{"id":521,"date":"2018-08-17T12:19:17","date_gmt":"2018-08-17T16:19:17","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/glendakotchish.com\/dir\/?page_id=521"},"modified":"2018-08-26T18:13:15","modified_gmt":"2018-08-26T22:13:15","slug":"summer-evening-concert","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"http:\/\/glendakotchish.com\/dir\/stories\/summer-evening-concert\/","title":{"rendered":"Summer Evening Concert"},"content":{"rendered":"

When I first moved here, three years ago, I walked down to the beach everyday. It\u2019s not a beach like you might think, those wide expansions of sand stretching out from dunes to the roaring ocean, wind blowing rivulets of wavy impressions in the sand. My ranch-style house, a rental, is only a block from the river and the little beach. The Beach Park, as it is called, is a small section of river and sand. It has a grassy plot of land, a flagpole, a trash can that gets emptied weekly, and a monument for a war hero–that\u2019s it. There\u2019s no bench. You have to bring your own chair or mat. I always forget to bring anything; so I sit on the sand, or the grass or just stand and look out at the river and listen to the sound of the flag whipping against the flagpole and the river lapping gently on the shore. The view is wide open, straight out south-east, where it joins a bigger and even broader river. There\u2019s a huge barge like thing in the middle of the bigger river–a long ways away. I have never been able to figure out what this structure is. I always wonder about it when I\u2019m at the beach park and tell myself to bring the binoculars to take a proper look. Every single time I wonder: \u00a0\u201cwhat is that big thing in the middle of the river?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

After a few months, I got used to the river and the little beach and ventured further a field. I thought the walk along the boardwalk into and around the marshes would do me good–exercise is always good. I discovered that the town brings in food trucks to the boardwalk, every Friday night–to give the town people something to do and somewhere to spend their money, and maybe attract some tourists and improve the economy. In the end, I don\u2019t think it\u2019s been as successful as the town had hoped. \u00a0It is a marsh, after all, and a lovely habitat for mosquitoes who take advantage of the people who frequent the events. It makes for an unpleasant experience and dissuades repeat visitors. But all who come, <\/span>do<\/span><\/i> dine. The food is delicious–hot dogs, burgers, fries, wraps–everything that can be deep fried, is deep fried. Everything else is frosted, rolled in or laced with sugar. It\u2019s tempting, if not addictive. I dine and the mosquitoes dine. The mosquitoes are happy, I suppose, but I am not. I can\u2019t bear mosquitoes. I hate them as much as they love me. I must be delicious. I come regardless. It\u2019s a ritual now and besides, as I said, it\u2019s all very addictive and effectively cancels out the exercise of getting there.<\/span><\/p>\n

One Friday night in August, it had rained the week before and it was the first clear day. \u00a0As habit dictated, I was on the boardwalk. I was in line at Kathy\u2019s Krab Kake truck. Their specialty is, of course, crab cakes as well as homemade wine coolers of assorted flavors. My favorite is watermelon. The crowd was bigger than usual. I wasn\u2019t used to waiting in line. The mosquitoes were loving it, after a week of breeding, they were out in scores. I was about to give it up and go home when someone touched my shoulder.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHere, use this.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Next to me in line, a man, slightly greying hair, moustached was holding out a blue and gold spray bottle. I looked at him, puzzled.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s bug repellent, homemade, nothing harmful. The mosquitos hate it.\u201d He held the bottle and tilted it from side to side, in a friendly gesture. \u201cTry it,\u201d he smiled.<\/span><\/p>\n

I took the bottle from his hand and examined it as two mosquitos lit on my wrist. \u00a0I swatted them, too late, whelps rising on my skin. The man looked at me, his eyebrows raised in a question as if to say, give it a try. I shrugged and sprayed my arm. The aroma was lavender, almost but not quite–something else, something pleasant. \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cGo ahead, use as much as you like,\u201d he urged. <\/span><\/p>\n

So I did and the mosquitoes disappeared. My skin felt cool and moist and a pleasant smell rose into the air and embraced me. I took a breath, a relaxing breath. It was all very peaceful, a feeling I\u2019d forgotten. A minute or so passed and I looked up at him and smiling, handed the bottle back. He examined it, held it up to the sun, and the gold liquid sparkled and reflected points of light upon me and on the ground around us. My smile broadened. He returned my smile as he slipped the bottle into a pocket.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThank you,\u201d I said. \u201cThis is quite wonderful.\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

He was silent and nodded. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIn lots of ways,\u201d I said. <\/span><\/p>\n

His smile broadened. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThe mosquitoes are gone and \u2026\u201d I paused for a moment and looked up into the trees to check for a breeze. There was none. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSomehow, I feel much cooler.\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

He tapped the bottled that was in his pocket. \u201cIt has that effect.\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou should market that, \u201c I said. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHmm,\u201d he pressed his lips together thoughtfully and at that moment music wafted across the marsh. I titled my head and listened. \u201cViolins?\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou expected fiddles and banjos?\u201d he asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI did,\u201d I replied. \u201cIt\u2019s usually bluegrass music, not to say I don\u2019t like bluegrass, I do, but this is even better.\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s Bach Concerto, In A Minor,\u201d he said. <\/span><\/p>\n

I recognized the piece but I didn\u2019t know the name and was surprised that he did. I took a closer look at him. He was tall, grey eyes with flecks of gold and his blondish, greying hair curled around his collar–early forties, I thought. He wore a t-shirt featuring a local brewery \u00a0logo. His legs, were long and muscular with blondish, reddish hair. He smiled at my glance. No doubt he\u2019d looked me over too but I hadn\u2019t noticed–maybe he hadn\u2019t. And if he had, I wasn\u2019t at my best–these days. <\/span><\/p>\n

You could say that I\u2019ve fallen into disrepair, mimicking many of the houses in town. Sure, there are \u00a0the jewels located directly on the river, blocking the view from the other houses. But properties, further away from the riverbank, have gone into decline. My house, a block from the river, doesn\u2019t have a view. But there\u2019s a courtyard patio and a garden, or there was a garden once, which is now, thanks to me, being taken over by weeds. The owner of the house, removed all the perennials and left the beds with shrubbery, replacing mulch with white stones–a shadow of its former state. The shrubs are one by one dying–I don\u2019t know why. I have the lawn cut, and at first put down weed and feed to nurture the grass along but without much success. The mosquitoes are fierce and keep me from tending the garden. And I\u2019ve lost interest. The house is beginning to look like a rental. The moisture is turning the trim grayish with mildew. Luckily the house is brick and has a strong structure. The kitchen, plumbing, electric and flooring have been upgraded and modernized. I\u2019m comfortable but my things weren\u2019t quite a good fit–many of them still in the garage, others donated and when I look around, even the art on the walls doesn\u2019t take away the sort of shabbiness I\u2019ve come to accept. \u00a0My red rugs have been rolled up and put in the attic–too much red. My treasures, found in antique shops, look misplaced–a hodgepodge collection–once interesting accent pieces.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMiss?\u201d I heard the man\u2019s low voice break through my thoughts. \u201cMy name is Marshall. Would you like to go listen to the concert?\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d I replied. \u201cI\u2019m Zoe,\u201d I held out my hand and we shook. And so it began. We both glanced up at the food truck. For some reason the cartoon images of the crab cake sandwich with legs and glasses of wine coolers with smiley-faces made us laugh. We left our place in line and walked to the tent where the string quartet was playing. The tent had twinkle lights strung in the ceiling and torches were strategically placed to provide light. The quartet was on a small stage. People were standing, listening and silent. \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

We stood together listening to the progression of the music from one classical piece to another. Surprising for August, a breeze blew through the tent. From time to time, Marshall would touch my shoulder and we\u2019d smile in agreement about the beauty of a piece–Beethoven, Mozart. \u00a0An hour later, the concert was over and the applause was loud, going on for several minutes. The musicians stood and bowed. I turned to speak to Marshall, but he was gone. I remember thinking that maybe he\u2019d just stepped away for a moment. I waited. The crowd began to disburse and the musicians were putting away their instruments. \u00a0I stood still and looked over the crowd for a tall blond man, towering over the others. Disappointed and a little confused, I walked along the boardwalk, past the food trucks, out onto River Street where cars were pulling away from the curb. As I made my way toward home, a fog was rising and in the road ahead of me, I saw a misty figure in the headlights of a car. It was him! I smiled\u00a0 and almost waved but stopped when I saw the driver’s door of the car fly open. A woman jumped from the car. From the way she waved her arms about and stomped her feet,\u00a0<\/span>I could not hear, but could feel, the angry words she flung at him. He said something. She threw up her hands then got back in the car. <\/span><\/p>\n

The engine revved and with a screech of tires and smoke, the car sped away leaving Marshall in the dark. As the BMW raced past me, a child looked at me from the backseat and stuck out his tongue. Darkness closed around me.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a9 Glenda Kotchish<\/span><\/p>\n

August 2018<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

When I first moved here, three years ago, I walked down to the beach everyday. It\u2019s not a beach like you might think, those wide expansions of sand stretching out from dunes to the roaring ocean, wind blowing rivulets of wavy impressions in the sand. My ranch-style house, a rental, is only a block from […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":396,"parent":33,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-521","page","type-page","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry"],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/glendakotchish.com\/dir\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/521","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/glendakotchish.com\/dir\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/glendakotchish.com\/dir\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/glendakotchish.com\/dir\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/glendakotchish.com\/dir\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=521"}],"version-history":[{"count":11,"href":"http:\/\/glendakotchish.com\/dir\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/521\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":536,"href":"http:\/\/glendakotchish.com\/dir\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/521\/revisions\/536"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/glendakotchish.com\/dir\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/33"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/glendakotchish.com\/dir\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/396"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/glendakotchish.com\/dir\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=521"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}