Life is about compromise. So, rather than giving away this old-fashioned armless rocking chair, which no one sits in nor ever has, we are moving it to the front porch and giving away the wicker chaise longue, whose cushion the squirrels have begun to disembowel to steal the cotton for their nests. I hate the chaise longue even more than I hate the rocking chair, because it is uncomfortable for your neck and, even more important, some undergraduate slept off a drunken stupor on it a couple years ago, which makes me fear that it's an invitation to every homeless person and partier in the neighborhood, located as it is on the front porch in plain view. We just need to find another spot for the hidden key.
The antique armless rocking chair is theoretically perfect for sitting in to play the guitar, although it can't be used for that purpose stored beneath the studio stairwell as it is. So it's destined for the front porch, and the chaise longue is destined for the Goodwill.
Speaking of compromise and playing music, we've been doing a lot of both this weekend in the U.P. Rich has been playing the guitar and I have been playing the mandolin, he beautifully and I with supreme mediocrity. Compromise plays into it: I'm playing the melodies at double my comfortable speed, and Rich has been teaching me chords and strum patterns, if not exactly with patience, then at least with good humor. And yesterday, when we caught me weeping with frustration over changing a string, he kissed me on the cheek, took the kinks out and coached me through. We're going to perfect Whiskey Before Breakast and Soldier's Joy before the weekend is out.
No phone, no texting, no internet. Just music (I'm getting better!), good food, the sound of the surf and midnight sunsets. Except for worrying about Emma Jane (is she okay by herself in the house?), I am having a terrific time.
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