Leaving Blues
Last night was supposed to be my last night at Yaddo. I arrived at my last supper only to discover what the whole rest of the table already knew: big storm headed Saratoga way. How big? Two feet of snow, someone said. I heard anywhere between two and four feet, someone else. Fourteen feet? someone just looking for trouble.
Some guests, once they get here, they never want to leave. Maybe they’re just saying that. Me, after six weeks anywhere I’m good and ready to go. On to the next thing. On to New York City, in this case. I had lunch date I didn’t want to miss. I had plans. But clearly, given the forecast, the next noon Greyhound was not going to happen. The table discussed the options: You could cross-country ski to New York. Or ski-do. Or dog sled! Just stay. They won’t throw you out on the street. Good to know.
I said: Note how I'm valiantly trying to stay calm here.
The table: Did you say Valium-ly?
I wish.
After dinner a painter played barrelhouse piano in West House for a while, which cheered me right up. Then I went back to Pine Garde to pack my leaving trunk. Just in case. Because:
Anybody that woke up on the American eastern seaboard this morning knows how this story ends. With the whiteout blues. A full on blizzard. But I went to breakfast anyway, because I said I would. To check in with my friend the table.
I’d never been to breakfast at Yaddo before. It turns out that a) you don’t have to get there right at eight, as I had previously thought, and b) they’ll make eggs for you – any kind you want. I had no idea! I love eggs. Each new person who came in for breakfast, I said: Did you know there’re eggs for breakfast here? Everyone knew. I ran into Dan the Snowplough Man in the hallway. He said: I guess you’ll be here another day. I went down to the office. They said: We’ll tell housekeeping, we’ll tell the kitchen.
So here I am. Watching it come down. The leaving blues aren’t so bad.
. . . . .
Some guests, once they get here, they never want to leave. Maybe they’re just saying that. Me, after six weeks anywhere I’m good and ready to go. On to the next thing. On to New York City, in this case. I had lunch date I didn’t want to miss. I had plans. But clearly, given the forecast, the next noon Greyhound was not going to happen. The table discussed the options: You could cross-country ski to New York. Or ski-do. Or dog sled! Just stay. They won’t throw you out on the street. Good to know.
I said: Note how I'm valiantly trying to stay calm here.
The table: Did you say Valium-ly?
I wish.
After dinner a painter played barrelhouse piano in West House for a while, which cheered me right up. Then I went back to Pine Garde to pack my leaving trunk. Just in case. Because:
The blues are mushed up into three different ways
One said go the other two said stay
I woke up this mornin with the blues three different ways
You know one say go "baby I want to hang up", the other two said stay.
Taj Mahal, Leaving Trunk
Anybody that woke up on the American eastern seaboard this morning knows how this story ends. With the whiteout blues. A full on blizzard. But I went to breakfast anyway, because I said I would. To check in with my friend the table.
I’d never been to breakfast at Yaddo before. It turns out that a) you don’t have to get there right at eight, as I had previously thought, and b) they’ll make eggs for you – any kind you want. I had no idea! I love eggs. Each new person who came in for breakfast, I said: Did you know there’re eggs for breakfast here? Everyone knew. I ran into Dan the Snowplough Man in the hallway. He said: I guess you’ll be here another day. I went down to the office. They said: We’ll tell housekeeping, we’ll tell the kitchen.
So here I am. Watching it come down. The leaving blues aren’t so bad.
. . . . .
Labels: Yaddo
posted by J. R. Carpenter at
1:11 PM
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