How do I paint the picture of the musical houses that unfolded a couple of hours ago? First, our family of three visited next door where Dave’s brother’s family of four was. Then, two family members, Alice and Holt, from across the street stopped by on their way home, having just taken a flight home from Vegas after seeing Keith Urban. Then one of Dave’s brother’s kids left in the car with Alice. Next, Lainey (also family), from next door, drove by and spontaneously into the drive, asking Evelyn to come to Pam’s, the other family member’s house across the street, to hang out with the other kids. For the final crescendo, Dave’s brother’s son and Holt took off on an ATV across the street, leaving behind four adults.
Later, after an hour of blissful quiet among us forty-somethings, the masses returned. Here’s the scene: pure, delightful chaos.
After dinner, we went comet hunting as a snack for the soul. We drove to the hills, scanning the sky but nothing remotely resembled a celestial body. We turned off on a gravel road, driving parallel to the western horizon with our heads craned, hoping the trees and brush would eventually clear for visibility.
And then it did, in a big way. We pulled off at a gravel turnout near a cluster of silos and parked. Still nothing—until Dave pointed toward the top of a tree. At first, it was faint, just a whisper of light. But as our eyes adjusted, we saw it: the comet’s tail, barely grazing the treetops and casting its dust-like glow. It’s otherworldliness reminded me of the eclipse I viewed from a raised welding mask with bare eyes.
Now, as I sit here, a newly tuned guitar leans against the couch beside me. I strummed it earlier for about ten minutes, focusing on the G and C chords, making sure each string was pressed firmly into the neck. My fingers, soft as pillows, struggled. I know from past experience that pain builds callouses, and those callouses are the tough little soldiers you need to make real music.
I’m really enjoying my spot on the extra-padded chaise of our new couch. With an oversized squishy pillow propping up my back, a soft mushroom-and-flower patterned blanket over my lap, and my over-ear headphones playing the Arrival soundtrack, I’m closing my eyes between sentences, letting the music move me. My only gripe, if I can even call it that, is that the ceiling fan’s spinning just a tad too fast—maybe two or three rotations per second more than I’d like. Not that I really know anything about rotations, but still.
That’s better. Not only the fan, but I also changed the vibe from the instrumental soundtrack to Tracy Chapman’s Fast Car. Her voice is pure magic. And from here until I get to bed I’ll let songs play at random, letting their lyrics and beat groove at me.
Or just watch the next episode of Love Is Blind.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 