Sunday, May 16, 2010

Sunday Memories: Part Three: Home Work

A series on the home we give our work.

Florence


This was the only place in the apartment she ever looked like she could breathe.

She started practicing between 9 and 10am. When I was little and on rare occasions came home for lunch, she would quickly make french toast and returned to practicing. When I got bigger and wasn't in risk of setting the house on fire, on those rare days, I made my own french toast.

After school it was my turn in that room and I practiced the piano (until one rare day I refused to) and the violin (which was the price I paid to not practice the piano anymore).

And when all that was done and some dinner put in front of me or my sister or both, Florence returned back to practicing until it got dark enough for neighbors to complain.

No one ever did.

2 comments:

Goggla said...

One of my favorite memories is hearing a kid in the house behind ours practicing his clarinet. All summer long...he never really improved, but I liked hearing the disjointed notes all the same and was jealous that I didn't have an instrument to play. Nowadays, I hear someone at night playing the recorder in the back garden. It's a soothing sound for the evening, washing away the daytime noise of trucks, sirens and jackhammers.

josslyn said...

your mom looks tall enough for the wnba here! no wonder you have such a (clearing my throat) tall sense of self! your blog is looking so so fantastic, love the kosky piece too!