tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41565550124481580732024-02-20T18:43:10.969-08:00The Amsterdam FilesLynn Hutchinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12751568533023134560noreply@blogger.comBlogger178125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4156555012448158073.post-85610925331953523422010-02-01T14:12:00.000-08:002010-04-08T12:34:01.642-07:00Six thousand miles for an ounce of perspective...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ-W_XccMaYrjJ-281bLdEQHjGxDkxC7vNLvV8EzLJUYWXHHV4GeYekn41yuO4k5m5-N6ePjqqsw2yf03SfmHyKQEK-SJKGNitB1EsYD0quPbxNJhIA-6tWxUvvcMBpFCxYLBUMI6V7g/s1600/Day+107.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 215px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ-W_XccMaYrjJ-281bLdEQHjGxDkxC7vNLvV8EzLJUYWXHHV4GeYekn41yuO4k5m5-N6ePjqqsw2yf03SfmHyKQEK-SJKGNitB1EsYD0quPbxNJhIA-6tWxUvvcMBpFCxYLBUMI6V7g/s320/Day+107.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456331591167355170" /></a><br />I walk out the front door and smell California. <br /><br />The scent of wet green leaves wraps around honey-scented lupine and dirt-covered stone. I bring my daughter close enough to touch the pointy end of a leaf and she blinks in disbelief as a rain drop runs from it and attaches to her finger.<br /><br />"Sadie, this is California."<br /><br />Los Angeles isn't notorious for this. The quiet. The rain. The way all of its beautiful nature jumps off the page when wet. <br /><br />The sticky dry smells of the Los Angeles I love most are constantly upstaged by their celebrity cousins Smog, Fuel and Pavement. But in our Mandeville Canyon hideaway, Sadie knows nothing other in her California. In the six days we would spend there, she would become acquainted with the eccentric cottage known as The Stone House and its Tahitian masks, six-foot Asian vases, hidden cassette decks and its lovely escape of a backyard, bedecked in every shade of green. Each made more vivid by the rain.<br /><br />She would also introduce herself to a palm tree, experience her first beach sand, and take a glimpse at daddy's big blue mistress who we lovingly call Lady Pacific. <br /><br />These greetings were cordial and brief, but memorable enough. At least for me. I won't forget. <br /><br />We boarded a plane a bajillion hours before, headed on a direct flight from Amsterdam to Los Angeles. We remained flexible and willing, both Dave and I doing our best to conceal first-flight-with-a-baby jitters. Point-zero-one percent of our daughter's life later, we were buckled up in our black Patriot, the rain beating wildly against our rental wipers on the rental windshield of our rental car.<br /><br />It seems to me that on this trip, we are also borrowing the familiarity with this place that we both used to enjoy. The steady and all-at-once broken rhythm of the 405. The relentless chatter spilling out of our car stereo. Signs and advertising grow legs and kick through our windows. EVERYONE IS BEAUTIFUL. EVERYONE IS UGLY. The daily fodder of old is now invoking a small but undeniable bout of visitor's indigestion. <br /><br />Fascinated, stunned and nostalgic, we drive on in the rain. <br /><br />To our left, Lady Pacific. Lapping relentlessly. Beckoning the weak and the strong. Seducing with her shooshing sounds and white-tipped waves that fold over again and again. She's dancing happily in this storm. <br /><br />Without words, Dave and I shudder. In a moment, I forgive her ability to swallow someone whole and decide it's nice to see her again.<br /><br />Farther still. Winding past mansions and homeless people, I can't discern which is less beautiful. Dreams for sale on every block. The rain slows the blood, but the heart still beats for the break around the corner. The Holy Trinity of coffee joints every few hundred meters. Small outdoor malls boast donuts and nail salons. A taco truck parks within sight at the side of the road.<br /><br />I can't wait for the sunshine when people come back out into the open and talk, run and scurry around in trendy workout clothes and chic trainers. Business suits and aviators. Micro minis conceaing the privates of a perfect long-legged specimen. <br /><br />Like waiting for a polar bear to come out of his hidden bedroom at the zoo, I am holding my breath for a peak.<br /><br />San Vicente to Kenter. Kenter to Sunset. Sunset to Mandeville Canyon. Almost home.<br /><br />We're here to honor two lives. One that has lasted seventy years and counting. One that lasted thirty seven years and then ended. Ironically, the daily desks of these two men were only feet from each other. <br /><br />"See, Sadie? This leaf is the smallest. This one is a bit bigger. And this one...THIS one...is the BIGGEST...But they're all green, aren't they? Chlorophyll makes leaves green. Can you spell 'chlorophyll'? C-H-L-O..."<br /><br />In the past three months, I can't tell you how many conversations like this I have had with my wide-eyed little doppelganger. We've talked about the colors on a can of Pringles. We've talked about how dishwashers work (or at least how I think they might). We've talked about the value of being charitable. We've talked about escape mechanisms. <br /><br />Heck. We've talked about just about everything. <br /><br />So far, the conversations have been mostly one-sided, save some drippy gurgles and occasional hiccups of agreement. But I'm convinced that all of this fascinating banter is going into her intellectual piggy bank and that some day, she will simply open her mouth and provide a compelling solution to the problem of our laundry sometimes smelling like must. Or maybe she will once and for all explain photosynthesis to me in a way I will understand and never forget.<br /><br />If we go to the market, I tell her both the Dutch and the English words for cucumber, hamburger, coffee creamer and whatever else lies on my boodschappenlijst. If we're reading "Duck Ellington Goes to the Zoo," I tell her about the majesty of the in-the-flesh Duke. If we walk by a dog walker, I try to identify each type of dog in the pack, forcing myself to be honest with her when I don't know if the bulldog is French or American. <br /><br />My role as educator-to-go is one I imbue with integrity and detail. And for every event, from tying shoes to flying over the ocean, there is teaching. <br /><br />But as to why Alexander needlessly no longer exists, I can't concoct a lesson. I haven't a clue. <br /><br />And understanding how someone like Jon who has lived hard, gone through two marriages, and simultaneously managed to make a mark on world architecture AND lives to know his grandchildren (in the presence of his amazingly happy and well-balanced children) is also beyond me. <br /><br />Los Angeles. What a place. It tans the skin. Skims the fat. Launches careers. Welcomes imagination. Creative possibilities of the highest order lying in wait. It's a place that doesn't sit still and is always seeking for the Next. It can provide inspiration of the highest order.<br /><br />It can also catch you on the wrong side of a treadmill. Going 65 in a 35 zone. Linear paths zig zagging, twisting and rambling on. Possibly bumping into great fortune. Possibly encountering some shade of financial ruin. Possibly tumbling down a rabbit hole.<br /><br />I think constantly of Alex and Jon. Two geniuses. Two people who I love and admire. And two who could hardly be any more complex and private. Victories and losses come in extremes for both of them. And I wonder what the City of Angels has said to them both along the way. <br /><br />Alex also had a relationship with Lady Pacific. He died in her arms, whispering his final thoughts in her ear.<br /><br />EVERYONE IS BEAUTIFUL. EVERYONE IS UGLY.<br /><br />Seven days in Los Angeles. Dave and I can love this city so easily. At times, I wonder why. At other times, I wonder how we talked ourselves into leaving. <br /><br />We drive to the airport, our windshield wipers happily cat-napping in the warm California sun. The streets and sidewalks taunt us quietly as we pass the multi-colored gateway at LAX. And now, another long flight home to Amsterdam.<br /><br />The purser speaks and I hold my daughter in my lap, her little infant seat belt looped through mine. I stare out the window as the city gets smaller and smaller, until only a speck in the distance.<br /><br />"Sadie, this is California."Lynn Hutchinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12751568533023134560noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4156555012448158073.post-67953715488209813462009-10-24T07:07:00.000-07:002009-11-08T13:27:00.460-08:00Trust your instincts...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5JkGZVfJQRd_rFpda7dupjb4GvPFD4ZuLR88t7GMcB8-0wmw7UdT4sLigzfH_nCz-le6XWzZZsxaP9o5QYyA9TQ0SQ-M7YpkC8V0hOqWbCE-X1c4ouJV6GF6bqxClxd7jOT07GgL72g/s1600-h/Sadie5.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 215px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5JkGZVfJQRd_rFpda7dupjb4GvPFD4ZuLR88t7GMcB8-0wmw7UdT4sLigzfH_nCz-le6XWzZZsxaP9o5QYyA9TQ0SQ-M7YpkC8V0hOqWbCE-X1c4ouJV6GF6bqxClxd7jOT07GgL72g/s320/Sadie5.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401842884439873682" /></a><br />September 20, 2009. <br /><br />Although ten days before my official due date, I knew Sadie was going to arrive on this day. <span style="font-style:italic;">Knew</span> it. Without doubt. As sure as there is a nose on my face. Dave was back from India and had all but cleared out the nasty argument between New Dehli and his lower gastro-intestinal system. Ergo, all-systems go on the husband front. And my belly was already extending outward the width of a small parking spot.<br /><br />But more than that, my <span style="font-style:italic;">instincts</span>...my blood right as a child-bearing female to sense things without empirical data...my instincts told me so. She was to be born on this day.<br /><br />Yeah...so...I was close. Er. Close...Ish. Give or take...well...eighteen days...<br /><br />I should've known better. You see, somewhere along the line, I unknowingly picked up a set of "slightly damaged" or "refurbished" maternal instincts. Perhaps someone's castoff maternal instinct. Seemingly not as effective as those I've seen in other women. Almost like picking up a virus. Thus, proving yet again that perhaps some things are better acquired new, in the original package, equipped with the full warranty should you need repairs or an upgrade.<br /><br />Yes, I think there's argument that I have had some lower grade maternal instincts. <br /><br />Take, for example, a conversation I had with my brother-in-law Dan a few years ago when he came to visit us in Amsterdam. "So Lynn, how do you feel about having a baby in Amsterdam? Would you do that? Would you feel comfortable?"<br /><br />Thinking about my desires and ability to manage a "foreign" birth experience and the impact it would have on my future child: <br /><br />"Absolutely, unequivocally, without doubt...No."<br /><br />(Ahem.)<br /><br />Or think back, dear readers, to February of this year when I was quite certain that the baby in my belly was no baby at all. Rather, a bout of indigestion due to travel. Maybe some bad airplane peanuts. And when I actually faced the Home Pregnancy Test, my common sense IQ dropped about 80 points as I tried like heck to figure out what a blue '+' meant. Somewhere in that moment, my instincts told me that a plus sign meant "no baby." <br /><br />(What, in my life experience, has ever told me that a plus sign means "no" more than "yes"? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.)<br /><br />Oh yes...and then there was the gender postulation.<br /><br />Had Sadie been a boy, she would've been named Oscar David. Dave and my mother-in-law Brenda had come up with the nickname Oz for Oscar, and thought that was pretty dang cool. "Hey Oz...wanna go to a movie?" "Hey guys...Oz is coming over!" "Dude...check out Oz hanging ten on that crazy left!" "Ladies and gentlemen...We give you...OZ...!!!"<br /><br />Although my heart was secretly longing to raise a daughter, the whole nickname thing teamed with my best gal pal Bridget's prediction (via the Chinese Baby Chart) that <span style="font-style:italic;">she</span> would be a <span style="font-style:italic;">he</span> landed me into a conviction that Baby Sheldon was certainly to be a Mr. I may as well have painted the room blue and bought the Oscar-to-be a football uniform. I was convinced we were to welcome a little David into our family.<br /><br />Oops. Wrong again.<br /><br />And then, there's the delivery. Perhaps this is less about bad instincts and more about shifted expectations (and by "shifted," I mean not-even-close-slash-the-reality-was-unrecognizable-within-the-scope-of-what-I-thought-would-happen).<br /><br />After a few months of thinking things through and learning more about the Dutch tradition of giving birth at home, I had come to imagine, if not hope, that I would deliver in our guest room. In fact, I even took on a fake name (see previous entry) to receive delivery of the necessary equipment to do so. And I really thought that I was going to be waking up a pregnant lady and going to bed a mom, all within the confines of our nest on the Herengracht.<br /><br />Wrong-o. Zero. Zilch. Negatory.<br /><br />Twenty seven hours of labor, followed by an emergency C-section.<br /><br />All of which took place in the hospital.<br /><br />Oh Sadie, I hope that among the things you inherit from me are not these types of maternal instincts. My radiant personality, super model body and stunning intellect...why yes, of course. But the baby instincts...well...<br /><br />There is a life lesson to be learned here, however. Trust your instincts - yes. But if your instincts tell you something new about yourself or your situation that is different from what your instincts were yesterday, then you should take note. Because it is possible that your instincts weren't as much instincts as they were preconceived ideas about how something would go. Or about your ability (or lack thereof) to handle a situation in a certain way. Perhaps instincts are tricky that way. Slippery shape-shifters posing as your gut, when in actuality, they are just a set of expectations and perceptions that you yourself have formed.<br /><br />Within only hours of you being born, dear daughter, I resigned yet another of my instincts.<br /><br />For many many years, as I watched friends and family members become parents, I would imagine myself as a mom. I would try to imagine the point at which I decided to extend beyond myself and hope to create a new life. Admittedly, I would choose the wrong moments to ponder such a thing: When standing over the shoulder over my sister-in-law as she changed the foulest of diapers, praying to God that I wouldn't up my dinner. While watching my best friend dab spit-up off of her formerly favorite sweater. As I tried to help a new mother in my neighborhood by offering to install her car seat...only to realize I apparently didn't have the mental fortitude to figure it out. Picking up my girlfriend's wobbily-headed newborn, hoping I wouldn't break her (baby parents always tell you that "she won't break." I was always relieved when it actually proved true).<br /><br />Based on these and other experiences, I was certain that I would have the best shot of being a good mom if I could do the simplest of tasks: I would have to give birth to a kindergartner. <br /><br />Really. If I could just do that, then I could manage parenthood in a snap. No diapers. No spit up. They can walk. They can talk. <br /><br />Yeah, that's more my pace. None of this infant stuff. No thanks. Not for me.<br /><br />Granted, I somewhat came to terms with the fact that I was indeed to give birth to a newborn. Not a five-year-old. But in the months I was pregnant with you, I was picturing that I would hold my breath in those early years and wait until we turned the corner into older childhood. That I would enjoy your infancy on some level, but really be holding out the big guns until you and I could sit across a cup of hot chocolate and talk about our days.<br /><br />And then, I left the hospital with you in my arms.<br /><br />Dad called a taxi to bring us home after our five day stay. I was tired and sore. You were wide-eyed and tiny. The autumn sun was shining a crisp light onto Amsterdam's cold paved streets. I lowered myself into the backseat and dad placed you in my arms. <br /><br />On our way back home, we encountered the usual array of sights and sounds of the city. A group of teenagers smoking on the corner. Scooters noisily scooting. Hookers hooking. A car appeared from out of nowhere and cut us off. A lewd advertisement hung in Dam Square. People everywhere, going where they need to go in a hurry.<br /><br />With each passing corner, I pulled you in closer to me. Closer. Closer. Closer. Until you were a bit smothered by my throat and chin.<br /><br />We got home and I fed you on the couch near the front window. Within minutes, you had curled up in a ball on my chest and fallen asleep. I watched you breathe. I felt your warm little body rise and fall with my breaths and enjoyed the rhythm of it. We stayed there for what felt like hours.<br /><br />The second night we were home, I walked you around our front room, introducing you to all of our favorite trinkets and baubles. Not even a week old, you mustered all of your strength to lift your head and look up at a row of books that was slightly over your line of sight. You bobbed and nodded involuntarily, mouth wide open and eyebrows lifted. But you kept your eyes on the prize: to catch a glimpse of those colorful objects on the shelf.<br /><br />In only days, you had started to become alert and curious. And determined!<br /><br />How could this have happened? So quickly? My pre-kindergartner was changing so fast. Too fast. Something was slipping away. And too soon. Was I still sure I wanted to zoom ahead past the point where we were that very day?<br /><br />My reformed instincts now tell me to savor every moment of your current smallness. Your newness. The simplicity that accompanies each day's routine. The fact that I can turn on a lamp and the mere change of light in the room fascinates you for a half an hour. The love you have of the pictures we have on the wall, the cardboard deer head hanging over the fireplace, the sound of my voice. That I can either wear my glasses...or take them off...put them on...or take them off again...is so interesting. Or that singing "Edelweiss" puts you to sleep when seemingly nothing else can.<br /><br />There will hopefully be bountiful years to come when you will crane your neck like you did that night in search for new adventures, new knowledge, new experiences out on your own...bobble-headed and wide-eyed. <br /><br />But for now, you are mine. <br /><br />I can hold you closer, closer, closer. You can still sleep on my chest. And I can hold your head steady so you can see something new each day.<br /><br />And hopefully my instincts won't be as shabby as I first thought...Lynn Hutchinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12751568533023134560noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4156555012448158073.post-12342159632086482522009-09-03T01:09:00.000-07:002009-09-04T09:19:38.592-07:00It's all in a name...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0zs_yXWxxCgGkA8xAWM57JIB5U-KqjtyzfZAfJKXA9e18XrQu1QQJ3Yu_tR6UMxl2q63NlALNO8L7a0oLckLsB3fWtxcSrjuJ2MPqv20eW_aZTsevUnjoIFlE3Tsa0ZnmV1eSWALCng/s1600-h/IMG00048-20090903-1059.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0zs_yXWxxCgGkA8xAWM57JIB5U-KqjtyzfZAfJKXA9e18XrQu1QQJ3Yu_tR6UMxl2q63NlALNO8L7a0oLckLsB3fWtxcSrjuJ2MPqv20eW_aZTsevUnjoIFlE3Tsa0ZnmV1eSWALCng/s320/IMG00048-20090903-1059.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377176296662693026" /></a><br />As a kid, I always felt kind of bad for other kids who had names that, come every fall when students make that predictable pilgrimage into new classrooms, teachers would have a hard time pronouncing. <br /><br />Jada Werkhoven. My pal Janae Bakken. The one black kid in our high school, Amewoke Ngoboda (I still don't know how to pronounce or spell his name, but it's something like this).<br /><br />Then there were those with easy first names, but the last names would often get bollixed: <br /><br />Derosier. Kostuch. Saumweber.<br /><br />The teachers would come close, but scattered giggles from across the room from those of us who had been through this the year before would alert them to a near-miss.<br /><br />Growing up in middle America, my name was never a problem. The Hutchinson name goes back nearly a thousand years in Wales and England, and over 200 years in the United States. There's even a city called Hutchinson in my home state of Minnesota, named after my great-great-great-great-great-great uncles who founded it.<br /><br />So you see, pronouncing "Hutchinson" was never a problem.<br /><br />Until I moved to Holland.<br /><br />Understanding and speaking a new language requires dedication and lots of practice. Of which I have done some. Enough to keep our household out of trouble (although remind me someday to tell you the story of when I called the pet crematorium the day our dog died and mistakenly requested that someone DELIVER a dead dog soon...as opposed to the intended PICK-UP a dead dog soon...).<br /><br />But at the very least, when my vocabulary fails, I have cracked the code on the Dutch alphabet and how things are pronounced. For example, when you see "oo," you say "oa," as in the word boat. When you see "ij," it sounds like "eye." And when you see "ch" in a word, you do your best to cough up a mouth full of mucous.<br /><br />I am now wishing I would've kept track of all the comical variations of my name that I've seen and heard in the last five years. "Lynn" can be tricky for spelling, but "Hutchinson" is the one that baffles them all.<br /><br />I offer the two most recent examples:<br /><br />About two and a half months ago, Dave and I ordered our crib ("ledikant") for Sadie's room (on yet another day, remind me to tell you about how much I miss having a Target around the corner). It would be arriving in the store in 6-8 weeks. As with all of the baby stuff, we put the order under my name.<br /><br />Two weeks ago, I saw on my mobile that three phone calls had come in from this store, but no messages were left. I called back and asked if, perhaps, our crib had come in and that's why someone called.<br /><br />What ensued was about two hours and 4 phone calls back and forth between me and the store manager as to why these first calls were made. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but we have no order placed for Lynn Hutchinson. Not anywhere."<br /><br />Ahh...but what I SHOULD have asked them was if they had an order placed for..."Hutekineson Lin"! Because that's who they thought I was...some strange Scandinavian woman mysteriously born and given a surname in the People's Republic of China!<br /><br />And now this morning, I opened the door to receive the mandatory delivery of bed risers and bed pans for home birth (yeah, yeah...another story), and ended up signing for...(drum roll, please)...<br /><br /> "A.E. Huddleston."<br /><br />A. E. Huddleston! Now THERE'S a name I might be able to get into. Maybe it could be my pen name if I start writing murder mysteries. Maybe I could become an aristocrat with a name like this. The possibilities are endless!<br /><br />Well, to all of those kids heading off to new classrooms this week armed with seemingly impossible names, I salute you. Be strong. I feel your pain.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">"Proper names are poetry in the raw. And like all poetry, they are untranslatable."- W.H.Auden</span>Lynn Hutchinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12751568533023134560noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4156555012448158073.post-80825351132222022372009-08-13T05:31:00.000-07:002009-08-18T05:04:03.279-07:00Dear Sadie...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUBlv-UAYHMFRopFM6myY-ex1anrbrtRIk0wqQyyKk222xVUUVHG4hPtEOcxLArj8NGEDP9JOELvZNsNf5iQFb71QxOyFbCYSFgYxuNhEeYQ9-BwB2fstoE830sVK6cEOnmB2Dex7rZg/s1600-h/Lynn+G-Star+preg02.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUBlv-UAYHMFRopFM6myY-ex1anrbrtRIk0wqQyyKk222xVUUVHG4hPtEOcxLArj8NGEDP9JOELvZNsNf5iQFb71QxOyFbCYSFgYxuNhEeYQ9-BwB2fstoE830sVK6cEOnmB2Dex7rZg/s320/Lynn+G-Star+preg02.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369890409584262818" /></a><br />Last night, your dad mentioned how shocking it will be for you when you are in the world, breathing air, righted from your six-plus-week stint of being lodged head-over-toe inside another human. There will be so much to learn. So much to understand, beginning with the simple chemistry of oxygen in, carbon dioxide out.<br /><br />No definitive guide could ever successfully be penned. Certainly not by me. But I offer you here a few guidelines that might lessen the pain of unknowing as you transition into autonomy. As I understand our first months together will be ripe with hindrances such as learning to use your eyes, awkward diaper changes and sleep deprivation (hardly a fitting state of mind for a proper welcome), I'm writing to you now...before things get ugly! <br /><br />Let's begin with what you already know. Life in the womb.<br /><br />Pregnancy with you has been fantastic. I have been a lucky new mom to have had such a healthy and easy pregnancy. The first few months were rather tiring and nauseous - you and I slept a lot and ate a lot of bananas and crackers. I'm sure the smell of our couch will be a familiar one, once you're on the outside. <br /><br />But once we crossed the threshold of Trimester Two, we hit the ground running. <br /><br />In the last seven and a half months, we have traveled together to Boston, Minnesota, Nashville, Majorca, Copenhagen, Maastricht and Istanbul. You were with me when I performed in New York, Berlin and Amsterdam. In fact, the first movements I felt from you were during the premiere performance of a piece I wrote called "The Bully." You also showed off a whole new range of movements when I was on the bench in Berlin. Brahms will never be the same for me.<br /><br />I've read and been inspired by many books during pregnancy. My favorites being "Music and Imagination" by Aaron Copland and "Findings" by Leonard Bernstein.<br /><br />You've been with us to see U2 and Pearl Jam in concert.<br /><br />You've been around for the 258 hands of gin your dad and I have played in the last seven and a half months. (He has been in the lead for eleven months solid, but I am plotting a handy take-over, as we speak!)<br /><br />Our days have begun with Number Five jumping gracefully onto our bed, often resting his chin on your cocoon-bubble, waiting patiently for us to get up for a morning walk. In these moments, you turn a little. Clearly, the morning wakes us both up. After a rather particular series of routine events, the three of us head out for our morning walk.<br /><br />While on our hour-long hike together, you seem to sleep. That, or you enjoy just bouncing around a bit. Not certain which. Regardless, this ritual is a crucial one for all three of our happiness each day. By my calculation, we have already walked over 700 kilometers together.<br /><br />(It's important to treat animals kindly, Sadie. We share the planet with all sorts of amazing creatures and it is indeed a gift to know one as closely as you will get to know Number Five. I promise he will make you giggle everyday and be your pal if you treat him with respect.) <br /><br />After the morning walk, the day progresses and you usually don't seem to mind the rest until right after dinner. After doing dishes, I sit down, put my feet up, and enjoy your numerous attempts at becoming a world-class gymnast. From what I can tell, you've got cartwheels, somersaults and arabesques nailed. Perhaps there's even a downward dog in there somewhere.<br /><br />Speaking of which, we took a few pregnancy yoga classes. I learned how to move and stretch in ways that have been helpful and relaxing. Admittedly, I stopped going to these classes when the discussion went from stretching to birthing. I hope you and I have a good experience when that day comes, but until then, I'm happier to leave the thinking and imagining out of the picture.<br /><br />More pertinent information for you:<br /><br />We live in Holland. That, you should know. Many have asked what I think about giving birth to a Dutch baby, and I'm not quite sure what to make of that. It wasn't long ago that throngs of immigrants moved to America solely for their children to be born of the privilege of being first-generation American. So, I guess by definition, this does indeed make you Dutch in some form. But I must admit, I think of you as an American child who just happened to touch down in Europe for a while. I'm proud to be American and often miss what America and Americans are about. I'm not sure how long we will live here, and therefore, I have no idea how much of the life here will rub off on you. You may learn some Dutch. You may not. But your dad and I are American and so will you be. <br /><br />Living away from the country in which I grew up has afforded me much space to think and re-think and understand better where I've come from. For the most part, your dad and I have been welcomed in Holland and have made good friends here. We have also been challenged by many about what has happened and is happening in our homeland. As a matter of background...<br /><br />Barack Obama was elected president only months ago. As you will learn in your history classes, he is the first black president of the United States. <br /><br />We are at war with Iraq after attempting to occupy this country and help transition it toward a healthier state. As with any war, there is much sadness and anger from many sides. I'm hoping you will learn of a good outcome in those history classes.<br /><br />There is much discussion over oil, global warming, the economy, and the state of human health in the face of a shrinking natural agriculture. <br /><br />Oh Sadie, what to say about all this? Much gloom and doom to be unveiled under each of these topics, should one choose to look at it that way. But I'm not sure the weight is any heavier than what the world has faced throughout time. Your generation will be picking up pieces, undoubtedly. I hope we do well enough to make it a manageable load for you and your peers.<br /><br />On the upside of modern life, technology affords incredible opportunities. The internet, email, video chatting, on-line social networks, mobile phones...you will never know a life before these things. But your dad and I do. Things happen very quickly now and I presume will only speed up in coming decades.<br /><br />But if I may, I will suggest that you also take time to value people in a personal way. Learn to sit down with them eye-to-eye for a cup of coffee and ask them how they are. In person. Learn how to write letters and postcards. No matter how busy you can be, quality time spent with people you care about is the best thing you can do for your heart and theirs. I can only imagine that, as communication technology gets easier and easier, these things will be harder to remember. But do your best.<br /><br />I can't wait for you to meet your father! <br /><br />It's hard for me to know where to begin describing him, and you will like him so much from the very beginning that he probably needs no introduction. But I want to share a few things with you that I have learned about him over the last six years.<br /><br />First of all, everyone loves your dad. He is one of those rare people on the planet who can make you feel you've been dear friends your whole life when you've only just met him minutes before. I've never seen him do this in the interest of gaining anything. He's just that way. He is the glue in every social setting, making everyone feel at home. He makes people laugh with his humor and willingness to go the extra mile in pursuit of fun. <br /><br />Oh boy, will you two have fun together!!!<br /><br />Secondly, your dad is a man of balance. On our first date, he told me that his basic tenet in life is to work and play in equal amounts, and with similar energy. He is incredibly driven, succinct, intentional, organized and passionate in both his career life and his social life. This might not make much difference to you for a few years, but when the time comes for you to launch your own direction, you will be so grateful for this influence. I promise.<br /><br />He is a great teacher. Whether toddler, tot, teen, or grown-up, he is effective and inspiring to those around him. Be sure to take advantage of every last bit of knowledge he has about everything. Like I did, he also grew up with parents who taught him much and valued education and life experience at every turn. You will inevitably benefit from this. <br /><br />I'm trying to avoid pigeon-holing you into a pre-destined course, but I must admit it is hard to picture you not knowing how to surf, how to golf, how to take great pictures, how to manage your household technology, how to successfully pursue a career, how to operate power tools, how to draw and paint...<br /><br />...all while also knowing how to throw a perfect spiral.<br /><br />(Forgive the expectations, Sadie. But when you get to know your father, you will understand how I came to them.)<br /><br />More than any of these wonderful traits (and believe me, they are indeed wonderful), I hope that, should you choose someday to make a commitment to spend your life with someone, you will have learned from your father just how wonderful a partner can be. I hope that what you experience growing up in our house will inspire you to shoot for the moon in matters of love. Your father has been my best friend, my confidante, my cheerleader, my inspiration and my safety zone since the first days I knew him. <br /><br />I couldn't wish for anything better for you, daughter, than to know love like this.<br /><br />Oh my, Sadie...wait until you get to know your grandparents! <br /><br />All four of your grandparents are rich with personality. Truly. They all have a great sense of humor, love to laugh and love to have fun. They are all intelligent, well-spoken, talented and wise people with so much to share with you. As your dad once said to me, "If I couldn't have been raised by my own parents, I would've wanted to be raised by yours." And I feel the exact same way. <br /><br />You need to know that it is very difficult for all four grandparents that you will be living so far away for the early years of your life. They want to know and love you and enjoy your company, and are already making plans as to how they will connect with you from across the ocean. If luck is with us, there will be many many years ahead for you to get to know them and spend good time together.<br /><br />You have three aunts, three uncles and six cousins. You have great aunts and uncles. Second cousins (probably some of them removed...?) (I never really remember how that works). All sorts of blood relatives. And like the grandparents, they are all anxious to know you.<br /><br />You also have an amazing extension of surrogate aunts and uncles whom your dad and I have gotten to know across the globe throughout our lives. Blood relatives are certainly one-of-a-kind, but I want you to know that the world is FULL of amazing people, and that your dad and I wouldn't be who we are today without the love and influence of the friends, mentors, colleagues, neighbors and acquaintances we have encountered, invested in and been touched by in our lifetimes. <br /><br />Always remain open to that new person in your life who may just be right around the corner. And be that someone for others. I believe the world needs people who are unafraid to step over boundaries in order to love and influence, to be loved and to be influenced. I wish that courage and openness for you.<br /><br />Oh Sadie...<br /><br />I really do find it hard to believe that I will be your mom - truly, your mom - not just an incubator - in only a few weeks. Even at 35 years old, I find myself wondering if I'm really grown-up enough to be responsible for molding another human life. I myself am still shaping my own...waking up each morning, hoping for new sources of inspiration, open to new directions, seeking mentors and good influences. <br /><br />I certainly don't have all the answers for you, kiddo. I have an idea what is a good starting point for you - such as some things my parents taught me ("Lesson #1: No whining. Lesson #2: No lying. Lesson #3: Review lessons number 1 and 2."). <br /><br />But at the end of it all, my greatest wish for you is that I can give you the tools to become a strong, independent, thoughtful and loving human being who will have much to offer the world. Because the world needs people who see beauty in human potential. People who care. People who touch. People who lead. People who work hard. People who create. People who think big. People who show up. People who make opportunities for themselves and others. People who take responsibility for the mistakes they've made.<br /><br />And whether you are an extrovert, an introvert, good at school, not good at school, creative, not creative, religious, not religious, athletic, not athletic, popular, or doing your own thing... Sadie, you can be someone who makes a positive impact on others. <br /><br />And I hope that you yourself will hope for that...to make the world a more beautiful place. <br /><br />As I said, I have no definitive answers about details. But I do believe that those who seek to give openly and honestly of themselves, who work hard to become skilled at whatever they do best so that they can contribute to the world...they are the happiest. <br /><br />And that's what I want for you.<br /><br /><br />Well, Sadie...I can't wait to meet you, you squiggly and strange alien being who has been poaching my nutrients and energy in recent months. If you can, please be kind to me on your way out. Try not to punish me for those late-night goodies or the occasional cup of coffee I subjected you to. <br /><br />Let the journey begin, daughter...<br /><br />Love,<br />momLynn Hutchinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12751568533023134560noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4156555012448158073.post-32632870116793517022009-07-17T07:42:00.000-07:002009-07-17T15:14:33.814-07:00All the world's a stage...And all the men and women merely players;<br />They have their exits and their entrances<br />And one man in his time plays many parts,<br />His acts being seven ages.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">-William Shakespeare, As You Like It</span><br /><br />So I may be the last of an entire populace to make mention of Michael Jackson's death - not that I could say anything that wasn't said throughout the multi-week blitz of media attention given to his passing. Based on sheer volume, I don't think an original angle on this apparently world-changing event could be presented.<br /><br />It seems the spectacle of his leaving the planet was as phantasmagoric as the life he led on it.<br /><br />Admittedly, I paid my respects in the days that followed, spinning through <span style="font-style:italic;">A-B-C-1-2-3, Billie Jean, Thriller</span>, and <span style="font-style:italic;">Bad</span>, to name a few, wondering how so many years had passed since I listened to these on cassette tape. And whether analogue or digital, watching a coming-of-age Michael dance and move in ways that defied entertainment standards of the day (if not also gravity) is as spectacular now as it was then. He was the whole package: voice, movement, musicality, presentation and attitude.<br /><br />I also choked through some video tributes that exposed less notable musical offerings, such as his whitewashed collaboration with Janet <span style="font-style:italic;">Scream</span>, <span style="font-style:italic;">Remember the Time</span> with Eddie Murphy, and the political statement piece <span style="font-style:italic;">They Don't Care About Us</span> (the melody and message of which bear an uncanny resemblance to Pink Floyd's <span style="font-style:italic;">Another Brick in the Wall</span>).<br /><br />At the peak of Michael Mourning Madness, I was in Berlin, performing at G-Star Raw's runway shows during Fashion Week, experiencing my own strange taste of the life fantastic.<br /><br />Wafer-thin beauties and fat free beau hunks intermingled with cigarettes dangling, perfect skin glistening, and libidos charging as they paused between fittings and rehearsals. Whether in the hallway, the kitchen or the rest room, the poise of their flawless genetic structuring silently commanded respect in every space. An unspoken law that everyone obeys.<br /><br />These boys of barely 23 or 24 years of age spoke with me quite a bit in five days, offering baby congratulations with smoky voices that slipped between sparkling teeth and perfect lips. Smoky enough to make a pregnant woman of thirty-five blush. Throughout the week, these men-children could be spied spending their down time pouring through Vogue, Elle and Detail magazines, picking out each other's latest spreads. Or discussing contract negotiations from the shoot they finished last week in Barcelona. Or, as the hot days got longer and longer, talking about their latest sexual conquests and how many numbers they planned to score before the day was done.<br /><br />The girls kept mostly to themselves, smoking incessantly and drinking water. Although the boys were admittedly gorgeous specimens, I could hardly keep my eyes off the women...each one of them looking like a china doll carefully on loan from her perch on a pristine glass shelf. Eyelashes and lips at perfect volume. Hair long and smooth. And as they changed backstage, I couldn't help but notice as I walked by that there wasn't an ounce of fat on them. And no visible veins. No bruises. No dimpled skin. Not an imperfection to be found anywhere.<br /><br />No wonder these people - these specimens - are preoccupied with plans to fornicate with one another.<br /><br />Of course these aren't the only cast members in this well-oiled theatrical machine of fashion. Far from it. The twenty-some models were heavily outnumbered by a team of creative directors, producers, choreographers, light and sound technicians, hydraulic lift operators, set builders, hair and make-up designers, "dressers" (those who dress and strip the models during the show), canteen operators, security, latrine attendants, assistants, assistants to the assistants, business managers, marketing directors, the CEO of G-Star....and somewhere in the mix, us two musicians.<br /><br />And yet, the models adhere to a slightly different moral code than the rest of us, and somehow, this gap isn't disturbing. In fact, it was almost pleasing to me to imagine these beautiful people participating in illicit short-term affairs with each other. And if that was all they concerned themselves with beyond making sure they didn't miss a cue on the stage, so be it. That would somehow be okay. Almost an entitled right.<br /><br />My musical partner / good friend Maartje and I spent much time on this trip discussing this strange caste system that seems to exist in the presence of the beautiful, the famous and the obscenely wealthy. And it is an intuition formed in us by an early age. The cool kids in junior high. High school cheerleaders and the captain of the football team. Beautiful people seem to inherit special privileges. Maybe not always in extremes, like models or pop stars. But there's just something about them that commands different attention and concessions to certain rules of conduct.<br /><br />People who live their lives on stage carry at least two persona with them at all times: that which is dressed up for the audience, and that which is the inner voice of their intimate self. The bigger the audience, the bigger the fame, the larger the gap between these persona. Or perhaps more accurate, the larger the gap between people's perceptions and genuine understanding of the two. Is who we see who we would get, should we be invited into their private world? <br /><br />Michael Jackson lived a big life both on and off the stage. We saw him. Listened to him. Watched him grow. Watched him change. We read stories of his strange relations. Heard about allegations. Wondered about his metamorphosing appearance. And now, we have memorialized him in ways bigger than for Nobel Peace Prize winners, past presidents, and important scientists. Through mourning this highly public figure, we have claimed a piece of him.<br /><br />And yet, all we really know of this man is what he and his entourage offered on the stage and in the studio. The rest is smoke and mirrors, resulting from a combination of our imagination and the very well-paid publicists who told us who he was.<br /><br />But maybe that's enough. Maybe, as humans, we need to believe in the fantasy of the beautiful, the famous. To watch these specimen, these spectacles as they pass by and allow them the extra room they require just...to be.Lynn Hutchinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12751568533023134560noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4156555012448158073.post-18940342571698707982009-07-03T02:57:00.001-07:002009-07-17T07:39:29.436-07:00Strings and Sketches....<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijaocYAj5z5Vb5K4G6ugSbkvC_NEzxbVuTYPh5uuM67_zsY1-EFhcHcRghWdWks4_6fbLQ67jPskojfNoMGwjLPS_zZBHK5KicLsz_fUsKB6q-NMoUfizA3CBfe9z-7OWJdBf95jyyMw/s1600-h/IMG_0463.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijaocYAj5z5Vb5K4G6ugSbkvC_NEzxbVuTYPh5uuM67_zsY1-EFhcHcRghWdWks4_6fbLQ67jPskojfNoMGwjLPS_zZBHK5KicLsz_fUsKB6q-NMoUfizA3CBfe9z-7OWJdBf95jyyMw/s320/IMG_0463.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359431037366980274" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJCG8hE7T3Ij_p4SNTxfqwOCoHuW2QB5hZKXqNlKqPUrfxSSY0i8paXsYAIEzq38ZzvkFRz8GdgLEhWXPbjBFIl5vSIJHIjYCtucXLPaUpBQ-0wHSPPQVT2HF4LB9ieQYlxu5foW2MJQ/s1600-h/IMG_0459.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJCG8hE7T3Ij_p4SNTxfqwOCoHuW2QB5hZKXqNlKqPUrfxSSY0i8paXsYAIEzq38ZzvkFRz8GdgLEhWXPbjBFIl5vSIJHIjYCtucXLPaUpBQ-0wHSPPQVT2HF4LB9ieQYlxu5foW2MJQ/s320/IMG_0459.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359431036107267266" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOlc4f22P4SxyzoPUm6aGMh0wIk2ZHQfid-9XO9CIMrdlgj1WEfLcRdKtJyG_gI2llVE60g-Xn8ZIeA_GP0g4ocvCXtpVsC5Wr5sQpn3rhmFWev4RwDlzHOjbCU9-4mQMSaBQHg3wRMg/s1600-h/IMG_0462.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOlc4f22P4SxyzoPUm6aGMh0wIk2ZHQfid-9XO9CIMrdlgj1WEfLcRdKtJyG_gI2llVE60g-Xn8ZIeA_GP0g4ocvCXtpVsC5Wr5sQpn3rhmFWev4RwDlzHOjbCU9-4mQMSaBQHg3wRMg/s320/IMG_0462.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359431030551142114" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaeaPHGyntg_Dy6mdJsMBfwSHvXVvof-xe7-SGAvi3BRpoaANDyeeNwsniNv0P-QdFkuD-y1qAo45EdeB_YMrH4KIVvE6HVAzFmJeSLUnD1Y7E7BqRj7d377jRplZUhG2jrwoc5Czpiw/s1600-h/IMG_0493.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaeaPHGyntg_Dy6mdJsMBfwSHvXVvof-xe7-SGAvi3BRpoaANDyeeNwsniNv0P-QdFkuD-y1qAo45EdeB_YMrH4KIVvE6HVAzFmJeSLUnD1Y7E7BqRj7d377jRplZUhG2jrwoc5Czpiw/s320/IMG_0493.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359431026529825730" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirZ9TqEqWyNsI4SUiShi8BuwtvkzKsPriA5wdEo5oMn2t0naZjpkjx7vv3fmlG_QhKbsiJhGcc9mcUbHpYZGZYmVK6UdPbdiSF5QTzOta-qorP4VR3InrMGNVjL9raajxpQzRmWNH3zQ/s1600-h/DSC_5789.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 210px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirZ9TqEqWyNsI4SUiShi8BuwtvkzKsPriA5wdEo5oMn2t0naZjpkjx7vv3fmlG_QhKbsiJhGcc9mcUbHpYZGZYmVK6UdPbdiSF5QTzOta-qorP4VR3InrMGNVjL9raajxpQzRmWNH3zQ/s320/DSC_5789.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359438454391732242" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZOOeVbmkpis67Ql4WJTOjvz2wLb1hb91yiM1Jced7YUAT7s9vnOYpLhSNQMEGKGCjHL1XS29zpt5qpXA1Ne6VjAPXw_Shn6HL3t8S8ucuIgEsr_lFHNsfFJttYk5bj5NmamYYc25pOw/s1600-h/DSC_5809.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 210px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZOOeVbmkpis67Ql4WJTOjvz2wLb1hb91yiM1Jced7YUAT7s9vnOYpLhSNQMEGKGCjHL1XS29zpt5qpXA1Ne6VjAPXw_Shn6HL3t8S8ucuIgEsr_lFHNsfFJttYk5bj5NmamYYc25pOw/s320/DSC_5809.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359438448876064482" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj81Tikrzj15I9dUmiKmMvWwU7zDGtlklVyx73Cb-Bqkl1BZiGssV8FIZpsFl-1BxRNt6aiAUzT8b2NRs9YVOxWafzeFLrFZsqAJdMvgaz157IhIQpQZqulSLiZvZjfZ97M9pAdJePD9Q/s1600-h/DSC_5814.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 210px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj81Tikrzj15I9dUmiKmMvWwU7zDGtlklVyx73Cb-Bqkl1BZiGssV8FIZpsFl-1BxRNt6aiAUzT8b2NRs9YVOxWafzeFLrFZsqAJdMvgaz157IhIQpQZqulSLiZvZjfZ97M9pAdJePD9Q/s320/DSC_5814.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359438448843954034" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY_jxQ75oWcaWmGxE06APSh3GbWYT_NTBKn7EqhPO1KqIFsnNYeIjEGU9Q9KiN-r_mjo-sXFi2eXWtb2Y_TtWK9x1sqca1QUvNejyUcMbzhfunnLefSqPwXcmXZVo97RBHOaUvtHJ_sw/s1600-h/S0040.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 218px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY_jxQ75oWcaWmGxE06APSh3GbWYT_NTBKn7EqhPO1KqIFsnNYeIjEGU9Q9KiN-r_mjo-sXFi2eXWtb2Y_TtWK9x1sqca1QUvNejyUcMbzhfunnLefSqPwXcmXZVo97RBHOaUvtHJ_sw/s320/S0040.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359428034343155762" /></a><br />A year ago, I experienced a combination of events that would lead to the next round of new pieces to write and perform. The first was encountering - and subsequently spending much time analyzing - Ravel's Piano Trio in A Minor. The second was a Sheldon family trip to Siena, Italy, where in a beautiful music room in our hotel, I fleshed out a harmonic form that I had been kicking around for some time but hadn't yet completed. And the third was meeting Dutch artist Arjen Dijksma in a chance encounter in the Leidseplein the day after Jenn and Asif moved back to Boston.<br /><br />After a few postponements due to work in America, pregnancy fatigue and at one point, a mild case of writer's block, I was finally able to hear my Sonata for Piano Trio in E Minor - as well as two other simple forms pieces I had written - realized in performance.<br /><br />In early June, I hosted our ninth Canvas performance, this time offering two days of performances, as opposed to just one evening. Between the two concerts, over 60 people attended, half of whom were new additions to the Canvas community. Very exciting progress for me.<br /><br />Also extremely rewarding was the collaboration with Dutch artist Arjen Dijksma, who installed an exhibit of his work for the performance and (most excitingly to me) created an original work inspired by the music I had written and the rehearsals of ours he attended. <br /><br />Arjen specializes in making prints from etchings...a technique popularized by old Dutch masters such as Hendrick Goltzius and Rembrandt. Through manipulations in etching technique, he creates various depths and texture in his prints that is particularly brilliant in person. You can see in this work (titled "Canvas") a representation of our violinist Emma Breedveld, our cellist Eva van de Poll, and me at the piano (complete with a cubist-inspired maternal belly). Those of you who have been in our house or seen pictures will also recognize our beautiful stained glass windows in the background. <br /><br />In the foreground, there is a piece of sheet music with "Canvas" inscribed on it.<br /><br />It's a fantastic piece and I'm honored to be represented by his vision. <br /><br />(Arjen made a limited number of prints and they are available for purchase. Should any of you be interested, please send me an email or leave a comment on this blog entry.)<br /><br />I'm including below the introductory notes I wrote for the program:<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">"About a year ago, I heard a recording of the Beaux Arts Trio performing Maurice Ravel’s Piano Trio in A Minor. Having performed numerous times with violin and cello in separation, I was struck by the expanded realm of possibility of what the three instruments could express together and began exploring the combination. I started listening to and studying some of the great piano trio literature by Beethoven, Brahms, Schumman, and most impactingly, Maurice Ravel. <br /><br />In deciding to assemble a piano trio for this performance, my primary objectives were 1) to gain aptitude in understanding and writing for this combination of instruments, and 2) to gain enough comfort speaking the language of this combination to be able to express myself genuinely through new pieces.<br /><br />I was fortunate to find musicians to play with who are not only gifted technicians and intuitive interpreters, but who are also flexible and open-minded. Both of these women have the imagination to see their instruments both inside and outside of the conventional definitions of how a violin and cello should and could sound. They aren’t afraid to see their instruments as not only melodic string instruments, but also as bass, percussion, and even sound effect generators. <br /><br />I have learned much from Eva and Emma and am honored that they have taken on the task of launching these new pieces. <br />In addition to my own work, I am happy to present two pieces by Ms. Breedveld in this program. This performance marks the premiere of Wals, and the first time Na den Beginne has been performed with the instrumentation of violin, cello and harmonium.<br /><br />We will also play two pieces by Argentinian composer Astor Piazzolla (1921-1992) from his Quatro estaciones de Buenos Aires (“Four Seasons of Buenos Aires”), written in 1969.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">ABOUT CANVAS – The history of the salon concert is centuries old. Although its origin is porportedly Italian, it was the French who, in the 17th century, brought salon gatherings to a new level of prominence. Composer and pianist Frederick Chopin gave an overwhelming majority of his performances in salons, prefering to offer his works to small groups of people, most of who were friends or acquaintances.<br /><br />In an ongoing effort to develop as both an artist and a craftsman, I began offering home concerts to friends and neighbors in December 2007. In March 2008, I gave the name Canvas to these programs, suggesting that each performance was a unique opportunity – a blank canvas – on which to place new pieces, new ideas, and new collaborations. <br /><br />In less than two years, within the boundaries of space and budget, I have enjoyed presenting a wide range of genres and presentation mediums to an audience of over 120 different people, and I’m happy to see that number grow this weekend!<br /><br />It is a pleasure to have you in our home. I hope you enjoy the opportunity to experience music in such an intimate setting. Please join us again!<br /></span>Lynn Hutchinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12751568533023134560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4156555012448158073.post-90792834801035545782009-07-03T02:50:00.000-07:002009-07-08T05:05:19.042-07:00Yet another Queen's Day...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQs3lEhXiQDNUCVXa-NSvtHDuHXOC6OG47zdGpcfe2U2hNajJ7c5K2YDUp7gv4RXDUMSqWbn6WQ78OIODOuiSecL6RvepF-xuK4TfIYTY2J8DPdGCFjCcrp5_BgEK2tHob5_zOe-_PSA/s1600-h/IMG_0421.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQs3lEhXiQDNUCVXa-NSvtHDuHXOC6OG47zdGpcfe2U2hNajJ7c5K2YDUp7gv4RXDUMSqWbn6WQ78OIODOuiSecL6RvepF-xuK4TfIYTY2J8DPdGCFjCcrp5_BgEK2tHob5_zOe-_PSA/s320/IMG_0421.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356059017445696450" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX53fX1nHqa6YZcgr5OUY6q_D_gEl3RHrgy7Ek5t-1Adx6UyoNfFrYmvNvHuC4lEv4IlHyjOTF21A5Q_lElSU1WwKEz8OOsdF8u5xMzpT3hEeGcHbKOQqq3h85dlI1Xl0cYl47bw7JSg/s1600-h/IMG_0418.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX53fX1nHqa6YZcgr5OUY6q_D_gEl3RHrgy7Ek5t-1Adx6UyoNfFrYmvNvHuC4lEv4IlHyjOTF21A5Q_lElSU1WwKEz8OOsdF8u5xMzpT3hEeGcHbKOQqq3h85dlI1Xl0cYl47bw7JSg/s320/IMG_0418.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356059018253654658" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhETuArmbLm9wDp_p7JfaiGlobuCoiUIl505jyTO_OZXtZQ5JSGeblFi73-3RNvG-lx8lrIgpw0Nv0ACIy7lKx24-kBZxHpZnUtHZLLqXWyNY53c3VA2AMrsrzMYhPyMyHVWZRc_Jebqw/s1600-h/IMG_0417.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhETuArmbLm9wDp_p7JfaiGlobuCoiUIl505jyTO_OZXtZQ5JSGeblFi73-3RNvG-lx8lrIgpw0Nv0ACIy7lKx24-kBZxHpZnUtHZLLqXWyNY53c3VA2AMrsrzMYhPyMyHVWZRc_Jebqw/s320/IMG_0417.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356059012982653058" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgclxpgh5uXw95KRbXw_zlorUEOei9adwgTZ_T2K5oib7O-ZC-nn6NjwDe6dgFZv4AnWK7wmEH3FYczGa9AUwAMibPzdd0rzze_Lu3v3slm-u_Hb0Hg0JRSnbO6Wv-U33WOEZdX4tym0A/s1600-h/IMG_0412.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgclxpgh5uXw95KRbXw_zlorUEOei9adwgTZ_T2K5oib7O-ZC-nn6NjwDe6dgFZv4AnWK7wmEH3FYczGa9AUwAMibPzdd0rzze_Lu3v3slm-u_Hb0Hg0JRSnbO6Wv-U33WOEZdX4tym0A/s320/IMG_0412.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356059010489043730" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5uIEZWkAZoGeqfIeI-fG2bM_ErakXh9gDHYnECDMBo11G1ia_qbDDiFqpLatwOMydP0TDKSwCSo46eLmK06XupuouQXIkFvuHXm4QyyqgNpLhb5JQGZSirdOqIVBtIbWIQBfKlpRHWQ/s1600-h/IMG_0411.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5uIEZWkAZoGeqfIeI-fG2bM_ErakXh9gDHYnECDMBo11G1ia_qbDDiFqpLatwOMydP0TDKSwCSo46eLmK06XupuouQXIkFvuHXm4QyyqgNpLhb5JQGZSirdOqIVBtIbWIQBfKlpRHWQ/s320/IMG_0411.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356059006276905410" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicmFWl0CpJe3Wy1YPRqAZyhNAi0od9jH19N5H7vUoaULoF28LMve6bOYDZxkDHp9ddSCnrJBFkMX8TXobrNizQZBI4QydQhedj0wfFKDQAYHGIcHJmV9awSYcwXJ5dP14Vwfh0zYtaQg/s1600-h/IMG_0422.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicmFWl0CpJe3Wy1YPRqAZyhNAi0od9jH19N5H7vUoaULoF28LMve6bOYDZxkDHp9ddSCnrJBFkMX8TXobrNizQZBI4QydQhedj0wfFKDQAYHGIcHJmV9awSYcwXJ5dP14Vwfh0zYtaQg/s320/IMG_0422.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356059109978400898" /></a><br />By now, you are probably coming to expect at least a brief telling of the annual Queen's Day festivities.<br /><br />As ever, I kept it to a dull roar - especially since Dave was out of town on business and he's usually the one encouraging me to enjoy the day. But it was never the less a nice day. Beautiful weather. Funny, funny people everywhere. Good greasy food on every corner. And more second-hand stuff to peruse than even the most seasoned of garage sale-ers could shake a re-purposed stick at. <br /><br />(Zanny, you do know I'm talking about you, right?)<br /><br />A couple of favorites this year: <br /><br />1. Our neighbor's kids made a large drawing of the Queen with a gaping hole cut around the mouth. For fifty euro cents, you could get four chances to "make a basket" with water balloons. Very cute.<br /><br />2. An aspiring young violinist of age seven charged twenty cents for a performance of "Wilhelmus"...the Dutch national anthem.<br /><br />3. Cleverly finding ways to earn money off of a recently completed science project, a young woman charged a few cents to take a peak into a handmade shadow box with the theme of Prehistoria.<br /><br />And, of course, there were many ridiculously dressed, orange-clad Nederlanders at every turn. Year after year, I can't help but to take a few photos.Lynn Hutchinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12751568533023134560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4156555012448158073.post-89733591944982789862009-06-28T13:47:00.001-07:002009-07-08T07:49:29.444-07:00A quadrant of visitors...Four and a half years of flying across the Atlantic on a regular basis, and I'm still in awe of the capacity for loved ones to budget the time and expense to visit us here. Certainly flights are more available and ticket costs not completely out of range. But still, it is a gift to us every time we get to open our door and see a familiar smiling face on the other side.<br /><br />This spring, we had a fantastic burst of visitors on our side of the Big Blue. Besides Norm and Brenda's visit in March, we saw Jenn and Ryan Alexander here in Amsterdam, Dave's Aunt Vivian and Uncle Ted in Copenhagen, my mom's long-time Norwegian pen pal also here in Amsterdam. <br /><br />And last but not even remotely the least, my parents made their first visit to Amsterdam (or anywhere in Europe, for that matter) in the second part of May.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9oGannRtnYnsLSWFzqEdH49lE1EkRn1HNDjFlRre3qrdndg9HotU9tL5VNlzwhmrUo1Fe-67iupjIlh6LjJvfgCuHCgAqb20mRs9SWq5O-SbuQw2gWZtO5OjOkMB6AukL3lBME1H22w/s1600-h/n1020392757_391781_4555380.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9oGannRtnYnsLSWFzqEdH49lE1EkRn1HNDjFlRre3qrdndg9HotU9tL5VNlzwhmrUo1Fe-67iupjIlh6LjJvfgCuHCgAqb20mRs9SWq5O-SbuQw2gWZtO5OjOkMB6AukL3lBME1H22w/s320/n1020392757_391781_4555380.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356079414933870290" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCWqQ_moD9PrdGWIqQks40h8Z5eEwE9nLQ3mcQd0qJy-vlegK9VypByEwWKf0t5S5JaEmhUYTikPvNZZJWoTCBzQha3ZMgYo1PswIHDATUL9fA8-kEFDr_YPuYy9DiSwEx9NWWuhEMHw/s1600-h/n1020392757_391764_4320908.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCWqQ_moD9PrdGWIqQks40h8Z5eEwE9nLQ3mcQd0qJy-vlegK9VypByEwWKf0t5S5JaEmhUYTikPvNZZJWoTCBzQha3ZMgYo1PswIHDATUL9fA8-kEFDr_YPuYy9DiSwEx9NWWuhEMHw/s320/n1020392757_391764_4320908.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356079410676560882" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEDcvM6wPnyB8grtCxFXFm7XJkmYm0qZzHOboiAm9wX-JnddB-JsjqPHRcOWKVPNQh1ovVQutJ6HvBSyI10N2_qlSF0-UPKhurAMEuZTjxAivfnKfcfW-ZzXUmclP_ZZz2JYSvdOBbFA/s1600-h/n1020392757_391760_4891537.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEDcvM6wPnyB8grtCxFXFm7XJkmYm0qZzHOboiAm9wX-JnddB-JsjqPHRcOWKVPNQh1ovVQutJ6HvBSyI10N2_qlSF0-UPKhurAMEuZTjxAivfnKfcfW-ZzXUmclP_ZZz2JYSvdOBbFA/s320/n1020392757_391760_4891537.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356079405070747938" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrm-xfuuer0Hk-fFsfgXkfeQQTiHqiSwf2RhuV5cMaMcwutJHH8cEYaKoK2NQigq-mixcB5stSUctxsRmfsWCd_qmS4zMj_Tab_H4CL0x_VQ3pHtgIyQw9UzwPSLRbarnxKwd8RX-wvg/s1600-h/n1020392757_391759_5205055.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrm-xfuuer0Hk-fFsfgXkfeQQTiHqiSwf2RhuV5cMaMcwutJHH8cEYaKoK2NQigq-mixcB5stSUctxsRmfsWCd_qmS4zMj_Tab_H4CL0x_VQ3pHtgIyQw9UzwPSLRbarnxKwd8RX-wvg/s320/n1020392757_391759_5205055.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356079400215299538" /></a><br /><br />Long-time friends Jenn and Ryan were able to leave their two-and-a-half year old son behind with family in Seattle to spend nearly a week with us here. And spending quality time with these two has become nothing but more valuable over the years. Two passionate, talented, intelligent people in our house for five days straight? Like a vibrant shot in the arm, morning after morning. We played, ate, rested (Jenn is ALSO pregnant! She's expecting a baby boy a few weeks after our daughter is due), talked, talked and talked some more. It was wonderful. Hard to say good-bye when the time came, but we were grateful for the time we had.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5Yo-As-4y01rGekroQJrXjchlpwSVOVESZOy5m5WmYaacmzUrk81eltctBT3cOl7mWUnbhZ1-XxhuUEH57_94ygAWs1MwExcshjFPVO7w_1XkmjVL59wZhC1VbGjDo_3_0PuZZ8tKRA/s1600-h/IMG00015-20090506-2036.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5Yo-As-4y01rGekroQJrXjchlpwSVOVESZOy5m5WmYaacmzUrk81eltctBT3cOl7mWUnbhZ1-XxhuUEH57_94ygAWs1MwExcshjFPVO7w_1XkmjVL59wZhC1VbGjDo_3_0PuZZ8tKRA/s320/IMG00015-20090506-2036.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356062508897753730" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0KtiS8brg9UQgw_fvzWPL6UHfm5p-oBsLIEpnhVD4SRN0Fkmo_mBy47MVqgMa7L-sklxwSljer67yGIzcWBJbN321IrBEES6FD_BBuynuz3x_PSwK0OsbtR1BtDPAJm-c74HrjC7fPQ/s1600-h/IMG00014-20090506-2015.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0KtiS8brg9UQgw_fvzWPL6UHfm5p-oBsLIEpnhVD4SRN0Fkmo_mBy47MVqgMa7L-sklxwSljer67yGIzcWBJbN321IrBEES6FD_BBuynuz3x_PSwK0OsbtR1BtDPAJm-c74HrjC7fPQ/s320/IMG00014-20090506-2015.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356062503837333090" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-gLo5GVL3xaBqzhi_fhc8ckIPIdQxcxwvy45bQGO_mh4q_uW-O_YsJO21h9YyJ26au3sDCBLEpwHDj-zh5VTPrus8OTdOULHgHH_4aSOBlpqpJEF7eHfggmjrzIJQK8l3LIZtlmXGsg/s1600-h/IMG00007-20090506-1544.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-gLo5GVL3xaBqzhi_fhc8ckIPIdQxcxwvy45bQGO_mh4q_uW-O_YsJO21h9YyJ26au3sDCBLEpwHDj-zh5VTPrus8OTdOULHgHH_4aSOBlpqpJEF7eHfggmjrzIJQK8l3LIZtlmXGsg/s320/IMG00007-20090506-1544.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356062512559589506" /></a><br />Dave's Aunt Vivian and Uncle Ted were on vacation in Copenhagen and invited us to join them for dinner sometime during their stay. Copenhagen is a mere stone's throw away from Amsterdam, so a one-night visit was completely feasible. Dave was able to plan a business meeting around our 24-hour stint, and we enjoyed a lovely dinner in Tivoli Gardens with Norm's sister and brother-in-law. <br /><br />This was the most quality time I had ever spent with this fascinating couple, and we didn't waste any time getting to the heart of what was going on with all of us. You'd be hard-pressed to find a more intentional and thoughtful conversationalist than Vivian. And Ted is an endless source of fantastic anecdotes, having climbed mountains, swam across channels, and ran across countries globe-wide. They are beautiful people and I was so glad to have a chance to have a Danish rendezvous with them.<br /><br />(I also managed to squeeze in a visit to an amazing Danish piano store, spending time playing a few pianos I had never seen before...AND...my long-standing favorite...a Yamaha S6. Good times all around!)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCj0XHSAN0W6MNo0bv-8sBaM-Mj-EJA3jtuNk9UISg17dZiP4b7Itd8fNM8WEpETSq6lFDzCSJBR5eAUgRf-zaocqzkmq1TAcbkmhPenO56LX0vazF3eCoj54daeQ_x1jhrBJjszFtlQ/s1600-h/LYNN_LIV.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 279px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCj0XHSAN0W6MNo0bv-8sBaM-Mj-EJA3jtuNk9UISg17dZiP4b7Itd8fNM8WEpETSq6lFDzCSJBR5eAUgRf-zaocqzkmq1TAcbkmhPenO56LX0vazF3eCoj54daeQ_x1jhrBJjszFtlQ/s320/LYNN_LIV.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356100491707668258" /></a><br />The night before we left for Majorca, I intersected with Liv, a long-time pen pal friend of my mother's, who was visiting Amsterdam with a group of girlfriends celebrating the 50th anniversary of their sewing club. Our time together was brief, starting with a tour of our home (Dutch canal houses are always fascinating to see), and ending with dinner at Nomad's, a Lebanese restaurant near our house.<br /><br />Having lived in America for some years in the seventies (the period in which she met my mother), Liv's English is nearly impeccable. Her friends had to work a little harder to communicate with me. But after they had had a few drinks, their English improved dramatically! A wonderful group of ladies, they were, and always nice to meet folks from the Motherland.<br /><br />And then, there are my parents.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmAjXeAXB9CJxfCkO3_Aq7mAnH6uEgSEVEhQE51Rk44IDrH7ju1xoxC18QHMil4Oqvp84mCKarOytb1ASlugzKgkKjrnDPw6qoYhB9r1KsrsKxyKVVNOdVV5-qzqkArc-5TgryEmWZpg/s1600-h/IMG_3295.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmAjXeAXB9CJxfCkO3_Aq7mAnH6uEgSEVEhQE51Rk44IDrH7ju1xoxC18QHMil4Oqvp84mCKarOytb1ASlugzKgkKjrnDPw6qoYhB9r1KsrsKxyKVVNOdVV5-qzqkArc-5TgryEmWZpg/s320/IMG_3295.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356062065439937138" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbgcX6d6wqSwK_f5S-xOZSBqhEbsvHbnle2Uw8CdqAUTVYcX1mgWk3VdgvZjRcC91kIUp38OghuC1rIwfAQ_hynVI8yZDs1wggOkQBu_DJk3X7rEGCWl5OMrAJS9PxszJWKympjzzBqQ/s1600-h/IMG_3281.jpg"><img style="display:block; 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margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEI1ByNBsH2ZmsvPaQIS9YJI9Vjg87JcPrxKzTtY3lIqaas-DZzjIhJviGeVh9d5yOEGVJzxwj4pfaJOM07oJB1PiQIzck1I8jptV6yzFiHLG5GrPu8bi1kW81kE0QCbzxf_DKxi3Xtw/s320/IMG_3372.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356063332707614002" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTNZYVNHBUXaxFm99ZQ8DI9G9JNraCK4JXkMHwbz8qhhOgHlbMtfXzHzH5E_v0TLF5mwHlcCJpYK7HZSYr-P5FGrpm3EhM9rJHuYhA1huj5_hAoh4Dwd0Wrmiuf5C2LqxA3zFFvrlw-A/s1600-h/IMG_3367.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTNZYVNHBUXaxFm99ZQ8DI9G9JNraCK4JXkMHwbz8qhhOgHlbMtfXzHzH5E_v0TLF5mwHlcCJpYK7HZSYr-P5FGrpm3EhM9rJHuYhA1huj5_hAoh4Dwd0Wrmiuf5C2LqxA3zFFvrlw-A/s320/IMG_3367.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356063324657684226" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNgWlQHR4oqIYN3jxi93ANwTF-q22RIue1ebzTmQqKQjAMhKoUO5rV3JQ3arfkCg25JQcXX0r-qRrwAbYcWFmDfdd9InHkZ5f3XiSY3T23RsePmjZVMAu1E0CwOy_wtWUCdANMTdTknQ/s1600-h/IMG_0440.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNgWlQHR4oqIYN3jxi93ANwTF-q22RIue1ebzTmQqKQjAMhKoUO5rV3JQ3arfkCg25JQcXX0r-qRrwAbYcWFmDfdd9InHkZ5f3XiSY3T23RsePmjZVMAu1E0CwOy_wtWUCdANMTdTknQ/s320/IMG_0440.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356101406910659634" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTQKlnaEUKLXTxI0UFxXKUP6ehpqV8Ho8_FJyRonP9q3la57kgZ8t5noXely4jp6fWku5ZighEzh9FZcvLYAJM8g0bHs-OV1Ggm6o13asW4-XW3p5OTMwTJuh8fecfGpwo47s64LOOQA/s1600-h/IMG_3322.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTQKlnaEUKLXTxI0UFxXKUP6ehpqV8Ho8_FJyRonP9q3la57kgZ8t5noXely4jp6fWku5ZighEzh9FZcvLYAJM8g0bHs-OV1Ggm6o13asW4-XW3p5OTMwTJuh8fecfGpwo47s64LOOQA/s320/IMG_3322.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356063325664998434" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw6m57-VkfBt9s0z5IjVLu2ZoitZliEqKa7pkEuNFUuhNFgIdm7K-knm39rktEjskAzIPTt-N4utVldGhXMcZfJvoEhNVo9-JwtnKfk1o7jN4gS30IedPO0SfGR2d1vDZAakLvotEGMg/s1600-h/IMG00011-20090517-2346.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw6m57-VkfBt9s0z5IjVLu2ZoitZliEqKa7pkEuNFUuhNFgIdm7K-knm39rktEjskAzIPTt-N4utVldGhXMcZfJvoEhNVo9-JwtnKfk1o7jN4gS30IedPO0SfGR2d1vDZAakLvotEGMg/s320/IMG00011-20090517-2346.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356063320954672834" /></a><br />There are some happenings that I have longed for so hard that, when one is about to come true, I wonder if it will live up to my imagination. One such happening was finding and falling in love with my husband. And after that one worked out so beautifully, not far down the list was the opportunity to share with my parents our life here in Amsterdam. <br /><br />They were here for 9 days. One better than the next. Amsterdam's weather even managed to level out for their stay.<br /><br />We spent some time visiting Amsterdam's "must sees"...the Rijksmuseum (complete with a personal guided tour from good friend and art historian Blanka Pesje), the Van Gogh Museum, the canal boat tour, the Anne Frank house, the Saturday morning market. But I think we agreed that the best time of all was spent in our house, cooking and eating together, playing with remote-controlled helicopters and the Wii, Dad teaching 5 how to catch treats, Mom going to pick out baby clothes with me.<br /><br />And, perhaps the most special happening of all was going to our 20-week ultrasound - all four-and-a-half of us to check on the health and (baby's position allowing) the gender of this new Sheldon-to-be. Mom and dad were in the room with us, checking out what we discovered is their newest granddaughter on the echo screen.<br /><br />Moments not to be forgotten.<br /><br />To everyone who has come to visit us in the last four+ years, thank you thank you thank you! We can't tell you how much your effort means to us. There are countless brilliant places to visit on this planet, and that you choose to allocate time and funds to be with us is an irreplaceable gift.Lynn Hutchinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12751568533023134560noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4156555012448158073.post-26903394453563656712009-06-28T13:01:00.000-07:002009-07-08T05:53:10.710-07:00Waking up in Marjorca...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzHGCg16RmNPpRbOVxdai7vFeJuObq3_Yfe6lKSP-0VDi9hM3v_yN0sI1IuAfAjPnuTrg3VvrvwFbe-dfY_HKR6m9YwAumJsv3_LiyBvMp5e68fBOHv7mbAZ12PesfyhQOiG7WeJ_UHw/s1600-h/IMG_0316.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzHGCg16RmNPpRbOVxdai7vFeJuObq3_Yfe6lKSP-0VDi9hM3v_yN0sI1IuAfAjPnuTrg3VvrvwFbe-dfY_HKR6m9YwAumJsv3_LiyBvMp5e68fBOHv7mbAZ12PesfyhQOiG7WeJ_UHw/s320/IMG_0316.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356071546012386994" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvODVgnU7L0g0defspo87EWqAhKJ5TCSBJUBmTJqeSrnyhWHlM-qbfV1h6kOY0UTUBuucZgqe40wVXzXr52pBGv-GVdSNoBkoBydIlAMLiyvqFrgAnF9kzo_CZC4CSz-j1upVuCdwm4Q/s1600-h/Video+Snapshot+of+Hutchinson+Beth-9.jpg"><img style="display:block; 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margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU8_CSdFIOLl1afSc2SWbk6TV77KcR7g7VsAz_9juwRONuMC-SDCYtttV6j0HrRAAizKP904y38BEXrZBfJLv5zXHIej7efbQsJ8sNFavm4rLV8IprHjbwbvR-s9NiyMmpZWy2I6N9Xw/s320/IMG_0341.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356070423743396370" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXqllcAUYXca7slK0kA0NibL2J2gbzvFKBVkvp5mtdEvpBC8BNVuYhc2F_C_le9yG288bqkVG3a4VMfM2xDmgUoa_B3zWzQTp0TvklAQjsiKFI3sd5fMS99mOdG2KA9mMEzZ8r-oibMw/s1600-h/IMG_0308.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXqllcAUYXca7slK0kA0NibL2J2gbzvFKBVkvp5mtdEvpBC8BNVuYhc2F_C_le9yG288bqkVG3a4VMfM2xDmgUoa_B3zWzQTp0TvklAQjsiKFI3sd5fMS99mOdG2KA9mMEzZ8r-oibMw/s320/IMG_0308.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356070425458912162" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaMWrP7YxQNdqxheyVvBbOcfQZKCHtNYyqoLMBgDyg63BgwpK8I_PKzsmP18yZU8fNm011sbAFselD3d14ZoDHelIH87y93AMN0-uzO3fij1wisADMj3_Hii5MD3yusfyeQYIOlEE-og/s1600-h/IMG_0327.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaMWrP7YxQNdqxheyVvBbOcfQZKCHtNYyqoLMBgDyg63BgwpK8I_PKzsmP18yZU8fNm011sbAFselD3d14ZoDHelIH87y93AMN0-uzO3fij1wisADMj3_Hii5MD3yusfyeQYIOlEE-og/s320/IMG_0327.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356070420977579282" /></a><br />So, by the time I found out I was pregnant, I was already about two months along. And the not knowing, in many ways, was a blessing. Those were two months I didn't spend worrying about an early miscarriage, and two months where I thought the best thing I could do to deal with this mysterious nausea and fatigue was to simply fight through it. Also, probably not a bad response.<br /><br />But once the in utero cat was out of the bag, my mind caught up with my body and basically checked out for about five weeks. As experienced by many women, never had I been so tired and nauseous for such a long time. I logged in more couch time in those weeks than in the previous five years combined.<br /><br />Toward the end of this period, Dave and I decided to err on the side of optimism and plan a trip to Majorca over my birthday - which would land in the middle of the fourth month of my pregnancy. Seemed safe enough. Besides, I was more than ready to wake up from this seemingly unending slumber and get back to things.<br /><br />By European standards, our four-day stay was laughably short. But for us, it was a perfect getaway. We flew from Amsterdam to Madrid. Madrid to Palma de Majorca. And an hour long drive from Palma to Deija, the small mountainside town where we stayed. <br /><br />The first night we were there, I had the fantastic pleasure of having a planned video chat with a few girlfriends in Minnesota who had yet to discover I was pregnant. Fabulous sister-in-law Beth (completely in the know, of course) had a few gals over for lunch, under the guise of this being a "birthday lunch by proxy" for me. After twenty minutes of catching up, I dropped the news on them and received in two minutes what seemed like a year's worth of squeals and screams and giggles and tears. It was in a word, unforgettable.<br /><br />Our first full day, we had perfect....PERFECT...weather. We hiked down to the Mediterranean via this crazy unmarked path. Saw and HEARD (gratuitous capitalization offered for those who know my favorite sheep joke...()You know who you are and you know what I mean...) sheep as they lazily strolled and baa'ed throughout the city. We played tennis. We swam in the pool. And we ended the day with a beautiful dinner (And, by the way, don't ever try to tell a pregnant woman who happens to love meat to NOT eat local Parma or Jabugo ham. Rules are meant to be broken, right? Ask Dave for details.)<br /><br />Before the torrential downpour of the next day, we squeezed in nine holes of golf (my funny swing is even funnier with a baby belly), more pool time, a stroll through a local art fair. And then the rains came while we were watching a local tuba and trumpet-driven funk band in an outdoor cafe. Back to the hotel for some cartoon-esque attempts at playing outdoor ping pong in sideways-blowing winds, followed shortly by a couple of warm showers and room service.<br /><br />I guess I would be in fashion to call this our Babymoon. There was no work, just play. And it was divine.Lynn Hutchinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12751568533023134560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4156555012448158073.post-20490774134444147502009-06-26T12:38:00.000-07:002009-07-08T05:42:53.967-07:00Wild horses...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioW3uX9qdHy10gvsNuqtBVWbOosEHktOFtY6mzUXeaYuDorvZX7VniRBFQeQ6-PNqImUS8Fx9dbLSRcSTW031Sdxgann_Ld6rKLLUR1Wst9xHLRIC-eRaYc1KL-Vsqh1tMGHWdFcOOaw/s1600-h/IMG_3297.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioW3uX9qdHy10gvsNuqtBVWbOosEHktOFtY6mzUXeaYuDorvZX7VniRBFQeQ6-PNqImUS8Fx9dbLSRcSTW031Sdxgann_Ld6rKLLUR1Wst9xHLRIC-eRaYc1KL-Vsqh1tMGHWdFcOOaw/s320/IMG_3297.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356068895820820402" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0HSPaJz6rRSdtf3KaNkN9md0nIPgsyBqAtA_y4Ce50-JOgnl1jByjsEoMqpFcF_Zy3x5yn5Mjannm4lCpurJkBrCC-vGVieVadRgJbn9CCgtmC6G6kxLqRiTGumwiacv_3j0cFDQoSA/s1600-h/IMG00077-20090316-1213.jpg"><img style="display:block; 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margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDyfZKlQHBY34yzaZ0kZDS1upRh65CU7FzLCRvfC41cl1f7gwci95_CrhUwxIJJEbt6rEjjECb3iPsI1M29I9T7luaxx07vexKupWcKUVPAzZXpSWSgMlZe9rOsv9Mjm25-re1ob5PKw/s320/IMG_3300.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356065634886511730" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKskmyshfdDGzbsGOb7Arg8thRfMbwmxiP6s4ui4oLEnR-XK18EuKmVRvwOqsRm6c0t4i4PbYc0d2H8rUzSzGDXLtXiaCKRebwGAQD1GL9Te4jU3L_8m9EdzZAs77D65W7LzmZ7WpzMw/s1600-h/IMG_3302.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKskmyshfdDGzbsGOb7Arg8thRfMbwmxiP6s4ui4oLEnR-XK18EuKmVRvwOqsRm6c0t4i4PbYc0d2H8rUzSzGDXLtXiaCKRebwGAQD1GL9Te4jU3L_8m9EdzZAs77D65W7LzmZ7WpzMw/s320/IMG_3302.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356065642042839410" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZhJk2Ujg3h-9bINzhhBuRg-woNN0XZTNpt2pEcTa7Rq4Eea2Q6R5kXlEQuQqMw_x7gKNaS7gplh4qKW4jp9ENudL2_ajQxQZ8Wnnx0gdJ2WDzyFl_1-9wJxIX539ftdTw15blBRFL9g/s1600-h/IMG_3304.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZhJk2Ujg3h-9bINzhhBuRg-woNN0XZTNpt2pEcTa7Rq4Eea2Q6R5kXlEQuQqMw_x7gKNaS7gplh4qKW4jp9ENudL2_ajQxQZ8Wnnx0gdJ2WDzyFl_1-9wJxIX539ftdTw15blBRFL9g/s320/IMG_3304.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356065638301353378" /></a><br />Only a few short weeks after I returned from Minnesota, in-laws Norm and Brenda came to visit us in Amsterdam. This is, at minimum, an annual trip for them. We've shared many fun times on this European continent, often heading out to see new cities or countries together.<br /><br />On this trip, we decided to stay in Holland and take a two-night trip to Maastricht, a Medieval city in the southeast corner of the country.<br /><br />Before doing that, we spent a few days together in Amsterdam. We went out for a fantastic dinner together. Norm and Brenda got to sit in on a rehearsal of mine. We watched movies together. All good fun.<br /><br />But unbeknownst to them, Dave and I had a surprise event lined up that would top the proverbial vacation cake. You see, we had miraculously managed to keep the news of the Sheldon-to-be a secret from them, knowing that it would be WAY more fun to tell them face-to-face when they came for a visit.<br /><br />An agonizing 36 hours after they landed in Amsterdam, Dave and I set out our trap! <br /><br />Now, as background for those of you who do not already know this, there is something one of a kind about Jewish grandparents. This was not something I realized fully until I married into a Jewish family. But when an adult Jewish child announces they have created another family member, it's like the sun shines for the first time, global warming has stopped, and scientists have announced that eating chocolate is the best thing you can do for your health...all rolled in to one! Coming from a more reserved Scandinavian Lutheran background, experiencing this kind of energy is so lovingly entertaining, it literally makes me giggle!<br /><br />So, now you can understand that this revealing had to be something special. <br /><br />Dave and I decided that the best way to surprise these two (because believe you me, they have been surprised more than a few times by their clever offspring...they are no rookies when it comes to the Art of Off-Guard) was to distract them with a secondary surprise. And we had the perfect thing...<br /><br />Let me tell you about the Sheldon horses...<br /><br />About thirty years ago, Norm's mother bought a large ceramic sculpture of three white horses. One is reared up on his hind legs. Another is pointing his nose forward, probably snorting. The other is throwing his head back playfully. <br /><br />Although well-crafted, one would probably say that the aesthetic of said horses is...well...rather heinous (no offense, Grandma Hilde, may you rest in peace). And after Dave's grandparents died, the piece become somewhat of a traveling family white elephant gift:<br /><br />Norm's sister Vivian passed it on to Dave's brother Dan, as a housewarming gift. I think from there, it went to Dave's sister Audrey on her wedding day. Then it went back to Dan for his wedding day. Back to Audrey for the birth of her first child. Somehow, Dave got in on the mix. And he slipped it into his parents' hotel room at his cousin's bar mitzvah....<br /><br />Well, you get the idea.<br /><br />Three years ago, when we got married, the last recipient of the horses (Dave's then 2-year-old nephew Jonah) decided to ship it to Amsterdam as a wedding gift. But Jonah's youth shone through when he decided to ship them in an over-sized box with only a handful of packing peanuts.<br /><br />That's right. The horses arrived in about two hundred little equine pieces.<br /><br />We discussed a few ideas for the fate of our ceramic thoroughbreds. Throwing them away. Painting the pieces different colors and creating some strange Picasso pastiche. Making a movie about how the horses died. Etc, etc, etc.<br /><br />In the end, Dave wanted to remain pure to the original sculpture and take on the painstaking exercise of putting them back together to look like the original sculpture.<br /><br />This process took - off and on - about three years.<br /><br />Now, back to the present.<br /><br />Norm, Brenda, Dave and I were sitting at the dining table, finishing a lovely dinner when Dave announces that we have been "working on something for quite a while now" and that "they (Norm and Brenda) will be very excited to learn what we're talking about..."<br /><br />Undoubtedly thinking we were talking about BABIES, they leaned in closely and gave wide-eyed smiles...<br /><br />I excused myself from the table and returned moments later with....DUT da da da!....THE HORSES!<br /><br />Laughter and giggles ensued as Norm and Brenda accepted their fate as the next keepers of the horses, and Brenda took a closer look at the card I had attached around one of the horse's necks:<br /><br />"Dear Brenda, Happy Early Birthday!...And don't even THINK about sending the horses back in fall for the birth of your new grandchild!"<br /><br />(HA! GOTCHA!!!!)Lynn Hutchinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12751568533023134560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4156555012448158073.post-52693336221796119282009-06-26T12:12:00.000-07:002009-06-26T12:38:27.854-07:00Three weeks in America, part 4...Forgive my self-indulgence in dispelling all the details of this discovery process. Millions of women in the world go about this, go about pregnancy, birth, motherhood. And here I am, elevating my story so that the simple phrase "I'm pregnant" becomes the epilogue to some kind of long-lost undiscovered sequel to The Iliad.<br /><br />But, as a dear friend once told me, the best stories are those that end in redemption. In transformation.<br /><br />The day after I found out I was pregnant, we celebrated the life of my grandfather. As part of his elegy, the pastor talked about the blessing of grandparents, parents, children, grandchildren, and the grandchildren yet to come. This was the first moment I connected with this strange foreign element in my body which folks would soon start referring to as "the baby." <br /><br />Ironic. Saying good-bye to the last of my grandparents. And now, a new person in the making. This is big.<br /><br />The last two days that I spent in Minnesota were glorious. I mean that as no disrespect to the memory of my grandfather, as it was his death that brought me home. But somehow, his death - and the passing of other wonderful members of our family in recent years - were, in one weekend, made examples of the greatness of the cycle of life. I shared some precious moments with Alaina and Maddy, my nieces, as they - upon learning I had a baby in my tummy - made sure I was pampered with arm massages and a stylish new hairdo (NOTE: if you haven't yet experienced a make-over by a 6-year-old, put it on your bucket list). Great moments with my brother. My sister-in-law. My best friend Bridget. My father. <br /><br />And of course, my mother, who both grieved and celebrated with supreme sensitivity and love.<br /><br />Exhausted, nauseous and completely over-run by a new set of thoughts, I boarded the plane back to Amsterdam.Lynn Hutchinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12751568533023134560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4156555012448158073.post-42333210664545495142009-06-26T11:45:00.001-07:002009-06-26T12:10:30.077-07:00Three weeks in America, part 3..."First pee of the day," I remember Bridget telling me at some point. "That's when you have to do it."<br /><br />I snuck downstairs to the guest bathroom before mom and dad got up. <br /><br />My heart was racing. I didn't know what I wanted to see out of this thing. Like a young man struggling with his first condom, I was all thumbs in this operation. Such a simple task. I mean, really...how many college degrees does it take to pee on a stick?!<br /><br />I peed in great quantity, most of it on the stick, and waited in the bathroom a few minutes. <br /><br />I stared at the little window. <br /><br />At first, a blue horizontal line. <br /><br />And shortly thereafter, a vertical one crossing it.<br /><br />Aha! There we go! A BLUE PLUS! Well, that's gotta mean...something, right?!<br /><br />Aw, nuts!!!...What the heck DOES it mean? In my haste leaving Amsterdam, I grabbed the stick without the instructions. <br /><br />Can logic prevail here? Let's see...a plus could mean yes, a plus could mean no...well, which is it?<br /><br />I sneak to my mom's computer and go on-line, looking at the website of the manufacturer. <br /><br />"Damn! Why do they have to make so many models?!" I was thinking so loudly, I probably woke the neighbors.<br /><br />I found what I thought was our model and looked at the results information...<br /><br />"...one pink line, not pregnant...two parallel pink lines, pregnant..."<br /><br />What the..?!?!? Pink PARALLEL lines?!?!? I have a flippin' blue plus!!!!<br /><br />Noticing that it was early enough in Minnesota for it still to be nighttime in Amsterdam, I requested a video chat with Dave. <br /><br />Three agonizing minutes later, he responded. Happily as always, of course! <br /><br />"Hi honey! How was your flight? How did you sleep? I heard MInnesota had a snow st...."<br /><br />"Yeah, yeah, yeah...flight good. Lots of snow. Could you run up to my office and grab the pregnancy test instructions?"<br /><br />"The preg...??!?!"<br /><br />"Yes, the pregnancy test instructions. Just go get them, would you?"<br /><br />One-hundred-and-twenty-four steps later (62 up, 62 down), he returned with the set of fold-out instructions that came in the box. With all of the writing on this four foot square piece of paper and the way Dave was navigating, you may have guessed I had asked him for directions from Biskinta to Beirut.<br /><br />"Okay, okay...here...It says it's more likely to give a false NEGATIVE, than a false POSITIVE..........And........the negative shows when you just have a horizontal blue line. But if you have both a horizontal AND a veritical...a plus sign...you are, basically without a doubt........pregnant..."<br /><br />All of the blood rushing in my body came to a dead halt. I held still, realizing that now this was as much of a moment for my husband as it was for me. Time to pull it together.<br /><br />"So, Dave...do you wanna see the stick?" I did my best ever poker face.<br /><br />And there we were, connected by whatever it is that makes the internet tick, five-thousand miles apart, looking at our screens with amazement and unprecedented joy.Lynn Hutchinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12751568533023134560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4156555012448158073.post-3579428177472074602009-06-26T11:13:00.000-07:002009-06-26T13:35:11.117-07:00Three weeks in America, part 2...After a comically bungled trip home from NYC (PLEASE tell me somebody else out there accidentally went to New Jersey when they should've gone to JFK...What?...No?....No takers?), I walked through our front door on the Herengracht and landed in a heap on the couch, where I would basically stay for the next 24 hours.<br /><br />I awoke in the morning - or at least it was morning somewhere in the world - to an email from my mom saying that, while I had been flying back to Amsterdam, Grandpa Bob had died due to a list of complications that, well, basically came from living almost a century.<br /><br />I'm ashamed to admit it, but my first thoughts on the topic were not grief or sadness, but an overwhelming wave of frustration that I had just been in America 24 hours earlier (I even had a connection in Detroit, as a matter of fact...a mere 70-minute flight from Minneapolis). Going back in the next few days seemed a nearly insurmountable task.<br /><br />And on top of it all, I felt miserable. Tired. Nauseous. Headachey. Sluggish.<br /><br />In the fog of what turned out to be the next four days, between nibbling on crackers, sipping water, taking Pepto Bismol ("what IS this stomach bug, anyway?!"), endless naps on the couch, and making flight plans for my weekend trip back to America, I had a few passing thoughts to my dinner-time light bulb moment the night of the fashion show in NYC.<br /><br />("Maartje...I think I might be pregnant.")<br /><br />Of course, a logical person in this situation would've simply busted out a pregnancy test and come to the end of the mystery. But truly, I was in another world in those interim days. In fact, it wasn't until the day before I left for Minnesota that I told Dave what I thought might be up. <br /><br />We talked about my taking the pregnancy test before boarding the plane, but somehow, that just seemed overwhelming to me...If I WASN'T pregnant, then what the heck was wrong with me and would I want to worry about it at the funeral. And if I WAS pregnant, I wouldn't want to leave Dave behind for the weekend.<br /><br />But being perfectly honest, I was simply quite terrified. Terrified of what the answer was going to be. <br /><br />Me? Pregnant? After so many years of trying NOT to get pregnant, this seemed unthinkable. Pregnancy happens to OTHER people. Not me. And, even though Dave and I stopped birth control six months earlier, a part of me was holding my breath, happy to allow fate to determine whether we would become parents.<br /><br />And yet, I have met so many women who have desperately wanted to become pregnant and couldn't...how could I not be grateful and excited if the answer was "yes"?<br /><br />I am hoping that I will be granted the good fortune to live long enough and to have the kind of relationship with my daughter-to-be that I can tell her about this, woman to woman. Some women - many around me, in fact - were born mothers. And they knew it. They walked glowingly into motherhood, accepting with seeming ease the sacrifices required, not giving a second thought to the what-might-have-beens.<br /><br />I, on the other hand, had hemmed and hawed and stewed and processed and prayed and all sorts of things, trying to discern if I was mother material or not. When it came time to pull the goalie last April, I made the wager that I probably wouldn't be a TERRIBLE mother...and for anything that I lacked, the greatness of my husband as a father would more than make up for it.<br /><br />And now, there I was. Faced with a reality, not a hypothetical. And I kind-of just didn't want to know.<br /><br />I landed in Minnesota, feeling queasy and cold, navigating the two feet of snow that had just fallen before I landed. As ever, I had a wonderful time with my parents the first night, staying up late talking about life, love, music, religion, politics. The usual for us.<br /><br />As we were all heading off to bed, I gingerly approached the topic of motherhood with my mom, all the while giving myself a mental image of me as a child, hands clasped behind my back, staring at the floor, lightly kicking a pebble with my toe...all while talking about something deeply important to me. I unpacked as I talked, trying to make the whole topic seem more distant than it was. She probably had no idea how intently I was listening.<br /><br />With great conviction, this is what she said:<br /><br />"Someday, if you and Dave decide to become parents, you will be great at it. You will work as a team and give that child a loving, creative, disciplined, adventurous home life. You've done many wonderful things in a lifetime, Lynn, but this would top them all. You will be just fine."<br /><br />Before bed, with new courage, I dug the pregnancy test out of my suitcase and set it out on the bedside table. Tomorrow morning. I'll face this tomorrow morning.Lynn Hutchinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12751568533023134560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4156555012448158073.post-74629042364624560692009-06-26T10:27:00.000-07:002009-06-26T12:33:12.747-07:00Three weeks in America, part 1...(In my continued effort to fill in the blanks of what's happened in 2009, I begin with tales of February.)<br /><br />Off and on for the last five years, I have had numerous casual conversations with Dave's colleagues at the firm about the relation between design (urban, on the large scale and structures, on the smaller) and composition. About inspiration, form, maintaining vision, communicating vision, choosing a palette, etc. My husband is fortunate to work with a group of hard-working visionaries who are never short on interesting conversation material.<br /><br />In the last year, the conversations moved toward talk of collaboration. Of uniting musical design with space design. Naturally, in the somewhat torrential economic climate of development (and thus, commercial architecture), this partnership has moved cautiously, but not without progress. <br /><br />In conjunction with a performance opportunity that was flying me back to the continental 48, I decided to make a stop in Nashville to record a demo track for the folks at Jerde Partnership. A 5-minute track for a promotional video about Zlote Tarasy in Warsaw, Poland.<br /><br />I love spending time in Nashville. There was a season where I was inches away from making it my place of residence. But as things turned out, visiting for work and play on occasion has proven to be, perhaps, equally rewarding. <br /><br />At the top of the list is spending time with dear childhood friend Jennifer Johnson Bays, her husband Greg, and her kids Theo and Josephine who live in Franklin. They have always opened their door and hearts to me and I absolutely love being in their presence. Inevitably, Jenny and I will stay up one night talking until our eyes have long ceased to open. Inevitably, Jenny will take me to downtown Franklin for fantastic food, shopping and hospitality. And inevitably, we will laugh heartily about long-gone days around Hiner's Pond...ice skating to her house in the winter months, kick the can on summer nights, and the hilarity of growing from toddlers to teens in the same neighborhood. She is a priceless friend.<br /><br />And as if my heart wasn't filled enough by that visit, I managed to make my way from Nashville to Boston to visit yet another stellar woman and her family (who, coincidentally, is also named Jennifer!).<br /><br />Jenn, Asif, Aleisi and Senna had left us - a weepy pile of broken-hearted friends - in Amsterdam four months before I we were reunited in Logan Airport in February. She was waiting for me in the baggage claim area, and let's just say the weepiness in our reunion was simply an extension of what transpired in October. BIG hugs. BIG smiles. BIG crocodile tears.<br /><br />And what a welcome by our nearly 2-year-old godson Aleisi when I approached the car! Priceless! Waving and smiling and bouncing up and down! And within minutes, he was asking all about Number Five..."Five...woof...? Five...woof...?" "Yes, Number Five still says, 'Woof'!"<br /><br />I got to spend nearly three days with them in their spectacular flat in downtown Boston, which I had heard much about over the years. We went out on Valentines' Day and drank ourselves some nice smooth urban cocktails, ate Wendy's (my four-hundredth, Jenn's first!), walked in the park near their house, ate some delicious homemade goodies by Jenn, ordered Indian food, and talked and talked and talked.<br /><br />The weekend ended way too fast, but it was great elixir for the soul to be in her presence again. I miss her in Amsterdam more than I'm ever able to show with our intermittent phone calls and emails.<br /><br />And from Boston, a short jaunt to NYC.<br /><br />One taxi ride from an illegal Caribbean immigrant later, and I was at the front door of Dane Larsen's Brooklyn apartment. My capacity for beaming with enthusiasm and love for all of these long-distance people in my life was stretching so far, I could hardly breathe! <br /><br />Dane and I have known each other for over ten years now, having first been introduced in Minnesota when I worked at a church as a worship music director for a weekly high school service. He was a teenager then, but only by birth certificate. Dane's wisdom and thoughtfulness far surpassed any 15-year-old I had ever encountered, and we became friends without much effort at all. <br /><br />Even back then, he would talk about living in NYC someday, pursuing a creative career in the business world. And now, living happily in His Town, he works at top notch advertising agency in Manhattan that has a view of seemingly the whole planet. He talked over Thai food about his plans for the future, about where he hopes to be and what he wants to do, and I couldn't have been happier than to have been sitting across from him, taking it all in.<br /><br />Luckily, Dane was able to spend more time with me throughout the week as I began working on the project I was ACTUALLY there for...performing for G-Star Raw's NY Fashion Week runway show. My good friend Maartje Meijer (Dutch) - a fantastically talented jazz pianist - and I had been hired to be the two live musicians at the helm of G-Star's big show in the Hammerstein Ballroom. In the all, the performance lasted only 12 minutes and we did only one show, but it was a great time. We each sat at a grand piano at the base of the stage and played together a montage of five pieces, one of which being Brahms's G Minor Rhapsody, which I played alone.<br /><br />It was a good time and as ever, completely intriguing to me to enter a new world...this one being the Fashion World. Having worked in the Hollywood music scene, red carpets and famous people didn't faze me. But talking to the models off and on during our endless rehearsals and thinking about how clothes are presented and why designers do what they do was a brilliant exercise for me. An intriguing and profitable remedy to the grey dark days back in Amsterdam.<br /><br />We had a few long days of rehearsals, fittings, hair and make-up sittings. And on the day of the performance, we rehearsed almost up until the crowd filed in. We had a short 20-minute gap in which we could inhale dinner before the show. We ran up to the buffet area - which just so happened to be filled with nearly every one of my favorite American foods - and filled our plates. We were mutually famished.<br /><br />But a funny thing happened.<br /><br />I sat down. Surveyed my spoils with what must have looked like a raptor's grin. But couldn't stomach the thought of taking a bite. Maartje noticed right away and asked if something was wrong.<br /><br />As confused as she was, my wheels began to spin a bit, and something came to mind that never had before in my life...<br /><br />I leaned over to whisper to my friend what seemed at once both preposterous and entirely logical...<br /><br />"Maartje...I think I might be pregnant."Lynn Hutchinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12751568533023134560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4156555012448158073.post-55932908122566553832009-06-21T14:08:00.000-07:002009-06-21T14:57:03.930-07:00Musicians have the best funerals...By some miraculous stroke, I was able to live 34 years of life with the presence of grandparents. I got to know all four of these important people for fifteen years before, one by one, it became time to say good bye. Grandma Jane, my father's mother, died first. Then, after a gap of about ten years, Grandpa Hutch. After surviving the second massive stroke in her lifetime, Grandma Marian died a few years ago. And lastly, Grandpa Bob, my maternal grandfather, died in February of this year just days shy of his 94th birthday.<br /><br />As you may already know, Grandpa Bob was, by profession, a musician. A violinist, a trumpet player, an arranger, and (I have tapes to prove it) a singer. He and my grandmother met in the stream of mutual musical talent and, much to the benefit of those around them, they continued to make music together in various ways through the majority of their years.<br /><br />Grandpa Bob, although jovial and sharp and deeply interested in the things that mattered to him, was admittedly not a warm and fuzzy grandfather type. He was not the man to invite you to his knee, to wipe away tears (not that you would think to show him tears in the first place), or to become vastly sentimental by the sheer presence of his outstanding wife, children or grandchildren. On this, I must be clear and honest.<br /><br />But the man could play.<br /><br />Growing up in a strict German family with a relentless work ethic, it was upon his sole determination to learn to play the violin at the age of eight that he took on an early morning paper route to earn the twenty-some dollars necessary to purchase a pee wee-sized instrument upon which he could learn.<br /><br />Later in his youth, he would demonstrate similar initiative in acquiring and then learning to play the trumpet. <br /><br />Years would pass and he would carve out numerous professional alleyways for his talent, the stories of which he shared with me over the years. Playing in a band at a party filled with mobsters. Driving with some pals to a gig in a classic Minnesota snowstorm, only to slide off the side of the road, eventually have a door of the car ripped off, and waiting for rescue. Playing in the band backing up the circus that came to town...the swish of an elephant's tail passing by the end of his bell being my favorite detail of the story. <br /><br />And somewhere in the mix, I heard stories from both him and my mother of the years when he helped launch a drum and bugle corps for young men. In this group, besides helping with fundraising and administration, he directed, taught, and wrote original arrangements tailor-made for his up and coming troupe which would go on to win numerous awards throughout the Midwest for their musical style and excellence.<br /><br />Now, as a certain rite of passage, I decided at the age of ten to learn the trumpet and play in our school's band. Then working at Torp's Music Store in St. Paul, Grandpa Bob supplied an appropriately worn-in cornet upon which I could begin, and gave me my first lessons.<br /><br />As I mentioned earlier, he came from a German family with a penchant for working hard. So what did these few lessons with him look like? They looked like a stern man giving direction befitting an older player, a ten-year-old girl huffing and puffing into a horn for what must've been an hour and a half, with no break, and a set of young lungs not capable of sustaining such a routine! <br /><br />But would I dare say anything to him about it? What do YOU think?!<br /><br />Well, just like I wish I had the mind to have understood my physics lessons on a deeper, more sustained level, I wish I could have had the potential on the horn to have taken advantage of Grandpa's strict - but effective - teaching methods.<br /><br />Fortunately, there were many...MANY...young people who did. And many young people whose lives were impacted by his dedication to teaching players in such a way that pushed them to their best.<br /><br />Much to the delight of our family, a group of six such students - now all close to seventy years of age - assembled a musical reunion to play tribute to Grandpa at his memorial service. They played a handful of pieces, a few of which were arrangements written by my grandfather many, many years ago.<br /><br />And as I sat there in the front row with my family, I was struck by how completely perfect this demonstration was. That there was no other elegy or poem that could've expressed the character of my grandfather more accurately. <br /><br />Musicians are complex characters. On one hand, they can be ripe with frippery and balderdash at one moment, flourishing a final note with a dramatic gesture in order to secure a crowd's approval. On the other, they can be deeply internal and private, wishing for no one to hear a note before the whole picture is fully in place.<br /><br />And a postmortem performance in dedication is, in a sense, a combination of both.<br /><br />Naturally, there is oohing and ahhing over the talent and brilliance of the musician lost. Like opening your ears to an auditory monument of the greatness that laid within the deceased person. <br /><br />But there is simultaneous homage given to the private person, the person who spent hours working away in solitude to perfect notes, pitches and inflections to create such a thing. <br /><br />And what better background to honor this kind of trait in a person than a funeral?<br /><br />I realize I have a limited range of funerals from which to judge. And perhaps professionals from other fields - actuaries, dentists, postal workers - could find similar meaning in services honoring their dead. But I truly believe there is no other memorial service quite like that of a musician. To sit for minutes at a time, listening to and honoring both the outward and inward person he or she strived to be...through the rhythms and colors of the music they created...<br /><br />...there is no greater salute.Lynn Hutchinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12751568533023134560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4156555012448158073.post-75040958447361859142009-06-21T13:51:00.000-07:002009-06-21T15:00:25.606-07:00The longest day of the year...Dear Faithful Readers,<br /><br />Today is the summer solstice. The longest day of the year. And while that may not offer much significance to you in your present ring of latitude, it means dusk at 10:52 pm in Holland. <br /><br />If I may complain about such a wonderful thing for just a moment, I will note that it is this phenomenon - this seemingly unnatural length of day - that stirred me from near-sleep in my comfortable and warm bed. And now, I have gotten up, gone downstairs (without needing to turn on a light, mind you), picked up my electronic writing desk, and trudged back upstairs to settle in with you now.<br /><br />So, if I may presume that you are happy to be reading from me once again, and you have yet to count yourself grateful for a single thing in this day, be glad that today is, indeed, the longest day of the year.<br /><br />Oh friends. So many things afoot in recent months. So many emotions and experiences that, based on previously determined mores, I would deem write-worthy. And yet I delayed the gratification of telling for so long that with each passing day of silence, the task became more and more about administration, and less and less about the beauty of life shared.<br /><br />But, inspired by the determination of the daylight to continue to both stretch AND stay her course, here I am. Husband sleeping. Dog sleeping. My body is sleeping. But my mind is alert and my interest in writing renewed.<br /><br />Surely, this task will take many days to unfold. But if you are here reading this, I'm hoping you will desire to check back in the coming days and partake in my self-indulgent reach across counties and oceans to share with you.<br /><br />Thanks for the patience.<br /><br />Lovingly,<br />Awake in AmsterdamLynn Hutchinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12751568533023134560noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4156555012448158073.post-36597444025842537842008-12-03T01:50:00.000-08:002008-12-03T02:30:00.172-08:00Better Than Fiction<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7g5lQcngD5LiZt07YWBm_lYiF_Jaage_1FXV9aRySk0u5xwWumP5jVEVvlNFHT6Xg87lL8Q2NT_Zm-sW0enoW2fVuXvzMwwYmBC9yd41NCCleXoJzJgYAQXulZGXuJbJdLibA3dhhjw/s1600-h/Jenn+Alexander,+Album+cover.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 318px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7g5lQcngD5LiZt07YWBm_lYiF_Jaage_1FXV9aRySk0u5xwWumP5jVEVvlNFHT6Xg87lL8Q2NT_Zm-sW0enoW2fVuXvzMwwYmBC9yd41NCCleXoJzJgYAQXulZGXuJbJdLibA3dhhjw/s320/Jenn+Alexander,+Album+cover.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275502901821843042" /></a><br />My dear friend Jenn Alexander has just released a long-anticipated debut album, titled "Better Than Fiction." <br /><br /> Jenn is a one-of-a-kind soul. Her songs are the tender-hearted voice of her experience. Each one was written in dedication to someone she loves. A beautiful tribute in every track.<br /><br />The album is a mix of ballads, soul, pop...a potpourri of all sorts of tasteful listening.<br /><br />Take a listen <a href="http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=382997546">here </a>.<br /><br />I had the chance to meet her in Nashville this fall to lend a hand with piano, Wurlitzer and string arrangements.<br /><br />She is a wonderful woman who deserves much success. I hope you enjoy what you hear...<br /><br />(Album will be available on iTunes in January 2009. She is currently taking orders for hard copies. You can reach her via email at: jennalexandermusic@gmail.com)Lynn Hutchinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12751568533023134560noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4156555012448158073.post-66518580969032101702008-12-03T01:44:00.001-08:002008-12-03T02:13:23.005-08:00Please Don't Eat Sushi, Love Mom<div xmlns='http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml'><p><object height='350' width='425'><param value='http://youtube.com/v/C15xPM5p0QI' name='movie'/><embed height='350' width='425' type='application/x-shockwave-flash' src='http://youtube.com/v/C15xPM5p0QI'/></object></p></div>
<br />Six years ago, when still living in LA, I would make a trip to David L. Abell's Fine Pianos in Beverly Hills on days when playing the Kurzweil just wasn't enough.
<br />
<br />Over a few visits, I became friends with Mr. Abell himself and the manager there, Adam Chester.
<br />
<br />Adam. You gotta meet this guy.
<br />
<br />A songwriter. A storyteller. A stand-in pianist for Elton John's band. A comedian.
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<br />Check out his latest project. Lynn Hutchinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12751568533023134560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4156555012448158073.post-71546576704162233242008-12-03T00:56:00.000-08:002008-12-03T01:24:50.351-08:00Gobble gobble...Eighteen people are headed due east by bicycle at 15 kilometers per hour. They reach their destination and ingest the following: <br /><br />2 enormous turkeys<br />4 gallons of gravy<br />1 highly-coveted pan of sweet potato casserole<br />10 kilos of mashed potatoes.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Question: </span><br /><br />How long before the onset of collective tryptophan coma?<br /><br />A) As soon as the turkey is served...just SEEING it makes you sleepy<br />B) Somewhere between Andre's third and fourth re-fill<br />C) After finishing Donna's apple pie<br />D) Before starting the massive clean-up in the kitchen<br /> <br /><br />-----------------------------------------------<br />Ah yes. Another grand November feast. In the absence of long-standing hosts Jenn and Asif, Dave and I inherited the honors of keeping a group of ex-pats fed and merry on Thanksgiving. Our party (on Saturday, as Thursday is not a holiday here...naturally!) was, for many in the group, the fourth formal round of giving thanks together here in Amsterdam.<br /><br />It was a beautiful evening, thanks to the presence of all who came AND those who joined us via video chat...Andre, Aurelie and Aisha from Vancouver...Jenn and Asif from Austin, Texas.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">To all,</span><br />Dave and I are so grateful for you...our amazing friends and family worldwide. Wherever we are, wherever you are...either here in Amsterdam, back in the States, or beyond...home is where the love is. And there's no place like home.<br /><br />We couldn't be more thankful for all of you.<br /><br />Happy Thanksgiving,<br />Lynn, Dave and 5Lynn Hutchinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12751568533023134560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4156555012448158073.post-58211243662974737692008-11-24T02:46:00.000-08:002008-11-24T04:05:42.315-08:00Ontmoeting, een net niet sprookje...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDVN7JyhvbVJjQJebzjkhniVzNYBs76yyLtnOQGPzmObo0H_rD-TtTSVWra8UGkHeBu1kVQxmtJeeP6-7AS4VrZMkvWctMubuIbHNd1qhD_D-jM32sFLwWOGZgPAPuE_g2GhRd6zEXgA/s1600-h/DSC_3512.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDVN7JyhvbVJjQJebzjkhniVzNYBs76yyLtnOQGPzmObo0H_rD-TtTSVWra8UGkHeBu1kVQxmtJeeP6-7AS4VrZMkvWctMubuIbHNd1qhD_D-jM32sFLwWOGZgPAPuE_g2GhRd6zEXgA/s320/DSC_3512.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272186100923747202" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvIN2U2ecHIu8eEDdAdiIUxdHnJSxsjBwbmzkoc5gl7AwoQLwYOJd4C0puUbcXr72_p2z1NHzyIjnOsiAsTJVUtGLhLfdgbNhC7eLK8Q_Hnx7vr_2umJlOTbMX-AHLOTEcslJjDmyTZQ/s1600-h/DSC_5737.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 210px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvIN2U2ecHIu8eEDdAdiIUxdHnJSxsjBwbmzkoc5gl7AwoQLwYOJd4C0puUbcXr72_p2z1NHzyIjnOsiAsTJVUtGLhLfdgbNhC7eLK8Q_Hnx7vr_2umJlOTbMX-AHLOTEcslJjDmyTZQ/s320/DSC_5737.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272186096499252482" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimQVl7aetgeDX4OMnmHLVf-CHuaRASyk9_04bJmgBUX6TCI09IEDCb-NhhBdzVGEdQD7PYPjlMr0vAtFAzxpwdzt_2ciCdgsR_YPPRwkpLXGO1UZ2Ntkvux_BJVrUkgcTmfAD0ZTqX4Q/s1600-h/DSC_5732.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 210px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimQVl7aetgeDX4OMnmHLVf-CHuaRASyk9_04bJmgBUX6TCI09IEDCb-NhhBdzVGEdQD7PYPjlMr0vAtFAzxpwdzt_2ciCdgsR_YPPRwkpLXGO1UZ2Ntkvux_BJVrUkgcTmfAD0ZTqX4Q/s320/DSC_5732.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272186088442527666" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRJNhK_EJO1l4AUfo15uxNKxvyTwcN5RNSFocWqd78dGwXYXVaidSYb_uHT3IFEkDzA0W8HCok1KmILuA9iNxHykxyswyF8Z1THrW4yF33SygDXLjtKBs68mFSZa4_9WJW8ITtwpTClQ/s1600-h/DSC_3519.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRJNhK_EJO1l4AUfo15uxNKxvyTwcN5RNSFocWqd78dGwXYXVaidSYb_uHT3IFEkDzA0W8HCok1KmILuA9iNxHykxyswyF8Z1THrW4yF33SygDXLjtKBs68mFSZa4_9WJW8ITtwpTClQ/s320/DSC_3519.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272186110463440738" /></a>L to R: Louis-Pierre Patron (bar), Marc Stoffels (dir), Nienke Otten (sop), me, Anthony Hardweiller (creator and overseer of the Marco Polo project)<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilKfA1VQ4QQAGBFhXV64AcBGsYuDgCaqUIE7t40exzts09_RVCK5d9BIiKwSqclRy-_pyHU6m0okW4Gf7FV-vIlBI_6VoOSD2B0vdPag8n6D42lrHkXYXbfwxfeJ0Rf4Pks33m-vgJBw/s1600-h/DSC_3552.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilKfA1VQ4QQAGBFhXV64AcBGsYuDgCaqUIE7t40exzts09_RVCK5d9BIiKwSqclRy-_pyHU6m0okW4Gf7FV-vIlBI_6VoOSD2B0vdPag8n6D42lrHkXYXbfwxfeJ0Rf4Pks33m-vgJBw/s320/DSC_3552.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272186605310941362" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXVatQItWAL4QZQvq5235NpdY8C16pxVZCyv6pC6x8GreNmTwfX3hZWIk74FNGnIIiO9vfQ6ptdbJGzyx7cEk1Pi88-I0CHvYdloqTWz3nlxkr6_YFxX-tiQhQ-HrVZxBB8G5FOwN3JQ/s1600-h/DSC_3550.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXVatQItWAL4QZQvq5235NpdY8C16pxVZCyv6pC6x8GreNmTwfX3hZWIk74FNGnIIiO9vfQ6ptdbJGzyx7cEk1Pi88-I0CHvYdloqTWz3nlxkr6_YFxX-tiQhQ-HrVZxBB8G5FOwN3JQ/s320/DSC_3550.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272186599699875602" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKyr89cz-IBNgI3YWa6FiX8XIeQ_fTUOcHfBUiTC51k651YdayenK1VaLjDWTWqKMMWfUFhFUlrQTQnefOMgxFh1sC1ulRn7YDYyxqTzeqk_dUOPzdO8Lj5bldWNsmvIgkvAtiYIfEPg/s1600-h/DSC_3553.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKyr89cz-IBNgI3YWa6FiX8XIeQ_fTUOcHfBUiTC51k651YdayenK1VaLjDWTWqKMMWfUFhFUlrQTQnefOMgxFh1sC1ulRn7YDYyxqTzeqk_dUOPzdO8Lj5bldWNsmvIgkvAtiYIfEPg/s320/DSC_3553.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272188363399805106" /></a>A packed house. Waiting for the performance to begin.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0dP1MR8c5BLpP_eFIqF-WDtiPkdj-2q4mZXeet6XR3JrUG4RK3dRamCdYZnFjYm2tvSkjyQFmUWTbTgS4euCiE4bwGtI_Ji7weGUlbVJW19qFyIIrmraAlL2-nhD_2gaNC4moA7xKZQ/s1600-h/DSC_3564.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0dP1MR8c5BLpP_eFIqF-WDtiPkdj-2q4mZXeet6XR3JrUG4RK3dRamCdYZnFjYm2tvSkjyQFmUWTbTgS4euCiE4bwGtI_Ji7weGUlbVJW19qFyIIrmraAlL2-nhD_2gaNC4moA7xKZQ/s320/DSC_3564.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272186617935783954" /></a>Nienke enters from outside (you can see her in the window). Rosa Arnold playing violin inside.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4RoKHjT61QM-ZcriwMupsqV3ehsjhySUnk7OdvL_IooSoZXDV7k4c_yozNDvG0x45gvnJp_JmH1OpSJF7g6R5KGf0v2UOC5x-RKOW1mG8uHzTKVNImrMN_69nKZq8Dlch9qWFVWYyYQ/s1600-h/DSC_3555.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4RoKHjT61QM-ZcriwMupsqV3ehsjhySUnk7OdvL_IooSoZXDV7k4c_yozNDvG0x45gvnJp_JmH1OpSJF7g6R5KGf0v2UOC5x-RKOW1mG8uHzTKVNImrMN_69nKZq8Dlch9qWFVWYyYQ/s320/DSC_3555.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272186608921443426" /></a><br />Five months ago, I was approached by the Nederlandse Opera to be one of 12 composers to write a 5-minute "micro" opera to be performed as part of a large effort to connect Amsterdammers with opera music. To make art music more accessible and enticing to folks who aren't willing or able to spend substantial bucks on season tickets. <br /><br />This project ran in conjunction with the Opera's four-week run this month of Tan Dun's <span style="font-style:italic;">Marco Polo</span>. <br /><br />The 12 original micro operas (mine included) were assigned performances places on the Zeedijk. One of the oldest streets in Amsterdam, a main thoroughfare in the Red Light District and what one might call Amsterdam's Chinatown, this street was known until only the last decade as a hangout for junkies and thieves. But now, it has seen renovation and upgrades, and hosts many retail establishments, bars and restaurants.<br /><br />My assignment, along with that of Marc Stoffels (the director enlisted to work with me), was in the Limebar - a cocktail lounge seated next to the Chinese Temple.<br /><br />Our piece, titled "Ontmoeting, een net niet sprookje" (The meeting, not quite a fairy tale) is the story of a man and woman who come to a bar who could be destined to meet, but become distracted and end up leaving without redeeming fate's offer of one another. To great extent, my contribution to the concept stems from Dave's and my experience of meeting in Los Angeles (an event that happened - quite ironically - five years TO THE DAY of the premiere two weeks ago).<br /> <br />We were allowed up to four players of any kind. I wrote for soprano (Nienke Otten - Netherlands), baritone (Louis-Pierre Patron - France), violin (Rosa Arnold - Netherlands) and cello (Antonis Pratsonakis - Greece). The violin being the alter ego of the sopran, the cello being that of the baritone. <br /><br />There is no text for the singers. Only open vowels and vocal gestures. This came per Marc's request to allow for the audience to write their own details of the story and for the movement of the singers to say as much as what they sing. <br /><br />The piece was performed ten times over the last two Sundays and we had a wonderful turnout at each show. In total, over 400 people attended (quite a feat in such a wee little cocktail bar! Let's just say that fire codes aren't as strictly honored as back home).<br /><br />This project was such a fantastic initiative. Dun's <span style="font-style:italic;">Marco Polo</span> and the Zeedijk project were planned performance events. But in addition, there were three other branches of events going on. One involving school-aged children in their classrooms. Another, assembling a massive community choir (over 2,000 voices) for a performance. And yet another which involved video stations being placed throughout the city where people could record family songs or those of their heritage to be played back during this festival in a huge city bus-turned performance stage.<br /><br />There were six television stations covering the Zeedijk event (in fact, our piece was featured on the news last week). And representatives of 31 opera companies from around the world came to town this month to look at this as a pilot project.<br /><br />I've never seen - not to mention PARTICIPATED in - such a large and successful vision for bringing a community together with music. I was honored to be invited. <br /><br />(note: We will be recording the piece formally in January. So for now, a few snapshots from a rehearsal and a performance.)Lynn Hutchinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12751568533023134560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4156555012448158073.post-22870262137921633382008-11-17T03:59:00.000-08:002008-11-17T04:21:35.176-08:00There's no place like home...In general, our daily lives in Holland look like something out of a euphoric time capsule, mostly having to do with the incredible amount of time we have in our days to just simply live. Morning walks with the dog, cooking every night and an obscene amount of Wii Star Wars adds up to a hefty amount of leisurely hours for Dave and me. An amount that would have made me guffaw in disbelief five years ago.<br /><br />Sounds like a fairy tale as I speak.<br /><br />But certainly nothing in life comes without a price. <br /><br />The foundation behind all that free time is rooted in anonymity. Not that we are without friends. But that, even after four years, we often wonder if we just landed here and we allow ourselves to long for the creature comforts of being in the Homeland. And if the feeling lingers for more than just a moment, we are probably headed for a week or two of malaise. It seems to go like that. Either it passes as quickly as a cloud, or it sticks like gum on the bottom of your proverbial shoe.<br /><br />In spite of the obvious good times and the ridiculously fantastic weather in recent days, my inner dialogue in recent days has taken Scrooge-like proportions. Biking to the grocery store on cold days (Dear Mom...please send Gortex), spending what amounts to $14 at the American market for a tiny box of Grape Nuts (oh hallowed import cereal that always stays crunchy in milk...how I yearn for thee), and missing the generally-accepted practice in America for spas to have separate male/female changing rooms...and for people walking around public spaces in said spas to just generally be...well...to just be <span style="font-style:italic;">not naked</span>...<br /><br />I know, I know. I'm asking too much of our current postal code. But if I may - and with accompanying stomping of feet, balling of fists and pouting lip - I just want this place to be...America!<br /><br />At least just this week.Lynn Hutchinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12751568533023134560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4156555012448158073.post-15176156259632911282008-10-28T00:09:00.000-07:002008-10-29T12:30:27.401-07:00Of mice and men...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEIBWg1h0HUJB4jtsJP0AO9OIJEAKUqTXNdhBnF2iV6-XS-ZHmyu5Aw0xNLKkVwtNAwxesdlF_C2DYXYC2GjjAobhlqv_4x5z91YRXQU82zPwEi7y1BENljao4l2jX7SjpT1UAfSJu4Q/s1600-h/344px-Mickey_Mouse.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 279px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEIBWg1h0HUJB4jtsJP0AO9OIJEAKUqTXNdhBnF2iV6-XS-ZHmyu5Aw0xNLKkVwtNAwxesdlF_C2DYXYC2GjjAobhlqv_4x5z91YRXQU82zPwEi7y1BENljao4l2jX7SjpT1UAfSJu4Q/s320/344px-Mickey_Mouse.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262653766702731890" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt2g9ikT3-ro7n3JvfMIyMQI8ubrSbNehNc64P6M9iQXfDJr8IRBmrI9CQozPBJOzCFtb8NZ_3L0gxWxXcmgfHYP1fgSvp_ShC8NYNhBH0a6NdgTc68mwDb_w47DqHc8s_0TMABWaa5Q/s1600-h/Tom_&_Jerry-Piano_Concerto_2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 256px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt2g9ikT3-ro7n3JvfMIyMQI8ubrSbNehNc64P6M9iQXfDJr8IRBmrI9CQozPBJOzCFtb8NZ_3L0gxWxXcmgfHYP1fgSvp_ShC8NYNhBH0a6NdgTc68mwDb_w47DqHc8s_0TMABWaa5Q/s320/Tom_&_Jerry-Piano_Concerto_2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262653778436149826" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm7SHK0lPl0Eny-PV7wXYPRAc0q6aN-j18pgAB_qp_6pdZwgNSHINXabbY8xZNOUoJYa3Zcm1b4niEF4FXfls4TUIx0BZ25hkVSMIOjo5TUxNw4YNCanxnYkkNysEbXp2MCvfbZcqwdg/s1600-h/House_mouse.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 208px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm7SHK0lPl0Eny-PV7wXYPRAc0q6aN-j18pgAB_qp_6pdZwgNSHINXabbY8xZNOUoJYa3Zcm1b4niEF4FXfls4TUIx0BZ25hkVSMIOjo5TUxNw4YNCanxnYkkNysEbXp2MCvfbZcqwdg/s320/House_mouse.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262654204762436898" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0kUhsHPLmIj5kvh-RpvFMYCZRFsK-YLl-bFEo4eJwdN65DROxXQkyBPZW2wf03pxv08hwO46IAo5u37DyJ3jNS83kvu7YAyiy-_an2-FS9wRbApjlUVRXMBIqyEsBn1ZZvVB4s_261w/s1600-h/cinderella7.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 231px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0kUhsHPLmIj5kvh-RpvFMYCZRFsK-YLl-bFEo4eJwdN65DROxXQkyBPZW2wf03pxv08hwO46IAo5u37DyJ3jNS83kvu7YAyiy-_an2-FS9wRbApjlUVRXMBIqyEsBn1ZZvVB4s_261w/s320/cinderella7.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262653769836625186" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyIZ6K2yv37VQQwchbZGcXZNIBrExE8t50n5L0qBxaeS6FGnwfkUd70yzAv4SqO3ya0lDMpgWwjtw08rF8FjiUrG9o8-7IFB_eBhLlo-fC_WrQ8UTj2diSzUoPoxr21qi16hOCAUTDWA/s1600-h/mightymouse_1135253555.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 203px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyIZ6K2yv37VQQwchbZGcXZNIBrExE8t50n5L0qBxaeS6FGnwfkUd70yzAv4SqO3ya0lDMpgWwjtw08rF8FjiUrG9o8-7IFB_eBhLlo-fC_WrQ8UTj2diSzUoPoxr21qi16hOCAUTDWA/s320/mightymouse_1135253555.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262654230693642114" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoltbVyXUHA5S3oACgntXhhDRxHAoOubZdoBJXSG_6aDshSkzA1UeVOGXcZQgQM4wcbKHdy9bK9kC6SEy1OGUD_UJMj73Ge26z6JeMYQ2qmKSz9yJN8ilLTcmOlJGw9eBazEME1J-h6Q/s1600-h/3-Tastenmaus_Microsoft.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 280px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoltbVyXUHA5S3oACgntXhhDRxHAoOubZdoBJXSG_6aDshSkzA1UeVOGXcZQgQM4wcbKHdy9bK9kC6SEy1OGUD_UJMj73Ge26z6JeMYQ2qmKSz9yJN8ilLTcmOlJGw9eBazEME1J-h6Q/s320/3-Tastenmaus_Microsoft.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262653777926171874" /></a><br />As I live and breathe...<br /><br />The clacking sound of my computer keys is being accompanied by the scratching and skirmishing of a mouse trapped inside our kitchen trash can. <br /><br />Right now. This very minute.<br /><br />I'm making a decision to just sit still. To not run from the room frantically. To not wield a rolling pin, present a death warrant and start a bloody battle. <br /><br />No. I'm just going to sit here, carrying on with my typing. With a dog, the moment he knows that his choice of activity - like sifting through a kitchen trash can - can dictate the actions of another, he knows he is the Boss. Maybe mice are like dogs that way?<br /><br /><br />Okay. Five minutes just lapsed. I'm still here. I'm fine. The mouse is right over there. And presumably, he is fine.<br /><br />We're aaaaalllllll juuuuusssssttttt fine. Taking things niiiiicccccceeee and sllllloooowwwwww.<br /><br /><br />By all intents, we are effectively co-existing in a small room. It's probably to both of our advantages that I can't actually SEE him. I just hear him digging around in last night's dinner. <br /><br />Were I to actually see him, or (heaven forbid) FEEL his tiny little mouse feet run over any part of my body, I just might croak. Seriously. So this "no see" policy is a good one.<br /><br /><br />What is this, this funny relationship we have with mice? It's a strange emotional hot dish of disgust, adoration and - of all things - fear! How do us big huge humans get so tweaked by a being that weighs less than a Rice Krispy bar?<br /><br />I had a solid conversation with a couple of girlfriends about this recently, as we shared our mouse stories. Living in buildings that are, in many cases, hundreds of years old often means there are mice running around. And for every house mouse, there are at least twenty tales to be told.<br /><br />We discussed at length varying theories of what is the best way to deal with these critters. <br /><br />Traps. ("Works every time." "Yeah, but they can get the cheese without setting the trap.")<br /><br />Poison. ("Never works." "Really? It worked in our house.")<br /><br />Steel wool. ("Shove it in the holes around your house so they can't get through." "But that won't last through the winter.")<br /><br />Liquid foam. ("Best for sealing the hard-to-reach holes." "I still think you should try steel wool.")<br /><br />Cats. ("I heard that cats emit a scent that actually REPELS mice. And of course, if the scent doesn't get 'em, the claws will!")<br /><br />The last argument seems most compelling, as it has been reputed by numerous long-term Amsterdam dwellers. And since it has been made abundantly clear that Shetland Herders are useless mouse hunters, I've considered borrowing a cat for a weekend. Just to test the theory.<br /><br />As for who in this house does plays Animal Hunter, I hate to say it, but I have definitely played the Girl Card. When it comes to the mice, Dave is the perennial man's man, taking full responsibility for all mouse-related situations. <br /><br />In true Dave fashion, he has named a few of his favorites. At the top of the list...Leonard. Or The Fat One, as he was called in the two weeks leading up to his trap-enforced death. Yes, there have been a few middle of the night rendezvous between Dave and his four-legged friends.<br /><br />On a few occasions, I have wondered about the mice living in our 400-year old house. Think of the possibilities of their heritage. What if these creatures have lineage that stretch back to Napoleonic days? What if we are cutting off a long line of robust animals who managed to survive wars and famines JUST so they could live long enough to create more strong offspring?<br /><br />And what about those empathetic hard-working little guys who gave their all for Cinderellie to get to the ball? Those guys had SWEET sewing skills, to be able to pull off a multi-layered chiffon gown in an afternoon. All while singing back-ups.<br /><br />And Mighty Mouse and all of his testosterone-driven quests for Good? <br /><br />And Jerry...Now THERE's a clever mouse. Cat scent was no deterrent for HIM.<br /><br />And if it weren't for Mickey, where would Goofy and Donald Duck be? Really? They would be lost somewhere in some stupidly-conceived canine scenario that they couldn't get out of, because no one could understand what the F@#$ the duck dressed in a sailor suit was talking about.<br /><br />Maybe...just maybe...we NEED mice. And if all they want to do is live in peace....and...every once in a while...raid our trash...how can we, in good consciousness, off the little fellas?!<br /><br /><br /><br />Okay...the clicking and scratching have subsided. I think I saw something move out of the corner of my eye, but I'm just going to pretend I didn't see anything.<br /><br />Live and let live.<br /><br />At least for now.<br /><br />I'm off to the hardware store to buy the next round of death traps. <br /><br />What? You think that contradicts my growing affection for house mice?...<br /><br />Never you mind. A guy got to sometimes.Lynn Hutchinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12751568533023134560noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4156555012448158073.post-44567889455671441422008-10-28T00:04:00.000-07:002008-10-29T12:23:40.519-07:00Color and light...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghMPTzAaw1k9xzaWxn4QJk-6DAQ6U1f3l-k88RE9NUEa9X5b3y4A_vOTf2K-v4LXnAOZogbP_vWDBU40O4LQDIxmE7LU-hZvl4B3fAxIP91BPKAH6ZL9WjxmOAmxY_462Vzyl5DhG7sA/s1600-h/2380029369_c716210f7f.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghMPTzAaw1k9xzaWxn4QJk-6DAQ6U1f3l-k88RE9NUEa9X5b3y4A_vOTf2K-v4LXnAOZogbP_vWDBU40O4LQDIxmE7LU-hZvl4B3fAxIP91BPKAH6ZL9WjxmOAmxY_462Vzyl5DhG7sA/s320/2380029369_c716210f7f.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262658703363092946" /></a><br />Behold the Sun Shower. <br /><br />That funny oxymoronic stunt that brings together two of nature's strongest heavyweights: Sun and Rain. <br /><br />This week has been famous with sun showers. <br /><br />Two things that don't belong together. And not in a chocolate and peanut butter kind of way...an interaction that has brought endless joy to everyone.<br /><br />No, in a directly opposite kind of way. Although I don't have the scientific vocabulary to name it, there is some certain fact to RAIN = NO SUN. SUN = NO RAIN. It's almost as if the existence of one is defined solely by the absence of the other.<br /><br />I biked to the grocery store in crisp autumn sunshine. An easy and enjoyable trek. <br /><br />Thirty minutes later, I was racing for home. The sun, directly aligned with my front wheel. And the rain, over the back. I was being chased, pure and simple, and I was going to do my best to get me and our dinner ingredients home safe and dry.<br /><br />This strange affair is Mother Nature's way of uniting what seem to be enemies. Maybe they need that, Sun and Rain, every once in a while. Just to remain humble and to realize that they do indeed share the stage.<br /><br />But they fight it out, their argument allowing countless collisions of hues. Rainbow painted skyscapes trip over pumpkin-capped houses. Browns and greys straighten their gloomy wet postures when the sunlight bends over and kisses the upper floors. And green has never been so yellow while at the same time, still being green.<br /><br />As I wiped off the ground beef and wrung out my jeans, I couldn't help but feel slightly invigorated by the dance of polarity happening outside our windows. <br /><br />Opposites really do attract.Lynn Hutchinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12751568533023134560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4156555012448158073.post-20621263873229015152008-10-19T14:39:00.003-07:002008-10-19T14:54:06.397-07:00In the days before take-off...A few shots from this last week with the Jilanis before they move to Boston.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixAfFixYwnENsxFYpFO_GeC1nhlT4RJ3UVyxvBqzhjJs7uzS_vJ5Ne2bAQZSg2N_6H49idok4Yx_KsLh4r8UdSaA5brCURoVUt4d7dITOxsdl_uW7n4CafMWKWlHCPbDWZqPfcowTqtg/s1600-h/DSC_5665.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixAfFixYwnENsxFYpFO_GeC1nhlT4RJ3UVyxvBqzhjJs7uzS_vJ5Ne2bAQZSg2N_6H49idok4Yx_KsLh4r8UdSaA5brCURoVUt4d7dITOxsdl_uW7n4CafMWKWlHCPbDWZqPfcowTqtg/s320/DSC_5665.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5258980096312271810" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7lpDT9fpHH1LmBrlWSdaxm8S-FuJsC2dVyNxlxeE19P5a4HXJBK-aprIa6szgkD8Vbes1p8GkLO9Yo_H1p51cwVIe0p48g_FljgyvxW_vbU31fPePzITE-rMmLC2Mi27GsdK9Rk1IRg/s1600-h/DSC_5690.JPG"><img style="display:block; 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margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm6Qb2BiPWX4oRRAfk37U9Ng-3EPqWZkIbQcXrwgOJhV6ig4OFbcx1JA3GUFR6Ejo55OSRg0CqMhSJLmJZRaCBZXEaqkKfDyMjU-qgVqUzVSI0Hyws4udYcRnKa_byL_3zZl_QcffzOw/s320/DSC_5685.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5258980109059915618" /></a>Lynn Hutchinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12751568533023134560noreply@blogger.com0