Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Festina lente

Slowing down and relaxing aren't things we do much.  They're not particularly the easiest activities on our list, since both of us are notorious workaholics.  But after weeks of lengthy days, it's a requirement to claim a weekend now and then for ourselves.  This was one of those, spent on the instep of the Louisiana boot, just north of Baton Rouge in St. Francisville: Myrtles Plantation, "the home of mystery and intrigue."   In Louisiana, a 90 minute drive in any direction makes all the difference:  different dialect, landscape, different sensibility.
Making our way through the gate, up and around the winding drive, we discovered a secluded, yet hardly isolated place: oak trees and crepe myrtles draped with Spanish moss,  boxwood hedges, aspidistra, camillias, Japanese magnolias.   Tranquil, yet infamously haunted.
Room 10, the William Winters Room, was our weekend home.  Modestly appointed.  Tall four-poster bed.  Illuminated by a brass chandelier suspended from an ornamental plaster medallion.  The walls were painted green -- good for the eyes, as they used to say. 
Lunch in the restaurant.   Taking our places at table, we hurriedly perused the menu.  Our wordy waitress announced the specials.  I  gazed impatiently over my eyeglasses at her as she delivered her commentary.  Who has the time for all this? Jambalaya for him, half an oyster po-boy for me and a cup of sweet potato/andouille soup.  Our server expounded:  "It sounds weird, I know, but it's actually pretty good, and I don't push things I don't like."  Small talk, waiting. Po-Boy was good, Jambalaya was flavorful.  Soup was interesting.  Not so much the candied yam flavor I was expecting than that of an unusual tomato cream with shavings of spicey sausage.  I had eyed the white chocolate bread pudding on the dessert menu, and our colorful server indulged us.  One to share.  It had been some time since I had enjoyed a good bread pudding (Christmas Eve to be exact, having been fortunate enough to receive the prized corner square with all its crusty sweetness).  Coffee, after a while.  It is de rigueur to eat bread pudding, at least a good one, in a proper and methodical manner: each bite must be savored, accompanied of course with a tasty cafe au lait. We had driven an hour and a half to be here.  All we had was time, yet our clocks ran fast.  The Myrtle's clocks ticked far more slowly.  What was only a few minutes local time was enternity for us.  So impatient we were that we took our coffee cups "to go".  We were captured by the plantation's charm and the utter gorgeousness of the gardens, yet we were still focused on the day planner, on-going projects, and upcoming scheduled functions and activities.  All we had was time.  We were there to spend time.  Our server, whom we regarded at first with disdain, was doing exactly what she needed to do: force us to breath, have a seat, and allow us to enjoy the passing day.  The spacious courtyard encouraged it further. Having borrowed an informational anthology from the gift shop describing various Louisiana haunted locations, we took turns informing ourselves of the place's mysterious history and countless tales of things paranormal.  The History Tour was scheduled for later in the afternoon.  Potential Tony nominee, tour guide Piper, wowed us with her dramatic re-telling of the unlucky slave Chloe, whose eavesdropping earned her a truncated ear, and whose vindictive nature inspired her concoction of an oleander potion added to a child's birthday cake.  Two of the planter's daughters and his wife fell victim to the deadly gateau. Chloe, in reparation for her crime, was hanged in the garden, her corpse later weighted with bricks and sunk into the Mississippi.  We were signed up for the evening "Mystery Tour" as well.  
Up to the suite for a nap.  Just what we needed finally to adjust ourselves to the time difference.  When we emerged, we moved more slowly and reclaimed our seats in the courtyard.  Relaxed.  Now and then a brief walk about to take pictures and explore the extensive grounds.  In the back garden there was a cypress tree pond featuring a little island complete with a tiny gazebo.  A wooden bridge connected the island to the mainland.  Wintery cypress debris had formed a thin red layer on the water.  Cypress knees peeked up through the surface.  So prolific they were, I supposed that the island was composed almost entirely of oxygen-seeking water roots.  Blaine was the photographer.  Both of us observed the guests.  Our female neighbors in Room 9 were two of a larger party of friends who had converged on the plantation for a birthday weekend of one in their group.  Broad Texas accents:  "Come on down and meet us," one of them cellphoned her roommate,  "We're sitting talking to the boys". We weren't the only ones who had priavately nicknamed others around us.  Mystery Tour at 8pm. Full moon. Haunted house. Chandeliers on half light, the sizable group filed in.  Piper had returned for an encore, yet peppered her detailed oral history this time with a several personal and second-hand ghost stories.  As before, we exited the foyer to the dining room.  All re-assembled, we heard the ominous announcement: "this is the room where the murder was committed, or at least, where the deadly cake was consumed."  Immediately, I was overcome by a feeling of dis-ease and grew faint.  Cold perspiration formed on my forehead.  Predicament: antiques forbid use.  No place to sit. As the explanations paused and we moved to the parlor, I made my way to the farthest corner to squat, supporting myself on my heels.  I made several attempts to stand, but never without the return of  intense dizziness.  Each time the group relocated, I righted myself then found a new place to lie low.  Not until outside on the back porch did the feeling pass.  Odd.  Whether this was some ghostly communication, or whether the room was simply stuffy from the humid Louisiana night and overheated by the crowd of tour participants crammed into tight quarters is open to interpretation.  Uncanny at any rate how this happened to me at the precise moment that Piper began on about the malaise of poisoning...
Upstairs foyer outside the rooms.  Time for indoors conversation before retiring.  It's at such times when the corner of the eye catches movement.  Indirect views reflected in mirrors or caught in a sideways glance.  Blaine saw it:  the shadow emerging from Room 10, our room. Fleeting.  When we entered some time later, we took notice of the chandelier's calm rotation.  Not a terrorizing experience.  Just interesting.  Ready for bed, lights out.  At no time was either of us scared to fall asleep.  Honestly, I was more worried about my ferocious snoring raising the dead and disturbing the living than being pestered in the night by the ghost of a curious girl.  Blaine and I awoke almost at the same time as the sunlight began to stream into "the William Winters rooms".  Coffee and breakfast.  Moses, the evening caretaker, had assured us that he was an early riser, and that the coffee would start to drip some time shortly past 4am.  Having spent a night in the most haunted house in the South, we were well ready to take our places again in the courtyard, now soundless in the dewy Louisiana morning to enjoy a demitasse of brew strong enough to float a nail (if it doesn't, it's just not coffee).  The food preparation was underway: eggs, grits, gravy, biscuits, sausage, coffee cake, jam.  By our second cup, the Texas ladies had emerged to recount their festive birthday observance and to join us for a fabulous plantation breakfast.  A final walk through the front garden won several more photographs for the album.  As we brought our bags to the car, Blaine commented that it felt as if we had lingered at the Myrtles at least a week, so well had the place helped us to accomplish what we had come here for: leisurely to spend time in each other's company apart from our everyday.  The Myrtles Plantation in St. Francisville, Louisiana: make haste slowly.  You may even see a ghost.                     

Friday, February 18, 2011

Valentine

My partner had seen The Color Purple several years ago in New York and raved about it -- sets, lighting, voices, all stellar.  In mid January, one of my customers (on a lark) mentioned that the touring company of Purple would be coming to the Heymann Center here in Lafayette on February 14th.  My mind went into overdrive.  I sent off a quick text just to make sure the coast was clear for that Monday.  Tickets reserved and printed, an evening at the theatre was organized in minutes.  It was still early enough that selecting decent seats was relatively easy.  At this point, this was more about the the show title and Valentine's Day, than an outting to see a good play.  Experience over the years indicates that touring show companies are notoriously B-string, if not some string further down the alphabet.  But it was Valentine's Day, and that would cure all ills, even flat pitches and bad sound.  The die was cast.  M125 and M126 were ours for the evening.  
The weekend couldn't have started out better: a surprise visit by one of my partner's colleagues to my own place of business supplied me with a handwritten note and a 3' high glass vase filled with chocolate and wrapped up in lime green and orange ribbons.  I liked the fact that the color scheme was an alternative to the typical.  Stunned I was to receive such a fabulous Valentine.  I kept it unopened and on display for the weekend, a lovely reminder of an exquisite person on a holiday which I had always pretended didn't exist -- because it never had before, really.  The weekend bookended between the candy vase and the show was quiet and low key.  Monday, the day. Curtain was at 7:30.  We arrived at the Heymann around 7:15, found parking and made our way with the crowds to the theatre.  Great turn out for a Monday night show in Lafayette.  Most importantly, it was Valentine's Day, we had tickets to an event which meant time together.  If the show was good: lagniappe.  If it was bad, we'd have plenty to rant on about at dinner, and even more to rant on about with our theatre curmudgeon friends.  Three minutes to curtain, and we were entering the house.  Still, we had plenty of time to settle in, flip through the program, gloss over the bio's.  Overture.  It was from the conductor's downbeat that my attention was captured -- and what I heard was topped by what I saw at curtain's rise.  An amazing set, beguiling costumes, a fantastic score.  I was liking this show.  The singers were spot on.  Harmonies were there.  I was sitting in the Heymann and actually drawn into the action on the stage.  It was magical.  A communication between actors and audience like I've rarely experienced before.  I've seen my share of plays, musicals, and operas, many top notch, but really nothing exactly like this.  These characters were real, their challenges and concerns real.  Supported by an excellent score, fantastic voices, and an absolutely amazing set and lighting scheme, The Color Purple renewed my interest in attending musicals.  The difference here, I think, is that all of these actors really believed in the show.  They presented these characters to us as real people as they know them.  A friend of ours had attended (yet another) performance of Fiddler in the same house a few months ago.  When we asked him whether he liked it he reported that it was long. He also said that it was announced how many thousands of times the lead had performed the role.  So instead of a fresh, engaging show, this Fiddler was nothing more than a stale matzo with a dusty beard steeped in tradition.  Precisely the reason I typically avoid touring shows. 
But this was Valentine's Day.  It was punctuated by pleasant surprises and joyful discoveries.  A man who took the time to assemble a fabulous presentation gift for me to end a hectic and turbulent week that heralded a terrifically calm and relaxing weekend.  And then the holiday culmination: to enjoy a masterful stagework with him that speaks to the heart and moves the soul to weep and to rejoice. What a bombastic, colorful celebration of life!  From Shug Avery's profound solo in Act I: "The grace you bring into this world -- too beautiful for words."