But I wrote it over two years ago. Just how good is your memory, anyways?
(Really? That good? You must share your secrets, darling. Ginko Biloba? Sudoku?)
And even though I'm mostly about the new and the novel, I intend to throw tradition out the window and repeat it again here today. We just got back from yet another baseball weekend in Seattle. And the original post is about a baseball weekend in Seattle. I'm kind of liking the repetition vibe of it all. It makes me relive the thrum of the stadium, the wafting aroma of the garlic fries, the Pike Street Market, the smell of 35% off sales tags at Nordstroms... ahhhh. It almost feels like - dare I say it? Like a comforting new tradition.
Similar to trotting out old posts. It's comforting.
To me.
So, here goes:
The Fascinating Middle of Point A and Point B
Due in part to his genetic makeup, and due in part to the years and years of necessary time management, The Baron is VERY aware of time.
Of both its flexibility and of its restraints. To him, it is an encapsulation, with definite boundaries.
The Baroness, on the other hand, finds time to be somewhat fluid. It comes, it goes. Sure, there are times when arrivals or departures are non-negotiable. But, for the most part, an extra minute here, a few less minutes there - it all balances out in the end.
Every so often, when the planets align just so, there is an event which both Mr. & Mrs. von B must attend. And every so often, their two time philosophies, er, clash. Badly.
Case in point. This last weekend. The vonBloggenschtern clan were on their way to a Seattle Mariners baseball game.
There is a gauntlet of vendors that one must run, in between the parking lot and the stadium. Hot dogs, corn dogs, team clothing, young girls selling chocolate bars for their church youth groups, dogs in sunglasses.
Now, on any other given day, the Baron would be delighted to stroll. To lollygag. To meander. But not this day. This was one of those time constraints we discussed earlier. As any dyed-in-the-wool baseball oficianado knows, one must be there at the scheduled start of the game.
I know this, too. I also know how important this factum is to the Baron.
But.
But.
Right smack dab in the middle of the promenade we were speed-walking through, was a middle-aged gentleman sitting on a chair.
It took a few seconds to process, after passing him like a hurricane, but it dawned on me that he was not only sitting there - he was playing an accordian.
An accordian, people. And we all know how the Baroness feels about all things polka.
So began the rending of the time philosophies. For I refused to breeze past this opportunity. I had to say something. I had to donate some of this strange monopoly money (have you Americans never heard of color?) into his accordian case. I had to tell him how wonderful he was, and how great it was that he was here, playing such cheery music to pipe us in to the game.
This action, I must tell you, was not a popular one. The rest of the clan, sensing they were suddenly a member short, stopped dead in their tracks. I got the laser-death ray-glare.
"But it's an accordian, honey!!!" I pleaded. "An ACCORDIAN!!".
He understood. So he stopped.
And then, I started to talk to this fine fellow - Mr. Greg Blackstock.
He did not understand anymore.
But at this point, I did not care. Time became fluid again, and I knew that the few moments that I took to connect with this gentleman would be well worth it, and could be made up for later. All would balance out.
Greg shook my hand, and asked for my name. I told him. "Hello, Baroness", said he. The companion he was with said gently to him, "Greg - when you meet someone and ask for their name, you should give them your name, too". It now was apparent that while was Greg an amazing accordianist, he was also struggling a little with his social cues. His companion was there to smooth out the rough edges a little.
It turns out that Greg Blackstock is an autistic savant. He was born in Seattle, and has quite a remarkable history. Not only is he a musician, he is an artist as well, and is represented by The Garde Rail Gallery (www.garde-rail.com). On his business card, he categorizes himself as an "Outside Artist" and Street Accordianist.
But he is so much more than that. And on that cloudy Saturday when time seemed to be of the essence, I'm so very glad that I broke the constraints. Just for a moment.
It will always balance out in the end.
Similar to trotting out old posts. It's comforting.
To me.
So, here goes:
The Fascinating Middle of Point A and Point B
Due in part to his genetic makeup, and due in part to the years and years of necessary time management, The Baron is VERY aware of time.
Of both its flexibility and of its restraints. To him, it is an encapsulation, with definite boundaries.
The Baroness, on the other hand, finds time to be somewhat fluid. It comes, it goes. Sure, there are times when arrivals or departures are non-negotiable. But, for the most part, an extra minute here, a few less minutes there - it all balances out in the end.
Every so often, when the planets align just so, there is an event which both Mr. & Mrs. von B must attend. And every so often, their two time philosophies, er, clash. Badly.
Case in point. This last weekend. The vonBloggenschtern clan were on their way to a Seattle Mariners baseball game.
There is a gauntlet of vendors that one must run, in between the parking lot and the stadium. Hot dogs, corn dogs, team clothing, young girls selling chocolate bars for their church youth groups, dogs in sunglasses.
Now, on any other given day, the Baron would be delighted to stroll. To lollygag. To meander. But not this day. This was one of those time constraints we discussed earlier. As any dyed-in-the-wool baseball oficianado knows, one must be there at the scheduled start of the game.
I know this, too. I also know how important this factum is to the Baron.
But.
But.
Right smack dab in the middle of the promenade we were speed-walking through, was a middle-aged gentleman sitting on a chair.
It took a few seconds to process, after passing him like a hurricane, but it dawned on me that he was not only sitting there - he was playing an accordian.
An accordian, people. And we all know how the Baroness feels about all things polka.
So began the rending of the time philosophies. For I refused to breeze past this opportunity. I had to say something. I had to donate some of this strange monopoly money (have you Americans never heard of color?) into his accordian case. I had to tell him how wonderful he was, and how great it was that he was here, playing such cheery music to pipe us in to the game.
This action, I must tell you, was not a popular one. The rest of the clan, sensing they were suddenly a member short, stopped dead in their tracks. I got the laser-death ray-glare.
"But it's an accordian, honey!!!" I pleaded. "An ACCORDIAN!!".
He understood. So he stopped.
And then, I started to talk to this fine fellow - Mr. Greg Blackstock.
He did not understand anymore.
But at this point, I did not care. Time became fluid again, and I knew that the few moments that I took to connect with this gentleman would be well worth it, and could be made up for later. All would balance out.
Greg shook my hand, and asked for my name. I told him. "Hello, Baroness", said he. The companion he was with said gently to him, "Greg - when you meet someone and ask for their name, you should give them your name, too". It now was apparent that while was Greg an amazing accordianist, he was also struggling a little with his social cues. His companion was there to smooth out the rough edges a little.
It turns out that Greg Blackstock is an autistic savant. He was born in Seattle, and has quite a remarkable history. Not only is he a musician, he is an artist as well, and is represented by The Garde Rail Gallery (www.garde-rail.com). On his business card, he categorizes himself as an "Outside Artist" and Street Accordianist.
But he is so much more than that. And on that cloudy Saturday when time seemed to be of the essence, I'm so very glad that I broke the constraints. Just for a moment.
It will always balance out in the end.
