Despite working out with the trainer today, my day was mostly about horse manure. I have three horses, which leads to a neverending supply of potential fertilizer. It’s a big piece of the horse disease, deciding what to do with their waste. If I’m not picking and sorting it from the clean shavings, I am researching to find the best way to cart it out to where it needs to be piled-usually far, far away from the house and the barn.

I have been toting the day’s waste with a small, plastic cart pulled by the farm’s Mule(no not one that brays, kind of an ATV with a roof and a small bed). That works really well. In the summer. Rainy days? Winter? Not so much. It has a roof. No windshield. Brrr.

After much research, we decided to get a larger dump cart. The farm used to have a manure spreader, but that went the way of the indoor arena. The cart was ordered and scheduled to arrive while we were away. I thought that would at least make life easier for the man who graciously cares for the horses in my absence. The shipment was delayed, then the blizzard interfered. The next issue was that UPS needed a signature to deliver, but no one was around to sign(we were trying to get out of Bermuda and everyone else was also enjoying thier holiday).

Yesterday was the day. The cart was going to arrive between twelve and two. I packed a lunch and my computer and headed to the barn. A lack of internet connection really motivated me to work on my writing projects. Woo hoo!

Ok- I cleaned tack, rearranged the tack room, ran some saddlepads through the washer, and generally found everything else I could do to avoid booting up the computer. I did finally give in and actually made progress, but by two-o’clock, no cart. Mr. W. called and informed me that it was now being delivered between four and five. Sigh.

Long story short, the cart arrived at four. In a box. Unassembled. Argh.
At least it was here and it gave me something to do today. I put together the chassis and then got stuck. Where was the hydraulic lift? You know, the part that would actually make the cart easier to use? It’s coming Fed Ex.

With the cart half done and piles of manure that couldn’t be dumped during the storm molding in an empty stall, I treked out to use the tractor to push back the huge worm of little poop-piles from our little dump cart out at the dump site.

It was going well until I got the tractor stuck.
Text to Mr. W.: Got the tractor stuck.
Reply: How stuck?
It’s a tractor. If it’s stuck its’ bad.
What are you going to do?
…

My wounded pride and I went for help in the form of the caretakers and the farm truck. They had been washing mold off the barn walls. So the truck cab was filled with a lovely combination of bleach(them) and horse crap(me). Did I mention they had been ready to go home. Yeah, they loved me at that moment. But thanks to them, the Kubota is no longer axle deep in compost.

I headed back to the tractor shed, with my figurative tail tucked. I wasn’t feeling very farm-girlish at that moment. Wait. What is that ambling aross the field? A racoon? A big racoon. Coming toward the me and my large, orange machine. Not good. Can you hear me yell and clap my hands? Do you see that beast ambling toward me. Did he just pick up speed? Watch me jam the ‘Bota into gear and rushed to park it before my tormentor gets too close.

I don’t mess with racoons, especially when they aren’t behvaing normally. Rabies, anyone? As I was backing into the shed I saw it pause under a pine tree. Too close. Shut down the tractor, leapt off, and was a good hundred yards away when I turned to look. Poof! A magically disappearing racoon! Crisis averted. At least until I have to go back in the tractor shed-I’m going to be packing at least a two-by-four when I do!

I still have a big, crappy problem, but at least I didn’t have to get Rabies shots. And I got some needed aerobic exercise.

This year has begun with a quiet day. The weather is unseasonably warm; the horses are out blanketless and taking advantage by rolling in the melting snow, smearing slush into their itchy winter coats.

I love the mornings in the barn. There are a pair of sparrows that chirp and flutter about as I go about feeding the boys, who pace and nicker in anticipation of breakfast. The barn is warm and smells of hay, grain, manure, and the unmistakable odor of horse. It is my favorite place to be.

I lingered today. Instead of rushing to get the stalls picked out and set up for the afternoon, I stood at the fence and simply watched them jostle for the best hay pile. The sun sent enough bright warmth on this mid-winter day, I swear I heard the snow melting.

As I sifted through the stall shavings, separating the dirty from the clean, the mindless rhythm of the work allowed my thoughts to wander. If only I had called a week ago to get winter shoes, I could ride today. I should sort through some of the many bins that await my sifting judgement. I need to write, make phone calls, clean the spare bedroom…

No. I should not get lost in the monotony of endless lists.

I cleaned the rest of the stalls, focusing on the pleasure of the act; enjoying the simple reality that allowed me to linger over the care of the animals I treasure. I slowed my pace. In the loft, I sat on a bale and breathed the sweet scent of baled summer grasses. I finished the chores, returned to the fence, and closed my eyes in the sun. Gil came over, gently sniffed my face, then turned away to get a drink. As he ambled back toward the others, I too, took my leave and strolled back to the house.

Happy New Year.

It’s the eve of a new year and all of the media recaps made me think back on all of the changes this past year have wrought.

I have moved, become engaged, been bucked off my horse, found a horse I can ride, adjusted to having no job(perhaps a little too well), and made new friends. I drove an RV through Yellowstone Park(and camped in it for a week), put my feet in The Great Salt Lake, flew in a Cessna, kissed a dolphin, and flew in a private jet.

All in all, a great year.

Of course on the cusp of 2011, I am looking forward, too. There is a wedding, a honeymoon, and hopefully, lots and lots of riding and writing. The coming year will be when I commit myself to allowing the dream I have fought since graduating from college. I will try not to let my fear of failure overwhelm my desire to create something special.

I hope to reconnect with old friends I have neglected while being swept into my new life. And I hope to help my sister with her noble dream of making a true difference in the lives of those who need help and support.

These are small, personal wishes. And I will try not to plan so much or too far ahead.

It is perhaps an old and tired device, this listing of reminisences and resolutions, but it is what it is. On the last day of the year, there is little time for anything else.

I know, I know. I’ve been away. I’m such a bad blogger and an undisciplined wannabe writer. I have many excuses, the holidays, the flu, and a trip to Bermuda that lasted longer than expected. At least I wasn’t deported.

It’s been a wonderful holiday and I am looking forward to the New Year. Of course my resolutions include a major diet, more exercise, and a more rigid writing schedule. I have sent some poems out; I’m waiting excitedly for additions to my rejection file. Hey, it’s like the lottery, if you don’t buy the ticket/take the chance, then it’ll never happen. Yes, I am feeling a bit discouraged, but that has more to do with my insecurities than anything else.

And really, I shouldn’t complain. I escaped the blizzard that crippled the Northeast. In fact, it was a blessing, because…

I’ll get to that.

I spent Christmas with Mr. W.’s family in Bermuda, where his parents are members of a residence club. It was a bit of irony that the club is called Tucker’s Point, since the night before we left, Mr. W. told me my Christmas gift was Tucker, the horse I have been free-leasing.

I’ll keep saying it- I’m so lucky*.

*This will be repeated ad nauseum.

Bermuda is different than I expected. It is beautiful and the people are welcoming and friendly. The first thing I noticed (besides the British motor laws) was the water. I am used to seeing the Atlantic ocean from the Jersey Shore. Bermuda’s surrounding seas don’t have any relation to the sickly greenish-brown of the North Atlantic. The waters surrounding this oddly configured set of small islands is the most brilliant aquamarine, more vivid than the Maui’s coasts (though Hawaii is more stuniing overall). Bermuda has a quiet, elegant beauty.

Unfortunately, the weather did not cooperate. Gale force winds, rain and cool temperatures drove us toward indoor pursuits. Add to that Mr.W’s nephew, who came down with a severe stomach bug (which, I think he played to the hilt after the worst had passed, but…). Still, we were able to swim once, play on the pink beach (it really is pink!), and hit golf balls on the driving range (yeah, I suck at it, but no humans were harmed or windows broken). The aquarium in Flatts village is fantastic. It is also a small zoo and I bonded with the Indonesian bearcat or binturong. Too cute. He meandered down his branches and put his paw against the mesh of the enclosure. I was good. I did not reach out to touch it, but it was tempting.

I also got to relax. I read Cutting for Stone and Dracula (I’ve never actually read the original. It was interesting). And Mr. W.’s sister introduced me to Every Word, a game on the Kindle. Addictive. It should come with a warning.

So the long lazy days were not all about eating and drinking, though there was plenty of that. We went to the hotel bar so many times, we memorized the menu. In the hotel restaurant, there were murals salvaged from the Pan Am building in Manhattan (it’s now the Met Life building). Mr.W.’s grandfather was a VP of Pan Am; the murals were a part of his mother’s childhood. These huge canvases show various ports of the world: London, New York, Maui, Constantinople, Hong Kong, and Beirut. Hamilton harbor was added when the restaurant was built. It was wonderful to hear her talk about them; I guess we all cling to those small representations of what has gone before. (I keep fabric, Hummels, Christmas decorations, and kilts as my memories, but who’s comparing).

After Mr. W.’s sister and her family left to spend Christmas day at their home, we were left to wander Hamilton and the Dockyard, where we got to play with dolphins. I kissed one and have the photo to prove it! The gale force winds that day were quite an experience- I’ve never been blown down a hill. In Hamilton, Mr.W. sneakily bought me an enamel box with “I love you more and more each day” scrolled across the top.*(see above)

The only glitch in this idyll was the blizzard. We were scheduled to return the day after Christmas. Of course, our flight was cancelled. “That’s ok,” we thought, since Christmas day was one of the warmest and prettiest days we’d experiened and Boxing day was almost as nice. We ate lunch, went to the spa for a massage, went to dinner, and hoped for good news the next day.

Monday was blustery and rainy. And our flight was cancelled yet again. We went to the airport to talk to a real, live person, who informed us that our first opportunity to leave would be Wednesday. Oy.

On the amazingly bright side, we were on a lovely island with rain, not snow, and we were able to sleep in divinely comfortable beds, not plastic airport chairs. The packing, unpacking, packing and moving rooms was a bit of a pain. Another delicious meal later, Mr.W. and I retired and exchanged bets on whether or not we would leave before Wednesday.

Lets just say, I lost the bet. We left at 6pm Tuesday evening. On a private jet. Uh huh. I have to pinch myself. Amazing way to end the week, Merry Christmas and all that. And yes, it is an incredible way to travel. The plane was so beautiful. I was fascinated by all of the nooks and hidden compartments. It was like an RV, but infinitely nicer. Ok, it’s not remotely like an RV, more like one of those bus-sized luxury motor coaches. In this instance, it is like what they show on TV. i felt like Tony DiNozzo on NCIS if you happened to see the episode when they go to Guantanamo Bay? No. Well, google it. It was just like that!!!! *****

I am back on land now. The critters were so happy to see us. While they were enthusiastically leaping and barking to welcome us home, I noticed the house was a bit cold(61 degrees, not that bad, but chilly). Went into the basement to say hello to the cats and heard the fan in the furnace trying and failing to run. We called the heating people, who came right out to remedy the problem, but it did take until 12:30AM (and the poor technician had another call after ours). Mr. W., who the whole trip denied having a cough, or not feeling well (can you say stubborn ass?) finally gave in to his malaise.

I guess there is always a balance to be maintained. I am back to mucking stalls, snowblowing the five foot drifts in the driveway, unpacking, reorganizing, nursing the patient, and catching up on all I missed while away. *******

I don’t feel well today. I’m laying low and trying to relax. The pellet stove is now working- after clearing the auger with my fingers and almost getting my arm stuck-but it is churning away, filling the room with that lovely warmth that a fire provides.

I turned on the television, surfed the channels, and found “House Hunters International.” I haven’t watched that in a while, but in a lucky turn, the story was about an American looking for a place in Prague, Czech Republic. It’s been three years since I was lucky enough to spend a month there.

It’s cold outside, I’m tired and don’t feel well, my feet are up facing a warm fire, and I’m headed back in time to that incredible adventure. I never got to show my mother the pictures; as she was the one who made the trip happen, it’s one of my biggest regrets.

My mother and aunt drove me to the airport; we tried one of my aunt’s interesting, smaller-road routes. I was nervous. Did I pack enough? Did I pack the right things? I checked my brand-new passport for the twentieth time. I was almost forty and this was my first passport, my first time out of the country(besides Canada, Mexico, and Puerto Rico, but really, do they count for an International Relations student?), and my first trip entirely solo. I had flown alone many times, but there was always a friendly, familiar face waiting for me upon landing.

Our airport-bound route meandered past Walden Pond. Through the car window I took in the signs, the parked cars, and tried to imagine the wooded beauty that inspired Thoreau. It wasn’t what I expected; the passage of time and urban development altered the landscape. My destination was a city that had withstood the ravages of war and the Iron Curtain; I hoped it was better preserved than the small preserve holding the memory of a naturalist’s inspiration.

We arrived at the airport, and in a quick, awkward blur, I checked my bags, gathered my passport and organized my carry on. Again. I hugged my mom, my aunt slipped me some extra cash with the admonition to spend it on myself, and off through security I sped.

After a long, crowded, sleepless flight, I switched planes in London, then boarded the Czech Air jet that would take me to the place I had dreamed of for so long. Exhausted, I dozed in my seat until the cabin staff delivered beverages and a snack. I eyed my open-face meat sandwich, nestled beside my coffee, then glanced at my neighbor, who was thoroughly enjoying his beer. It was 10:30 in the morning, though it felt like 10:30 at night to me. Still, beer with breakfast? Welcome to the Czech Repubic.

There’s a Gremlin in the T.V., really.

Friday after the feast, we gathered again, once the young men began to stir, that is. Coffee, bacon, French toast, and real maple syrup for me and Mr. W. My son ate a bacon and cranberry sauce sandwich. The bacon was smoked and cured with black pepper. It had a bit of a kick. And the cranberry sauce was the kind that retains an impression of the can it came in. On Sourdough toast. Yeah.

The others arrived around 11:30 AM, mostly because my sister wanted control of the T.V. from noon to four. It was time for the Backyard Brawl. I am not a fan of football; I don’t get it. My sister, however, is an avid fan, especially of her Alma Mater, the University of Pittsburgh. Wait. Avid fan? No she’s a rabid fan, known to hang up on innocent, well-meaning callers if they have the unfortunate timing of calling during active play. She has also, with her “enthusiasm” caused enough havoc, that the family dog will skulk from the room and hide at the hint of anything resembling football on the television. She swears she isn’t as bad now; she can actually watch in one room, rather than stalking from set to set, all of which are showing the game, commenting loudly on the game. “OH COME ON!”

Outside, the trees sparkled with the frozen remnants of rain, a light breeze sent glimmering drops groundward. It was a perfect day to spend inside surrounded by family. My sister sat in the center of the couch with Mr. W. and I flanking. She vibrated with excitement for the game. It began as she told me her prediction- “Pitt is going to lose, but you never know.” And a bunch of other technical football stuff. I did listen to what she explained. Really. I did. The boys and my brother-in-law congregated around the breakfast bar behind us, talking and discussing my son’s imminent move (and all the crap he had to do before he actually left).

As soon as the game got underway, the channel changed. I had the only remote, so she accused me of tampering. The channel switched back to the game. I handed her the remote, to prove my innocence. The channel flipped again. I grabbed it back and hit the “last” button on the remote. Back to football. Then “Keeping up Appearances”(an older, British sitcom), even I had to choose football over that. Football, BBC, football, BBC, infomercial, football. At this point, though she had actually seen all of the important stuff, my sister was getting a bit annoyed.

“Am I being punked?” She turned to me. “Has the cable ever done this before?”

“No. Could it be the ice?” I asked my son if he’d ever had this happen, he replied in the negative. The channel flicked again.

“Oh, COME ON!!!” My sister put her head in her hands, composing herself. Football resumed. Another ten minutes passed until the next flicker.

“Why don’t we try it on the non-HD channel?” She suggested, putting on her see-how-calm-and-pleasant-I-can-be-when-really-I-am-borderline-homicidal smile. We changed to that. Football. She relaxed. Flicker to “Saved by the Bell.”

“Put it back to HD. BBC is better than that.” Back to HD programming we went. Football until the commercial. BBC. Infomercial. Football. “Thank God for replays,” she muttered. “Maybe, I should go back to the hotel and wrestle the lobby T.V. away from the kids…”

It didn’t help that the other team scored a touchdown within the first few minutes; sure, Pitt rallied and scored, but it did not bode well for the rest of the game. By half-time, my sister was frustrated with the game and my anxiety was growing about my son getting to the dump in time, discarding the mountain of garbage with my truck, and returning in a timely manner so Mr. W and I could drive home, and whether or not there would be bloodshed before the end of the weekend. Several times, she suggested shopping at the only, tiny department store within an hour’s drive. Desperate times call for desperate measures. At this point, I am sure she could have used some blood-pressure medicine, or a stiff drink, or maybe a strong sedative.

I’m exaggerating. Maybe. Not. It was Pitt football, after all. Honestly, she has made progress; she was willing to watch the game in company on only a single television.

It was during half-time, when I strolled into the kitchen to make up a huge plate of leftovers, that I discovered the existence of a second remote. My brother-in-law had been behind the impromtu channel surfing.

Of course, I said nothing and the game continued for the third quarter, when my sister finally was told. No one was hurt in the aftermath. My sister is still happily married, ok, my sister is still married, not widowed, my son got rid of the trash, Mr. W. headed back home only two hours later than planned with my nephew in tow. This is what makes my holiday’s special.

Ah. I can smell the dysfuntion brewing like a fat, buttered fowl after four hours in a 350 degree oven. The annual family gathering has begun.

Actually, it wasn’t that bad. My family gathered at our “ancestral farm” in Vermont. Well, that’s what our mother called it, but can you really call a property bought within the last fifteen years part of our ancient heritage? Do barely five acres in the middle of a neighborhood qualify as a farm? Sure there is a barn, paddocks, a small riding ring, and a pasture, but…it’s Vermont, not the Boston suburbs.

We gathered for both the traditional turkey fixings and to celebrate my son’s birthday. He’s grown up enough that he is heading out to spend the winter in Colorado. As he is just out of college and contemplating the direction for the next stage of his life, a little living and ski-bumming is definitely in the cards. At least he has a plan. Sort of. He’s been talking about this trip for the entire summer, but didn’t quite think out his departure. His intention was to leave the Sunday after Thanksgiving, all well and good, barring a few minor details, like a summers worth of garbage and an evil rabbit. (No. I did not offer to take Bunnicula. I have too many animals of my own- yes I just admitted it. That’s the first step to recovery, right?)

Mr. W and I drove to the farm the day before T-day, loaded with the dinner makings, including a turkey bought from the local market; the woman there “grew it herself.” Yeah. I am a food hypocrite. I try to eat natural, locally grown, yadda, yadda, yadda, and I love to eat meat that I hope is not pumped with steroids and antibiotics or mad-cow disease. BUT, I don’t want to know what it’s name was before it was handed to me neatly wrapped in plastic. Whatever happens between Bambi running through the woods, or Ferdinand basking in the sun, or Foghorn Leghorn pecking around his free-range, and placing the shrink or paper-wrapped package containing my dinner in the grocery cart, is definitely within the realm of “I DO NOT WANT TO KNOW!”

My sister and her family, minus one (who was back in PA nursing a sick dog. She was missed), arrived on the big day, about 11:00 AM. Anne was providing the roasting pan, so we aimed to eat around 5 PM. Mr. W, living up to his moniker, began the process of preparing the meal. My sister went to her hotel to take a nap (they had been driving since 5AM); the boys did whatever twenty-something boys do; I got in the way and made the stuffing.

The meal was fantastic. The turkey, which we brined overnight (simple salt and water brine), was cooked to brown, crispy-skinned, juicy perfection. Mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, stuffing, whole and creamed corn, peas, giblet and plain gravy, cole slaw, and plenty of dinner rolls were set out buffet style. We loaded our plates, squeezed around the long, plastic folding table, lit the candle in a Patron bottle center piece, poured ourselves some wine, sang “Happy Birthday”, and dug in.

The mood was fun, despite the fact that my son was anxious about his impending mood, my sister was worried about a sick dog left at home, my nephew was concerned about his allergies (the rabbit was in the corner of the room), Mr. W hoped the meal was perfect, my brother-in-law joked, and I obsessed about what I was going to do with an empty farm. (It’s not completely empty, a friend keeps her horse in the barn and checks on everything at least twice a day, but… the future is looming and it may be time to say goodbye to that dream my mother and I shared.)

We glutted, cleaned up, and sprawled on the couches and chairs. My son received his presents, which were mostly monetary in nature. In an ironic, lovely twist, when I was searching through a trunk for a tablecloth, I found the tiny, blue shirt my son was given by the OB group that delivered him. I held it up marvelling at the difference twenty-four years makes. It was a fitting reminder for both of us.

A bit later, a few of his friends came over and the pie was served with ice cream. When we could neither eat nor drink anymore, and we had watched sixteen episodes of “Punkin’ Chunkin”, my sister and brother-in-law headed to the hotel to sleep it off. I nudged Mr. W, who had shockingly nodded off during the pumpkin carnage, and we retired for the night, leaving the younger set to play video games into the night.

Thanksgiving is a day for gratitude and gluttony. We eat and appreciate. Too often, it turns into arguments and tension, and while my family has had it’s dysfunctions and challenges, I’m sure it isn’t unique. (Ok. I do think a mother who tells you, “You’re not fat, Nancie, you’re just chunky” is rare. And that was one of her nicer sentiments. My sister could tell you many more.)

For me, this Thanksgiving was the perfect reminder of all the things I am thankful for. I am a very lucky woman.

Have you ever felt invisible? The other day, I had that experience. I was sitting at the dining room table, at the head or foot, depending on perspective; it was the end closest to the sliding glass doors that lead to the patio, so I guess it would be the foot. Irrelevant really.

Anyway, I was comfortably reading my book, the late-day-autumnal sun on my back, and the heater vent blasting warm air at my feet. Lately, I have been easily chilled. The heat and sun was nice after spending most of the day outside.

I must also note that our house is not large. The main floor consists of a kitchen/dining room that opens into the small living room. There is a mud room that leads into the dining area, which we use as our main entrance. Beyond the living room are a small guest bedroom, a full bathroom, and an office. Upstairs is a landing and the master bedroom and bath. I know this is more than you think you need to know, but bear with me, it’s relevant.

So here I was, my 800 page tome (almost finished and boy was it good!)laid out on the table in front of me, when I heard the sounds of Mr W. coming up the walk. With four dogs, it is awfully hard to sneak up on us. I was waiting for him since he called me en route, conversely, he knew I was home…

He strolled through the mud room into the dining room, where I sat. I watched as he removed his bluetooth (I think he wants one surgically implanted, but that is a whole ‘nother can of worms). His blackberry was gently set next to the bluetooth on the kitchen island. Turning toward me, he removed his coat and laid it on the chair at the other end of the table.

I waited for him to greet me, after all, he was practically staring at me. Nope. He headed for the living room and with a small shake of the head, he headed down the short hall to the office. I was amused. He hadn’t seen me. His footsteps returned to the hallway, pausing at the foot of the stairs.

I listened as he removed his boots, spoke to the dogs, and thudded upstairs.
Click. Creak. Step, step. Creak. I could hear his thoughts in the rhythm of his steps- Where the heck is she? It’s not a large house.

Click. Thud, thud, thud, back down the steps.

Ok. Now he’ll figure it out, I thought with growing hilarity.

He returned to the kitchen, walked by me again.

Really? I was right in front of him!!! But he still did not notice me.

Passing by, he grabbed the knob to the basement door, pulled it open and stuck his head through, searching. At that point, I could not keep quiet. I cracked up. Shocked, he finally saw me.

“Where were you?” He asked.

Umm…I must have spent a few minutes in another dimension, “I was right here.”

“You saw me walk by?”

“Yep.” At this point I was crying from a huge attack of the giggles.

There are some men who would be hurt or angered at being laughed at or feeling a fool. Not Mr. W., he laughed harder than I, nearly passing out from a lack of oxygen. Luckily, I can be invisible.

My sister gave me a ticket to a Roger Waters concert, where he performed “The Wall” in its entirety. I went with my brother-in-law, my nephew, and one of his friends. A little surreal, but it was fun.

The show was brilliant. And like so many others, the music and the layers of messages embedded within the spectacle resonated within multiple facets of my life. From the sixth grade classroom, where a record player was smuggled in, the needle laid upon the fifth song of the first side, and the anthem that every hormonal and dissatisfied pre-teen embraced, rang out, to the depression and isolation of disenchanted adulthood, “The Wall” blurred the boundaries between the angst of self and world issues.

Supposedly, when originally conceived, “The Wall” represented the mental and emotional barriers erected by a wounded psyche, simultaneously with physical borders between political entities, most notably the now-defunct Berlin Wall.

A wall is a wall is a wall.

So, on a random Tuesday night, I felt like I was taken back through time, through the autobiographical expressions of Roger Waters’s music, as well as through incarnations of my own self. It was a strange situation for me on so many levels. I have gone to a lot of concerts. The memorabilia I collected is stored lovingly in “the Box.” I pull it out on random occassions to either impress my son with my past coolness or to remind myself, “Oh, I really did see them. What tour was that?” Consulting the t-shirts and/or tour programs to jog memory.

I spent a great deal of my youth at the Philadelphia Spectrum. I must note that as of last Tuesday, the building was still there, however the previous days had seen a flurry of adoring fans pillaging whatever they could carry out before the demolition of the structure. I remember JFK Field (saw the Gold Cup Grand Prix as well as the Rolling Stones, The Who, and so many other bands- missed Live Aid, damn). I was at Veteran’s Stadium watching the Atoms (Yes, there was once pro soccer), the Eagles (freezing my patootie off with my dad), and the Phillies. Those edifices are all gone now, replaced by The “Link”, Citizen’s Bank Field, and the ever name changing home of the Flyers at the moment sponsored by Wells Fargo.

The venue is different. Out with the old, in with the newer, larger, flashier, state-of-the-art. I am older, Roger Waters is older (I can only hope to have his energy at 67), and yet, the performance was powerful and relevant.

The show itself was newer, flashier, used state-of-the-art technology and effects, and still overwhelmed and awed. As I listened, I remembered how the lyrics moved me as a confused teen, touched nerves I could never express. At the same time, I was constantly dragged back into the reality of now. The visuals flitted back and forth between the cartoon figures that adorned the album’s liner notes, old footage, and modern politial imagery. The world is still at war and we are still building walls.

I steeped in a heady tea of memory, flavored with propaganda, with a hint of hard individual truth, and a bitter bite, but the finish was pure fulfillment.

A 35 foot wall was built during the first half of the show. It remained as a tool and backdrop for most of the second half. Of course, at the end, it came down. It would be rebuilt the following night, and the next, for every night of the tour.

For myself, my own walls have been built, destroyed, rebuilt, and torn down over and over. I admit, I still do it, though not as strong or obliterating as my defenses were when I felt the most damaged.

I do believe that Roger Waters touced a universal nerve with this work. It is genius. Seeing it performed live, sharing in his vision “In the Flesh,” (I know, I know, but I couldn’t resist) in the place I grew up, hearing the music, recalling how it affected my mixed-up, half-insane teenaged self (whose ideal state was to be “Comfortably Numb”- hey, it’s an accurate assessment), took me back. And threw me forward into our current mixed-up, half-insane paradoxical world. I continue to examine the resonance of the concert. I feel like a teenager again, filled with conviction born in the combination of loud, live music and poetic metaphor -an almost religious experience; I’m sifting layers and layers, peeling the onion, not entirely sure what I will find or what conclusions I will draw. It’s a journey. The more things change…