Ada, Kate, and The Opera

I recently purchased 2 season tickets to the Pensacola Opera Company. Lest you think that extravagant, you must understand that this company only performs two operas a season. This year they are performing "Little Women" in January and Puccini's remarkable "Turandot" in March.

There was a method to my madness.

Kate had said that she was a fan of opera and if the opportunity presented itself, she would love to attend a performance. While I am not a total opera buff per se, I am completely mesmerized by "Turandot". I've listened to the entire opera countless times and have even tried to sing the classic aria "Nessun Dorma" (in Pavarotti's key no less) in the shower. Without being overly graphic, let's just say that this was not a good idea and one shouldn't try this at home. I received a not so gentle reminder that Pavarotti is Pavarotti for a reason and, even though I was a star tenor in the Boston Latin School Glee Club, there are certain limitations to my vocal range.

I walked with a limp for a month!

But I digress. When I called Kate to tell her that I had ordered the tickets for these two operas, she was thrilled. So was I because it meant that we had to remain a "couple" at least until March 11, the "Turandot" performance. I told her that on March 12 she can leave me by the side of the road, but not until then. Kate was kind enough to tell me that she didn't envision that happening, and that these tickets could serve as her March birthday present. Sweet!

Come to think of it, I wish they had had the 2012 season for sale.

I'm excited about this for another more personal reason. During much of our wonderful marriage, Ada and I took in all the live music we could. When we lived in Massachusetts, we took full advantage of the Boston concert scene, especially at the great jazz club The Regattabar in Cambridge. We saw all the jazz greats there over the years and had many wonderful evenings out with friends. We also attended numerous symphonic concerts and live plays. In New Hampshire we subscribed each year to the Hopkins Center concert series at Dartmouth. Again, we would take in seven or eight great concerts a year by world class jazz and classical performers. However, the last couple of years were difficult in many ways. We would have purchased tickets ahead of time for a particular concert and then would not be able to go for one reason or another. We certainly didn't mind giving the tickets away when that happened, but it was a source of frustration to be under the "control" of the disease to that extent. Eventually, we stopped buying tickets figuring it was better to not plan to go in the first place than to plan to go and have to cancel. It breaks my heart when I remember how hard Ada tried to rally in those circumstances and how disappointed she was when she had to cancel.

I know it pleases Ada to see me buying tickets for live performances again. It's just one more obstacle overcome. When Kate and I take our seats at Pensacola's Saenger Theater in January and again in March, Ada will be standing off to the side smiling and we'll all be on our feet cheering after Nessun Dorma.

No more cancellations.

Much love,
J

...and now, the rest of the story

For the benefit of those of you who live north of the Suwanee River, the photograph above is a photo of grits. The photograph was taken on Wednesday, May 12 at Caroline's Restaurant in Apalachicola, Florida.

I didn't order them. I wouldn't order them.

Kate would and did.

The photo above was followed quickly by another photo: a photo of me sampling the grits. It is a disturbing image and, owing to the requirements of good taste, was not included in this blog.

You see, there is a reason that grits are called grits. They are gritty. If they were not gritty, they would be called "little pieces of velvet" or "puffy clouds that have descended to Earth" or some such. But they are not called either of these. They are called grits and they are just nasty.

Why am I using this valuable space to proclaim my distaste for grits? Because I wanted all of you to know how far Kate and I have come in our relationship.

She got me to try grits.

I would have even swallowed them if she had insisted. That's huge, people!

I mentioned that we were in Apalachicola, Florida during grit-gate. The trip was mostly Kate's idea. She said that this sleepy town was a charming piece of a beautiful section of Florida known as The Forgotten Coast. She was right. The town is located where the Apalachicola River empties into the Gulf of Mexico. It's not a pretty town by most standards. It's a working town. Shrimpers and oyster gatherers work hard up and down the river and in the bay. Farther upriver beekeepers gather their famous Tupelo Honey. Mingling with this hard-bitten crowd are tourists like us who want to go someplace in Florida that's REAL and not at all Disney-fied.

The Apalachicola River Inn sits directly on the bank of the river and, if you're lucky enough to get an upstairs room, you can sit on your private balcony with a bottle of wine and watch the shrimpers lower or raise their massive nets as they pass by.

If you walk along the main street, you might wander into a gift shop where you will meet Mr. John Lee who will regale you with wonderful stories about the area and tell you how the excellent movie "Ulee's Gold" was filmed in and around the town. He'll happily educate you on the differences between the three grades of honey he sells, and give you a very honest assessment of the local restaurants.

If you follow Mr. Lee's recommendation and decide to go to Papa Joe's for dinner, you will be dining in an unpretentious marina restaurant where sitting at the bar will guarantee that you are engaged in friendly conversation with both the bartender and other patrons. The fisherman's platter will prove to be more than enough for two, and the homemade cole slaw will be as good as it gets.

When you leave Apalachicola, you can drive north toward Tallahassee and stop at Wakulla Springs State Park to see the famous spring, the largest in the country, and travel downriver on a guide boat to an area where a major part of the 1954 classic "The Creature from the Black Lagoon" was filmed. I was anxious to make this little side trip because that movie played a significant part in my childhood. I saw it at the Franklin Park Theater in Dorchester when I was seven years old. After seeing this film, I wasn't able to get a really good night's sleep until 1986. The scaly, webbed creature with the bizarre head haunted most of my thoughts for 32 years. Not bad for a 25 cent admission.

Traveling down that river with Kate, listening to the park ranger point out the areas of stunning natural beauty, I could feel my fear of the creature melt away.

Now the only thing that causes me to lose sleep is fear of grits.

Ain't life grand?

Much love,
J