This one time at Fenway...

Last month, there was a trend on Facebook. Amongst the cat memes and political ravings, people started to mark each day with something they are thankful for; people, places, things, whatever. I joined this brigade of folks giving thanks, and it struck me: why not show thanks for a memory? We all have them. We have these moments or hours or days that sit in our brains, a little happy place to which we can go when we are having a terrible day. This is one of mine...

I sing in a chorus for a big orchestra in this particular city; we'll call it Boston. ;) Last September I was asked to be part of a group of 16 singers that would perform the National Anthem at the season-closing game for the Red Sox. To say I was excited is sort of an understatement; I was jumping up and down in the middle of a grocery store, screaming.

I immediately texted all my family. It was the 100th season at Fenway, and there were all kinds of special things planned for this game. I was beside myself. The Red Sox are well-loved in my family. I can remember so many wonderful days spent in and around Fenway Park, or even sitting around the television at home, watching games, cheering and groaning together.

After this extraordinary invitation, I got even better news... MY DAD WAS GOING TO SING AS WELL!!! The day came, and we arrived at the ballpark in all our concert dress splendor. After ushering the group of us up to the offices at Fenway, our escort showed us to a room where we could rehearse for a little while. We waited to be brought down to the field for sound check. As we were waiting, my friend Joy hissed in my direction: "Laura, get out here right now!" I walked out of the room, into the main office area, and there was Pedro Martinez, walking past us and smiling a greeting. He asked a few of us "What are you guys doing tonight? You're all dressed up!" Someone said we were singing the National Anthem, and my big mouth couldn't resist: "There's still a spot open. Come sing with us!" He laughed and started to sing in an operatic voice, la-la-la ing down the hallway. 

Then we lined up and started our journey down to enter the field for sound check. As we walked the first hallway, a tall dapper gent stood by and my friend Joy and I said hello. He began to chat with Joy, and it took everything in my power not to squeal...she was having a lovely conversation with Carlton Fisk!!!!! I answered a question or two as well and we happily went our own ways. By now I had perma-grin on my face and was floating past pictures of every Fenway great my mom and dad had ever mentioned. We made our way through the tunnels into the stadium, and I just kept looking back in line to my dad, gesturing wildly. Oh my God this is actually happening! Dad smiled at me every time. 

Stepping onto the turf at Fenway is a religious experience. There. I said it. I would defy any fan to say they don't feel differently when they walk out there. The lights, the bright green of the grass, the murmur of the fans gathering and finding their seats are all things we are "used to", but they gain a new level of intensity when you're staring at it from home plate. It's amazing that those baseball players can get any work done! 

There were 20 chairs lined up behind home plate. THEY WERE FOR US.  Because the National Anthem was a part of extended opening ceremonies for the game, we would be watching the rest of them after we sang. While I tried to push my leaking brains back into my head, Dad and I spotted a friend: Dick Flavin! He had just performed in a show with us earlier that year, and was both a part of the opening of the game and announcing batters for the night. We had a great little reunion and got a few pictures with him on the field. Then Dad and I took a picture together at home plate. Tears welled in my eyes as a friend snapped that photo. I was about to sing at Fenway with my dad!!!

We sat, soaking in the park. Adi and I sat staring and grinning at each other like idiots every few minutes.  Then it all began. We filed into our formation between home plate and the pitcher's mound, got our starting pitch, and sang the National Anthem. I remember wanting to mark every moment, and so I stared into the crowd, at the other speakers and officials on the field, at our manager, at the few empty seats, and once in a while, at the conductor. (Sorry, Bill!) When we got our final cut-off, I let the cheers wash over me. Now, let's be clear: they weren't for me. They were for the beginning of a night to remember at the greatest ballpark in the world. And I was there, just as excited as every last kid sitting in the upper bleachers with their father.

From then on out, we were immersed in a sea of Fenway legends. Every living Red Sox great was there, and we were watching them up close. I swooned when Nomar was called to the field, cheered when Dick read his Fenway poem, and screamed as the honored guests all threw first pitches to the current Red Sox roster. Adi and I laughed when Carlton Fisk was called to the field, and Joy shrieked recognition of her chatting buddy from earlier in the evening. I texted Momma when Jim Lonborg began waving to the crowd, her childhood hero standing in front of me. 

Once the opening ceremonies ended, we were shown to our seats just under the Coca-Cola sign. Dad and I enjoyed yet another game at Fenway together, decked out in Boston gear over our dress clothes.

I have been lucky enough to have many amazing experiences in my life, and lots of them have been whilst surrounded by family. But when the car won't start, I'm not feeling my best, have a bad day of singing, or generally just need something to pick me up, I say to myself "There was this one time at Fenway...."

The Ugly Kid

When my brother got married, I was so excited for the day.  We all looked like a million bucks, and we were going to have a great party!  We took loads of pictures, sang at the top of our lungs, and saw loads of family and friends.  My 90 year old great aunt danced everyone else right off the floor.  It was amazing.  Then we got the pictures back a month or so later.  I started to click through the photo album online, and my heart nearly stopped.

"Who is that ugly girl?" I thought.

My family is full of "the beautiful people".  My sisters look like Italian models, and my brother is the handsomest guy at most parties.  I never thought so much about how I "fit in".  I was just the oldest sister of this crew.  Now here was the evidence staring me in the face.  Without even thinking about it, my brain starting singing "One of these things is not like the other...". My odd face and bloated body were the sore thumbs in every picture of the family.  I actually started to feel badly that I was wrecking my brother and sister-in-law's wedding pictures.

Gentle reader, please hear me.  This is not pity time.  This is not the time for "Oh, no, you're pretty too!" Please... I do not say these things because I'm looking for a handout of compliments.  I am telling the TRUTH.  That is the point of this blog, and all that I write here.  It's honest.  I'm not a pretty lady.  I have a face (and body) for radio.

This has stuck in my head for a long time as one of many separating factors in my family.  I am a rough, blunt woman, in appearance and nature.  My family is one of poise, grace, and intelligence.  People constantly remark on my wonderful father and mother, or my amazing siblings.  They are beautiful on the inside and out. I am so proud of them because they are everything that people say about them. Their beauty is more than their outer appearances.  They have a beauty and truth to their insides, in the way that they treat people and live their own lives.  They are so good at saying the right thing, to me and to others.

I don't always say the right thing.  I don't know how to dress.  I don't do my hair and makeup often. I sing too loudly, laugh even louder, make jokes that no one gets, and love all those nerdy things that make the attractive & popular crowd shake their heads in a bewildered way.  (Example: My sweet 16 was a sleepover at my house where we renamed all the Chinese food to the names of Star Trek: The Next Generation foods.  We food-colored Sprite to rename it "Romulan Ale".  The next morning, everyone had Earl Grey tea and croissants, just like Jean-Luc Picard.  This is still possibly my favorite party EVER, rivaling my own wedding.) My whole life, I have wished that I could match up to my family a little bit better.  I have wished that I could be a little more graceful.  I often hope that I will wake up one day and I won't have to check my loud laugh and big personality at the door; I wish that they would just go away, and I could be smart-talking and all-knowing like Gina, clever and cutting like Katie, or witty and to-the-point like Christopher. I wish that I was prettier and wittier so that I could make them as proud of me as I am of them.

I am currently seeing a naturopathic nurse practitioner to treat ailments, and have been for about two months.  My body is adjusting to a diet of no sugar, gluten, dairy, or artificial sweeteners of any kind.  I'm taking in a lot of new information about my body, the vitamins and minerals that run (or do NOT run) through it, and what I have to do to make things better.  It's frustrating and interesting and confusing.  But through it all, I find myself ravenous for the healing words that this NP has to say.  Yesterday, she said to me: "You do not have to expect anything, Laura.  Don't expect yourself to lose a certain amount of weight in a certain amount of time.  Don't expect to have a certain mineral or vitamin completely replenished in your system right away.  You must RELAX into healing.  The body self-corrects.  You must let your body do that without any yelling, screaming, or expecting from yourself." She has somehow found a way to cut through all the bullshit in my brain and give me permission to not be more than I already am.

Today, I am trying.  I am trying to stay relaxed.  I am letting my body tell me what it needs, and responding accordingly.  I will not expect anything of myself, not hold myself to too high a standard.  I still hope that these diet and vitamin changes will bring me closer to health.  There is still a small corner of my brain that wishes I were prettier, but I will change where I want the pretty.  I want the pretty on the inside of me.  I want the pretty to be shown in how I talk to people and how I love them.  I want the pretty to be seen in how I handle my life and what I am given.

I may still be the Ugly Kid, but I'll strive for that beauty on the inside, just like Gina and Katie and Christopher have.