I’ve been invited back to my old church tomorrow to sing “How Lovely Is They Dwelling Place” Obviously, I’m going. The YouTube I’ve linked you to here has a little error in the singing, but it’s still beautiful. You can’t turn down Brahms in the summer.
It is the last weekend of the summer, in the sense of the part of the year when I’m not teaching. True, I have a full time job in addition to teaching, but I still plan to be extra lazy this weekend in preparation for having to leave the house at 7:00 a.m. on Monday. And of course next week is also when all my evening stuff starts up again — Master Chorale, Tuesday class, women’s choirlet rehearsals, et al.
So today I am lolling about. I did the grocery shopping, cleaned up a bit, and am now reading The Alto Wore Tweed. In this story, a church choir director is writing a mystery novel. His novel contains this immortal line:
I don’t care whether the book turns out to have a plot or not. It’s quiet at my house (#1 son took his dad out to shop, since Dad is heading to Las Vegas for a pool tournament tonight), I have a Caesar salad with grilled chicken for lunch, knitting, and a book with choral music jokes.
What could be nicer?