Twas Brillig

This is a continuation of my opera history as requested by Luisa from Novembrance (or “Novey-Lu” as I affectionately call her. Hey, she calls me “Brillig the Tasty”, so I can pretty much call her anything I like, okay?), but also a little more background on me. Because, really, this is MY blog after all, and the only thing I’m particularly good at is talking about myself.

So, I told you that Age 12 was a HUGE year for me. I turned 12 in London, at the beginning of a six month stay there. Daddy was the director of the Brigham Young University Study Abroad there. This was a very exciting time for me. I’d already spent a lot of time in London (though this was before my parents finally bought the home in the Lake District in Northern England). Rather than enroll me in the British school system again (I had already done a year of school in London when I was very young, but by the time you’re in 7th grade in the US, the school systems are so completely different that it’s hard to jump from one to the other and back again) my parents required me to take all of the University classes in the Study Abroad program. Those classes were European History, English Lit (taught by Daddy), Humanities, and LDS Church History in the British Isles (taught by my brilliant mama).

Yes, I was twelve, and I was in college.

And I. LOVED. IT.

London is an amazing place, particularly for a girl who was fascinated by art, history, literature and, of course, music. I ate up every museum, every historical site, every theater that I could manage to get to. I saw some of the world’s greatest performers live on stage. And, of course, my interest in classical music (including opera) began to grow. How could it not?
Anyway, that lasted for six months. The scheduled adventure after that was that in December we were going to be heading to Jerusalem, Israel for my mom to lead the BYU Study Abroad there. That was the plan, anyway. We would not be going home to Utah in the meantime.

One August day, I was walking through the streets of London with my brother (who was 15) and we stumbled upon a rally. A “Free Kuwait” rally. Apparently, some crazy madman from Iraq named Saddam Hussein had invaded the tiny but oil-rich nation of Kuwait in an attempt to steal their resources.

This was the first I’d ever heard any of these names. Saddam Hussein? Kuwait?

I didn’t know that this would effect my whole existence within a matter of months.

But! Even at that tender age, I was all about Human Rights, and ALL about being involved in protests and rallies. I jumped right in, wore a “Free Kuwait” pin, and helped hand out literature.

Anyway, as December approached, it was clear that the unrest in the Middle East was becoming even crazier than usual. George Bush Sr. had announced that if Hussein didn’t leave Kuwait by Jan. 15, the US, backed by the UN, would declare war on Iraq. Hussein responded that if the US declared war on Iraq, Iraq would retaliate by launching missiles at Israel.

Israel. We were on our way to Israel!

And it started to look like it was just possible that a war would actually be declared. And so, BYU called off that Study Abroad. 140 students were told that what they’d planned to do for the next six months was suddenly canceled and they would need to make other plans.

But what about us? We still had all the arrangements in place to live in Jerusalem. Our home in Utah was already rented out, with a contract, until June of the next year. Going home didn’t appear to be an option. So… maybe we should take our chances and go to Jerusalem anyway? Besides, what an adventure it would be!

I mean, surely this Saddam Hussein person wasn’t really crazy enough to go to war with the United States of America, right?

(And what does ANY of this have to do with opera? You’ll see…)

I haven’t written one single thing during this lovely month of NaBloPoMo of substance.  Not even one of my now 19 posts.

Why start now?

Just had to share our most recent photo of the kiddlings.

It totally makes me laugh, because it’s really not all that good of any of them. But no one was crying, no one was falling of the table, or picking their noses, or anything. So, it was considered a great success.  Awwww, I love my little stinkers.

Welcome to Soap Opera Sunday, Gentle Readers. This week, the lovely, talented, and GORGEOUS crew who run the Anonymous Soapiness site are our Guest Hosts, so if you’re playing along, or looking for more SOSes, head on over there.

(Yes, Kate and I run the Anonymous Soapiness site…)

When I was 15, my parents moved me into a new house. I SO didn’t want to live there, in that obnoxiously snooty neighborhood on Snob Hill. As far as I could tell, everyone up here was a cheerleader or a drug addict or both, and I didn’t like them, and I didn’t want to like them. I avoided them all for a whole year.

One day, there was a church activity for the youth–specifically the Young Women (the girls age 12-18). Now, every ward in the Church has youth activities. Where I came from, we were happy with getting together in the field near the church and playing kick-the-can or whatever. But on Snob Hill, things were different, even church activities— the activity here was that everyone was bringing their boats to Lake Powell for a huge 5-day camp out.

Um, yeah. First, I didn’t like these people and I didn’t want to spend more than two seconds with them. Secondly, I didn’t think I could stomach everyone standing around in their slutty swimsuits and superiority complexes while we pretended to be having a Church activity.

But, dearest Mommy and Daddy were concerned about my total disdain for our new neighbors and thought it would be good for me to go and have some bonding time with them. I remember thinking that I’d rather yank off my toenails with tweezers, but somehow I suddenly found myself in someone’s BMW riding the four hour drive to Lake Powell.

Slowly but surely, I did begin to make friends with some of the girls. One girl adored me right off the bat, because my older brother Chris had been her drug counselor a few years before and had apparently made a huge difference in helping her break her addiction. Another girl liked me because she had read one of my mom’s books. And, finally, a girl who we will call Minki liked me because she, too, was a bit of a fish out of water just like me. Don’t get me wrong— her daddy had his boat there, her swimsuit was probably the sluttiest of them all, and she knew everyone and had been around forever. But strangely enough, we clicked and soon we became practically inseparable.

And that, dear ones, will suffice for this week. Stay tuned for next week, when Minki and I acquire the third member of our clan and officially becoming the Conceitrio.

I just wrote a big fat whiney post because I, my friends, am apparently a big fat whiner.  After reading through it, I decided to spare you, Gentle Readers.

That is all.

P.S.  Soap Opera Sunday is being hosted by Anonymous Soapiness this weekend, so be sure to enter your link there if you’re playing along.

Dearest Luisa wanted to know about me and opera, opera and me.

Well, there’s so much to this story.  Some of you probably don’t even realize that I am passionate about opera, and have been since I was a child.

So, we’ll start there.  When I was a child.  It is Flashback Friday, after all.

I’m a daddy’s girl.  I would do ANYTHING to be able to spend extra time hanging out with my daddy.  Daddy was an opera enthusiast.  He would stay up late at night to watch the Met on PBS.  I thought it was disastrous cacophony.  But, if it meant that I could stay up late and hang out with Daddy, then it was worth it.  And somewhere in there, I got into the music and developed an interest.

Again, this was just the beginning— setting the scene so that a few years later, when I was 12, I was ready to really embrace opera.  12 was a huge HUGE year for me.  HUGE!  I’m still quite convinced that I was more mature as a 12-year old than I am now.  But that, dear friends, will have to be discussed another day.  Yup.  You read that right.  I’m going to drag this out.  Two reasons for this:  so many people are doing NaBloPoMo that no one wants to read a long post, because they’ve got a million posts to read.  Secondly, I’m playing NaBloPoMo, which means that I need to stretch out my meager supply of writing material. 

As we’re sitting in our bedroom I reach for the remote control to turn the TV on.

Hubby: Don’t you ever just wanna talk? Instead of watching TV? Can’t we just talk?

Brillig: We can talk with the TV on, though, right?

Hubby: Wouldn’t it be nice to just talk though?

And then, he suddenly buries his face in his hands and says,

Hubby: Oh my gosh! I’m the WOMAN in our relationship!!!!

Wordless Wednesday

(PLEASE tell me the song from of the same title by Missing Persons from the early 80’s punk era is going through your mind now. Please! If I could find a sound or video clip, I’d TOTALLY have it playing right now.)

I guess my question was, when does it become my business?

So, you remember our little crisis last night? Well, everything’s fine. Okay, “fine” is relative. She’s fine, in that she is not injured, dead, or missing.

But, besides that, she’s so. not. fine. I wish I could tell you more, but I really can’t—I don’t know more, because apparently, it ain’t none of my business.

I guess I was just wondering, at what point does it become my business? I would think that around the time there’s someone sitting on my doorstep, freaking out, and begging for my help, it becomes my business. Or, when I begin pounding down doors, jumping over fences and, finally, coordinating the search party, perhaps then it becomes my business.

Aahhhh, no.

After we passed off the mystery onto other people—her family, friends, church leaders—we slipped away quietly, allowing them to do what they needed to do. Time went by, and Hubby and I waited, wondering if they’d call us, if we should call them, or what? But we were just dying to know if there was an ending to the story. We hesitated, because was it really any of our business? WHY did we want to know the ending—because we were curious? Concerned? Anyway, Hubby made the call, and was informed that she had been found. At home. In the dark. On the phone. Going through some kind of crisis, the details of which we “didn’t even want to know.” Which is just a polite way of saying “you don’t NEED to know.”

True. We didn’t, technically. But hadn’t we earned the right to know what really happened? We hadn’t asked to be involved—involvement was thrust upon us. And it only seemed fair to have the whole story given to us.

But as the hours have passed since all of this, I’ve analyzed myself a bit, and realized that my reasons for wanting to know are really because I’m curious, gossipy, and I love a good soap opera. All I needed to know is that she’s not hurt, and she’s not missing.

And the people that I resented this morning are now the very people that I would turn to and trust, should my own “time of crisis” arise. How wonderful that her story wasn’t gossiped all over the neighborhood! How wonderful that she can recover from whatever this thing is that’s plaguing her, and she can move on with her life without wondering what I think of her!

And so, it’s just done. And I won’t press it now, and I have the utmost respect for those who want to protect her privacy. Because, really, it ain’t none of my business!

I’m writing this story in real-time. I don’t know how this post will end, because the end hasn’t happened yet. Hopefully by the time I finish this post, I’ll have answers for you. And me.

About twenty minutes ago, Hubby and I were sitting in our room, talking about our day, when the doorbell rang. We certainly weren’t expecting anyone at 9:00 on a Sunday evening! I jumped up to get the door, since Hubby was already in his pajamas, and found a distraught man, about age 60, on my doorstep. He was supposed to meet one of my neighbors, a divorced woman of similar age, who lives two doors down from me. Apparently, they are old friends, and he’s in town and called to say hello. He had been on the phone with her, she had invited him to come over and gave him clear directions and told him that she’d turn the light on. He was only five minutes away when they had this conversation. When he arrived, the place was completely dark. She never came to the door, though he tried the doorbell over and over again, and she wouldn’t answer her phone—the phone he had JUST been talking to her on. He was so worried, because the house looks abandoned, even though just moments ago, he’d been talking to her on her home phone.

Anyway, you could tell that he didn’t know what to do, and I didn’t know what he wanted me to do! But I know this woman well and we go way back. She’s always been very good to me. So, I walked over there (while Brian changed back into his clothes and joined me shortly) and found exactly what this man had described— her home was exceptionally dark and looked completely abandoned. I tried the doorbell, and could hear it ring through the doors. I tried knocking and yelling her name. No movement, no response. So we walked around to the back, but there is a fence all the way around with no gate for entrance, so I couldn’t pound on (or peer into, let’s be honest) any windows. I’ve tried calling her over and over.

Though none of her children live with her, I see them around all the time. So now we’re trying to track them down, via other neighbors who might know how to get a hold of them, and we’ve contacted our local church leaders who all live right here. In the meantime, Hubby and I decided that I would come home (our kids are all in bed! Someone should be here!) and I’m signed onto the internet, and our Church ward website (containing all the phone numbers for anyone and everyone in the area) so that I can call or give them numbers to call, etc. By now they’ve knocked on dozens of doors, looking for anyone who might have seen her or knows how to get into her house or get a hold of her children or whatever. I suspect the whole neighborhood is searching, calling, and pounding on her door.

I can hear yelling outside now. It’s so dark. Oh, how I hope things are okay! I guess if we don’t find a family member or neighbor with a key, the next step is to call the police.

Well, it’s time to end this post now, but my story has no ending yet. I’m trying very hard not to jump to conclusions—I’m not even sure what kind of conclusions to jump to! Maybe she fell, and can’t get to the phone or the door! Maybe she’s hiding from this man who claims to be her friend (who’s word we’re taking at face value, even though we don’t know him or anything about him). Or… who knows?

Crazy, frightening, and bewildering. And with that, I leave you. I’m sorry! I’d hoped to have an ending by now!