I’m going to have an Oscar party No, not those Oscars. The trash one. The grumpy one I grew up with. The one who lived in the trash can grumpy all the time. Reliable, you know. Trustworthy. I knew how he would respond to everything. I valued that then and now. Let’s have a party and all come as Oscar the Grouch. Let’s dress as muppets and be grumpy. Let’s complain about anything and everything.
And what do you think you will hear, listening in to this Oscar the Grouch party as it devolves?
I have played flute since fourth grade. This pastel was done by my mother, Helen Burling Ottaway, in 1980. We lived in Alexandria, Virginia. I am playing flute and Johnny Johnson is on trumpet. My father played trumpet too. Johnny was trying to teach me to improvise. I had not listened to much jazz and was not very good at it. I was well trained in classical flute and could read music. Johnny said, “No, just LISTEN.” I did learn it and can still play it.
One night the three of us were playing. We had a knock on the door. It was an Alexandria policeman. “We have had a complaint about the loud party.”
We looked at him blankly. My father says, “Well, you are looking at it.”
“Three of you?” says the policeman.
“Two trumpets and a flute.” says my father. “We can make a lot of noise.”
“Hmm.” says the policeman. “Well, um, could you keep it down a little?”
“Yes,” says my father, “It is after 10, so we will play more quietly.”
The policeman left and we did.
My mother’s pastel is titled “Lullaby of Birdland”.
On Saturday I was at a graduation party (Hooray for Rose!) and I took this picture, thinking of Photrablogger’s Mundane Monday Challenge….. hooray, it fits the theme…..angle, color, lighting.
Very soon after the angel dream came back I dreamed this:
I was in a house doing something and I realized suddenly that there were a lot of people present. It was a party. I had been so engaged that I had not noticed. It was not my house.
I saw my maternal uncle. I went to hug him: “Hello Uncle Rob!” He withdrew with his fierce expression: “I am not sure I want to hug you.” I shrugged.
I saw a female maternal cousin next, across a counter. We have been on opposite sides of a family issue. I reached across the counter and hugged her. She looked sad and disapproving, but she let me hug her.
I was hungry. We were going to have dinner, but it was not ready yet. I had a chocolate bar and pulled it out. Dark chocolate. A two year old curly headed blonde boy was eyeing me and the chocolate. I smiled at him. He smiled back, cautiously. “Who does this little boy belong to?” I asked, “And may I give him some chocolate?”
A large blond curly haired man turned and smiled at me. “He’s mine and yes you can.” he said, grinning.
I said to the boy, “I am going to pick you up and then I will give you some chocolate.” I picked him up. He was still being a little careful, glancing at his father to check in. I thought that the party was going to be fun, with the little boy and his father, and I woke up.
Discover and re-discover Mexico’s cuisine, culture and history through the recipes, backyard stories and other interesting findings of an expatriate in Canada
Engaging in some lyrical athletics whilst painting pictures with words and pounding the pavement. I run; blog; write poetry; chase after my kids & drink coffee.
Refugees welcome - Flüchtlinge willkommen I am teaching German to refugees. Ich unterrichte geflüchtete Menschen in der deutschen Sprache. I am writing this blog in English and German because my friends speak English and German. Ich schreibe auf Deutsch und Englisch, weil meine Freunde Deutsch und Englisch sprechen.