The Road to Here

It’s already half past October. I was going to try to write once a month. C’est dommage. But, there’ve been a few landmarks along the road this year to tell you about.

September was the 40th anniversary of Bill and I meeting at Northern Illinois University, in the fall of 1986. We were two of three music majors trudging across campus at 8:00 a.m. five days a week, from Gilbert Hall to whatever unremembered building our calculus class was in. The third scholar was Bill’s roommate Tim. The professor was adequate, but it was still hard to stay awake at that crack of dawn. She dressed collegiately, plaid wool and such, but she always had one wrong thing going on with her outfit. There was no final glance given in the mirror on her way out the door, or maybe she lived alone and no one told her these things. One day her slip would be hanging out from her skirt, one day toothpaste in her hair. I struggled to keep up, not knowing that Bill and Tim had already taken calculus in high school. All the way back in eighth grade, I had chosen jazz ensemble instead of algebra, which set my STEM course a little behind. Shame on you North Scott Junior High class scheduler. . . Yet. . . all things work together for good, and that is how I got to know my future husband. Calculus and freshman music theory. We never dated, I had Dean and Bill had Jody and Tim had Michele. Tracey was the fourth leg and she was single. She had the bassoon. We had listening lab every night after dinner in the dorm room. Mahler. The Eagles. Beethoven. Everything. We were country when country wasn’t cool.

This summer was also the 25th birthday of our House of Stone and Light, built by Kathy Trimble in 2001. Right there on the three-quarter in the suburbs. Neither Bill nor I have ever lived anyplace as long as this. Right next after God, my spouse, my kids, and other family and friends, I love our home. At first it was just too new. I had only ever lived in old houses. Thank God it’s getting old now. The cutting board has a crater from cutting 5000 cantaloupes for Calvin’s lunches. Every flat horizontal wooden surface is warped from houseplant water spilling over. Basement Playmobil town has slowly gentrified to a film camera collection. Baby photos are faded from the sun coming in the windows. What a happy patina. Mary’s iron bunny bed alone stands the test of time. You must know, I still have projects in mind.

Twenty twenty-six also marks the tenth anniversary of the studio Steinway. I’m reminiscing about our February 2016 trip to Austin and the lunch at Eastside Cafe when Doris told me she was selling her Steinway. The next day we met her in San Marcos and my husband wrote the check and said we would figure it out. The money, the moving it. The staircase in Eagan. There are some moments that define a marriage. Where there’s a Bill there’s a way. The piano has given us ten years of Mary and Calvin practicing, studio kids’ lessons, countless masterclasses and chamber music, and my own practice time after the kids were in bed. With sometimes up to eight hour work days, it has never complained, except during those months of Calvin’s Prokofiev No. 1. . . there was a little bit of limping on that account. It was nothing a little time in the pasture with the piano tech couldn’t heal. There’s nothing here but gratitude—for Doris, for Bill, even for the Alkan piece. I know Doris would be pleased and I’m also pleased. Slowly what would Doris do has been replaced with what would Sara do? I’ll never be Doris, but what I learned from my elders has gently woven its way into my own consciousness. It gets harder each year to note the difference.

Maybe we are becoming my grandparents, but early September has turned into a good time for Bill and I to take a trip. This year, we also celebrated another landmark, his new job. He got the offer with King Solutions the day before we left for the Tetons. He was down with a bad cough the whole trip, which is rare for him. We still drove to Wyoming, hiked and ate waffles at the top of a mountain. Where there’s a Bill there’s a way. All roads lead here, in this case to the Tetons and a new career path.

Casey reflected that the correlation between experience and energy is a real thing. By the time you are experienced in your field, say like 38 years of criminal law, piano teaching, or pricing and analytics, you have gained invaluable lessons. You know things. You have patina. Mysteriously, you have become the mentor. Energy. . . is a different story. Experience is given, but energy is earned. Strike that, reverse it? I don’t know, one or the other.

The road to here. For a believer, all things work together for good, and that’s a verse in Romans that I’ll set my life’s course on. Our scenic byways along with a few detours, our experiences and our energy have perfectly led us to October 2026. That’s not to deny the suffering around us. That would actually be impossible for anyone paying any attention. My sister posed a question recently—how will you spend your sacred energy? I’ve been thinking about that a lot. On paper it’s easy—faith, family, friends, house and home and garden, career. In reality there are distractions. Still, I aspire to give the next thing in front of me my full attention. My sacred energy. Not that I have achieved this, but it’s only half past October, and there are many more landmarks ahead along the road to here.