Remember Doug? My friend and hairstylist? Did I mention in that earlier post that Doug is also a singer-songwriter? Nope? Well, my mistake. Doug’s a darn good singer-songwriter.

He’s also a great sport and recently began to enter contests. Not counting hair-related contests, he has entered at least three contests in the past couple of years, all involving music. The first was a challenge to write a new tune for the Choc Full o’ Nuts jingle. He wrote a few and made it to the finals with at least one of them. (I’ll check other computers to see if I have a copy).

Not long after that, Doug entered an American Idol contest to come up with an original song for that show. He wrote and sang Dream Come True for that contest.

Most recently Doug entered to become a contestant on Nashville Star — country & western’s answer to American Idol. His email about his experience had the whole family in stitches. Doug seemed to have had a lot of fun at the audition:

“Friday March 14, Westin Grand Hotel in DC, near GWU. Open call. I arrive at 11:30 am and enter a line 2 blocks long. I have long, straightened hair, and a redneck bandanna. In a sea of cowboy hats and boots, I am the only bandanna-guy…

…I decided that if I was fortunate enough to make the call-back,I would slip quietly through the door, not calling attention to myself. Or so I thought. When you were in the next group of five waiting to audition, they had you sit down in a little row of seats, with bright lights and cameras on you (all day extensive footage was being filmed). I had a metal tuning fork, and would tap my head with it, then hold it to my ear to get my note….

…I was the last of the three, and heard the cheers as the other two made their entrances. Now it was my turn, and the staff wanted a BIG entrance. “Ready? OK, IT’S YOUR TIME! GO! GO!!!” So I leapt through the door, and with no idea what to do, found myself pumping my arms in the air, and shouting “SHAZAAM!!” at the top of my lungs…. and you could have heard a pin drop. No one other than the camera man was expecting a third person through the door!!! So my entrance caused people to turn my way, and the camera was put in my face with me laughing like crazy and feeling like a huge idiot. The interviewer said, “Tell us about that tuning fork. You must really want to sing on key”. And with no hesitation, I blurted out, “No, that’s not for singing, I just like to smack myself in the head sometimes. It keeps me in line”.”

Well, Doug didn’t make the cut, but he did make the Nashville Star TV commercial and part of his audition is on YouTube (see below). He’s also in the sideshow on the Nashville Star web site. He’s the one in the black bandanna, just to the right of the Nashville Star logo. Click the image to enlarge it. Or click here to see the image with Doug highlighted.

Mom and Larry liked to go to a bar and grill called Bookers in South Elgin. I can see why, the atmosphere is welcoming and the staff seem nice, although when I went there a year ago with Ron we had an aloof, bordering on rude, server.

Mom and I went there twice during my visit. Once just to eat dinner and once because her friend Robin, a server at the restaurant, told her to stop by for lunch or dinner.

The second time we were there was the day before I was to drive home. We sat at the bar, something I’ve not done in years. Next to us was an older gentleman wearing a straw hat. Mom greeted him and introduced us. Unfortunately I think I’ve forgotten his name. Ken perhaps?

He bought us a round of drinks — I figured since I was seated at a bar I’d have a martini, mom had her usual — diet coke and Malibu rum. The bartender, Chuck (Robin told us that we could remember his name if we thought “up-chuck”) was sweet, young and nice looking. He also made a killer martini (and laughed when I asked for a normal [gin] martini with only a little bit of alcohol — what do I know? I don’t get out much).

I got to watch a bit of college wrestling on one of the 12 flat screen TVs the establishment has on the wall behind the u-shaped bar. I also learned what the-man-whose-name-might-be-Ken did for a living. I thought he said he trained people to manufacture aluminum parts. But then he said his company made the tracks for tract lighting. Maybe I heard right both times. Maybe the tracks are made from aluminum. (Just found the company on the Internet. He used the word extrusion. I’d never heard of it, but I guess it has to do with pressing the metal into shapes.

The-man-whose-name-might-be-Ken has an interesting way of speaking. His consonants seem to come from the back of his throat. Think Jimmy Stewart.

It was a really nice evening. It made me sort of sad that my regular home life is spent pretty much within the four walls of our house. I rarely get out, and when I do the folks I meet are not quite as colorful as those I met during my stay in Elgin this time around. Or maybe it was Chuck’s martini that helped create the colors.

Isn’t it funny how seeing (or smelling or tasting or hearing) certain things makes you always think about certain people, places or events in your life? I’m like that about the most mundane of objects - especially in the laundry room. Folding towels makes me think of my mom. Cleaning lint from the dryer makes me think of my friend Chris. A wooden clothes drying rack makes me think of my friend Marie.

I met Marie in the early 1980’s when her husband, Neal, and my boyfriend, Dean, shared an office at Carnegie Mellon University. She was a nursing student. She was also a birder before it was a popular or even accepted pastime. We did a lot of things with Neal and Marie in Pittsburgh until they moved back to Rhode Island. I was heartbroken. I’d not had a friendship like the one I had with Neal and Marie since — well, probably since forever.

We kept in touch and visited them a lot. We spent Easter with Marie’s boisterous Italian family and met Neil’s brother and his wife. I considered Marie one of my closest friends and asked her to be my matron-of-honor at my wedding. She and Neal flew to Illinois for the wedding and even accompanied us and our friend Paul to Wisconsin for our first honeymoon.

Over the years we’ve visited them probably once a year on average - perhaps a little less. They visited us a few times, but not as much as we did them. We rejoiced at the births of their children and they did the same for ours.

Marie and I had a few differences - I remember that we disagreed on whether or not a teacher who had no children could be as empathetic as those with children. As a child free teacher then, I thought I was as empathetic as one with kids. (Later– after my own daughter was born — I agreed with Marie and told her so.) We also had a bit of a falling out when I suggested she see a movie instead of a play of some play we’d just seen. I didn’t mean anything by it - knowing that their life was so busy with their children. It got her upset though.

The last time I saw Marie was at her Newport Beach beach house when we visited them for a few days. The room Dean and I shared had a collapsible wooden clothes-dryer and I remember Marie coming in the room one day, folding it up and putting it away. I remember thinking that one of those might be handy to have. The day we left I had a monstrous hangover from way too much wine at a party they had the night before.

We planned on visiting them again the next summer but about a month before we were to go Marie emailed us that she and Neal had separated and would probably divorce. She was shocked too, but doing ok. She said we could still visit, but it might be uncomfortable.

I was beyond shocked. I was devastated. It was like a dear friend had died. NealandMarie was dead. It was now Neal or Marie. Not that we needed to make a choice, but it felt like that. We couldn’t make a choice. So we’ve not seen either of them. We’ve both communicated with Marie through email and telephone conversations and I IMed Neal a couple of times. They both say they are friends and we should feel free to go visit — we could see both of them.

Perhaps it is the divorce, or perhaps it is just the busy life we have with two teenagers and aging parents, but New England is no longer somewhere we first think about visiting when we are thinking of vacation plans.

The last I heard from Marie, she said she was seeing someone and was doing well. I’m glad. She is still one of my all-time favorite people and always will be. I’ll always consider her one of my best friends, even if we never see each other again.

So, on days when I have a lot of clothes that cannot go in the dryer, I think about Marie and our friendship and sometimes I cry a little, but usually I smile remembering the good times we had.

Today we’d planned on picking up Dean’s mom and taking a drive in the country. Because Ruth was not feeling well we just visited with her for an hour and then went on the drive ourselves.

Riding with my dad in the car reminds me of when we’d take his mother on drives along the same roads 40 years ago or more. She always told us who’d lived in each of the homes along the way - and was distressed if it looked like a home she’d lived in looked uncared for.

We had a mission - we were delivering flowers to my Grandmother and Grandfather Patrick and to my cousin Jim. Dad thought Jim would like blue flowers. We got Grandma Patrick some white ones. I like the cemetery where they are buried. It is quiet and small. They are surrounded by fellow farmers - some of whom were born in the later part of the 1700’s. I asked dad if he had a cemetery plot. He said he didn’t and didn’t want to talk about it. Funny - he spends a lot of his time talking about the dead. Those who’ve passed recently and those who’ve been gone for decades.

After the cemetery he wanted to drive past the last farm his father owned. The farm he could easily have inherited. He’s obviously somewhat regretful that he chose a different path in life - one that didn’t include farming.

We continued our drive, and then dad thought I’d like to visit mom’s friend Jill and her husband, Gordon. They are quite interesting. He does something technical (writes code for software?) for a living as well as helps Jill raise alpacas. Jill also creates hats and slippers from the alpaca wool. She showed me her creations. I would have bought a hat, but I look awful in hats. Maybe later this summer when we visit again I’ll buy a pair of slippers. Clare might like a hat.

The have A LOT of alpacas. At least 20. And they are beautiful. Two were just recently born - one was born on June 6th of this year. The mother stood next to the baby and chattered to her when we first got there. Cindy said it was because we were strangers. Whatever it was - it was so cool. Makes up for me missing the balloon fest on Saturday.

Dad got tired and I could tell he wanted to go home, so we left. He went to bed and I walked to a nearby restaurant for an Italian Beef sandwich - something I cannot get in Maryland unless I make it myself.

On the way to Paul’s I passed by a cacophony of memories.

• The house that once was the huge pile of dirt where I would practice my Hollywood falls.
• The house where the woman who sold me the cookbook told me she was living on borrowed time
• The house where the mean old man lived who made beautiful Christmas decorations
• Stephanie’s house, that once burned nearly to the ground, but the cats were found safely.
• Paul’s parking lot, that once was The Red Barn, a fast food chicken restaurant. My dad didn’t like eating there because he swore they served fried pigeon.

On the way back I passed the five homes that were built as affordable housing. They still look like projects, but I noticed that the owners have tried to make them attractive. One house has a beautiful door with beveled diamond-shaped glass panes. Another has mansion style (and sized) pillars on either side of the driveway which leads to a carport.

This lot used to house a huge Victorian mansion. On the side was a mulberry bush that, as kids, we would pick and eat the fruit until we felt sick. That mulberry bush is long gone, but I saw evidence of mulberries on the property. I’ll let myself believe the bushes I know are still there, are distant offspring of the mulberry tree I remember.