Assorted Observations

Before our concert tonight, I walked out of the room where two dozen eight-year-olds were tuning violins (you can't imagine it unless you've lived it) and thought that, for some reason, the herd of people entering the auditorium looked extremely familiar. It turns out they were. They were my family; more than half a dozen cousins loaded up in the Varley bus and came to see little ol' me scratch her way through Le Danse de les Mirlitons and The Russian Sailor. I was so glad to see them I cried and smudged my eye liner, and I didn't even care. They are so precious to me, and getting moreso every day. I love their conspicuous politeness (in this town of uncivilized slobs) and their obvious enjoyment of each other, and they generated enough admiration and encouragement for three of me. Angie was a special treat, home from college in Colorado for the holidays. She's learning to play the cello (among other things), and it's fun to have someone who understands the trials of moving to a fussy, fragile string instrument from the hardy and mellow trombone.

Grandma's little brother Pete (last of the five Bertoncelj children: Frank, Angela, Andy, Molly, and Pete) passed away in Omaha today at the age of 91. More about this later, but the synopsis involves a great deal of commiseration and confusion. Is it harder to lose someone you've had around longer? I can imagine it being so. It's obviously a very individual thing. But I have lots and lots of heartfelt sympathy to pass on to his immediate family (my cousins), and the usual regrets. Pete was a legendary storyteller and, as with Grandma, I didn't make the effort to listen close.

I ordered Bud a basketball book for Christmas but will have to drop it by his house. I toyed with the idea of getting him a novelty wine glass that holds the whole bottle, but I'm afraid he'd find it useful. A gift certificate to Kate's would have been okay, too, but there was never a time to go pick one up. He's always there.

I'm about 45% grinch as of 11:40 this evening, down from yesterday's 72%. Jo said Don is sitting up on the edge of the bed, gesturing obscenely that he wants the feeding tube out, and enduring dialysis with a sly sense of humor that is making him the darling of the stoic nursing staff. I managed that nasty run of notes at the end of Mozart's Magic Flute tonight, and I'm a little more than elated. I'm also utterly exhausted and probably dehydrated, and I think it would be sort of nice if I could just sleep through Christmas.