Christmas Letter for 2008

                                                  2008
                         A year of momentous celebrations.
                         … and a few disappointing ordeals:
January -
• in which Megan’s mother Joan was here to visit
• in which we learned these momentous revelations about dear old Mum: she named Megan after a character in the book Apple Tree by Galsworthy; she is afraid of heights (has never been up Seattle’s Space Needle); and she went to a strip club on her 18th birthday (courtesy of the corrupting influence of her older sister)
February -
• in which we sang back-up (along with 700 others) for opera diva Dame Kiri Te Kanawa at an outdoor concert in the park
• in which we had a driveway party with our neighbours to wish Joan a bon voyage
• in which the school year began and Megan was back in a classroom teaching Social Studies and English, in addition to a little librarian work on the side
March -
• in which Austin (28) embarked on a Political Science degree
April -
• in which Megan tried a very British sport called bowls, which is similar to bowling only there are no pins to knock down, it’s played outdoors on perfect grass, and everyone wears white and keeps a stiff upper lip
May -
• in which Megan celebrated another birthday and disappointingly got another year older
• in which the newlyweds (Carlin and Kristen) living in Phoenix, got a new dog
June -
• in which we began a series of ascents of Auckland’s 50 volcanic cones – called mountains, but actually just hills a few hundred metres high
• in which we went to see the musical Priscilla, Queen of the Desert - good fun with outrageous costumes, plenty of ‘70s disco retrospective, and therapy for any latent homophobia
July -
• in which Megan bought a scooter and achieved notoriety among the students as the teacher on the red scooter riding around Auckland. Her coolness factor increased substantially
• in which Megan wanted to sing with a select group to welcome Condoleezza Rice’s visit to New Zealand, but was disappointingly rejected because they were recruiting young singers, despite being the only one who already knew the words to the American national anthem AND being able to sing in a fluent American accent
August -
• in which Nolan (26) announced he would be going to law school next year
• in which Boone (23) came to visit and to summit 8 mountains/volcanic cones/hills while here
• in which Boone played Scrabble against Curt 18 times during his 4 week visit – Boone won 12 times but that’s only because Curt disappointingly had “crap for letters”
• in which we had another driveway party to celebrate Boone’s visit, and then another
September -
• in which we went to our first rugby game, a truly Kiwi experience
• in which we stopped in Bellingham, WA on the way to England, and Curt delivered 3 original paintings as gifts to the boys:

• in which we spent 3 weeks in England to celebrate our 30th anniversary
• in which Megan was hit by a taxi in London while walking across the street. She survived with minor bruises; her beloved muffin was smashed in the ordeal
• in which we went to Bellingham, England and learned it’s pronounced Bell-in-jum there. Really.
October -
• in which we stopped in Portland, OR on our way home from England and saw Curt’s family, our old church family, and Megan’s old school (plus a special stop for Mrs. Fields cookies)
• in which we came home to learn that our church had failed miserably during our brief absence – first approving and then rejecting the appointment of a new pastor because she was gay. We were incensed, frustrated, and sorely disappointed over the ordeal
November -
• in which we gathered with our (Kiwi) neighbours to celebrate and offer a toast for the American election results
• in which we gathered with our Kiwi neighbours again 4 days later for the New Zealand election results
• in which Megan got hit by a car while riding on her scooter. She survived with a few cracked ribs and some minor scrapes and bruises; her beloved scooter got smashed in the ordeal
• in which Nolan and Erica announced their engagement and upcoming summer wedding
• in which Megan bought another scooter
• in which Curt finished 2 more paintings:








December -
• in which we write our clever Christmas letter

Why can't I go see Condoleezza Rice?

Our church choir conductor announced that he has been asked to recruit 12 people to sing the Star-Spangled Banner for Condoleezza Rice's state visit with Prime Minister Helen Clark next week, and he thought of us.

"But you and Curt would probably throw things at her."

"No, I'll behave myself," I protested. "Honest. Plus I already know the national anthem. AND I could sing it with an American accent! Please?"

"No. Actually, you can't participate. There will only be a small group, with 3 people on each part ... and ... you have to be ..." He paused. I was expecting him to say I had to be 'a better singer' but instead he said, "... younger."

Ouch.

"I'm supposed to recruit a youth choir of 18-25 year olds."

At 51, I guess that counts me out. Still, it would have been cool to see Condoleezza Rice in person, even though I disagree with her politics.

Besides singing the Star-Strangled Banner (as he calls it), they'll also perform Hine e Hine, which is one of the songs we performed with opera diva Kiri te Kanawa at Starlight Symphony in February as part of a 500-voice choir. (I already know the words to that one, too. And again, I would sing it with an American accent - which in this case is not a good thing.) Since Dame Kiri won't be there to sing the solo part for Condoleezza Rice, our conductor will get his wife to do it.

This led me to hatch a new plan: The conductor and his wife have a toddler. If he's conducting, and she's singing the solo, who will watch over little Julia? Since I'm one of Julia's favourite people these days (I babysat her last Friday), I would be an ideal person to accompany them to the performance and be the toddler wrangler. Right? Wish me luck.

field trips

Last week, I took 60 11-year-old girls to MOTAT, the Museum of Transport and Technology. We'd been studying technology and inventions so the exhibits at MOTAT were perfect for our topic. We saw old cameras and old washing machines and rode an old tram. It was a bit disconcerting, however, when the MOTAT guide showed the girls an old dial telephone and demonstrated how it worked. They were fascinated by this ancient technology. Talk about feeling old! But it was a great trip, and the girls behaved perfectly, as always.

While I was at MOTAT, however, my English class got into a bit of mischief with the reliever (substitute teacher) back at school. The reliever walked in and saw instructions on the board that said "Silent reading for 5 minutes, then playtime." She was justifiably suspicious and went to get the head of the English department, Margaret, who came into my room: "Right. Who wrote that on the board? And what is it really supposed to say?" All the ponytailed little heads turned toward Jennifer, a bubbly little blonde with a bit too much energy. Margaret sorted out what the class was really supposed to be doing with the reliever, and took Jennifer into the corridor to give her the "You Made a Really Bad Choice" speech. It goes something like this: You wasted the reliever's time./I'm sorry./You wasted my time/I'm really sorry/You wasted the class's reading time/I'm very sorry/You violated Mrs. Davidson's trust in you/ I'm truly so sorry/....

Ironically, while I was on the field trip I had told the other teacher that my English class was so good, "even if a reliever never showed up, the girls would probably read for 20 minutes and then do Skill Sheet #4 as instructed." Ha.

In spite of small glitches like that, I've always been a big promoter of field trips. Some teachers hate them and refuse to take their students anywhere, but I love it. I didn't hesitate to take my students to the state capitol building, the courthouse, or even the public library.

One time I was taking my English class to the Portland public library to show them what a library has to offer - besides books, there are magazines, free computers, free CDs, and free movies. I requested parent chaperones. Andrew's dad signed his name on the permission form and said he'd be able to help. Excellent ... except that I knew Andrew's dad had just been released from prison after serving 5 years for a drug offense. Not coincidentally, he was unemployed and therefore available during the day to chaperone field trips.
My fellow teachers thought I was nuts to let him come along, but I figured it was a good sign that a) he wanted to get involved in school events and b) he wanted to spend time with Andrew (who barely knew him). Besides, he could probably c) learn something new about what kinds of things are available at the library. Maybe he would even d) sign up for a library card while we were there. What would you do? Here's what I did: The ex-con and I took 29 students to the library for an hour and everything went fine. Although he did smell like smoke and had a lot of tattoos.

There were no such problems on the field trip to MOTAT. Diocesan parents are not really the ex-con or tattoo type.

Still getting olderer

I forgot to wear my glasses to church today. As a consequence, I had a bit of trouble reading the choir music. Thankfully, I knew the tune pretty well, but occassionaly had to guess at the words ... and wasn't entirely successful. Let's hope the congregation didn't notice.

It was even harder to read the order of service which was in a smaller font, bordering on microscopic. My arms simply weren't long enough. The most pathetic part was that I didn't get the Lord's Prayer right. Let it be known that I do know it by heart, but I know the American version and without being able to see the words, I can't remember which bits are different in the New Zealand version we do here.

I also forgot to wear shoes to choir practice a few weeks ago, and walked out the door wearing slippers. More alarmingly, this was not the first time I'd gone to choir wearing slippers. And don't forget the time I embarked on a 10-day road trip to the South Island wearing slippers.

Do you think there's a pattern here?

Jury Duty, New Zealand style

I was tickled when I got the letter asking me to serve as a juror in New Zealand. I'd lived in the US for 48 years and never got called to jury duty there, and now I got called after only living here for 2 years! Although many of my friends and colleagues recommended that I get excused, I wanted to serve. As a Social Studies teacher, I wanted to learn more about the justice system here. Think of it as Professional Development. And another step in my cultural experience education.

I dutifully showed up at the courthouse on Monday morning at 9:00, armed with a book to keep me entertained during the long waits. There were about 150 of us in the large holding room. My name was called to report for a rape case in Courtroom 3. Hurray!

They took about 25 of us potential jurors in and starting choosing names from a spinner, just like on Lotto. When my name was called, I gathered up my book and bag and started walking toward the jury box as instructed. But before I reached the juror seats, the defense lawyer called out "Challenge!" What? This meant he wanted to use one of his challenges to keep me off the jury.

I turned around and went back to my seat while grumbling to myself. What's wrong with me? I can be an impartial juror! While they finished choosing 12 perfect jurors, I tried to determine what made them more perfect than me. Did the lawyers want men on the jury? (yes) Young people or old people? Guys in suits or students in torn jeans? I decided it was the book that lost me a selection. I vowed not to look so literate next time.

Back in the holding room with the other rejects, I waited for my name to be chosen for another case. I couldn't help reading my book, but rationalised that the defense lawyers wouldn't see me in here.

Then my name was called again, this time to Courtroom 8 for a double rape case. I stashed my book and followed the line of potential jurors, assessing my chances of being chosen this time. The two defendants were standing in the dock, trying to look tough and intimidating. I hated them already. The first name called by the Lotto announcer was an older woman. They challenged her. They must not want old women. The second name was another old woman. No challenge. What? Why is she OK and the first one wasn't? I'll never understand this. My name was called by Mr. Lotto. With my book safely hidden in by backpack, I headed to the jury box but was challenged again anyway. Grrr.

Back to the holding room. Since there were no more trials beginning today, we were excused until tomorrow and I headed back to school for a few hours. When I told my colleagues about being rejected twice, they recommended that I wear holey jeans and a dirty T shirt saying something sux or maybe a beer ad ... then I might get chosen. Sorry, but I don't have any beer T shirts. I guess I don't have a very good chance of getting chosen either.

The next day, I repeated the process one more time, getting rejected yet again. I was sad. My big introduction to the NZ justice system turned out to be a big flop. I should have known things wouldn't go well when I took the bus to the courthouse on the first day and as I got on, a teenage girl gave up her seat for me. She was sitting in the front seats that are reserved for elderly or disabled. And she gave up her seat. For me.

Sir Ed and me

Sir Edmund Hillary has died.
In this small country, where there seems to be 3 degrees of separation instead of 6, everyone has a connection to Sir Ed, as he is affectionately called. Here are mine:
• I can't claim to have ever met him, but he lived about 2 miles away and I drive by his house every day on my way to work, if that counts.
• His casket was driven to the cemetery at the end of my street.
• His wife was an Old Girl (alumni) of my school, and their daughter attended my school until age 16 when both perished in a plane crash in Nepal on a visit to see Ed. That was 30 years ago. There is still a Nepalese painting hanging in the school library, donated in honour of Louise and Belinda Hillary.
• My next-door neighbour was acquainted with Sir Ed and more specifically his (second) wife, June: June's sister worked for my neighbour, so they would all get together for a BBQ or whatever. Imagine, Sir Ed has been next door for a sausage sizzle.

Besides admitting to having only the slightest connection between Sir Ed and me, I can also admit to a dearth of similarities between Sir Ed and me.
Ed climbed Mt. Everest, the highest mountain in the world.

I climbed Rangitoto, a volcanic island in Auckland's harbour.




After conquering Everest, he said "We knocked the bastard off"
After huffing and puffing to the top of Rangitoto, I said "Who's idea was this?"

It must have taken Ed days/weeks/months to

travel by ship to India, then over land to Nepal, then walked to Base Camp, Camp 1, etc. until he got to the top.

I had a pleasurable forty-five minute ferry ride from Auckland, and hiked for a few hours.

Ed wore crampons on his boots.

I wore Teva sandals.

The temperature was below zero when Ed climbed Mt. Everest.

It was about 15ºC/60ºF when I hiked Rangitoto.

During his climb, Ed probably said encouraging things like, "Keep going, we can do it!"

During my hike I complained and belly-ached and said things like, "I'm too old for this!"

Ed was 33.

I was 50.

Ed had trouble breathing because of the altitude.

I had trouble breathing because I was out of shape.

From the top of Everest, Ed had a view of everything on Earth.

From the top of Rangitoto, I had a gorgeous view of Auckland and the Hauraki Gulf.

Back at Camp 4, Ed and Tenzig probably had a cuppa tea.

On Rangitoto, I drank bottled water. It was ice cold, and very refreshing.

Afterwards, part of the mountain was named after him: the Hillary Step.

I got nothing.

Here's what I like about Sir Ed: It's not that he was the first to reach the top of Mt. Everest, or raced to the South Pole, or gave all his money to the needy in Nepal. No, it's that he went to palaces and mansions, met royalty and millionaires and - as he described it - never saw much to envy, let alone emulate. I like that he's called Sir Ed. Most of all, I am impressed that his name is listed in the phone book under "Hillary, Sir Edmund." That says everything about him and about this country.

Christmas: Home Alone

During the holidays this year, I found that I wasn't feeling as melancholy as last year. I knew my mom was arriving in one week, I'd just spent 2 weeks in the US with all the family in November, and Carlin and Kristen had been here for 2 weeks. So I wasn't pining for my family too much, and our holidays turned out to be quite enjoyable:

On Christmas Eve, it was so hot that we eventually decided to go to the neighbourhood beach for a picnic. We lolled on our beach blanket, read books, and ate dinner. There weren't too many people there. The sun was shining, but there was a breeze off the water. It was perfect. Still, it seems surreal to say that we were at the beach on Christmas Eve!

On Christmas Day, we went to church and sang in the choir. The children's sermon was called Chocolate Christmas! This is my kind of church. Our friends at church made sure we had someplace to go for Christmas dinner (we did) and wished us a happy holiday.

At home, Curt and I opened presents. He got me an iPod, which I'd fancied so I could listen to music while I run on the treadmill at school every day after work. The other students in the gym often have a boombox blaring, but let's face it, I'm too old to want to listen to rap or whatever they've chosen. I'm also so old that I spent the rest of the day trying to figure out how to use the darn contraption. It didn't help that the only directions that came in the box were in Chinese. No English. On the plus side, there were a few helpful diagrams ... with Chinese captions. Good Lord. (eventually I found some English instructions on Apple's website)

My present to Curt was a new patio umbrella because ours was broken in 2 places. He spends a LOT of hours on the deck and I thought he should have a better umbrella, but he didn't seem to think there was anything wrong with the current one even though ...
1) The up and down mechanism broke soon after we bought it, and it had to be held in the up position with an army of hose clamps. Hence, it always stayed up.
2) Then there was a windstorm (remember, it was eternally open, so it caught the wind like a sail) which caused it to shear off at the table height. Curt's solution for this was to scour the neighbourhood on the day of the annual Inorganic Rubbish Pick-Up (people can put out old sofas, broken washing machines and piles of junk to be taken to the rubbish tip) until he found a silver pipe that was just the right diameter. It looked like it had been a shower curtain rod in its former life. He attached the ex-shower curtain rod to the what was left of the umbrella pole, and voila! Just like new.
Clearly, Curt has embraced the Kiwi mentality that anything can be fixed with a bit of ingenuity and some Number 8 Wire.
Note: in early January, the old umbrella broke a third time, so he relented and started using his new one instead.

After opening presents - there were only two presents so it didn't take very long - we went to my friend Lucy's house for Christmas dinner. She had graciously invited us to her family gathering, which included her husband and two kids, her mum, her in-laws, and a brother-in-law with his family. We arrived in time for the tail end of family gift exchange, and Lucy's two children proceeded to show me all the terrific presents they'd received.

I also accompanied her two kids as they played Christmas carols on piano, appointing myself in charge of the left hand/bass part. Best of all, Lucy and I played some flute duets. We had only recently discovered that we both played flute and both bemoaned the lack of opportunities to play, so we'd decided that a family Christmas gathering would be the perfect excuse to inflict our mediocre musicianship on others. Luckily, the audience was filled with holiday spirit and generously tolerant of us.

Although the good times and good conversation meant more to me than good food, I must affirm that there were indeed heaps of good food. Lucy's a wonderful cook and an elegant hostess - a Kiwi Martha Stewart. There were 6 dishes and 4 desserts, all exquisitely prepared and presented. I especially feasted on the shortbread cookie sandwiches with strawberries and cream in the middle. Heavenly.

We felt privileged to be included in their family Christmas, and it was the ideal way to celebrate the holiday thanks to Lucy, Grant, Emma, Liam, Oma, and all the Powells.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

POSTSCRIPT:
Because of the International Date Line, my four sons wouldn't be celebrating Christmas in America until the next day. So on December 26 (Auckland time), I called the boys. Boone was the only one at the designated Christmas headquarters (Grandma's house) and he was a bit under the weather, so he was not very talkative. Apparently, he'd had a cold for a few days, but went there for Christmas dinner anyway. After chatting with Boone, I got to talk to my brother a little, too. But I found that I wasn't as stoic as I'd felt yesterday. I was on the verge of tears. Next, I tried calling Nolan (who had already come and gone from Grandma's) but he didn't answer. I tried calling Austin (who was celebrating Christmas in Missouri with Jonna's family) but he didn't answer either. I tried calling Carlin (who was celebrating Christmas in Phoenix with Kristen's family) ... no answer. I left messages. Then I went ahead and cried. Just for a minute.
Remember what I said about not pining for my family? I lied.

Senior Citizen

Curt went to get a haircut yesterday, and the lady gave him a Senior Discount. He's 52. He debated whether to correct her, but he was too cheap to give up the $7 discount it proffered.

He hates paying $20 for a haircut anyway, since he doesn't have a lot of hair to cut. And there's not much styling involved since all it takes is a #4 guard. It's all over within 5 minutes, and he doesn't like paying $20 for it.

A few months ago, he talked me into cutting his hair for him. I reluctantly agreed ... with the condition that he would not yell at me. He reluctantly agreed. Sitting in the kitchen with a towel around his neck, I dutifully shaved his head with the #4 guard. So far so good. This is kinda fun. Just a little messy. Next, he wanted me to use the edger to trim the bottom and his sideburns. OK. I can do this. Finally, he wanted me to use the #2 guard to blend the edging with the #4 guard section. Huh? I did my best, and he claimed he was pleased with the outcome. Uh oh. I feared I may have just gotten myself a job.

But wait. The second time I tried to cut his hair, I was not as successful. The edging was a little crooked. And when I was supposed to blend the edging with the other section, I slipped and made some obvious gashes in the hairline. I didn't draw blood, but the hair was clearly missing at an angle above his ear. Oops. I tried real hard to blend the gash by making everything shorter on that side. Hmm. He tried real hard not to yell at me.

Eventually, he started hinting that he needed another haircut. I pretended I didn't hear him. He brought it up again the following week. I dragged my feet. He finally got tired of waiting for me to do it, and went to the beauty shop. This is when the Senior Discount surfaced. What do you do when someone offers you a lower cost because you're old? Is the discount supposed to compensate for the fact that you're now balding and greying? Should he be offended or should he be appreciative?

Well, you know how this ended. He smiled and took the change. He has no self-respect.

PARTY!!!

Erica and Nolan chopped and mixed and assembled and cooked all day. And they made every dish into a work of art! Curt cleaned the bathrooms, replaced light bulbs, and picked up 2 cakes from a fancy bakery in Parnell. I hoovered (vacuumed), but that was the extent of my contribution. Then I took a nap.

Everything was ready, everybody came, and everything went perfectly! On top of that, Curt said really sweet and heartfelt things about me at the party and he earned some big-time brownie points. What more could I ask for?

Everyone raved about Erica's food. Grant ate 20 or 30 chicken skewers. Mark liked the marinated mushroom antipasto skewers. Barb was impressed by the tortilla roll-up sandwiches. Erica had also made crostini, mushroom croustades, cheese platter, veggie platter & hummus, fruit platter & yogurt dip, and my favourite - Tollhouse Chocolate Chip Cookies. I had told everybody specifically NOT to bring any presents, but a few guests brought chocolate anyway. They know me so well. Almost everyone brought a bottle of wine. I think we ended up with more bottles left over after the party (10) than we had bought before the party (7). Net gain in the wine inventory.

Upstairs, I'd put out a few toys and art supplies for the 7 kids who came. The kids kept busy most of the time by making me scads of birthday cards using fancy scissors and coloured paper and stickers. It was sweet. The oldest 2 girls, Emma and Isobella did a good job watching over the younger ones, although the playroom was still pretty messy in the end. Then Emma and her mom (Lucy) picked up all the bits of paper for me. True friends.

So many people were there! Of the neighbours, there was Matt & Maree (from whom we bought this house and who still live nearby), Brendan & Melanie, Annette, Gabrielle, and John & Margaret (a teacher at my school). Mo (a Canadian) & Simon were there, fellow expats we'd met through an expats internet forum who coincidentally bought a house right down the street. They were pleased to meet the Gowing Street neighbours, but they also connected with another Canadian (Joanne), who is married to our choir director (Mark). Besides Mark & Joanne, from church there was Ivan & Anne, Vicky & Graeme, and Jenny & Marston. Work friends included Jon & Suze from Curt's office, plus Lucy & Grant and Barbara & Derek from my library. I was especially glad to finally meet Barbara's husband, Derek, because I'd heard about him but had never actually laid eyes on him; I call him Barbara's "alleged" husband. Best of all, we got to see Rick & Bev for the first time in over a year. They had hosted us, guided us, and helped us move to NZ in 2005 but lately we've been embarrassingly lax about keeping in touch. When you add in Nolan & Erica's presence, plus me & Curt, it all added up to 30 people. I ended up with quite a collection of birthday cards, too. Of course, it helps if you provide supplies and instruct the kids to make lots. Overall, it made me feel all warm inside to look around my house, crowded with well-wishers, and see evidence of our first 1.5 years here: good friends, good jobs, good church, good house, good son who just graduated. Not bad.

But it got even better: At about 9:00, Curt and Erica brought out the desserts, one chocolate cake and one cheesecake. Excellent choices! Everyone sang Happy Birthday, but with the room full of choir members, it was a far fancier rendition than your average refrain. Then Curt handed me a glass of champagne and proposed a toast ... but first he wanted to say a few words about me. Really? I knew nothing of this plan. He went on to say that I was a wordsmith, and that I had taught him to appreciate the power of words. He said the word he associated with me was "muse" and that I'd been his muse for 29 years. He noted that muse is also the root for the words "music" and "museum" - both important words in our lives - and the root for "amusement." I do make him laugh. I'm funny. I wish I could remember everything else he said that night, word for word, but I was shocked ... SHOCKED that he would open up and profess his emotions. It's just not his style. So I can't remember how it ended. I think he wished me well for the next 50 years or something. I was touched. Then I grabbed the first piece of chocolate cake and chowed down.

After the party, Nolan said that it was the best time he'd had in the entire two months they'd been in NZ. He especially liked our neighbour Brendan, who invited us over to his house the following night to watch the rugby game/drink beer. Earlier, Brendan and Nolan had drifted over to Brendan's and so they missed the cake and the toast. Brendan's partner, Mel was furious with him for stealing Nolan when he should have been here, but I wasn't. I'm glad he got to talk to people and meet people and enjoy himself, even though he and Erica were working in the kitchen most of the evening, heating more crostini and barbecuing chicken skewers. After everyone left, we tidied up a bit and did one load of dishes. We finally got to bed about midnight which is WAY past the appropriate bedtime for an old geezer like me.

My 50th birthday

Well, today is my actual birthday. Fifty. It sure seems like a really big number. I'm old.

Erica made dinner tonight and they'd stopped at the local bakery to get some fancy chocolate tarts for dessert. Mmmm. We also opened a bottle of champagne to celebrate the half-century mark. They gave me a birthday card about old people's eyesight being so bad that they can't read the fine print, but the print was so small, I couldn't read it so I didn't get the joke. Oh, the irony. They also gave me a new bomb for our collection. Curt wrote a note at the bottom of his card that said, "You look pretty good for 50, but then again, my vision isn't what it used to be." I am not kidding. He wrote that on the card.

Then we headed downtown to go see Fiddler on the Roof! Lucy had told me that her favourite part about going to the big theater downtown was the stars that lit up the ceiling, and Lara had said to look for the lion statues with glowing eyes. The theater was indeed impressive, designed like a Moorish garden, with turrets, minarets, spires and tiled roofs. It's pretty remarkable.

Fiddler on the Roof turned out to be as good as I hoped. Topol owned the character of Tevye. He was full of energy when needed, yet old and dejected when needed. His voice had lost none of its power. It was incredible. Erica's eyes were bright and sparkling throughout the performance. She loved it. Nolan would never admit it, but he liked it too. I only sang along a few times, but I couldn't help it. Who can resist Sunrise, Sunset? Or If I Were a Rich Man? Besides, I sang real quiet, under my breath. I didn't ruin the show for anyone.

Once in Portland, I actually got to sing as loud as I wanted - we went to the Sound of Music Sing Along. It was great. They had the lyrics on the screen ... but I don't need them. I know all the songs by heart. Heck, I know all the dialogue by heart! There was a costume contest during intermission and some of them were pretty creative. People had dressed up as nuns, or goatherds, or girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes. The theater also distributed a little goody bag with props: edelweiss, drapery material, and an invitation to the Baroness's party. We had a blast. If only someone would produce a Music Man sing along ... or Fiddler on the Roof sing along.

Even though I didn't get to sing If I Were a Rich Man at the top of my lungs as I would have liked, it was still a great birthday. Sadly, 50 is also still a very big number.

Birthday planning

I was turning 50 in a few days, and I wasn't sure how to celebrate it. I wasn't particularly pleased to be a half-century old. But if I could come up with something fun - something noteworthy - it might help me feel better about being so old.

PLAN A:
A revival of the musical Fiddler on the Roof happened to be in Auckland this month, starring Topol, its original Broadway star 40 years ago. I'm a sucker for musicals. I know the storylines in musicals are corny, but I still enjoy the songs and the costumes and the spectacle of it all. One of my favourites has always been The Music Man, in which the love interest is Marian the Librarian - little did I know that I would grow up to be a librarian! Plus it's about a marching band and has some good old-fashioned John Philip Sousa-type music in it. I love it.

So. Fiddler on the Roof sounded like a perfect birthday activity, except for one thing: I was worried that the star might be over the hill. Honestly, Topol must be at least 70-something now! One of the worst musical productions I ever saw was when an older, washed-up Broadway star agreed to reprise his role in Annie Get Your Gun. He was 60 or 70 at the time, and he wore a girdle/corset to cinch his belly, which was only partially reduced. The leading lady was played by a young woman in her twenties, and it was impossible to accept this pathetic old geezer as her paramour. Ew.

Because of this, I was sceptical of going to see an old star like Topol. I waited for the reviews - excellent. Word-of-mouth - glowing. One friend pointed out that since Topol was an old man playing an old man, it wouldn't be as bad as an old man playing a young man. OK. I'll go. The next step was to convince Nolan and Erica to come.

me: I was thinking of getting tickets for Fiddler on the Roof for my birthday.
Erica: Oooh! I'll go! (with glee)
Nolan: I've already seen it. (with dread)
Erica: Oh, come on, Nolan. I've never been to a play or musical. This will be great. (with excitement)
Nolan: Mom dragged us to plays and musicals every summer. (with disgust)
Erica: Really! What did you get to see? (with envy)
Nolan: EVERYTHING. Music Man. King and I. Man of LaMancha. Grease. Little Shop of Horrors. Sound of Music. Godspell. Good lord, I've seen them all. (with woe)
Erica: You're so lucky!
Nolan: Lucky? When you're a 10-year-old boy, you don't like to go to musicals, especially when your mom sings along. She sings along! (with embarrassment)
me: It's settled, then. I'll buy 4 tickets. (with a smile)

PLAN B:
Maybe I should have a party. It might make the event of turning 50 more palatable. Plus our friends would get to see Nolan and Erica one more time before they go back to America. The only thing wrong with parties is that they're always so much darn work. I only wanted to have a party if I didn't have to do any of the work. Presto. Erica would shop and cook and cater the whole thing. Nolan would be her driver and sous-chef. Curt would order a fancy CHOCOLATE cake (or two). I would eat the cake and enjoy the party. Perfect.

I decided to go with both Plan A and Plan B. Maybe turning 50 wouldn't be so bad after all.