The sun was friendly that morning, with a melting warmth that didn't scorch, so welcome and freeing after the months of sweaters and boots. Midday Mom and I set out to cross Lake Washington, skirt around Lake Union, rumble across the Ballard Bridge over the Lake Washington ship canal, and tool up Market Street to Portage Bay Cafe. We found a booth across from the open kitchen where we could watch the chefs chop and stir, and slid into our seats. The menu tempted us with the berry filled breakfast bar, shallot jam, rustic toast, and house-smoked salmon. At last we made our choices and were soon served aromatic plates full of hearty brunch fare, a scrambled egg, shallot, & tomato grilled cheese sandwich for me and a sweet potato Brussels sprout frittata for Mom, both heaped with fresh peppery arugula. As we ate we talked about our coming summer apart and our plans and goals for the months ahead, memories of Mom's childhood, recent insights, and random girl chatter.
Appetites satiated, we went back out into the sun and decided to walk to the Ballard Locks, which we thought were close by. After a short meander we found they were indeed just around the corner from the cafe, and entered the English gardens on the grounds of the Locks. Trees and shrubs were in full May glory, and our pores were open to absorb the beauty of the moment. We trip-trapped across the walkways over the canal: large lock, small lock, dam with smelt slides (where the gushing water sent up a cool cloud of mist), fish ladder. A cruise boat entered the small lock while we watched; the gate closed behind it and the boat gracefully sank deep into the cement cage, then the gate on the other end opened and the boat motored out into Puget Sound. We walked back through the gardens on a different path, then returned to our car. But the day still beckoned to us, and we didn't drive home yet.
We drove slowly along Market Street, looking for what might catch our eye; then Mom said we were close to the church where she and Dad were married, so we turned up the hill and she followed a hazy instinct that led us off the busy thoroughfare and into a thicket of residential streets, right to a stone building with wide steps leading up to the front doors. We stopped and looked and I tried to see them as they were almost thirty-eight years ago; she texted Dad a picture of the church.
Back on Market Street we circled, looking for a place to park so we could peek into some of the shops and side streets. We slid into a shady spot and headed down an angled street lined with brick buildings filled with curious combinations of pubs and boutiques. The first store to lure us in was a new-and-used outdoor gear shop, where a rack of discounted sample garments yielded a new dress. I couldn't pass by the Fresh Flours Bakery, either, so we went in to let our eyes linger over the case, nod appreciatively when the counter help informed us of the great skill involved in making French macarons, and order iced tea, Jasmine green and a house brewed chai latte.
We were still crunching our melting ice as we made our way back over the Ballard Bridge, along the edge of downtown, and onto the freeway in the thickening afternoon traffic. As we picked up speed, we rolled up the windows and switched on the AC. We returned home where the lists and routines we had left behind were waiting for us, but our timeless day nourished souls that rightly long for something beyond schedules and duties.
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
Making Music
When we had gone back for seconds, and our plates were emptied again, and conversation was easy, and the children were getting restless, we pulled out our instruments, right where we were on the covered patio, with the lavishly blooming lilacs for walls. There was a general twanging and humming as strings were stretched to the perfect pitch. Snatches of song from fiddle, mandolin, and banjo vied for preeminence as the children's voices had done a moment before, until the mother announced a title and strummed the first chords on her guitar, drawing the others into her song.
The only sister among a passel of boys sat beside me, both of us playing the mandolin, she with skill and grace, me a beginner, my fingers still learning the frets and chords. "G," she would say, looking and me and smiling, letting me know the key of the song. I watched her easy fingers with delight, and did what I could with my surprised and recalcitrant digits.
I'll Fly Away, Amazing Grace, When the Roll is Called up Yonder, What a Friend We Have in Jesus, Turn Your Radio On, Come Thou Fount -- we rolled from one song to the next, the interludes often filled with "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" from the mandolin while the banjo was still hammering away at "I'll Fly Away" and the fiddle was racing off with a bluegrass tune. At last we would decide on something, and the singers would find it in their hymnals, and once more the disparate notes would slide into unity.
After we sang a few verses, often the fiddle would take a turn, flying over the melody with a touch of whimsy, a wash of grace. Sometimes the banjo would come in for a solo, leading in with a flourish and shining at every opportunity to ornament. The mandolin beside me only broke loose under cover of one of her brothers, when she thought she could blend in.
The two little boys, not yet ready to join the jam sessions, wandered in and out among the instruments and singers, one quiet and unobtrusive, the other walking where he pleased with a swagger and making up for it by bestowing his sparkling smile liberally on all.
We sang "In the Garden" for the children's grandma, and put our instruments back in their cases as the colors of the sunset faded over the lake. The gift of the music lingered with us, but for the children, the evening was not complete without a rousing game of "monkey in the middle," played with a foursquare ball and much laughter in a narrow courtyard. "Julie, do you want to play?" asked my fellow mandolin player. How could I refuse?
The only sister among a passel of boys sat beside me, both of us playing the mandolin, she with skill and grace, me a beginner, my fingers still learning the frets and chords. "G," she would say, looking and me and smiling, letting me know the key of the song. I watched her easy fingers with delight, and did what I could with my surprised and recalcitrant digits.
I'll Fly Away, Amazing Grace, When the Roll is Called up Yonder, What a Friend We Have in Jesus, Turn Your Radio On, Come Thou Fount -- we rolled from one song to the next, the interludes often filled with "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" from the mandolin while the banjo was still hammering away at "I'll Fly Away" and the fiddle was racing off with a bluegrass tune. At last we would decide on something, and the singers would find it in their hymnals, and once more the disparate notes would slide into unity.
After we sang a few verses, often the fiddle would take a turn, flying over the melody with a touch of whimsy, a wash of grace. Sometimes the banjo would come in for a solo, leading in with a flourish and shining at every opportunity to ornament. The mandolin beside me only broke loose under cover of one of her brothers, when she thought she could blend in.
The two little boys, not yet ready to join the jam sessions, wandered in and out among the instruments and singers, one quiet and unobtrusive, the other walking where he pleased with a swagger and making up for it by bestowing his sparkling smile liberally on all.
We sang "In the Garden" for the children's grandma, and put our instruments back in their cases as the colors of the sunset faded over the lake. The gift of the music lingered with us, but for the children, the evening was not complete without a rousing game of "monkey in the middle," played with a foursquare ball and much laughter in a narrow courtyard. "Julie, do you want to play?" asked my fellow mandolin player. How could I refuse?
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