On Hearing More and Talking Less

 As you know from previous posts I was a psychotherapist for over 30 years. This is from an old post about the art of psychotherapy and the privilege of listening, Susan Grout style.  I rewrote some of it as it feels like a very pertinent subject to readdress. I find that today more and more people have trouble listening. One of the causes is the constant interference of cell phones on our culture. People are allowing themselves to be constantly distracted. Read on.

A good listener helps the speaker clarify--and often correct--his ideas in the course of expressing them.The young become good communicators if they have parents or relatives or teachers who are good listeners.

                                       S.I. Hayakawa

Listening is a great hobby. This is a hobby I picked up living in a big boisterous family. I know in many large families everyone talks at once and in some families there even shouting matches to see who can dominate the conversation. Although it wasn't like that in our family, someone has to defer with everyone talking at once and, at certain times, that someone was me. Always? No, I can be quite the chatter box, but I like to listen. I find people fascinating. For some reason this isn't only soothing to me but when listening sometimes I come up with interesting insights that can spark new ideas and thoughts. This is very good because that's how, in my career, I made the big bucks: listening and responding with pertinent suggestions to my beloved clients.

"Come  in, welcome, sit and tell me everything, I want to hear every word." This I said to every client, at first as a joke, and then I realized I sincerely meant that.

The real art of conversation is not only to say the right thing in the right place but to leave unsaid the wrong thing at the tempting moment.          Dorothy Nevill

As a practicing psychotherapist, I was making a living out of listening. This was a privilege that I enjoyed. The people who I was honored to see, came in and revealed things to me that perhaps they hadn't divulged to another human being. Many times this was just a series of current topical problems or perhaps as serious as: the death of a loved one; or torment from their childhood; or physical, emotional or sexual abuse. Sometimes it was current abuse from a lover or friend. I'd my utmost to be keenly aware of what they were saying, how they were saying it and how long they'd have held it inside. Especially with past abuse, this wasn't always a linear process. The unfolding could be circuitous or serpentine and take weeks or months in the recitation. Knowing when to interject was/is the art form. Too soon and you could shut someone down, not soon enough and you were unwittingly propping up the bad habit of their holding on, too long, to something that needed to be set free.

So you sit and it begins:
Is it a trance I'm in
when you come in
with your own dance,
the steps and the stance
marking your life?

As you talk,
Is it a meditation
as I sit still for your recitation
of all that is ill in your quadrille
and I focus on your life?

Susan R. Grout  unpublished 2011

Know something about something. Don't just present your wonderful self to the world. Constantly amass knowledge and offer it around.Richard Holbrook

I believe in giving feedback when appropriate and at the right moment. For example, I was listening to one half of a couple telling me the sad tale of the estrangement she felt from her workaholic husband. I listened and listened and finally said, "what are the children experiencing with his continual absence?" She cried and said, "I don't know I've been so focused on my own despair that I've hardly noticed if this is affecting them." What this woman is doing, besides emotionally neglecting her children, is an example of a human error called repetitive, or circular thinking. Another example, I often hear: "my husband is an alcoholic [workaholic, gambler, etc.] how can I get him to stop?" The really bad news is you can't make someone do something if they aren't willing. [Witness toilet training on an unwilling child, or encouraging someone to get sober or go to treatment who doesn't believe he/she has a problem. Two big helpings of frustration for all.] However you can coax someone to be more willing [totally exciting underpants, bribes, rewards, praise, more pleasant experiences if they do...] and there can be consequences for that person if they don't/can't or aren't willing to stop destructive behavior. One of the great teachers of this line of thinking is Al Anon. In Al Anon you learn to focus on your own behavior first, tell that person in as direct, clear and measured a manner as possible what you want from them then--- surprise, surprise--- let go. Grown adults mature quickly when the negative reactions are withdrawn, the consequences clearly laid out and are followed through. No idle threats in other words. [All bets are off for the teenagers who are addicted to drugs, some need to be thrown into counseling or treatment against their wishes and will.]

One of the great impediments to listening is when the "listener" truly isn't paying attention but merely waiting for a pause in the conversation so they can make their own brilliant points. If I am the one making the egregious offense, I usually and candidly admit it. "Sorry Charlie, I drifted a minuted ago, could you repeat that?" Or if I really need to interject a comment I usually do ask: "I need to add something, is this OK with you?" Mostly it is OK,  but sometimes they'll blurt, "let me finish." And humbled, I take their advice and let them finish. Happily for me the vast majority of people that I listen to are really interesting, easy to listen and pay attention to and it's fine to sit and nod and encourage them to continue.

The exceptions, the ones difficult to pay attention to, are the ones who are incredibly tangential. One person that I'm thinking about is a dear but while talking she'll manically go off on several tangents:  her hair cut, then to people I've never met, then to her approach on dieting--- all in the same paragraph, and sometimes in the same breath. Mostly I just steer the conversation back to her reason for being in counseling, the problem. If it is a friend or relative who is tangential, I will distract her/him to a topic we both enjoy perhaps books or movies we both love and all is well or at least more interesting.

From the client's perspective, it is a drag to figure out that their therapist is not really listening. They are paying good money for their therapy and deserve full attention. Believe me, most people I know realize when someone is not really listening. You can see it in their faces.

And if the therapist suspects that the client has drifted off, my humble perspective is it's important to say something. I usually gently acknowledge that you know that you aren't being heard. "Did you understand that last bit, Charlie?" or something like that to alert the listener that you know they aren't all there. 

'The Grout Five Minute Rule'

If you love your friends, relatives, clients sometimes we just have to accept that everyone is not built the way we are. "Tangentials" of the world unite! Go and talk to each other, endlessly. Most of us are not tangential and seemingly this could drive one mad. However I have a handy formula for this slight character flaw, and it is ta-da: "The Grout Five Minute Rule". Simply employed and executed, you tell the chatty and rambling or repetitive individual go ahead and stick to their topic, or topics and you agree not interrupt for 5 minutes. The talker, who always loves a tangent, has to agree to this as well as the listener. Then the blitzkrieg begins. I must confess that this works brilliantly and I must also confess that some times I cheat and say "time's up after only 3 1/2 minutes" or I know I will start screaming. Not a good thing in a friend or psychotherapist. However, it does put the 'psycho' in psychotherapist.

One of the things that is taught in psychology classes is reflective listening made famous by Carl Rogers who swiped his ideas from good parents everywhere. This is reflective listening, repeating back what someone just said to encourage them to continue. This is most natural to respond in this manner when a baby coos. I did this when my granddaughter, at only seven months old said, "Nana" as she looked right at me.  Elated, I repeated the phrase to make sure she directing this at me and naming me. "Nana" she said again as I was changing her diaper. Not a more heartwarming naming in all the world. I listened with my whole body and glowed with delight as that baby articulated that name, my new name to herself and me.

I am truly blessed because my life's work has been to study, listen and then help people who come to me. There is constantly so much to learn and the field of psychology is not only fascinating but also exciting in its discoveries of what works best for most people. I am constant learning, so are the people in my field and so too are my clients and we all share in that wealth of knowledge. It all starts with intently listening to their stories.

Most of us long for this: to be really heard and some of us never get that. It was/is indeed my privilege and my pleasure to listen and let the music of other's lives fill my head, my heart and my room.

susansmagicfeather copyright 2018 Susan R. Grout all rights reserved.

Everlasting Love- I Love You Still

I have loved you with an everlasting love, I have called you and you are mine.

Hymn sung at Mom's Memorial by her request

Our Mother died in Sept of 2010 and we buried our mother ironically nine months after her death. This was fitting since she gave birth to the four of us who handled her ashes. I expected this to be a somber, sad, and somewhat solemn affair and it turns out it was anything but.

While other people's deaths are deeply sad, one's own is surely a bit of a joke.
James Cameron

Mom asked to be cremated,[yeah Mom] and then she asked if "you would take my ashes and put them on top of Dad's grave." "O, well, of course." we all said. See, she wanted us to put those ashes on top of our father's grave which resided in a big cemetery in the heart of Chicago. I thought, "that might prove to be an interesting proposition.  Did they have security, rules, penalties for misbehavior?" Undaunted, we agreed and met at sister Trish's house in June.

The day of the 'Ashes to Earth' ceremony, Sally, Trisha, Kathleen and I gathered around Trisha's little kitchen table where the ashes were in a black box. Trish made a lovely altar for Mom, complete with candles and flowers. Then the ceremony began. I pictured we would say a prayer, tell stories or read poetry about the death of a loved one. No, we took to the task at hand, dividing the ashes into four zip lock bags so we could carry Mom in our purses into the cemetery. It is hard to be solemn when you have 1/4th of your mother and a trowel in your purse. This was our "strategery" [as W would say] to sneak passed the guards.

We loaded up into two cars: Trisha, her daughter and grandkids in one car; Kathleen and her husband Steve, me and my husband and Sally in Steve's van. Off we went to the place where, not only my Dad but also where our four grandparents were buried. Once there, we carefully dug up the sod around Dad's gravestone [looking over our shoulders all the while for fear of incarceration]. Trisha had not only provided trowels for each of us but also a bigger baggie for the extra soil. That girl is smart. We then unceremoniously, holding our breath, dumped Mom all around the perimeter of Dad's gravestone and quickly replaced the turf on top of Mom's ashes. Then the coup de grace, Stevie had brought beers "I figured since we tailgated your father's funeral we should tailgate Jane's." Good logic. We used those beers to pack down the sod and to wash off the headstone. We took tons of pictures, and then as is common with most funeral experiences we went back to Trisha's house for a huge lunch.

Celebrations of death often end with the celebration of life: talking, laughing, telling stories of the loved one and eating. Being from a restaurant family we are all of the "live to eat" club as opposed to those who 'eat to live'. We don't understand those folks and they don't understand us. My observation is that if you want to be really, really thin become very, very old, you will then be quite thin. I didn't notice tons of obesity in the Assisted Living crowd. This is also contrasted by being with my baby grand niece LJ who was eating mashed banana for the first time in her life. The wonderment, the joy, the delight as she savored each mouthful. We should all keep those experiences about food, to taste, to savor, to celebrate.

Our mother was know for her voracious appetite. She used to say when Dad was still alive and people would ask her, "Jane, how do you cook for two now that your family is grown?" She'd answer, "It's simple I just buy meals that say 'serves 4' and we eat the whole thing." That appetite only waned in the last couple years of her life. She lived fiercely, artistically, colorfully and then when she was done with all of that fierceness she "ebbed away".

Later that day we went up to sister Trisha's cottage on a Lake and Sally and Trish took turns reading the love letters that Mom and Dad sent to each other during World War II when my Dad was in Okinawa. The letters were tender, dear, filled with love and longing. We all had tears in our eyes to think of these two young married people with a new baby [Sally] separated by war. I never knew that my father was so passionate or my mother so heart broken by their separation. It was a touching and grand afternoon sharing their love for each other. Such a good idea after the burial and reuniting of two great spirits.

I loved so many things about Mom, most of all her wit and her modesty. No gravestone* for her and she certainly did not want to be encased in an urn. Her grave is now surrounding the man that she loved from the time she was a teenager, my father. He got from her stability and someone he adored, she got from him a sense of adventure, tons of laughter and a wonderful, loving husband.

Mom was solid and so forthright, you could always count on her blunt truth and I used to call her frequently to ask her opinion about anything. Here's how much she meant to me, on the morning that she died my sister Sally called at about 5:30 AM. She related the story of Mom's death and then the other sisters told me how it was for them. My recurrent thought that I had as they talked was "I've got to tell Mom about this." We would have had a good old talk about everyone's reaction to a death. Of course I still can talk to her, but only in my head and heart. If you are listening Mom, I love you still.

In my fantasy she is not only listening but she is with Dad and the four grandparents, my baby and all of our old pets, loving and cuddling beyond the stars. I like that.

*One of my Dad's favorite expressions to all of us was "you think you know everything, but you know nothing." My Dad's headstone reads "Now he knows everything." Guess because she is in there too, so does she.


magicfeather copyright 2011 Susan R. Grout all rights reserved.

Going Home by the Light of the Silvery Moon

On the last days of our trip I must admit to longing for Mr. G, free toilets, copious water not from a plastic bottle and my own bed. I believe I will never in my long life take any of these for granted again. I solemnly swear to bring a steel water bottle whenever I travel to avoid the incredible waste that is being perpetrated by the water companies convincing people that the water [in Italy] is not drinkable from the tap. I am living proof that it is and only bought water when it was 100 degrees and frozen. That's an incredible luxury. I know this is not true in many places on the globe but in all of the developed countries why all of the plastic? Hmmm, could be money's involved.

Back in Rome and this time Sal and I scored a grand room, one so big that we decided to have a "Salon" prior to our good bye dinner [where expectations were low due to the mediocre quality of the group dinners]. It was fun getting together with all of the folks that we had grown to know and love over our 16 day trip and everyone brought incredible snacks and wine [probably for the same reason that I just expressed]. My thinking was not perfect, as I stated many posts prior to this one, I'm not a very good drinker. If I have more than 3 glasses of wine I tend to be awake in the middle of the night. Just one of the gifts from Menopause. So, thinking "who cares if I'm awake in the middle of the night, that should be about perfect for the alarm going off at 3:45AM."  What I didn't count on was being awake at 2 AM and not being able to get back to sleep. This is when I practice my "cheaters" form of meditation and lay there recalling scenes of the trip and the blankness and calm that ensues. On to the bus at 4:20 and eventually on the plane, I had a great seat on the flight home, a window seat and by none other than Chris again. I said, "I'm just so grateful that it's you and I didn't get stuck with the gentleman with failing capacities." He said, "I hear you, though you know computers tend to go for the same seating sometimes." Still, I felt lucky, although I'm not so sure Chris did when I accidentally spilled a cup of water on him when  he was asleep. He said, "at least it's not red wine." See, gracious of him.

Home Is Where the Heart Is

I have darling nieces. Witness the niece: L who rescued our credit cards from a Xerox machine and drove them to the airport in time for Sal and I to have a bit of lunch before the flight. Kudos! Then the other niece, K who picked us up and drove me to the park and ride where I met Mr. G, another darling, for the ride home.  It was a sunny but cool 70 degrees and I cherish the cool of the NW.

Home is indescribably delicious, out on our deck with my cat, Mr. G, taking in all the colors of the garden with an iced beverage, ahhhh. Nothing like it. Good to be singing 'home sweet home' after leaving Rome.

Go thy way, eat thy breat with joy and drink thy wine with a merry heart.
Ecclesiastes  9:7

O we did make merry and here are the tips that I promised, none of which will shock you but might aid you on any trip.

1. Start enjoying the trip even before you purchase you ticket. Love that you world is about to expand.
2. Have plenty of reading materials. Had Sal not loaned me The Last Child I would have been without a book because I finished the first one I had in record time.
3. Don't put a chocolate bar in your pack in hot weather. I realize this is obvious to most, too bad it wasn't to me. Desire over ruled logic again.
4. Make sure you take "skinny" clothes when traveling in a hot climate. Sal and I were able to wash out all of our clothes and I never had the shame of dirty underwear. The thrift stores are loaded with cotton/poly blends that dry in a snap.
5. Say 'yes' to most experiences, even the less than desirable ones [the city of Trivoli] can have benefits for someone besides yourself. Be generous, we have so much.
6. Go with your gut, if something feels forced, beg off [still glad I left Venice when I did].
7. If you see something in a shop and then you think long and hard about it when you leave, it means that you are supposed to purchase it.
8. A big hat is an asset, find one you love.
9. I shopped for the sandals that I wore almost every day two months prior to the trip to make triple sure they were OK. They were great.
10. Pack light is almost nagged into all of us and yet it's great advice. I had plenty of room for the things that I bought en route and the only thing that I didn't wear was a pair of Nikes. Who knew? 
11. Be smart enough to bring either an Ipad or up grade your phone for keeping in touch with those you love. I stewed about not talking to my husband until I bought that phone card.
12. Be kind, open, loving and express your gratitude to anyone in your path. It pays dividends.

Finally, thanks to anyone who is reading, this has been quite a delightful several posts to publish. Love to you all.

magicfeather copyright 2011 Susan R. Grout all rights reserved.

The Perfect Cup and Cooling Off in Italy

"I don't want to suffer."
Robert Ricketts as he turned on the car's air conditioner

"I love the heat!" glib person said.
"Do you really?" said my sister Trisha.
"O, I do." replied glib person.
"Do you have air conditioning?" Trish
"Of course!" glib
"Ah, then you love the idea of the heat, not the heat itself." Trish

For anyone who claims to love the heat I always ask that same question. My contention is that are a very few people who not only tolerate the heat but thrive in it. They are the 'desert rats' who live in trailers out in the desert, no air conditioning and they do love it. Then there's the rest of us, we cope, we flee into the shadows away from the sun. This would be me in Italy. We don't love the heat, we accept it and run as fast as we can to warm from hot. To us extreme heat is suffering, as my father used to say when it got above 74 degrees, "I don't want to suffer." On went his air conditioner. I'm not that bad but I so love the Northwest for its moderate to cool temperatures. Apparently, the entire time we were in Italy it was less than an ideal summer, bring a new meaning to the word moderate.

I bought a phone card while in Italy and unwittingly bought 5 hours of time. "Yikes" I said to Sally, "how am I going to use up 5 hours?" "You'll think of a way." Sally said. So I called Mr. G just about every night, I called my sons and my grandkids and used up that sucker. "How are you doing and what's the latest?" I'd ask Mr. G. "I've been unbelievably busy and everything at home is going well. Right now it's about 58 degrees and raining." "O, glad to hear that things are going well, try to take it easy." I'd say and then I'd hang up the phone and yell to anyone within hearing distance, "it's 58 degrees and raining in the Northwest," and a cheer would go up from our crowd in Italy. Bratty but fun.

So, finally, day 9 of our trip it cooled off a bit. We went to Ravenna saw a 6th century Basilica of St. Apollinaris in Classe which was most impressive. Simple and beautiful. But the biggest treat was the little cafe by the Basilica. [Just remembering that, as I write this, I felt an urgent need for a cappuccino and went downstairs and made one.] The coffee truly is an art form in Italy and I miss that. At the little outdoor cafe I ordered, in very bad Italian, a cappuccino. The woman was kind enough to not smirk and answered me in pretty good English "that will be two Euros". After the first sip I would have paid four Euros. Heaven in a cup, al fresco. This was Ravenna and it had cooled to about 85 degrees, down right chilly compared to what we'd had for the last eight days. Additional note: the cappuccino was about half the size of our drinks here in the states. Our tour guide, Katarina, explained how Italians drink their coffee like this: "The Italians usually go to a "bar" for a breakfast that consists of a cup of espresso and a roll." I observed espresso is so tiny even a newborn baby would squawk in protest at the meager amount and so strong that it's a wonder that anyone has any tooth enamel. "They drink their espresso straight [mostly] and pair it with a small roll of some kind, standing up at little tall tables," said Katarina. That's it. Isn't that against the rules of proper nutrition? However, they look finer and fitter than we do, so there might be another potential diet book.

Down the country we rolled on our bus. My sister Sally is responsible for me missing a good deal of the scenery from Venice to Assisi when she forced me to read a thriller. I couldn't extract my head from inside the book.* Honestly, it's her fault.

Assisi was definitely one of  my three favorite stops. This is the hill town in which St. Francis founded the Franciscan order and they've very respectfully preserved it. It was a joy to leisurely stroll with our guide pointing out all the important sites. The church of St. Francis is ostentatious, somewhat Byzantine, somewhat Roccoco. Not what I picture the humble and modest St. Francis praying in. Our hotel was eye stopping, perched on the side of the hill [but then, it is a hill town] with a fabulous view of the olives groves, churches and farm land below. We sat on the deck with snacks and a glass of wine enjoying the stunning vista and the breeze.

This is one place, along with Lake Maggiore that I could have lingered, but it was a tour and we were on the bus the next day bound for southern Italy. We stopped for a couple of hours at Pomeii and some of the best pizza of the trip, wood fired a la Napoli style. The young men baking kept things rolling [excuse the pun] and yelled at each other frequently. They were standing right next to each other, yelling. Funny. It was great that the lunch was divine because, and you might want to close your eyes again, I didn't particularly like Pompeii. I know that I was supposed to, but my imagination is not good with rubble. Our tour guide for the site wore pink eyeshadow and created fake lips outlined with brown pencil, nude lipstick in the middle [you should try it] and this looked hilarious to me. This might have aided in distracting me from the pomp in Pompeii. I will say that seeing the mummified bodies left behind after the volcanic eruption were touching. One woman was pregnant and trying to protect her middle, the child within. Touching for me because this was real and those people lived and were right there in front of us.

That night we ended up in Sorrento a truly lovely town on the Bay of Naples. We stayed in another great hotel though the food could have used those bakers from Pompeii, even with the yelling. We discovered Prosecco at a small green grocer across the street and our hotel had ice which excited us no end, as it was the first we'd seen. We had a deck and J and D and Sal and I toasted each other and our great good fortune. Off to a fancy restaurant and "A Taste of Sorrento", worth it and we got to dance again. Sal and I taught the two youngest guys on the trip to dance thereby proving that just because you are a musician it doesn't mean you know how to dance.

The next day we traveled to the Isle of Capri where all of the uber wealthy hang. Off the ferry we booked passage on one of the round the island cruise ships. It was hot enough that it made your teeth ache with desire to dive into that aqua water. After our tour we decided to hike up to the town of Capri, how difficult could it be you could see the houses perched up there. Well, it was a couple of miles of switch backs and J and D and Sally couldn't believe we were doing this, did I mention it was hot? I kept saying "O, look there is a plateau and I bet the town is around the next bend." Ha, it was just another street, more climbing ahead. J, D and Sal, all sweating profusely, groaned. Finally we got to the top and the crowded street in the little village of Capri. The shops according to our tour guide Katarina "are all chicy, chicy, poshy, poshy," and indeed they were. I strolled around for about a half hour, saw some beautiful jewlery but was concerned about the pricey, pricey and so let them go. Then I found a nice bench in the shade overlooking Capri and sat to write. An eighty year old man came strolling by and I smiled saying, "bonjouro" and he said, "Ciao, bella". See, I still got it, with the eighty year old men anyway.

We took the funicular down which took all of two minutes, loving the ride and the view. Then, finally we got to swim,in that divine water, floating blissfully. Gelato for lunch, natch and back on the ferry. I couldn't stop thinking about the jewelry and wondering if I should have bought something for my elegant daughters in law. O, well.

I wrote in my journal, "one of the most glorious days of my life" and it was the boat trip we took, this time in our rented "cigarette boat" around Capri. Blame Sally. She saw this pamphlet, showed it to me and said, "hey, I think we should do this." I looked at the pricey, pricey and said, "Mmm, I don't know." Then good Italian sense prevailed and after the intial hesitation I said, "OK". We started to show the brochure to others on the tour and then like wild fire we had 13 of us signed up for the boat trip. They picked us up at the hotel, provided us with lunch and drinks and dropped us off at the end of the day. Our guide the darling Luigi was so gracious and helpful. When we had free time on the Isle of Capri he took Sally and three others all the way up to Anacapri and showed them around, mind you this was his free time too. I, of course, was on a mission. D, J and I took the bus to Capri town and I went on the hunt for the objects of my obsession for my daughters in law. I dragged three others in with me and all of us bought beautiful things for probably too much money. The clerk was almost surly who sold to us, never mind, I got what I came for. Me, a happy girl.

Down on the funicular and this time B and I got to ride in the front, better than Disneyland, back to the boat. This time we got to swim on all of the wonderful places around the Isle, diving into that turquoise water, through caves on to small sand beaches. This was enhanced by snorkel gear and we watched the teeny fish, I believe all the big one have been et. Lunch huge sandwiches with mozzeralla,  tomatoes and fresh basil on delicious bread. What more can I say, a perfect day with wonderful people in a gorgeous spot in the world in my bathing suit in the sun. We all kept saying "thank you, Sally!" because I told everyone it was her doing. When in Italy, be expansive. It pays big time.

Back we trudged to Rome. That night we went first to the town of Trivoli, then to a dinner over looking the city. Up until this time I would have been hard pressed to believe that the whole of Italy is having a hard time financially. Trivoli convinced me that this is a sad fact. In all of the big very touristy cities and villages everything is clean. The opposite is true in Trivoli, trash is strune everywhere and sadly no one seems to care. The shops are loaded with goods and there are no tourists around to purchase their wares, so D, Sal and I tried our best to help. I bought Mr. G a belt in a leather store and didn't mean to barter, but as I was saying, "O, 60 Euros," aloud, the shopkeeper said, "OK, half price, 30!" and so...The shop where Sally bought all of her trinkets for her grandkids, the owner was so grateful. Contrast this with the Capri experience. The town could be lovely, minus the trash, and I heard that some teens in another village organized a clean up. This should happen to Trivoli. Then we went to dinner that was pretty good though the wine was terrible. We had a wonderful time though because there was music with an excellent young opera singer and we requested Puccini and Verdi. She complied and it brought tears to my eyes. Then the tenor, a man over 60 realizing I was the instigator of the opera request came to our table and sang "Nessun Dorma" to me. Most embarrassing, but it shows that I still have it marginally with the over sixty opera singing males.

Tomorrow I will promise to end this trip with short observations and quips for the traveler.

*The book was John Hart's The Last Child and I loved it. I thought it compared to Edgar Sawtell and exceeded that story. As opposed to ES, I wasn't so bothered by the child being on his own. In ES the child abuse was unresolved and wretched.  I still resent everyone praising this book to the hilt just because it was written as a tragic tale a la Hamlet. Hamlet was a grown man, folks. That makes all the difference Edgar was a disabled child.

magicfeather copyright 2011 Susan R. Grout all rights reserved.