parties (12/9/06)

Per Alisha's request....

This morning at 9:00, I ran downstairs to meet Alisha in the Lorton parking lot. She pulled up just as I stepped to the kerb: she had given me, as my birthday present, a morning out together. The morning was chilly, with a brisk south wind, thin white clouds over a crisp blue sky. We drove to Panera on 15^th St. for breakfast. The restaurant was crowded, people standing in line to buy pastries and hot drinks. We ordered at the counter and sat down at a small table near the window. A bunch of people who looked as though they’d just run a marathon occupied the long booth nearby—gleaming sweatpants and tennis shoes, headbands, bulky jackets. They were all jabbering together about Colorado and marathons, sounding very clubby and sophisticated. One man talked rapidly in some Eastern European language. A tall man guided a small girl, carrying a walkman, toward a table. Plump women wearing strange clogs clomped through the door. Alisha and I sat quietly in our corner for an hour or so, talking. The smells of baking bread and coffee swirled around us. We ate sweet, sticky cinnamon bagels with crunchy crusts. I sipped warm Earl Grey tea. It was deliciously relaxed. We talked about our respective evenings yesterday—concert for Alisha, poetry reading for me. Harpsichord and violin music played over the radio. It was comforting, somehow, to be in such a bustling, warm space, and yet to be separated, calm and quiet at our table.

After we finished, we drove down toward the Philbrook. We had to endure something of an adventure in order to get there. Peoria, the north-south street that runs past the museum, was blocked by a small cavalcade of city patrol cars (one was a police car), which was proceeding slowly down the road, followed by a huffing rag-tag band of impatient drivers, who zipped around the patrol cars at the first opportunity. On the back of one of the patrol cars was a contingent of city workers, wearing bright green safety vests and red Santa Claus caps with white tassels. Every few yards, the cars would stop, and they would hop off to pick up some plastic barricades from the side of the road. Whenever they stopped, everyone waiting behind them had to stop as well. Alisha and I sighed impatiently and giggled at the incongruity of the situation. Up ahead, we glimpsed a blocked-off section of Peoria, and it looked as though a crowd of people were gathered there. I conjectured that it had been a parade, or perhaps a marathon. We turned around and managed to find our way through the gorgeous old neighborhoods. Like looking at rows of books, each house representing a different well-known story, so beautiful as to be otherworldly, impossibly serene. Featherings of snow lay on the ground and on steep roofs, on windowsills and under bushes, and around the roots of the gigantic trees.

The Philbrook was open, and today was a free day. In the atrium, the Rodin statue had been removed, and replaced by a Christmas tree. From the atrium, we ventured into the galleries, walking through rooms full of paintings and furniture. We peered through glazed windows at the snowy gardens outside. We admired old chairs, a gorgeous writing desk with luxurious wooden carving and tiny inlaid pictures of saints’ lives, the bronze grating of a fireplace decorated with ships in full sail, and a light fixture that was a globe, continents glowing gold against blue sea. The ceilings were painted with cherubs, flowers, and fruit. Columns supporting the ceiling were carved and painted with figs and vines. Rich brocade curtains hung on the walls, tapestries between the windows, and deep carpets on the floors of the side rooms. We walked down to the terrace, where the nymphs’ dry fountains were full of poinsettias so that they seemed to swim in a frothy red sea. We went up the grand staircase on blue velvet carpet and explored the galleries upstairs, mainly admiring the Moran paintings in what used to be the Egyptian/Greek gallery. A lovely little watercolor of a waterfall—the water seemed actually to be plunging over the rocks. Oil paintings of Venice, a dismal swamp in Virginia, the stormy Atlantic Sea, Yellowstone, the Grand Canyon, and the Adirondacks. In each painting, light glowed down on nature. Swoops of water and tree and mountain and cloud rose in great swirling symphony up to the dazzling sky, white light pouring down from behind the clouds. God in His glory shining down on Creation. After looking at Moran, we briefly stepped into the other upstairs galleries. We paused for awhile in the room with the Asian screens—cranes, a rooster, a phoenix, and a delicate chickadee with red maple leaves painted in elegantly stylized lines on fine fabric. Each perfect shape—long necks, long wings—was like the stroke of a calligrapher’s brush brought to life. We walked back downstairs, past the huge bronze watchdogs that stand on either side of the top of the stairs. As we descended, we heard organ music swirling from the long open sunroom below. Deep chords thrilled through the old building. We paused on the stairs to listen. “Deck the Halls” ended, and another Christmas carol began—a carol I had never heard before, strangely sweet, oddly familiar, yet new. A man was sitting at the organ at one end of the room—the wooden screens had been rolled back from the alcove where the organ stood. His body swayed slightly as he shifted position to reach the different stops. We stood for a long time, listening as the joyful, bittersweet music chorused from the pipes. I caught our reflections in a dim mirror, surrounded by golden scrolls, as we reluctantly left the building. The music followed us, sighing softly to its end. As we walked out across the parking lot, I glanced back toward the museum, hearing a sound like a shutter flapping. I saw a little black-and-white downy woodpecker hopping up the stucco wall, pecking diligently in its search for bugs. Alisha laughed, “Good luck!” to the silly creature.

We drove back to campus, back to the “real world”. On the way, Alisha’s father called her so that she could listen to her younger sister’s violin recital. I could hear the violin squeaking through the cellphone. Alisha dropped me off at Lottie. At Lottie, I ran into the room, grabbed my flute and music, and walked quickly to Tyrrell for my jury. I spent twenty minutes warming up in the practice room, and then sat upstairs, blowing through my flute, while a saxophone player did his jury. After he played, Mrs. Cowen, my accompanist, and I sat in the entry area outside the recital hall and talked in low voices. “What’s taking so long?” she whispered impatiently. Finally, the band director stepped out—it was my turn. The five woodwind faculty are a jolly, friendly bunch. Mrs. Cowen and I went up to the stage. “Tell us about yourself,” Dr. Rush invited from the audience. “I’m a sophomore, an English major. I’m minoring in music, and I love it,” I giggled shyly. The performance went fairly well. The auditorium is hard to play in because it’s difficult to hear yourself from the stage, but as far as technicalities go, it went smoothly.

Afterward, I packed up and marched back to my room, from which I called Alisha. We went to the caf for lunch together. The caf was fairly quiet. We sat in a booth, poking at our food. Alisha’s family kept calling her, which was rather funny. Jenny joined us awhile later. We joked about Christmas presents and schoolwork. We walked out of the caf together, down the sidewalk past Lottie. I ran up to my room. Everything was packed. I hugged Rachel good-bye, and dragged my suitcase down to the car. As I pulled out of the parking lot, I chatted briefly with my mother on the phone. The drive back to Stillwater was uneventful. I listened to “The Nutcracker” ballet. I watched the hills slide past, snow gleaming on the ground under the trees—snow thawed and refrozen over days of chilly sunshine and nights of cold wind, glinting between slender blue networks of shadows running like veins over the pale skin. Stillwater seemed rough and small as I pulled into town and parked in the driveway.

As I trundled my suitcase up the sidewalk, I met my mother bustling out the back door to throw a mat away, cleaning out the house for the good-bye party for JP and Kacey tonight. I tiptoed upstairs to see how long I could go before Laura noticed that I was home. I finally knocked on her door, and of course she almost knocked me over, despite her sprained ankle. She hovered around, grinning and chattering like a squirrel, while I put things away. Downstairs, I washed laundry, and baked chocolate-and-butterscotch cookies. Philip called my father to beg for help because the Taurus had gotten stuck in the mud at the Spitlers’ house. So my father went out to help. My mother started to warm up leftovers for supper. The house smelled wonderful—cloves and cinnamon simmering on the stove, Laura’s sourdough bread baking in the oven, my cookies cooling on the counter. When I finished baking, I drove over to the Thomas’ house to pick up Stephen. He’d been spending the afternoon with Daniel and the Parnell boys, playing video games. Traffic was quite congested, so I had to worm my way through town, nosing through the lanes. Back at home, we found my father and Philip had returned safely. We ate supper. Then I disappeared upstairs to study, while my parents and Philip put the finishing touches on setting up for the party.

At six-thirty, the Wagners arrived to help set up. Ryan and Katie came upstairs. Ryan made jabbing jokes, which Laura and Stephen countered handily. Stephen showed Katie and Ryan his miniatures—Katie admired them, but Ryan pretended to be silly. I disappeared again, only to emerge when Missy knocked on my bedroom door to give me the box for Rachel M. I went downstairs for her, and we sat in the corner by the piano, talking. We talked with Katie and Beth, too, mostly about the deplorable state of liberal education. At seven o’clock, other people arrived: Jonathan, Jon, Logan, the Parnells, the Fishers, the Spitlers (minus Mr. Spitler and Rachel, who are in Belgium), and our guests of honor, Mr. and Mrs. Knox (otherwise known as JP and Kacey). The house felt as though it were expanding happily, filling full of brightly-colored clothes, laughter, and warm food, like spice being poured into a box. My mother had set up an elegant table in the dining room, covered with red cloth, candles, and sparkling gold wreaths. It soon filled with food—little sausages, crackers, cheese, cookies, cranberry-and-apple punch.

I stayed in my corner and talked with Sarah and Elizabeth. Sarah told me her horror stories from MTC this week. Christa wriggled up to me to show off her plate of sausages. She and Mary scampered upstairs to play with my old plastic horses. Katie organized a game downstairs, the fruit game (in which you have a circle of people, and everyone chooses a fruit name; one person stands in the middle and says his own fruit plus the fruit of someone else; he has to swat the other person with a sock before the other person can say her name and someone else’s name). Since so many people were present, Katie divided everyone into two circles so that two games were going at once. J.D. and I hung on the fringe of one circle, watching Mrs. Spitler, Mrs. Fisher, Katie, Sarah, Rebeka, Dani, Jonathan, Anna, and Jonathan’s friend Troy. It was quite humorous to watch the interaction of the moms with the younger fry, and to watch Anna and Jonathan as they argued with each other. The living room filled with noise, everyone talking and laughing and shouting at once.

Overwhelmed by the noise, I prowled soundlessly upstairs. Mary and Christa were playing happily together. Upstairs it was quiet and cool, though bursts of laughter sometimes vibrated up through the floor. I curled up against the wall and played with the girls, strapping tiny bridles and saddles around plastic muzzles and plastic bellies. Plastic hooves clopped on the carpet. The little girls babbled contentedly, making up stories about their horses which involved all sorts of ridiculous scenarios. Christa made up voices for the different characters in her story—when she dug out a small dinosaur from the toy box, her voice for it made me burst out laughing. Mr. Parnell came upstairs to check on us. He said that they were going to perform a skit downstairs, so I left the schoolroom door partly open and stood on the stairs to watch. It was a humorous skit, making fun of JP, Kacey, and almost everyone else (though the Jons and Mr. Wagner were the main figures to come under fire). My father played Jon, and Mr. Wagner played Jonathan in one scene, which made everyone laugh uproariously. Jonathan played Mr. Wagner, complete with a rapper outfit, which also made everyone laugh. Logan was the narrator—he’d come up with some absolutely comic rhymes for his narration.

After the skit, Katie made a short speech, thanking the Knoxes for their fellowship. Then the Knoxes got up and thanked the congregation for its fellowship. We sang Psalm 98A after that—a triumphant Psalm, fitting for a farewell that is not a farewell, for it’s between Christians, who shall see one another again soon. Then people started to leave, family by family. The Knoxes were the last to go, when the house was quiet and empty, but still full of light, like an echo of the company that was gone. We whisked the house into order, took baths, and went to bed.