin to playing an album of tunes for dancers to dance to – will suffice to fuel a dance. The ability to improvise and to bring other musical elements to the performance can supercharge a dance, move it from a common to a seemingly living event. Some of it depends on the dancers. They provide feedback to the band. But the band can ignore that feedback or use it as a catalyst. That’s what I saw happen last night. I’d never heard “Wild Asparagus” play before, had only Gloria’s opinion of their caliber and merit. After the first dance, I wanted more. I’ve written of my inability as a dancer. So, for me, any good band would suffice to try to dance to. As a musician, I was treated to a superior performance by a band of immense talent and capability. Even I felt as if I might be a bit closer to being able to dance.


Of course, that was the music talking to me. I’m still the same middle-aged male who can only call himself a dancer if the phrase is never uttered out loud or written, as herein, for any and all to point and laugh. But sometimes the music is worth the ridicule. Sometimes it can make you loosen up enough to not really care how little grace of movement one possesses. We’ve all seen the tripped out guy in tie-dye and dreadlocks on the rail at a Grateful Dead concert. He’s hearing something no one else can hear, dancing to something Garcia’s playing “just for him,” in a spasmodic epitome of “white boy dancing.” Well, that’s never been me and it still isn’t. But I’m learning, just a bit, perhaps, that I can risk looking a little bit like that. And it helps that in 16, or 32 measures, I’ll be shoved or handed off to another neighbor, who along with my partner for the dance, will try to coach me into some semblance of a dancer for the minute of two in which they are stuck with me.

We left for home when the dance ended at 2300. When we left the venue there was a fine mist in the air, intermittent wipers were too frequent and noisy to leave on. It was hand control time until we hit the highway. Then the level of misty increased to really annoying. There was the perpetual streak directly in the field of vision that no wiper blade ever removes, that no window cleaner can eliminate. I spent the entire trip home to the intersection of TN 81 and I-26 changing the frequency on the intermittent wiper controller. Traffic was nearly non-existent once we left Asheville until we turned on to TN 81 at Erwin. The Nolichucky gorge is narrow, winding, rock on one side, river on the other, no guard rails, no shoulder, and had more traffic, all oncoming, than I expected. 12 miles from home it began to actually rain. We pulled into the drive at 0100.

The dog was happy to be let out. We were happy to be out of the car. We drained and emptied the dog, had a bite to eat, and watched enough television to de-wire. Off to bed at 0200 and the sleep of the just, righteous, and exhausted.
Woke up to rain, decided I’d gotten sufficient exercise last night, and have enjoyed a very quiet day to this point.

Tomorrow: reality television – no survivors.

"Try to remember the kind of September......"

Half remembered lyrics have a way of surfacing and hanging around until you are forced to track them down in their entirity, rummage through stacks of vinyl for the album, and sing along with them as they pour off the scratched disks that harbor them.

For some reason the tone arm is stuck in the groove, looping "Try to remember" in that functional gray matter that processes music and words. I've just learned that the version I probably used to learn the song was a Brothers Four record. I've yet to see the musical, The Fantastiks, that the song was written for. I've heard it done by the Kingston Trio.

My musical tastes reach back a long way to include Klezmer, Dixie Land, Big Band, BeBop, West Coast Jazz, folk, blue grass, rock of the 50s and 60s, and improvisational rock such as The Grateful Dead. So there are a lot of sentimental ballads learned from albums with cover pictures of college friends in sweaters with guitars and banjos, kicking around my brain; just waiting to sneak a broken lyric into the stream of consciousness.

This morning required that I drive into Johnson City and check in with the VA hospital. When I reached the highway the clouds were still about half way down the mountains, valleys all filled with mist. No matter which road we take from home or toward home, the view is ever-changing and beautiful.

VA wanted me to provide them with urine and to allow them to review my meds. A 55 mile round trip for ten minutes worth of actual patient interaction. But part of the morning was no problem. The grim bit of the day began as I joined another thirty or so vehicles in the parking lot dance. The James A Quillen VA hospital is a good facility, staffed by caring, competent professional and ancillary staff. But the facility is so short of patient parking spots that there is a constant brownian motion of cars and trucks driven by people who need to find a place to park before they are late for their appointment. Today, it took me 25 minutes of circling and hoping before I was lucky enough to be the first in line as someone got into a car. It was an awkward spot, with a deep pothole where the left front wheel needed to be. And I took it gratefully,called Gloria to let her know I was there, and hiked off to primary care. When I returned to the Pathfinder, there was a driver following me, just hoping that I was actually going to get into my vehicle and leave. I made his morning and left.

"The Kind of September...."

I've always looked forward to September. The tick and mosquito population has declined, the summer birds haven't flown south yet. Cooler nights make for good camping or just sitting on the deck watching the sunset or stars. Trout are fat and fishing can be fantastic. Hunting seasons are approaching and the promise of venison is worth the anticipation.

It's still warm and the weather patterns have not shifted to winter-like yet. We're not in Florida, tracking hurricanes and putting up storm panels, then taking them down once a week, as we once were. The weather here is pleasant and the promise of fall colors is welcome.

The local kids have been in school for weeks, rather than starting in September, as we did. The World Series is still some time distant instead of being played in September, as we recall.

"The kind of September Gloria and I remember is no more. It was whittled away by changes in school schedules by colleges and high schools that wanted to adopt their semesters to the bowl schedules and the winter holidays. It was nibbled at by expansion baseball teams and schedules. And it was seriously affected by technical and cultural changes that make us all too glad to keep our car windows closed and the A/C on in hopes of blocking some of the noise from surrounding cars, driven by people who insist on forcing everyone within a 2 kilometer radius to hear what they regard as music.

"Try to remember the kind of September..."
That leads, directly past go to
"Deep in December, it's nice to remember,
Although you know the snow will follow.
Deep in December, it's nice to remember,
Without a hurt the heart is hollow.
Deep in December, it's nice to remember,
The fire of September that made us mellow.
Deep in December, our hearts should remember
And follow."

The best years of my life began in December of 1992. So while I've a musical and cultural attachment to the 50's and 60's, I've no desire to relive them. My best memories and dreams call me forward, not backward.

Hopefully, the next bit of lyric that escapes and demands attention will be less mawkish, better to listen to, and better to dance to.