Friend Eric and blog regular Logan are Scrooge and Tiny Tim in this year’s production of A Christmas Carol. Over six years, Eric has become Scrooge to half a generation of local kids. But each year, the role of Tim is bestowed upon a different six or seven year old. And now it’s Logan’s turn. He didn’t inherit the role at all; he had to audition and perform both a monologue and a rehearsed song. There was competition. But – quite naturally for those of us who love him (and we are legion) – there was never any contest. He had to be Tim.
Last night our small city staged it’s annual Christmas parade – with 127 floats, costumes galore, music everywhere and lights, lights, lights. Santa led things off in the Budweiser carriage behind four magnificent Clydesdales.
I took Logan and his mom out for some dinner early before costume call and we then spent a very long time at the float waiting for our start time.
Sometimes waiting is the best part.
A theatre friend of many years was just moved into hospice. Six year old Logan – who has appeared in this blog more than once – has known David all his young life and tonight his mom explained why he wouldn’t see David any more. So Logan wrote David a letter. On his own. His mom added her signature when he finished.
Andrew Sullivan at The Daily Dish is asking for pathetic and sad ‘back to school’ pictures. Which gives me a welcome excuse to re-publish this from last year. Nothing sad here. (The pix and the text are from the original post in September 2009.)
Okay! Here I go . . .
Don’t know quite how this happened. His Mom came to work for me at the theatre a few years before I retired and he was a wee wee wee thing. And then he walked. And then he talked. And then he spelled out letters and read to us from his books. And then he began to write the letters himself and make them into words that got a little bit bigger and a little bit longer every time. And he came to dinner last night, proud proud proud to be in ‘really’ school.Logan got a new lunch bag for his first day of Kindergarten.
UPDATE: Just had an email from Logan’s mom about his first day in FIRST Grade. “Oh, what a wet day the first day was. His had to be dropped off so that he wouldn’t be dripping wet in class. Sad for me, fun for him. I didn’t walk him to class for the first time ever. Man, why do Band-Aids always get ripped off of me. It still hurts no matter what they say.”
The annual skyshow delivered by the Perseid Meteor Showers begins tonight. Unfortunately – for me – viewing is going to be nearly impossible, as we’ve been locked into a weather system here, that’s blocked out the sky and will do so right through Friday night, when it all ends.
I have a wonderful memory of lying on blankets in a mountain field in Vermont – with friends, a low banked fire and lots of red wine. We lay flat on our backs and it seemed the entire Universe had come to visit. It was so glorious, there was almost complete silence.
Good viewing to you!
There’s a certain serenity that comes at a certain age that I don’t believe is even possible when one is younger. It’s something that generations hide for themselves. We don’t all get there right away, but it’s not elusive – it’s just waiting for us.
Friend Elaine, following a dialogue about brothers (and other males) defined it:
“I was on the back porch looking for new blooms when 4 count them 4 goldfinch landed on a spidery plant and rode the swaying thin stems like a swing, then one of the male hummingbirds that make my backyard a regular haunt stopped by to feed on the dontknowthename purple flowers they like so much while the baby chipmonk foraged around the plants.
“Screw the men, I have a garden. “
This one is for my friend and neighbor Butch, the guy in the turban.