Ends

It’s not only the peas that are through for the year.  Lots of things are coming to a point.  Silas turned in the manuscript for his book.  It’s called (let’s see if I can get this right) Life, Death and Transporter Beams.  No, that’s not quite right.  It definitely has death and transporter beams in the title.  Does that pique your curiosity?  Good.  Maybe you can buy his book when it comes out.  I finished a book, too.  It’s a middle grade novel set in Fresno, and so far only my parents have read it.  But I have plans to visit our neighborhood elementary school and read parts of it.  You can see it at www.lulu.com/spotlight/rhondalangley.  It’s called Bendta Moll:  Lessons. Come to think of it, it also involves death and transporter beams (and violins and giant sequoias, and well . . .)

Joseph is almost done with sixth grade.  And Peter, despite everything, is pretty much getting credit for this semester of high school, except perhaps for Japanese.  We’re definitely learning the limitations of Medi-cal.  One shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, right?  At least there are some services available, even if it is a psychiatrist who can’t remember who we are from appointment to appointment.  And they get cranky at the office when I can’t get Peter to come to an appointment (Peter, who is now officially diagnosed with agoraphobia– you know, the fear of leaving the house?  Does anyone else see the irony here?)  But I better not dwell on this or I might start pulling my hair out.

All the end of year concerts and recitals are coming up too now.  I’m looking forward to next Saturday, when my students and I will be giving a recital.  Joseph will be playing too.  Maybe we’ll post some of it on youtube and put a link here in my blog.  There’s nothing so beautiful as listening to your child play at a recital (especially after several episodes, one of them this morning, of throwing the recorder aside and saying he would never play it again).

But maybe you’re still wondering why Silas and I were both writing about death and transporter beams . . .  Hm.  Shall we psychoanalyze us?  It almost sounds like we feel some deep inner need to escape from something, to be somewhere else . . . you know, to arrive in some other place where all psychiatrists remember who you are between appointments and people hire you for the job you would be good at.  No, that can’t be right.  Maybe we just had indigestion.

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