St. John's. Inside the church (sorry, not such a great picture). The Bazaar. Alex and her grandma. Ashkenaz. Maggie. Marci and Alex. Mark and Julie. Adrian rockin' on the keyboards. The Jupiter.
Going to Church
Sunday morning I actually managed to get up plenty early and even put on a skirt for church. I was walking over to St. John the Baptist Orthodox Church. It is just across from the Ashby BART station, which, on Sunday mornings, is transformed into a neat kind of flea market with lots of cool, exotic stuff and then your normal boring stuff like DVDs and sneakers.
The church, like so many Orthodox churches in America, wasn’t much to look at on the outside, though they do have a lovely blue dome. But inside, it was a jeweled secret cave of gleaming gold and icons and incense, with many little altars to various saints or aspects of God (i.e. the Holy Trinity, etc.). All these altars had flowers, and many had ornate carvings. Icons were everywhere.
I arrived too early and had to wait on the steps, and when I went in and was talking with a woman, made the mistake of saying I was a choir director. This almost led to my taking over for the sick choir director or singing in the choir, but since the entire service was in Slavonic, I demurred. Turned out I knew most of the music and more of the words than I thought, but it was wonderful to just be part of the congregation.
I had come early to introduce myself so that I could take communion, and the priest, the V. Rev. Kirill Hartman, also very elderly and courteous, with square black glasses and gleaming white hair and beard said, "Of course you can."
Here I've been to and sung Orthodox liturgies for what, 15 years? Yet I found myself hypnotized by the liquid nasal sounds of the Slavonic, and humming along with the music, I was in some other weird state, unable to literally translate the service to myself, though I know much of it by heart. It was a very strange and wonderful experience, experiencing worship only partly with words. Of course, the epistle and gospel and Lord's Prayer and Creed were in English.
A few women talked to me and were very nice, especially someone named Micki, who told me she was a convert and had tried going to the suburbs for English services but found herself returning here. "I'm just not suburbs," she said.
A tiny, tiny lady with a hunchback moved mysteriously between the altars on the side, Russians in head scarfs bowed, a thin young man in baggy, gang-like jeans stood rapt, and a black deacon intoned some things in English.
I should have stayed for lunch, but I got embarassed afterwards when I put all the change I had in the donation basket, went to get lunch, and was given my change back by a Russian lady who said, "It costs four dollars." I know I should have just written a check, but it freaked me out, so I left.
My Cousins!
Arriving "home" at Susan's, I found they had saved three of Pellinore and Lindsey's wonderful oat pancakes for me! (Pellinore is Lindsey's daughter, and I cannot believe I didn't get shots of both of them! Wah!) I ate nervously, got into my jeans, and braced for meeting a whole bunch of family. Would they be creepy or stuck up or fashionistas or heavy drug users? I didn't think so, but you never know. Would they be nice and therefore hate ME?
Susan dropped me off (what a wonderful host) at Ashkenaz, (http://www.ashkenaz.com/) where my grandcousin (??) Adrian, who is 10, was playing with his rock band. I had my banjo and fiddle so that I could play some music and they would recognize me.
What a cool place. Ten-year-olds were up on stage blasting out the classic rock stuff, proud parents were filming them, other kids were tearing around, and Michael found me right away. Within about 15 minutes, everyone had gotten there, and I had met everyone. And we all seemed to just like each other instantly.
OK, here goes:
Julie: My mom's half brother's kid. Julie is a great anti-war activist and was giving a talk the next night on her father's history he wrote of the ACLU. Charles Markmann wrote many books and translations from the French.
Maggie: Julie's kid. Maggie is into motorcycles and remembers my mom with fondness!
Mark: Julie's kid. Mark has an energy business that I want to learn more about. Of course, I want to get to know all these guys more! AND he plays guitar in a band that does covers and stuff.
Marcie: Mark's wife. Marcie is a therapist, so we gave her my dad's collected works of Herr Freud. (She's not a Freudian, but she was the closest appropriate fit we could think of for the books!)
Adrian: Mark and Marcie's kid. The star of the day, Adrian and his band put away some awesome tunes with him on keyboard and vocals.
Alex (girl): Mark and Marcie's kid. Alex is a little younger than Adrian, who is ten, and just gorgeous.
OK, you guys, if I goofed this all up, email me and I'll fix it.
After the tour de force we all went over and ate and talked and then Mark had to go to band practice. (Gee, I can't relate to that.) And I played a little really bad banjo and fiddle for the rest outside the restaurant--I was nervous! And before we knew it, they were dropping me off. (The kids liked the van, even though it was pretty funky by then.)
Now they all have to come up and visit!!! It was so great to be around talkative, gregarious family that didn't scare or bore me. YEAH!
The Jupiter
I finished off the day by going over to The Jupiter with Susan. Or more like dragging her over. The Indefatigable One was finally slowing down! What a gorgeous place. It's all Christmas lights and open air with heaters (the gas ones I had to avoid), with a group of suspects playing tunes at frantic rates. As usual, everyone was ridiculously friendly, and I saw a few faces I knew! We did all AEAE tunes, so Karen Hackenberg would have been in heaven. No one knew Bruce Green stuff, surprisingly, so I led "Five Miles of Ellum Wood" and "Trouble on the Mind," the latter of which I had been trying to start for days.
Luckily, Bob called and I canceled my brave plans to camp with him and the others at Point Reyes because I really needed to do some serious catching up with work. Sigh.
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