February, Wet Hair and a Cloud Harp

I couldn't get Nathan in the same pic with us--he was busy preparing to be bored . . . 

          Saturday night Brent and Nathan and I went to see the Earth Harp in concert.  Nate actually enjoyed the evening and the music.  It was a good change of pace for all three of us.

The harp strings are connected to the balcony and back walls of the theater.  The circle of drums he called his Cloud Drums and when the drummer went to town on them it was incredible.

  

          I hope that your Valentine’s month provided some good memories.  Even though I usually find the constant prompts from stores to buy candy and ugly stuffed animals that have strange messages printed on signs attached to their hands or printed on their t-shirt (only in Florida do red flamingos with bulging eyes plead to be someone’s sweetheart . . . or at least, I hope it only happens in Florida)—currently I don’t notice my favorite grocery store posting any signs urging me to fulfill my duty to swell the national economic spending reports.  So, I have concentrated on looking for new snack foods as I meander through the aisles looking the items on my shopping list.

         Saturday is our “traditional” grocery-shopping day for the week.  As Brent pushed the cart through the store tonight, picking out our weekly staples, I remembered that I needed shampoo.  When I got there, I also thought that I needed conditioner and lotion.  As I passed the brushes and hair stuff, my eye was caught by a new kind of brush with blue micro-fibres among the short, knobby bristles—a brush that helped to dry my hair more quickly!

         I digress here to let you see my fascination with this technology.  I have had thick hair—grown long—for the majority of my life.  When I was in high school, I swam and danced ballet—so I washed my hair every night.  There were weeks when my hair stayed continually damp—blow drying it took 40 minutes or more but braiding is back only took ten.  So, after a lifetime of draping my hair over my pillow at night—seeing a brush that might speed up the process and actually get my hair dry between shampoos was an item I was more than willing to try.

         So—now I am waundering the aisles with slick, odd-shaped containers clutched in my arms . . . each of which takes its turn slipping out of from under the rest and falling to the ground. 

         I arrive, still watching for Brent and the cart, at the meat department.  Three days before, I had seen a small packet with a picture of a lovely looking rib roast on the front.  With this packet (at home on the kitchen table by an open Calculus text book and pages of half-finished homework) in my mind, I approach the meat counter and select a very small, very beautiful prime rib roast. 

         Now, as I walk, I am kind of slouching sideward, curled over and around my varied items with this roast clutched in my trembling right hand.

         Finally, I see Brent and lurch toward him—unceremoniously dumping my arm-full into the cart.

         I have spent most of my life as a spectator—watching me do what I am doing from the sidelines.  I see this event in my memory right now and smile as I see Brent’s face light up when I finally find him.  He does not inspect my choices and tell me to go and put the strange-looking brush back.  He does not remind me that we have lots of other lotions already at home.

         He simply smiles at me—glad that I am with him.