'Nuff thaid.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
LEGO PIANO
What happens when an almost-9-year-old lego genius asks his older musician-brother what he'd like him to build?
A LEGO PIANO!!!
Bird's eye view.
Note the mid-air expression of his hands.
(Lego people have to be doubly talented to play with only four fingers...)
I especially love the stick holding up the lid.
Note the pedals--which need a second lego person
laying on the floor to operate, since Mr. Lego's legs
are too short. :)
THANKS, JIMBEE!
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Home of the Sick and the Brave...
Well, true to Bernhardt family compassion, we have decided to join the ranks of sickies in the northern Illinois area. We just couldn't bear to sit by and see so many of our dear friends and family under the weather without bearing their burdens with them (Galatians 6:2).
We have the whole works: chest colds, coughs, fevers, sore throats...when we decide to do something, we "do it heartily" (Colossians 3:23)!
So, if you were to be snooty and gaze through the Bernhardt household windows, you would find lots of kleenex boxes laying around; people prostrate on the couches with blankets and wet washcloths adorning their bodies, while an Andy Griffith episode exudes from the television set.
When we enter the land of the living again, look for an all-new post about Bernhardt family happenings...
We have the whole works: chest colds, coughs, fevers, sore throats...when we decide to do something, we "do it heartily" (Colossians 3:23)!
So, if you were to be snooty and gaze through the Bernhardt household windows, you would find lots of kleenex boxes laying around; people prostrate on the couches with blankets and wet washcloths adorning their bodies, while an Andy Griffith episode exudes from the television set.
When we enter the land of the living again, look for an all-new post about Bernhardt family happenings...
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
The Violin: Music of Angels
Last night I listened to the Tchaikovsky Violin Concerto--David Oistrakh with Eugene Ormandy and the Philadelphia Orchestra. Wow. Fine Musicianship. Oistrakh's playing is so controlled--especially his rhythm, which seems to have infinite flexibility without sacrificing any of the musical continuity.
I'd encourage all you classical music lovers out there to get a copy; I got it from our local library.
I have a hard time deciding which violin concerto I enjoy more: Tchaikovsky or Brahms.
I'd encourage all you classical music lovers out there to get a copy; I got it from our local library.
I have a hard time deciding which violin concerto I enjoy more: Tchaikovsky or Brahms.
The Bible is Theocentric
Make a joyful noise unto the LORD,
all ye lands.
Serve the LORD with gladness:
come before His presence with singing.
Know ye that the LORD He is God:
it is He that hath made us,
and not we ourselves;
we are His people,
and the sheep of His pasture.
Enter into His gates with thanksgiving,
and into His courts with praise:
be thankful unto Him,
and bless His name.
For the LORD is good;
His mercy is everlasting;
and His truth endureth to all generations.
Psalm 100
Friday, February 6, 2009
A Day in My Life: February 5, 2009
Fha-tchwa! Fha-tchwa! Fha-tchwa! Fha-tchwa! (My impression of the alarm on my cell phone.)
Time to get up. Dad comes in and says, "It's a little after six, Jay."
"Yuuhhp," I groan, whipping back the covers and hastily making my bed. Time for another Speedy Gonzalez chore session.
Dressing into layers for outside work, I hurry downstairs, grab the 5-gallon bucket in the garage, and turn on the hot water--or at least the hot water handle. While I wait for the H2O to heat up, I flick on the breaker switch that gives the chickens their stun into reality.
[I have often pondered whether they wonder why the sun comes up so suddenly. At any rate, the rooster immediately takes advantage of the increased illuminence to assert his dominion over all chicken-related matters with his Rgghh-rr-Rgghh-rr-Rrggghhh! (I don't care what the childrens' books say: the rooster simply does not say "cock-a-doodle-doo!")]
The bucket having filled up, I head out into the crisp fresh air. Quickly traversing the approximate 80 yards to the barn, I yank open the sliding door, simultaneously saying, "Good morning, girls!" I am greeted by a few faint bleats; then one by one, the goats stand to their feet and accomplish the gymnastic feat of the hour: the morning stretch. For a moment I stand watching them, looking for any sick or weak ones. (Feliz impatiently bleats at me to get moving.) Satisfied, I move into routine mode, flying through the barn and along the icy paths, transporting hay, water, and grain to hungry animals.
Twenty-five minutes later, I re-enter the house. Hat on the desk shelf. Gloves in front of the heater. Jacket hung on the file cabinet, with scarf around it. Wool socks hung on the handle of the file drawer.
Coming into the kitchen, I grab a piece of scratch paper and a blue sharpie marker and sit down next to Dad at the table. I scrawl,
JIMBY: [our nickname for Josiah]
Please feed and water the cats if you can. Thanks!
JAYBEE
Ascending the staircase and gathering my clothes, Jess comes out of the bathroom and I go in, passing like ships in the night. After rapidly showering and dressing, I come downstairs again. It is 6:55.
Jess is standing in the pantry with a blender full of shake. "I'm trying to figure out what to put your shake in so it won't spill."
"Just throw it in a jar with a lid. That's fine," I say.
Grabbing my music tote bag, slippers, and MP3 player, I head back out into the cold air, open the door of Dad's truck, and squeeze myself into the back side "sardine seat." [I wouldn't suggest going on a long trip in the back seat of a Nissan, sideways. It makes for a fun ride, but there's a reason roller coaster rides aren't any longer than five minutes.]
The door opens, and Jess climbs into the passenger seat. Pulling out of the driveway, I open my jar of chocolate shake. [To set at ease the hearts of our fellow health crusaders, the shake contained raw eggs, raw cow's milk, raw honey, and "raw" chocolate.] I soon discover that drinking a shake while sideways in a shock-injured Nissan is not a good idea. Closing the jar, I decide to finish it while on the train.
Within seven and a half minutes, we arrive at the Harvard Metra Station. [This convenient train station has been a unique blessing to our family, especially yours truly in his music travels. It is the farthest outpost on the Union Pacific Northwest Line, about two hours from Chicago's Ogilvie Transportation Center.] Jess gets out of the truck, and I emerge from my sardine can a bit ruffled but looking forward to the day ahead.
Following the farewells, I follow a white-coated senior citizen into the station. She and I stand in line, waiting for the ticketmaster to appear behind the glass window. After she buys her round-trip ticket, I step to the counter. "One way to Dee Road." Having obtained my ticket, I sit down on the bench, with at least twenty minutes before the train leaves. I am thankful for my MP3 player, which is a useful tool for fading out unsavory conversations. Taking it out, I listen to "A Thousand Joys" on King of Love, the beautiful "new" Soundforth release. I thank God for beautiful music that stills our hearts, stirs up our hearts and prepares us for service.
Ding! Ding! Ding! Outside the train is inching toward the place of boarding. I stand up and walk out of the station, along with all but one of its inhabitants. Turning the corner around the station, I proceed to the second car and follow a group of four on board. Choosing the right half of the car, I find a seat and make myself comfortable, displaying my ticket on the seat in front of me.
Voice-over: "This is--Metra--Union Pacific Northwest Line--Train Number--Six--Sixty--scheduled to depart at--7:35--for--Ogilvie Transportation Center--with intermediate stops at--Woodstock, Crystal Lake, Pingree Road..."
One hour and fifteen minutes later, I disembark at the Dee Road platform, inhaling the fresh winter-spring air with a little thrill of exuberance. I wave to my dear friends in the dark champagne van parked near the wheelchair ramp. Descending this, I step into the vehicle and am welcomed by two enthusiastic "Good morning, Jacob!"s. I return the salutations to Mrs. Ziesemer and Daniel, and we head for their Oak Brook home. After a half-hourish drive, we pull into the Ziesemers' long lane, mazing our way through the shrubbery that beautifies the area and provides a peaceful setting in the midst of urban Oak Brook's heavy traffic. My eye catches sight of two deer in the woods, which at first I take to be statues, but this judgment is reconsidered when one moves its head slightly. [Strangely enough, the Ziesemer family, living in the midst of a Chicago suburb, are regularly visited by these beautiful deer, while the Bernhardt family rarely sees them, though surrounded by farmland and cornfields. Hmmm.]
Entering the house, I think to myself that I am delighted to be spending another day in this house and with these people. So many memories of musical joys and long practice times...
Over the next several hours, Daniel shows me the violin and piano CD arrangements he has diligently been working on during the month we were apart. We play through them a few times, discussing musical nuances and technical facilitations. Thus pass nearly six hours.
Just before leaving, my day is brightened by a visit with Grandmother Smith, Mrs. Ziesemer's mother. A frail, dear lady, she is very proud of her grandson and is thrilled to hear Daniel and me practicing together. "Hello, Mrs. Smith," I call cheerfully as I enter her apartment (a very nice residence converted from the Z's previous garage--the Z's have twenty-four hour care for her there).
"Hello." She speaks in a weak, soft, deliberate voice. Her warm, radiant smile greets me. I take her hand in mine.
"Oh, your hands are cold!" she says.
I reply, "And your hands are warm!"
She mentions that this is because she keeps them underneath her shawl. "How is your mother?"
"She is doing very well."
"Are you married now?"
Smiling, I return, "No, ma'am, I'm not married yet." Knowing we need to leave soon, I say, "Well, I will be coming back on the 14th."
"Oh, I'll look forward to seeing you then."
"Yes, all right."
A few minutes past three, we again load up the van, joined this time by Mr. Ziesemer.
At four-thirty, we turn into an alley and Mr. Ziesemer skillfully maneuvers the van between the corner of a garage and a telephone pole [which it sometimes takes me several minutes to do, and that with our small Dodge Shadow!], into the driveway behind our destination: 1935 Sherman Avenue, Evanston, Illinois--a red and white brick condominium building outlined by prominent white bricks. Here reside Dr. and Mrs. Roland Vamos, famed violin and viola instructors.
Leaving Mrs. Ziesemer in the van, we ascend the stairs to the first floor of the condominiums, where, after knocking on the door, Daniel inserts a key into the lock and enters, followed by Mr. Ziesemer and me. Walking to the other end of the condo, we descend the staircase and get settled in the studio. Meanwhile, Mr. Ziesemer goes through the garage and returns with Mrs. Z.
After practicing for a few minutes, we are greeted by a white-coated senior citizen--only this time it is Mrs. Vamos. [All smiles, Mrs. Almita Vamos possesses an authoritative yet self-sacrificing spirit. She it was who recommended me to my beloved piano teacher, Mr. D.]
We play some of our pieces for her, and then Dr. Vamos comes down the stairs. [Dr. Roland Vamos is a character unlike any other I have met. His spirit is infinitely larger than his somewhat small frame. Full of wit, good-humor, fire, and generous enthusiasm, his lessons are splashed with his conducting expertise as he conducts his students, obtaining fantastic results. It often seems that he gets out of us something we never seem to produce on our own, and we have often remarked that it would be wonderful to have him in the recording studio with us. We often refer difficult musical questions to Dr. Vamos.] Playing the rest of our pieces for him, we are again transformed into "real" musicians, and leave 1935 Sherman Avenue with renewed inspiration and aspirations.
To the train station we now go, and arrive at the Park Ridge station twenty minutes before the train is scheduled to arrive. After visiting a little longer, I disembark from the vehicle, and amid the cheery farewells and "see you on the 14th"s, we part ways, the Ziesemers bound for Oak Brook, and I for home.
The though of a ten minute wait on the center platform induces me to engage in some exercise, so I begin to walk up and down the platform through the brisk, half-damp February air. Coming to a stop, I strike up a mini-conversation with the only other individual within range: an average-height, middle-aged man with accoutrements of goatee, moustache, glasses, hat, and a "SONY" coat.
"Do you work for Sony?"
"I did at one point, yes."
The train light appears from the Southeast.
"Where are they located?"
"Their headquarters is in Manhattan."
"Is that where you were, then?"
"Yes."
"Where exactly is that in relation to New York?" [Here I manifest my geographical ignorance.]
The train light brightens as it approaches closer.
"Manhattan is a part of New York City."
"Busy place, I've heard."
"Yes."
"A lot busier than Chicago?"
"Oh, yeah. It's like taking four Chicagos and stacking them on top of each other. New York is crazy."
"Wow. I've lived in one county my whole life."
"McHenry County?"
"Yes. Lived in McHenry for a while, and then moved out to Harvard six years ago."
"How do you like it?"
"Oh, we love it. It's far enough out in the country, but still not too far. We live on five acres, and have twenty-five goats, and about twenty-five chickens, so we have fun."
The noise of the train is now distinctly heard, and the bell begins ringing and the lights flashing. I begin walking along the platform a short distance, as sometimes the train stops farther along the track. But this time it halts close by, and I get onto the fourth car from the rear, followed by my Sony friend. Sliding into a seat, Mr. Sony passes me by and enters the next car. [Amazing that this is most likely the extent of the relationship with Mr. Sony, for both of our lives.] Taking out my trusty MP3 player [thanks, Mom and Dad!], I settle down for a comfortable ride home.
It is 10:18.
Voice-over: Now approaching--Harvard. I scan the next few lines of The Coral Island by R.M. Ballantyne and insert the bookmark, packing up my music tote and preparing for disembarkation. While I am halfway standing with my balance already uncertain, the locomotive jerks to a stop that nearly locates my noggen on the floor of the car. Regaining my composure, I walk down the four steps and out into the crisp Harvard air.
"Ah!" I give a little exhilirating heart prayer of gratitude to Jehovah for another safe arrival in my hometown. [This is an attitude I experience every time I get off a train. Thankfulness to be safely back on terra firma with more opportunities for service and love.] Walking with about five other people around the train and across the track, we scatter to our respective vehicles. For my part, I look for Dad's Nissan, not seeing it--ah, there it is, he's turning the corner at Front and Eastman Streets. After he winds around the Metra parking lot, I approach the vehicle and open the door. Climbing in, I greet my dear, hard-working father. It is really wonderful of him to pick me up at 10:20 on a Thursday night. [This day in particular Dad was quite the chauffer. Between Jess and me on Thursday alone, I counted five pick-ups and drop-offs!]
Pulling into our winding lane, I silently utter the "thank-you-Lord-to-be-home-once-again" prayer, as Dad pulls up at the garage.
"Thanks for picking me up, Dad."
I am not able to traverse the 10 feet from the truck to the garage before Flair sees me and bleats out loudly for me to come and milk her. Poor thing, she is in the "drying-up" process, which can be painful.
The end of a long, productive day.
Time to get up. Dad comes in and says, "It's a little after six, Jay."
"Yuuhhp," I groan, whipping back the covers and hastily making my bed. Time for another Speedy Gonzalez chore session.
Dressing into layers for outside work, I hurry downstairs, grab the 5-gallon bucket in the garage, and turn on the hot water--or at least the hot water handle. While I wait for the H2O to heat up, I flick on the breaker switch that gives the chickens their stun into reality.
[I have often pondered whether they wonder why the sun comes up so suddenly. At any rate, the rooster immediately takes advantage of the increased illuminence to assert his dominion over all chicken-related matters with his Rgghh-rr-Rgghh-rr-Rrggghhh! (I don't care what the childrens' books say: the rooster simply does not say "cock-a-doodle-doo!")]
The bucket having filled up, I head out into the crisp fresh air. Quickly traversing the approximate 80 yards to the barn, I yank open the sliding door, simultaneously saying, "Good morning, girls!" I am greeted by a few faint bleats; then one by one, the goats stand to their feet and accomplish the gymnastic feat of the hour: the morning stretch. For a moment I stand watching them, looking for any sick or weak ones. (Feliz impatiently bleats at me to get moving.) Satisfied, I move into routine mode, flying through the barn and along the icy paths, transporting hay, water, and grain to hungry animals.
Twenty-five minutes later, I re-enter the house. Hat on the desk shelf. Gloves in front of the heater. Jacket hung on the file cabinet, with scarf around it. Wool socks hung on the handle of the file drawer.
Coming into the kitchen, I grab a piece of scratch paper and a blue sharpie marker and sit down next to Dad at the table. I scrawl,
JIMBY: [our nickname for Josiah]
Please feed and water the cats if you can. Thanks!
JAYBEE
Ascending the staircase and gathering my clothes, Jess comes out of the bathroom and I go in, passing like ships in the night. After rapidly showering and dressing, I come downstairs again. It is 6:55.
Jess is standing in the pantry with a blender full of shake. "I'm trying to figure out what to put your shake in so it won't spill."
"Just throw it in a jar with a lid. That's fine," I say.
Grabbing my music tote bag, slippers, and MP3 player, I head back out into the cold air, open the door of Dad's truck, and squeeze myself into the back side "sardine seat." [I wouldn't suggest going on a long trip in the back seat of a Nissan, sideways. It makes for a fun ride, but there's a reason roller coaster rides aren't any longer than five minutes.]
The door opens, and Jess climbs into the passenger seat. Pulling out of the driveway, I open my jar of chocolate shake. [To set at ease the hearts of our fellow health crusaders, the shake contained raw eggs, raw cow's milk, raw honey, and "raw" chocolate.] I soon discover that drinking a shake while sideways in a shock-injured Nissan is not a good idea. Closing the jar, I decide to finish it while on the train.
Within seven and a half minutes, we arrive at the Harvard Metra Station. [This convenient train station has been a unique blessing to our family, especially yours truly in his music travels. It is the farthest outpost on the Union Pacific Northwest Line, about two hours from Chicago's Ogilvie Transportation Center.] Jess gets out of the truck, and I emerge from my sardine can a bit ruffled but looking forward to the day ahead.
Following the farewells, I follow a white-coated senior citizen into the station. She and I stand in line, waiting for the ticketmaster to appear behind the glass window. After she buys her round-trip ticket, I step to the counter. "One way to Dee Road." Having obtained my ticket, I sit down on the bench, with at least twenty minutes before the train leaves. I am thankful for my MP3 player, which is a useful tool for fading out unsavory conversations. Taking it out, I listen to "A Thousand Joys" on King of Love, the beautiful "new" Soundforth release. I thank God for beautiful music that stills our hearts, stirs up our hearts and prepares us for service.
Ding! Ding! Ding! Outside the train is inching toward the place of boarding. I stand up and walk out of the station, along with all but one of its inhabitants. Turning the corner around the station, I proceed to the second car and follow a group of four on board. Choosing the right half of the car, I find a seat and make myself comfortable, displaying my ticket on the seat in front of me.
Voice-over: "This is--Metra--Union Pacific Northwest Line--Train Number--Six--Sixty--scheduled to depart at--7:35--for--Ogilvie Transportation Center--with intermediate stops at--Woodstock, Crystal Lake, Pingree Road..."
One hour and fifteen minutes later, I disembark at the Dee Road platform, inhaling the fresh winter-spring air with a little thrill of exuberance. I wave to my dear friends in the dark champagne van parked near the wheelchair ramp. Descending this, I step into the vehicle and am welcomed by two enthusiastic "Good morning, Jacob!"s. I return the salutations to Mrs. Ziesemer and Daniel, and we head for their Oak Brook home. After a half-hourish drive, we pull into the Ziesemers' long lane, mazing our way through the shrubbery that beautifies the area and provides a peaceful setting in the midst of urban Oak Brook's heavy traffic. My eye catches sight of two deer in the woods, which at first I take to be statues, but this judgment is reconsidered when one moves its head slightly. [Strangely enough, the Ziesemer family, living in the midst of a Chicago suburb, are regularly visited by these beautiful deer, while the Bernhardt family rarely sees them, though surrounded by farmland and cornfields. Hmmm.]
Entering the house, I think to myself that I am delighted to be spending another day in this house and with these people. So many memories of musical joys and long practice times...
Over the next several hours, Daniel shows me the violin and piano CD arrangements he has diligently been working on during the month we were apart. We play through them a few times, discussing musical nuances and technical facilitations. Thus pass nearly six hours.
Just before leaving, my day is brightened by a visit with Grandmother Smith, Mrs. Ziesemer's mother. A frail, dear lady, she is very proud of her grandson and is thrilled to hear Daniel and me practicing together. "Hello, Mrs. Smith," I call cheerfully as I enter her apartment (a very nice residence converted from the Z's previous garage--the Z's have twenty-four hour care for her there).
"Hello." She speaks in a weak, soft, deliberate voice. Her warm, radiant smile greets me. I take her hand in mine.
"Oh, your hands are cold!" she says.
I reply, "And your hands are warm!"
She mentions that this is because she keeps them underneath her shawl. "How is your mother?"
"She is doing very well."
"Are you married now?"
Smiling, I return, "No, ma'am, I'm not married yet." Knowing we need to leave soon, I say, "Well, I will be coming back on the 14th."
"Oh, I'll look forward to seeing you then."
"Yes, all right."
A few minutes past three, we again load up the van, joined this time by Mr. Ziesemer.
At four-thirty, we turn into an alley and Mr. Ziesemer skillfully maneuvers the van between the corner of a garage and a telephone pole [which it sometimes takes me several minutes to do, and that with our small Dodge Shadow!], into the driveway behind our destination: 1935 Sherman Avenue, Evanston, Illinois--a red and white brick condominium building outlined by prominent white bricks. Here reside Dr. and Mrs. Roland Vamos, famed violin and viola instructors.
Leaving Mrs. Ziesemer in the van, we ascend the stairs to the first floor of the condominiums, where, after knocking on the door, Daniel inserts a key into the lock and enters, followed by Mr. Ziesemer and me. Walking to the other end of the condo, we descend the staircase and get settled in the studio. Meanwhile, Mr. Ziesemer goes through the garage and returns with Mrs. Z.
After practicing for a few minutes, we are greeted by a white-coated senior citizen--only this time it is Mrs. Vamos. [All smiles, Mrs. Almita Vamos possesses an authoritative yet self-sacrificing spirit. She it was who recommended me to my beloved piano teacher, Mr. D.]
We play some of our pieces for her, and then Dr. Vamos comes down the stairs. [Dr. Roland Vamos is a character unlike any other I have met. His spirit is infinitely larger than his somewhat small frame. Full of wit, good-humor, fire, and generous enthusiasm, his lessons are splashed with his conducting expertise as he conducts his students, obtaining fantastic results. It often seems that he gets out of us something we never seem to produce on our own, and we have often remarked that it would be wonderful to have him in the recording studio with us. We often refer difficult musical questions to Dr. Vamos.] Playing the rest of our pieces for him, we are again transformed into "real" musicians, and leave 1935 Sherman Avenue with renewed inspiration and aspirations.
To the train station we now go, and arrive at the Park Ridge station twenty minutes before the train is scheduled to arrive. After visiting a little longer, I disembark from the vehicle, and amid the cheery farewells and "see you on the 14th"s, we part ways, the Ziesemers bound for Oak Brook, and I for home.
The though of a ten minute wait on the center platform induces me to engage in some exercise, so I begin to walk up and down the platform through the brisk, half-damp February air. Coming to a stop, I strike up a mini-conversation with the only other individual within range: an average-height, middle-aged man with accoutrements of goatee, moustache, glasses, hat, and a "SONY" coat.
"Do you work for Sony?"
"I did at one point, yes."
The train light appears from the Southeast.
"Where are they located?"
"Their headquarters is in Manhattan."
"Is that where you were, then?"
"Yes."
"Where exactly is that in relation to New York?" [Here I manifest my geographical ignorance.]
The train light brightens as it approaches closer.
"Manhattan is a part of New York City."
"Busy place, I've heard."
"Yes."
"A lot busier than Chicago?"
"Oh, yeah. It's like taking four Chicagos and stacking them on top of each other. New York is crazy."
"Wow. I've lived in one county my whole life."
"McHenry County?"
"Yes. Lived in McHenry for a while, and then moved out to Harvard six years ago."
"How do you like it?"
"Oh, we love it. It's far enough out in the country, but still not too far. We live on five acres, and have twenty-five goats, and about twenty-five chickens, so we have fun."
The noise of the train is now distinctly heard, and the bell begins ringing and the lights flashing. I begin walking along the platform a short distance, as sometimes the train stops farther along the track. But this time it halts close by, and I get onto the fourth car from the rear, followed by my Sony friend. Sliding into a seat, Mr. Sony passes me by and enters the next car. [Amazing that this is most likely the extent of the relationship with Mr. Sony, for both of our lives.] Taking out my trusty MP3 player [thanks, Mom and Dad!], I settle down for a comfortable ride home.
><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><
It is 10:18.
Voice-over: Now approaching--Harvard. I scan the next few lines of The Coral Island by R.M. Ballantyne and insert the bookmark, packing up my music tote and preparing for disembarkation. While I am halfway standing with my balance already uncertain, the locomotive jerks to a stop that nearly locates my noggen on the floor of the car. Regaining my composure, I walk down the four steps and out into the crisp Harvard air.
"Ah!" I give a little exhilirating heart prayer of gratitude to Jehovah for another safe arrival in my hometown. [This is an attitude I experience every time I get off a train. Thankfulness to be safely back on terra firma with more opportunities for service and love.] Walking with about five other people around the train and across the track, we scatter to our respective vehicles. For my part, I look for Dad's Nissan, not seeing it--ah, there it is, he's turning the corner at Front and Eastman Streets. After he winds around the Metra parking lot, I approach the vehicle and open the door. Climbing in, I greet my dear, hard-working father. It is really wonderful of him to pick me up at 10:20 on a Thursday night. [This day in particular Dad was quite the chauffer. Between Jess and me on Thursday alone, I counted five pick-ups and drop-offs!]
Pulling into our winding lane, I silently utter the "thank-you-Lord-to-be-home-once-again" prayer, as Dad pulls up at the garage.
"Thanks for picking me up, Dad."
I am not able to traverse the 10 feet from the truck to the garage before Flair sees me and bleats out loudly for me to come and milk her. Poor thing, she is in the "drying-up" process, which can be painful.
The end of a long, productive day.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
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