Being at my parents house while my place is being de-bugged has caused some weird flashbacks. Such as driving to Mt. SAC and trying to figure out which of the 30 alternate routes to take. Or eating breakfast with my dad while reading the newspaper, just like every morning before seminary. (Dear Early Morning Seminary Graduates, Can you BELIEVE that we did that? And can you believe that we didn't get a statue erected in the foyer of the church for making it through? It seems like a gross oversight. Let's rally! Love, Rachel)
Or how about this one - Camille is taking piano lessons from Carolyn, who was my piano teacher decades ago. And she's playing out of the same books I learned from. So they had a lesson last night and Camille was playing "Estralita" and Carolyn was telling the exact same story about how she couldn't play that song to save her life and how she hated her teacher for forcing her to learn it and this lead to other stories and suddenly I'm 12 and in Carolyn's living room and she's sitting on the floor knitting a sweater and I'm squirming on the piano bench because of course I didn't practice, I never practiced (hence the organ debacle every 3rd Sunday in my ward) and she eventually says, "Okay, honey, next week. Now come on back and help me cut my hair." True story. I would hold the mirror up so she could see the back of her head while trimming. Some of my favorite early teen memories involve piano lessons with Carolyn, mostly because hair cutting was not our only form of hijinx. And she accomplished what she set out to do, which was to teach me how to play in church. I actually can't imagine learning the piano any other way. No recitals and lots of gabbing in between songs. Oh, and she knitted me a sweater for learning Estralita in one week. Camille reminded her of this and asked if she could expect one and she said, "Honey, I'm old and don't care anymore."