Last spring before I went to Brevard I threw a pair of mugs that turned out splendidly, if you look past the fact that they fused to the bottom of the kiln while firing and had to be chiseled out.  They are beautiful as they are, scars and all.  I also threw a colander and a very large beer stein.  The former has seen regular use in my new kitchen, the latter will see use after the onset of cool autumn temperatures, and the accompanying beer-brewing season.  Now I’m back in the studio, throwing plates and bowls for use in my own kitchen.  Things are good; my pieces are balanced, good looking, and useful.  Things I aspire to in life.

I use the things I make.  That means that those pretty mugs I threw last spring are my regular coffee travel mugs.  So when I go into the studio with a mug of coffee, I’ve set an inadvertent trap.

See, there is this one thing; as my friends discovered last week when I wandered through the Green Hill Center for NC Art, potters cannot help themselves when faced with pottery.  They are FORCED to pick it up, flip it over, put their hands in it…  just get to know the piece, the hands of the person who made it, the character of the clay.  I’m as guilty as anyone, and it’s practically a compulsion.  My friends Megan and Linda looked on with minor alarm as I went in the art gallery and started picking up the exhibits.  The people who run Green Hill are artisans themselves, so they are used to it, but for the uninitiated, it’s odd behavior.

That brings me back to class.  That oh-so-pretty half full mug of french-press coffee sitting on the work bench.  It looks the same as any other pot recently reclaimed from the kiln room.  And it elicits the same response.  Last week one of my classmates poured coffee all over the table and floor as she exclaimed how nice the mug looked, stuck her hand in it, and looked at the bottom.  With horror on her face she WOOPed and stared at me.  She apologized and offered to get me some fresh coffee as we all laughed.  She berated herself for being empty-headed at times.  Then I reminded her that our teacher did the same thing with the same mug only a few weeks before.

When I pulled the first of the fruit from the tree, I was surprised to see milky white sap oozing from the top of the fruit.  I grew up in the country, and one learns in the country that you don’t eat things with milky white sap.  They might kill you.  Or make you into a hippie.  So I was puzzled (and a little alarmed) to find the same poison-threat coming from such an innocuous plant as a fig tree.

Being the not-so-smart primate that I am, I decided to do an experiment.  I tasted the sap.  It tasted awful so I spit it out.  Don’t worry mom, I didn’t die.  But I realized after the fruit had ripened for a day in full sun that it tasted bitter and sour like a green apple, not like say, poison might taste.  The ripe fruit is sweet, firm, and full of those little crunchy seed things that I always used to wonder about when I at fig Newtons.

Yesterday evening I had some friends over (Hurray Brevard connection!) and we made some pizzas.  One pizza was a fig and goat cheese pizza on wheat crust.  It was pretty much amazing.  Then we sat around the fire in the back yard and soaked-in a beautiful summer evening.  At one point someone asked about the fig tree and asked about fig leaves.  I retrieved one in the dark without tripping over anything and brought it back the fire side; it began this conversation about fig leaves used to cover private parts in the Bible.  We pantomimed with the leaf briefly and one person opined that she might want more than one, please and thank you.

I had signed the lease the previous Tuesday, and my storage container was delivered on Friday.  I unpacked my bedroom items, including my bed and MY CLOTHES.  Hurray for options.  I survived all summer on what I could fit in a suitcase (plus two tubas and a bike), so I was shocked at how many articles of clothing I had to unpack.  I made my bed and nested a little, and then went back to Brevard for the weekend.  That means I had made up my long-missed bed, only to NOT sleep in it.

Till Sunday, anyway.

Classes started at NCCU on Monday morning.  I didn’t start teaching until this morning, Tuesday, so I had a day to unpack more and find my brain.  I got a lot of work done, I practiced, I ate some good food.  But still, things were jumbled to say the least.   And then I logged into the University class system, and saw that no one was enrolled in my class.  So the syllabus, book, notes, and preparation time may have been for nothing.  I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.

I’m starting my last year of my doctorate next week.  Or at least what I HOPE is the last year of my doctorate.  I feel a little nostalgic about it, even though I’m still here.  I’m sure that it’s just carry-over from Brevard, but to know that this time is ending even while it is still going gives me pause.  I know all things come to an end, but it’s hard to accept inevitable endings.

**********UPDATE**********

I got to NCCU and my classroom was double booked with another section of the same class.  Not only is no one signed up for my class (therefore it is canceled?  I think?), but I don’t have anywhere to teach it.  Time for some misery coffee.  Or coffee to sooth the misery.

Today I walked campus as a dean for the last time of the season, and closed down cabins one by one.  At the dawn it was an excitement, pulling the door shut on another empty bunk house.  By 3 pm it had started to dawn on me that I was saying goodbye not just to friends and colleagues, but to my very environment.  My air was escaping, one bunk at a time.  And all I got was a pocket full of keys and a few hugs.

I leave tomorrow for my new home in Greensboro.  So close to my old home in Greensboro.  In many ways, better than my old home in Greensboro.  But tomorrow doesn’t seem real yet.  I’m still holding my breath, waiting for the air to come rushing back into the room.

I don’t suppose it will though.  Just like I the sun never backs up to have another go at dusk.  The sun has set on another summer program, and the dawn rises on another school year.  I like the rhythm, but there is always something bittersweet about being welcomed into the arms of another night.

I got back on camp just in time to run around solving problems for a while.  And now I’m tired.  And I get to babysit French Quarter till 2 am.  But it’s a good tired.  But no matter how good the tired is, it’s going to be a long night.  That’s all.

I imagine there are going to be some big end-of-summer parties, some crying as people go home to their respective mothers, and some complications as some glassy-eyed college student mumbles something about not buying a plane ticket to go home until August 43rd.  Any way about it, my heart as well as my address is moving back to Greensboro.  I’m really looking forward to having My bed, MY kitchen, and of course ROUTINE.

This summer has been a lot of fun, and a lot of work.  I can’t say that this job is hard for me, but it is hard ON me.  I like routine, wake up at 6:30 or 7:00, make my bed, run a few miles, shower, practice, etc.  Being up till 3:30 one night, randomly, then 2 days later getting another late night phone call, and then a few days later being out till 2:00, all in the line of duty…  that makes it hard to keep to a sleep/eat/live routine.  I’m not going to complain too much, but I’m looking forward to being back on my own terms.

Speaking of which, I have a job interview tomorrow afternoon for an arts organization in Winston-Salem.  It’s part time, and not a lot of money, but it’s enough to make me drop some of my other part time jobs.  Specifically, the title “general manager” makes it worth my time.  And really, I have a lot to learn, even from a small arts organization.  In fact, I’ll probably learn more there than some larger organizations because I’ll have to do everything.  I talk as if I already have the job, which is presumptuous, but I have a strong hunch that I will get it.  After all, the search committee emailed me and told me I have the strongest resume by far, and I needed to know that it was a part time job and doesn’t pay much, and wanted to know if I was still interested.  I am of course, but not so much for the money.  Though that would be nice…

In preparation for the interview I went to the thrift store today and found a couple nice shirts.  They make me look all snazzy.  I also (finally) invested in a decent pair of dress oxfords.  My old ones were cheap and should have been retired a couple years ago.  But seeing as they held up just enough, I kept wearing them.  Anyway, the new shoes make the outfit look really nice.

Since I live in a plywood box on the side of a hill, it doesn’t take much to make me feel like I’m dressed to the nines.  Any given day involves shorts and sandals.  And maybe a tshirt with cats on it.  So wearing a Polo or Ralph Lauren shirt with worsted wool slacks and shiny new shoes makes me feel downright sexy.

Dear Diary;

It’s almost raining outside.  It’s been almost raining all day.  If I go outside without an umbrella it starts to spit.  If I run inside to grab my umbrella it stops.

I feel like an old man.  My neck aches all the time from sleeping on a crappy mattress and sitting on crappy chairs.  I’m going to go eat my prunes and yell at those kids to get off my lawn.

I’m building my calendar for the next year.  NCCU starts the day after I get (completely) done in Brevard.  No rest for the weary.  And I guess that means I need to write my syllabus.  Bleh, work.

/rant

And now it’s done.

And then another surprising thing happened: I felt like I was home.

Just to set the record straight, I don’t like Greensboro.  I don’t dislike it either, but it struck me as a vanilla sort of place when I moved in, and hasn’t really done much to change that opinion.  Downtown is nice, but not great, and there are only about 3 blocks of it.  There are good places to go, things to do and see, but only on Thurs-Sat night.  It’s a place that thinks much more of itself than it is, and that kind of grates on me, after having lived in much larger places that refer to themselves as small-town America.  It’s just a place that hasn’t quite come to grips with itself.

So it was a weird feeling to pull into town, see the familiar dive bars, coffee or bead shops, middle-class college students trying their hardest to look disaffected and counter-culture as they wear brand name shoes…  it just felt like home.

The apartment I’m moving into is a sweet deal.  The house is owned by Ben, who bought it a couple years ago.  It’s got hardwood floors throughout, two working fireplaces, garage space for storage, lots of room for toys (Ben has plenty of toys, let me assure you), and the previous owners had an extensive herb garden, and a fig tree.  I think I’ll learn how to incorporate figs into my cooking.  The 2nd roommate, Phoenix (like the city), is a new vegetarian, so I’m looking forward to culinary explorations of all sorts.

I found Ben and his house via craigslist, and it’s amazing how quickly it all just gelled.  I came over to see the house, met the roommates (and three very friendly and well-behaved dogs), and it clicked.  It was right, and it felt like it.

I know I’ll be done with school in a year, and will likely move on to a new place, but it’s so nice to feel like I’m going home soon.

In Grand Rapids I ended up meeting other young professionals, band directors, and even college music teacher who just wanted an outlet.  I got adjunct teaching positions, poker night, friends, and even a very awkward date out of it.

In Brevard, I just want to play and hang.  At my first rehearsal I met and shook hands with the tuba section.  They all seemed like great people.  They were social, gregarious, and generally competent on their instruments.  I’ve seen much worse.  But really, the vibe of the whole band was community and enjoyment, which is a rare thing in professional music circles, so I enjoyed it.

At the end of rehearsal I got to talking horns with one of the guys.  I noticed he had some funky device bolted to the front of his tuba.  It was a bike bell with a built-in compass.  I pointed and asked about it, so he very proudly rang the bell a few times and explained that it was his tuning pitch.  He rang it again for effect.  I mentioned the compass.  He shrugged and said something about if he ever get’s lost it helps…

This past week’s rehearsal saw some better playing from the band, and conversation in the tuba section had far fewer cuss words than the previous one.  One piece on the repertoire list is something called Tam O’Shanter, which has some beautifully exposed  trombone solos.  The piece based on a poem about the journeys of a drunk on his way home from the bar, so the trombone solo sounds, well, kind of unsteady.  The director made some comment about whiskey aiding our interpretation of the piece.

Most normal people would understand this statement to be hyperbole.  But one gentleman in the tuba section excitedly proclaimed that he was ready to do his homework.  AND HEFTED A PLASTIC HANDLE OF WHISKEY ABOVE HIS HEAD.  It would be one thing if the bottle were unopened and merely on its way home from the store, with a detour through rehearsal as a prop.  But this bottle had been opened.

And I laughed wide-eyed.  And thought, “Why on Earth does he have that here?”  And then I looked at the bell and compass bolted to his tuba and thought, why not?

Last Sunday night the double reed studios requested a bonfire to hold a meet-n-greet for all the high school and college bassoon and oboe players.  It was a great idea, and it came off so very well.  But the joyous inexperience of some of the younger students made me laugh.

It had rained in the afternoon, so everything was  wet.  Again, Brevard is a rain forest, so when I say wet, it was wet like a rain forest is wet.  With rain.  And trying to start a fire with wet wood sucks.  Fortunately, one of the older students had bought dry wood, and even went to the trouble of setting up a teepee style fire.  He handed me a lighter and offered to let me do the honors.

I had do some work to get the fire in shape to light, so I conscripted two high school boys who boasted about being boy scouts but who were largely unaccustomed to the woods.  One confessed after a few minutes that he was gay, and just liked to scout boys.  And then he laughed.  The other boy got quiet.  I had to laugh too.

After I got some wet kindling to start, I blew on it to keep it hot and growing.  I had one little lick of flame which I fed and blew on, hunkered down in the fire ring, surrounded by chatty double reeds.  They excitedly munched on marshmallows as they mingled, and one student noticed my one solitary flame, growing despite the sodden fuel.

I focused on keeping the flame growing, and out of the corner of my eye a marshmallow hove into view, moving slowly but certainly toward the single candle of flame clinging to life in front of me.  By the time the marshmallow reached its intended target, the scene was too much for me to bear without a grin on my face.  The marshmallow was bigger than the fire.

I backed the kids off and got the fire going bigger and self sustaining.  And then I sat down, knowing that the heat would dry the rest of the fuel and make for a very pleasant evening.

I reminded the students, “If your marshmallow catches fire, blow, don’t waive it around.  If you do, you’ll end up with a flying ball of flaming sugar.  That’s bad.”

I sat back and let the fire unfold.  When the students were done, I sat by the fire the rest of the evening, listening to the bullfrogs and feeding the mosquitoes.