On Wednesday, I started to write about the Chanticleer concert that Herb, Emma, and I attended last month at Kingwood United Methodist Church; Then I realized I couldn't say the things I wanted to say because it's been too long, and I can't remember the details accurately enough. This morning I've decided to try again. I mean, gee, I have already invested five minutes in scanning the program.
The concert was wonderful! I admit that I am hopelessly in love with the male voice. Put twelve of them together singing the most amazing harmony, opening with Ave regina caelorum, and I'll swoon every time. Well, actually, I didn't swoon, but I perched on the very edge of my seat, and TWO times embarrassing squeals of excitement escaped my lips. And, no, it does not help to clap one's hand over one's mouth after the squeal has escaped. The sound still leaps into the ears of the people in front of you and the people behind you. The people behind us happened to be the pastor and his wife, and the people in front of us were two students Emma knows from college. I thought Herb was going to crawl under his seat, but instead he seared my soul with a withering glance so potent that the memory still makes me cringe.
I readily admit that my squeals were inappropriate. However, I would like to say a word in my defense:
During the concert, vast quantities of adrenaline still raged through my bloodstream from the disturbing adventure of getting Emma to the church!
She was supposed to leave college and meet us there. She had her ticket with the address of the church so that she could put it into the GPS. I should have found the church on a map first as a backup plan, but I didn't. I knew it was just a couple of miles from school. I was sure the GPS would get her there without a problem.
As it happened, Herb forgot about the concert and got home late. So I was already nervous when we got in the car. We were driving hard and fast to make it to the church on time when Emma called me and said that the GPS was not working, but she was "just going to keep driving" until I could give her directions. Stop and ponder that one.
Would that she knew how she can make my heart stop with her careless words!
I was in the process of studying the GPS on my phone to see where we were supposed to turn, so I told her to find a place to pull over. She was in heavy traffic, talking on the phone with me and trying to re-boot the GPS. She knew which road she was on but not where on that road. We played 20 questions while I tried to ascertain her location. All the while she remained detached and serene. This is her typical reaction, which never fails to unnerve me. Somehow, deep in my mothering gut, I'm convinced that she should be worried about the risky situations that being geographically-challenged puts her in, and if she is not going to be then I must do it for her. So as she wanders aimlessly but peacefully along, I fall apart.
I figured out where she was. She had missed her turn by several miles. About this time she got the GPS working again and managed to get to the church a few minutes before we did. Our trip from home took us about 50 minutes. Hers should have taken fifteen at the most. She only needed to make one right turn after leaving school. I aged five years getting her there.
After the concert, I sent Herb by himself, and I waited while Emma got autographs from the members of Chanticleer. They were a charming group, very friendly. It proved a perfect "nightcap" to their performance. Interestingly, they manned their own sales table, from which Emma picked out a Christmas CD. Then I drove her home, exceedingly grateful to see her safely buckled into the passenger seat.