Jan. 07, 2003 - 19:00 MST

THE WONDERING JEW

Below The Line

There is a miasma of malodorus miscontent about being once again at home. It is quiet here. Too quiet for one who has been in the middle of a teen ager, his sister, their pet dog and the rubbing of shoulders with their friends we don't know and will never have time to become friends or do more than be politely civil to them.

There is no real dissension their home, just lots of noise and activity. Just thinking, the two young ones are and have been taking piano lessons for ages and are pretty proficient. The family owns a grand piano. If the living room wasn't so big it would be out of place, but it fits in admirably.

The layout of the house is odd in a way. The main level is the living room, below that and to one side is the garage. The mid-level is occupied by the dining room, kitchen, family room, guest room, study, laundry room and bathroom. Upstairs from there is three bedrooms, bathroom and storage closets, with a spot at the head of the stairs that holds a flat top desk with the computer etc. and the associated swivel chair. The desk spot overlooks the living room and is a neat place in itself. All the upstairs rooms can be shut off by two doors -- except for the dining room, which has no wall at the end facing the living room.

Long winded tour, that. Necessary though to explain noise there. Their grand piano sits just below the dining room. There are the periods of the day there that inevitable piano practise takes place. Two children, time beyond comprehension at the piano killing any possibility of hearable conversation for me. This boils down to noise by definition. It is pleasant to hear piano practise by fairly proficient players when there are melodies to be played rather than scales. But when conversation is desired and we adults are in the dining room at table and wish to converse and the kids are through eating, comes not only piano practise but the hubris of who gets to play first. It appears also that the piano is used to work of frustrations and fits of temper. Pounding the keys keeps the possibility of mayhem to a low level. Also their father plays the piano quite well and spends some time at the keyboard.

Our grandkids seem to be on a par with children all over our country. They, like other young ones live live at the top of their voices, with great exuberance or trainwrecking on a tragic young level.

Then there is Cyrano the young poodle there. He has a bad habit of seeing himself reflected in the glass doors of the dining room and comes out with his warning yelp that there is a strange animal out there. He also has the spirit to chase and kill the deer that come by the house. It he is outside on a leash, a firm grip must be held. He also has the hearing I consider miraculous. If a car pulls up across the street he mounts an immediate ferocious program of barking. So the barks are unexpected when they come.

I guess Heather and I lived through our kids being super noisy without really noticing it. It just went with the game of rearing children. But now, although I am very hard of hearing, there are somethings that register as just plain noise to me. Grouchy old curmudgeon me.

We love being there with the family, immensely. But it seems that bedtime comes early for Heather and I and we retreat to the bedroom into a cosy nest of quiet. It works, really it does.

But on the return to home and the silence of the apartment building, it seems too darn quiet. We hear no noise from the hallways, next door apartments or apartments above, the sound insulation is great. But it seems as if we are interred in a masoleum of silence. Then there are the things we need to catch up on and the ordinary job of living, paying bills, doctor's appointments, grocery shopping, et al. When we are out there Heather and daughter do the shopping like commando troops, bringing home the vast necessary foodstuff to keep a large family going. Usually the girls do a bit of fancy shopping at the same time.

I always plead with Heather, "Buy what you want and can afford, just make sure we don't have to take it back home with us." Doesn't have a chance in hell of being effective and I know it, but it does give me an in to gripe a bit when packing to go home. Sometimes getting ready to come back home one larger suitcase or small trailer is bought to accomodate the extraneous loot for the trip home. Then, on arrival and unpacking the problem arises of where to put the treasures brought back.

It is a wonderful thing though to be back in my own bed, my own easy chair with my one thousand and one favorite coffee cups, all the comfy places we have in our apartment. I spent a pleasant hour today out on the slab / patio in a comfortable chair from which I had washed the precipitated city soot and grime. It was in the sixties, shirt sleeve weather and I happily took advantage of it sitting out there, riding the world as it spun. Keeping track of the clouds and noting the slow change of the sun's position as time elapsed.

So coming home, or going there causes mood changes in me until things level out. I think I have finally figured me out a bit, I am bipolar Below The Line . . . . . . . .

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