Highly Recommended

Back when he was 'Alex"--Sher's mentor and recommender extraordinaire Jim!

Here we go again. It’s college recommendation time! During the past few weeks I have become the belle of the ball, as student after former student woos me for a letter of praise. 99% of these kids I can give a glowing “thumbs up” to, it’s just a matter of filling out the requisite forms. They excel at public speaking, volunteering, you name it, and it’s a pleasure to give them a nudge towards the fulfillment of their dreams.

I really only had one instance when I was approached by a youth who literally had done nothing. He actually interrupted me during a church council meeting to hand me his application for whatever—and, what’s more, expected an instant response. I thought of an honest possible reaction: “Student A was rarely, if ever, in Confirmation class, and did zero in the way of outreach to the community. In fact, I am wracking my brain to even remember this person’s name. I wish him well in the future but, alas, it is a future that does not involve me.” In the end, I took the coward’s way out and checked the boxes that rated the applicant on a scale of “excellent” to “needs improvement.” I put him squarely in the (lower) middle. Let Penn State figure it out!

When I pen these notes, I do recall with gratitude all the wonderful folks who wrote letters for my personal children, God bless them. One particular sweet English teacher at their high school was the Queen of the Positive Letters. My gang all had her in 9^th grade, so I’m sure she had little if any memory of them by senior year, yet the beautiful, rhapsodic prose she used to describe my offspring! I (their mother) could not have written anything more glowing!

And it doesn’t end with college. I am often called upon to boost this or that young person who is applying for a job. I reach again into my Big Bag of Adjectives (a bag usually utilized for our children’s theatre press releases): Delightful! Charming! Awesome! If I weary of writing these missives, I can only imagine the exhaustion of the recipients.

When Rosie was at Berklee in Boston, she worked in the international admissions office. The bizarre queries that top-tier music school received! Here’s one: “So what if, for example, someone can’t sing like at all—could they get in?” Ummmm. Huh? That one would require one heck of a recommendation letter.

Transcripts only go so far—it’s the personal touch that often makes the difference between acceptance and rejection. I definitely feel lots of responsibility when I pen a letter that may help determine someone’s future. People are much more complex than anything you could write about them, but I understand that there has to be a gatekeeper, or there would be an unmanageable flood of applicants. 

So go right ahead and ask me! I find you all dedicated, bright, compassionate and capable! Where do I sign? Next!

Chipping Away

Our paint chips (who names these things anyway?)

Every year around this time, we turn our attention to our house. Time to get us “holiday ready”! But before we bring the boxes of ornaments and festive lights down from the attic, we take a hard look at what we are actually decorating. Without a home improvement intervention, we will indeed be putting lipstick on a pig once again. The big ticket items that wait in the wings (replacing our windows, resurfacing our outside walkway and front stoop, etc.) will have to wait a little longer, but we are beginning to chip away at some overdue projects at last.

First and foremost this year? Painting the bathrooms! Upstairs is just looking worn and shabby, but the real patient in critical condition is our downstairs powder room. For the past several years, I have cringed whenever a guest asked to use the facilities, all because of the rather startling color of the walls. They are a shade of bright bluish-greenish that brings to mind the hue of one of the cars of my childhood, our “Lagoon Aqua” Chevy Impala.

Mo's Confirmation Day, posed with our Impala  (too bad it's in black and white!)

 This 13-year-old paint job was a labor of love, the love of my wonderful sister Carolyn for our mother. When Mom moved in with us, C wanted her to feel right at home, and nothing made Joanie feel homier than brilliantly painted rooms.  I well remember our house in Dunwoody, GA, which most closely resembled a Sherwin Williams showroom—every single space was splashed with a different garish color. Because I was raised in such multi-colorful surroundings, I had absolutely no idea of what was tasteful and what wasn’t. Therefore, I thought it was A-OK to paint my dining room the lemoniest Lemon Yellow, and to add the crowning touch of a Kelly green stenciled ivy pattern (which tiny Rose told everyone was “poison ivy.”)

In the years since, we’ve toned things down a lot, and now, with the exception of the teal-colored “homage to Mom” bathroom, our walls are mostly neutral shades. I’ve been pushing for a restroom re-do for the past several years, and now it is finally happening. Steve brought home some paint chips last night, and today’s the big day. After our scientific “eeny-meeny-miney-mo” process, we selected a VERY pale and subtle blue. I eagerly anticipate this new look (it has gotten to the point that I have kept the lights off, with a lit candle on the bathroom counter, whenever guests visited. They may have been groping in the dark for the hand towels, but at least they didn’t have to look at the walls!)

And after this? We can probably take a break and hang our Christmas wreaths. With a little luck, the time and the money will appear simultaneously during the winter, enabling us to take a few more baby steps forward. Meanwhile, I intend to revel in any progress we make in the right direction. So what do you think? Would it be weird to invite company over just to use our bathroom?

Moved

While I enjoy most classical music, and love most of that, there are a few pieces I adore—never tire of hearing, filled with emotional significance for me. Brahms’ Second Symphony (especially the lyrical first movement), Mahler’s Second Symphony (especially the other-worldly last movement), and Copland’s Clarinet Concerto (gorgeous first movement) all hold special places in my heart. Rounding out my Top Four (and they are all ranked equally in my book) is the second movement of Ravel’s Piano Concerto in G.

I first heard this masterwork on WABE Radio in Atlanta when I was in my teens. I was a big fan of all things Ravel in those days (even the overplayed “Bolero”), and I expected to like the piano concerto, but was unprepared for its effect on me. After a wow of an opening, movement #2 is just heartbreakingly beautiful, every note. I find the finale a bit jarring, because of its jazzy, breakneck pace (though that certainly does showcase the virtuosity of the soloist). But that middle movement? Pure gold!

One of my favorite LPs is a recording of this powerful piece with the London Symphony. I also, over the years, bought a cassette, and later a CD, of my favorite Ravel, and listened to it in the car all the time.  It was my go-to when I felt happy, melancholy and everything in between.

After my second miscarriage in 1993, I was really struggling. The loss was revealed during a routine ultrasound at 12 weeks. I had four other little children to care for, so there was not much time to mourn. I went to my pastor and dear friend Mike Carlson with my pain, wanting desperately to bring some good out of this sad situation. Together, Mike and I decided to put together a special church service for all who had suffered a miscarriage or stillbirth. I will never forget that night in our candlelit chapel. We read Scripture, a passage from Luther, and a beautiful poem by Barbara Crooker called “The Lost Children.” Each woman came forward for a red rose. The recorded music we used included the Ravel that meant so much to me.

By the time Evan was a high school senior, he was a pretty accomplished pianist. He decided to give a graduation recital at church. We had a post-concert surprise for him (the audience was in on the surprise): a dinner party in his honor in Parish Hall, sending him off to the Naval Academy in style. The last piece on the recital program was my beloved Ravel. The tears I predictably shed that afternoon on hearing Ev play this piece were tears of joy and pride.

Tonight, Sheridan has tickets for the two of us to hear the concerto with the Philadelphia Orchestra, and I can’t wait. Once again, I am sure I will get a little weepy. But I welcome those tender feelings, and give thanks for the genius who made the music, that makes my heart sing.