Fio Reports In

One thing you can count on is that Fiorella will always try to do the right thing, although sometimes it's the wrong thing, and she gets skewered for it, Of course, she often gets skewered for doing the right thing too. That's just how the ol' ball bounces.
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A high school reunion--that's when you walk into a room full of old people and wonder who they used to be, which is the same thing they're wondering about you. Fio's going to be attending her reunion in October.
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The poundingly nervous music background in shows like NCIS drives Fiorella out of the room. So does John Muir and his voice of imminent doom.
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Fast away the old month passes, but Fio's quite pleased with what she's accomplished so far. On the literary front, Sabrina's story is progressing well (at last), Fio is pumping up to finish writing Lolly's story, and has decided to update and publish four other completed romances. She's also reached the half-way point in cleaning out her office. And she's back to hauling in fallen branches and lifitng rocks again.
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Did Fio tell you that she's been reading Linda Howard again? Nothing like connecting with an old friend.

A Little of This and That

Fio is convinced that, between her art, writing, and compositions, she will be famous and her offspring will be rich....long after she's dead.
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Everyone drove over to the family house years ago after father-in-law's funeral. The adults gathered around in the living room, and the kids got together in the back bedroom. To everyone's surprise, Fio's mother joined the kids' group. On reflection, Fio thinks she was over-awed by the in-laws' toney neighborhood and toney house. As you can imagine, Fio didn't get that gene. Remember, she's the one who thought that the royal jewels on display in the Tower of London  looked tawdry.
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Fio is beloved of a mosquito. It kissed her on the cheek, then shyly flew away.
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Husband, perhpas feeling nostalgic for times gone by, put An American in Paris on the television last night. Twenty minutes later, Fio picked up La Senora de la Computadora and left the room. Too many stereotypical cheeky Americans and charming French children from Central Casting, too much singing, dancing, and blazing Technicolor. The only reason she'd stayed as long as she did was because of the non-stop action, which, as every romance writer knows, is the key to holding your audience's attention.
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Target has refurbished its dining area for the worse. It's as barren as a hospital operating room.

The Yellow Line of Life

Another one of Fio's country-western songs which she means to score someday.

Been crossin' the yellow line of life
Out of control and fixin' to crash
Hard livin', hard lovin', my darlin', darlin'
Never sure how long I'd last

But give me another chance, my darlin'
I'll put on the brakes and cut my speed
Drive in the slow lane from now on
Because you're the only darlin' I need


Chorus
I'm sittin' at the red light,
Waitin' for the green light
To sleep on your shoulder tonight

Christmas Gift

Fiorella bought her granddaughter a Christmas present yesterday--her first piano, a roll-up electronic keyboard. Fio herself would have given her eyeteeth--if she'd had any at ten months of age--for a gift like this, but it wasn't till she was nine that her family acquired a piano, and although she's no concert pianist, she still enjoys playing and hopes Baby will have the same experience.

Speaking of Christmas, Fio's got to pull her decorations down from the garage shelf soon. The first thing to go up, of course, will be the tinsel garlands along the entrance to the driveway. Then Fiorella will put together her aging fake tree and load it with lights and ornaments, along the way, attending to swags and displays. Yes, Fio goes insane every Christmas, but it makes her happy.

Of course, one of the most important aspects of Fiorella's Christmas is composing the greeting card. Last year it had a political theme, but this year, it will center around Baby, which is only right. Christmas is a celebration of birth.

Early Morning Ruminations

Fiorella's life has not been easy, and she is the better for it. She had assumed that after college she would stay home with her children and indulge herself in her art, music, writing, and languages, but family circumstances required her to seek outside employment, an experience that broadened her world and knocked some square corners off her. Those same family circumstances forced her to deal with difficult situations, which made her more sensitive and, at the same time, more confident. But still, she wishes she could have spent more time indulging.

Speaking of languages, La Doble Vida de Estela Carrillo is winding up to its conclusion. Yes, winding up, not winding down--everyone is in hot water but the villain. And speaking of writing, Fio is one-third through revision number 3 and taking notes on her next book. The music is dead in the water, but maybe she'll even get around to painting again some day.

If Fiorella sounds a little subdued, it's because of the nuclear threat hanging over the world. Trump is a total idiot--and a dangerous one.

Trump Opera

I've been thinking about my Trump tragi-comedy opera. It should start on election day, I think, and Donald should be pacing and singing about the campaign and how wonderful he is, and all the nasty things he's going to say when Hillary wins. ("When Hillary Cheats Her Way Into the White House") Of course, he pauses from time to time to post venomous tweets. (Note to self--use actual tweets---which rhymes with "cheats" and "beats") The results start coming in, but he refuses to watch them, singing about what a winner he is. "I'm winning if I say I am!" When he finally faces the board and sees that he's won, He turns to the audience with shock on his face and says. "What do I do now?"

Fast forward to Inauguration Day, the poor turn-out, and his insistence of the opposite. ("Opposite" aria?) The Women's March, the protests, etc. Arrogance grows, more and more in la-la land. Staff comes and goes. Russians, (Russian chorus?).  Melania floats in and out, a mystery figure. The Trump family is a constant chorus. Maybe the White House (Mar-a-Lago?) is stormed. Not a pretty ending.

And that is as far as Fio's gottten. Is Rossini still available?

Review of JOSEPH AND THE TECHNICOLOR DREAMCOAT

Fioella had thoroughly enjoyed the Georgetown Palace's production of Joseph and his colorful attire a couple of years ago and looked forward to a second viewing in the company of nephew Barrett and his wife, and she was not disappointed. In fact, Fio thought the musical was better this time around than its predecessor, at least the first act of it. The opening was much better staged, with Sabrina Mari Uriegas totally owning the role of the Narrator, and after the Sunday school kids cleared off the stage, the show was non-stop action--one fast-moving musical number after another. Fiorella, who's trod the musical boards herself, was totally in awe of all of them, and by "them," she means a company of forty.

Steve Williams as Joseph was top-notch. The minute he started singing, Fio got the shivers, the thrilling kind.

The show was well put-together. The two-person camel worked, the costumes worked, the simple stage setting worked, and the the band was right on, although, as usual, the acoustics were too loud, and Fio had to stick a finger in her more sensitive ear.

Fiorella's only disappointment was that the brothers' "regret scene" in the second act was not played in a noir setting complete with red berets and striped shirts like it was in the first show.  Minor suggestions would be to lave the lily-white chests of the male actors with a darker body make-up and to cut the length of the final reprise.

Baby Girl

Fiorella's daughter was God's own miracle, born just nineteen months after her brother. There was a miscarriage scare, but being a redhead, Daughter held on and was born by c-section, two weeks premature at nine pounds, nine ounces. Fio sang "May she be like Ruth and like Esther, May she be deserving of fame" as she was being born, and Daughter has lived up to Fio's blessing. She is strong, kind, resourceful, and beautiful, deserving of not only fame, but all good things.

Minnesota Son's Birthday

Today is the birthday of Fiorella's oldest child, and Fio can't help but reminisce a little. Minnesota Son was a big baby, just over ten pounds, with black hair and blue eyes, and, as the nurses had said, exceptionally pretty for a newborn.

The dark hair soon fell out, and medium brown hair came in at about the same time the blue eyes turned brown. Fio's brown-eyed mother was thrilled.  She held Son in her arms and, with her blue-eyed daughter standing beside her, said, "I think dark eyes look more intelligent."

Son was a good baby and slept through the night so early that it scared Fio the first time. He was an early walker too, but the talking came late, probably because, as Husband and Fio finally discovered, he needed tubes in his ears.

He was a very active child, learning to ride a two-wheel bike when he was three, and he loved playgrounds--always trying to figure out how things worked, like when he hunched down and peered at the motor under the merry-go-round. Later on, he learned how to fix anything mechanical, and now he can take on anything electronic.

He's good with animals and was always musical, a  talent that has blossomed through the years, as has his art. And he  has a great speaking voice and vocabulary and uses good grammar.

But most important, Son has a good heart and loves his wife, his family, and his God.

Fiorella is blessed.

The Piano Man

Fiorella is emotionally eviscerated: the keyboard repairman visited. The piano itself ended up being condemned, but that's beside the point.  Whenever Eli Corral sat down to play, he made Fiorella dance, laugh, or cry. Yes, he was that good. Fio never knew how being in the same room with the artist could make the music more real, could send it straight to her heart, to her soul.

As is her wont, Fio hung over Eli's shoulder the whole time he was in the house and elicited his story. The piano is his life.. His family was musical, and he'd been a child prodigy, but repairing pianos gives him a steady income, keeps him in contact with his passion, and allows him the freedom to play whatever he wants to, whenever he wants to, and wherever he wants to.

Thank you, Eli, for sharing two hours of your life with us. It was like stepping into another universe.

The Whistle-ding-chime-bing-bong Song

Our teapot whistles
Our dishwasher dings
Our refrigerator chimes
Our microwave bings
And our alarm puts out
One long bong
To harmonize
Our kitchen song

Whistle, Chime, Ding, Big, Bong

Fiorella's kitchen is an orchestra.  The tea pot whistles to tell us the water is hot, the refrigerator chimes when we've left its door open, the dishwasher dings to signal it has finished its cycles, the microwave bings to inform us that food is cooked, and the alarm system emits a long bong to assure us that the the house is protected,

Fio should be able to make a song out of all this action.

Life Goal

Fiorella's life goal is to help make this world a better, kinder, more beautiful place through her own talents and skills. It's too late for her to do anything with music and her languages, but she can still influence people with her writing and art.  Tally-ho!

Getting Personal

After checking out the price tags on clothes, Fiorella realized she'd be walking around naked if the US cut off trade with China.
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Fio shares a damning trait with her mother--good intentions.  Just like her, Fio often walks into situations that she should have sat out.
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Fio needs new house shoes--and just when she has the old ones trained.
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Fio is always singing in her head, even if her throat is dry.
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Fio is the keeper of secrets--secrets other people have told her, and secrets of her own.

Show-off!

Friend Jeanell is writing lyrics for her characters to sing in the musical adaptation of "Gift of the Magi,"  which the heroine in WHERE THE HEART LEADS is directing for the Bosque Bend Theater Guild. (Got all that?)

Anyway, Jeanell is particularly proud of the song she came up with for Della, the wife who sells her hair to buy a watch fob for her husband.

Ta-da:

What would I be if I weren't me?
Maybe a pirate sailing the sea
Maybe a princess, maybe a queen
Maybe an actress on the silver screen
Or maybe I'd be like Nellie Bly
And amuse, amaze, and edify--
But whatever happens, whatever may be
I have you so I'm glad I'm me

Random Observations

The winter calves are dotting the pasture now, little dabs of orange and white lying in the grass beside their mothers.
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Men write with their gonads.  Women write with their hearts.  Men write sex as porn.  Women write sex as romance.
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The cedars along the road leading to the Gucci HEB are in full holiday bloom now, their branches laden with ornaments and tinsel garlands.
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Fiorella is always singing in her head, even if her vocal chords are not cooperating.  Fa-la-la-la-la-- la-la-la-la.

Attack of the Machines

Fiorella is accustomed to computers attacking her.  The first mortal blow she can remember was many years ago when she took weeks recording the Christmas carols she had written, not by note, onto an expensive program Husband had bought her for her birthday.  The program produced sound, and she envisioned herself listening to her compositions in eterna.  But soon afterwards, the program rejected her, insisting she was illegal. Two years later, when Fio had to switch computers, despite Husband's assurances everything would transfer, all her music disappeared.

And that's the way it's gone through the years.  Computers have played Fiorella false, and now her jumpy Toshiba has lost the ability to connect with the internet.  Click, her trusty repair shop, says it's not going to be a quick fix, which means Husband will have to transfer all her documents to the upstairs desktop, which scares her because she understands mortal blows.

Wish Fio well.

Act Now!

When she goes to an opera or a musical, Fiorella wants to sing along.  She'd rather write books than read them.  And her favorite part of the trip the family took to England years ago was walking through Harrod's, turning her ankle at Castle Urquhart, eating fish and chips in the rain at Greenwich and again at Bath, and encountering a group of exuberant school children yelling for echo effect as they ran through the tunnel under the Thames.

For all her artistic eye, Fiorella is a doer rather than an observer.

Maternal Appreciation

Thank you, Mother, for letting me take piano lessons.

When she was in the fifth grade, Fiorella wanted to learn to play the piano because "all" the other girls were doing it.  It turned out she had a minor talent and advanced quickly through the beginner books.  She hit her zenith in the seventh grade with "Fur Elise"--after which she quit as the hormones burgeoned, the homework increased, and her free time decreased.  But the piano still sat it the front room, and she still played it from time to time.

A long dry period began when Fio went off to college, then married early.  Several years later, she and Husband picked up an old upright, Fio collected all her piano books from her mother, and she started playing a little again.  However, she was really into voice, in which she had a major talent. And working on her advanced degree in linguistics had to take precedence over both.

Through the years, Fio sang a lot, directed a couple of choruses, fooled around with composition, and generally enjoyed herself with music.  The root of it all was those three years of piano lessons in the fifth, sixth, and seventh grades. Nowadays, Fio doesn't sing much, has handed in the baton, and writes romances rather than music, but she still enjoys going into the front room and banging out her old favorites on the piano.

Thank you, Mother.

Eye and Ear

Fio has the eye and Husband has the ear.  She sees art everywhere while he hears music everywhere.  Husband not only has shelves full of jewel cases, but imitates every sound he hears--the bird chirping, the dog barking.

His mother, who came from a musical family, would do the same, which Fio found unnerving at the time, but now understands.  Just as Fio is constantly absorbing color, line, and composition, Husband is seeking to be one with the sounds of man and nature.

Interesting--at least to Fiorella.