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| Lapeer County Concert Choir presents their 53rd. Season Spring Concert, May 6, 2022 |
Erna parked in my driveway at 5:45 p.m.,
fifteen minutes earlier than our take-off time. A good friend who resides in
Romeo with her husband, I appreciate Erna’s punctuality.
She wore a pink
jacket and black pants, a floral scarf swathed gracefully around her neck. I chose
my yellow-flowered spring coat over a blue floral blouse and black pants. Our
love of flowers abides within and upon us.
My guest brought a
bag of cookies. “From the freezer,” Erna said. Her freezer’s famous in these
parts.
No,
that’s not why I offered her the ticket my husband declined for the 53rd
Season Spring Concert by the Lapeer County Concert Choir. Erna would’ve been content
in her flower and vegetable gardens, so I was grateful she granted me the last
few hours of Friday’s daylight. Companionship makes the concert experience more
meaningful.
I’d earlier warned
Erna of the embarrassing condition of my perennial island, the focal point of
our circle drive. Garlic chives invade the garden again. After fighting that
hideous plant for years, I’ve not stepped a foot into the ring this spring.
Could it be post-traumatic weed syndrome?
Erna shook her
head at the troublesome mess. She knows the labor I face.
Sometimes it comes
down to this during growing season: a writer has to choose between glorious,
colorful blooms, or submitted stories. I don’t have time for both.
Erna drove. I
directed. We admired the landscape going north into Metamora—green as I
remembered Ireland.
“How old were you
when you left Romania for America?” I asked.
“Thirteen.”
“A tender age for
such a journey,” I thought out loud.
Erna’s blue eyes
sparkled. “I’ll never forget it.”
“How long did it
take to cross the Atlantic?”
“Ten days. I was
sea-sick seven days.”
“That’s fast for a
transcontinental trip,” I said.
“It was war ship.”
“You weren’t frightened?”
“No. We were so thankful
to have a family in America sponsor us.”
“What do you
remember most about the voyage?”
“The
food. It was delicious. We all ate in a big hall where the sailors ate.” She
says discreetly, “And the stench of the latrines.”
I could imagine.
Erna
parked in the Hunters Creek Community Church lot in time to greet my two
favorite Lapeer Concert Choir sopranos, Marilyn Buchman and Anne Roszczewski.
Erna and I claimed
our programs and seats. The choir proceeded up the aisle to the platform and
opened their books in unison. The director lifted his baton.
Throughout the program
of Bluegrass gospel songs, Erna and I glanced to one another in agreement, moved
by the American spirituals.
The choir
concluded with Hall Johnson’s “Ain’t Got Time to Die”, a credo that reminds me
to consider whom I serve.
Lord, I keep so busy servin my Master
Keep so busy servin my Master
Ain’t got time to die
Cause when I’m given my all
I’m servin my Master
Ain’t got time to die
Dear Reader, I
keep so busy writin my stories, ain’t got time to weed.
