Yesterday was the Spoleto Finale. The culmination of 17 days of art overdose and cocktail exposure.
My favorite Spoleto works this year: Don John, the raunchy, disturbing, moving play that takes on the legend of Don Juan in 1970s England; Good Cop, Bad Cop, a hilariously dry play by an Amsterdam-based troupe in which the two women represent cats, the man a dog, and the only words spoken are on a video screen; and the Finale last night.
At the sweeping green gardens of Middleton, a pure white swan floated by on a pond. Frogs croaked in the marshes. Peacocks shrieked. The orchestra played. And humans imbibed. During the final movement that the orchestra performed, the full moon rose slowly from the cloud cover, disappearing again just as the fireworks started. Spoleto has a damn good production staff.
I worried that Hugh would be scared by the fireworks, but he was so sleepy, he didn’t open his eyes until the end. But his poor little body jerked every time the fireworks went off. I could feel the thumps from each boom in my chest.
He cried the whole way home, and after Tasha calmed him down with a bottle, he decided it was really more like 6:45pm instead of 10:45pm and wanted to play. I tried to shush him quietly, but Tasha took a different approach.
“Oh, you think you wanna play?”
“Well then do it, big man.”
Jumpy, jump. Attack baby suck your face. Chubby fingers grab your hair. Talky talk as loud as I want. Then a pause. Followed by a stricken, WTF look, and a scream.
Tasha popped the pacifier in his mouth – the one Aunt Sissy accidentally bought that says, “I Love Daddy,” and he fell fast asleep in her arms.
Sometimes fathers really do know best.