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mfinley.com "Showboat" Last night was my wife Rachel's 50th birthday celebration, at a little town hall 30 miles from St. Paul, in the village of Marine on St. Croix. Friends from long ago and less long ago came -- not everyone we know, mainly folks who have some special history with Rachel. We ate and drank. We hired a good little jazz/dance band. Daniele and I did a little roast highlighting some of Rachel's cuter peccadilloes. Then Rachel took the stage. First, she made a 7-minute speech, from memory, thanking her parents (both deceased) for loving her, however imperfectly; our children, for teaching her many things; and me, for being her friend. She especially thanked everyone who made the drive out to celebrate with her. Then she sang four songs with the band -- a Yiddish song of hope and jubilation, a familiar song from the musical Showboat ("Can't Help Lovin' (That Man of Mine "), a less familiar Irving Berlin blues song ("Suppertime"), and later, the taunting "Habanera" aria from "Carmen." All told, she was on stage for a half hour and she was remarkable. She has sung a few times for friends, and sometimes been chagrined by little failures. She gets nervous. She over-rehearses. She forgets words. Every night she practices for two hours, plus she takes lessons from two very fine and very different teachers -- the encyclopedic Ukrainian diva Oksana Brin for classical, and the soulful and knowledgeable Vickie Mountain for jazz and cabaret. Our house is full of music most all the time, whether it’s Rachel singing or the stereo pumping out jazz or rock and roll or folk. One of the lines from my roast with Daniele was: "And romance -- there is nothing so romantic as going to bed with the sounds of some stirring aria filling the house. Of course, it would be more romantic if Rachel would stop singing and come to bed." But that's how it is when you are burning up to do something well, something you love, something that chases all that is in you out and into the ears of people you care about. This is one of the things I understand. We got home around 2:30 after sweeping up the last bit of confetti. This morning I awakened to see Rachel already blinking beside me. "I remembered things I wanted to say." "Like what?" I asked. "I wanted to thank my brother and sister for their loyalty and love." "But those people don't know Bruce or Susan." "It doesn’t matter. I still should've said it. And I didn't say what I meant to say about you. I got flustered when I looked over at you. I had some really good things planned." "You told people I was wise. That forced me to I roll my eyes, and people laughed," I reminded her gently. She glanced away, stricken. "Honey, you were lovely," I finally said. "You invited friends to hear you sing. Who does that? And then you told them perhaps the five or six most important things in your whole life. Even if they hated it or were bored or thought you were showing off, that was a privileged glimpse. And what's friendship is for, but to let ourselves be known to one another. You were so right last night -- a night of a lifetime. Sang good, too." We lay in bed in silence for a few minutes. She finally got up on an elbow and asked, "You want to go down to the river?" "Be honored," I replied, and sat up in bed, and stared down at Beauregard on the floor. Beauregard came to the party. If our friends thought we were cracked, that had to be the final straw. But if you knew this strange creature, you would know how urgently he desires to come along. Especially when he sees two cars being ceremoniously loaded with coffee urns, stereos, liquor and baked goods. Rowf. The only fear I felt was during Rachel's rehearsal, when Beau joined in and howled along with Rachel on the Showboat tune. It's not like he hit the right notes, but there was an unmistakable sense of it being a duet, expressing parallel emotions, very deep and very passionate, about the man each loves. He too, wants to be known. Would he turn Rachel's set into a comedy routine? He didn't. During songs he paced the dance floor, grinning that weird dog grin. After the songs, hearing applause, he joined in, bellowing. He knew it was a special night, and he contributed as he could, and from the heart. Good dog. Special thanks to Rich Broderick, videographer ... Jerry Montie, drummer, and Russ Peterson, saxophonist, plus other band members ... Larry & Mab for staying after and helping with the heavy lifting (so wonderful and so necessary) ... Yvonne for the use yet again of those fine big plates ... and everyone who came to show their love. Rachel and I, and Beauregard, and everyone, really -- we all love you. Copyright (c) 2001 by Michael Finley Like the essay? Click
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