The tin-foil halo is under construction

In my bookcase in the living room, there is a very battered art history book. It's a relic from my mom's university days. (That makes it sound like she attended Nineveh U, doesn't it? Poor word choice. Let's just say that she studied from the first edition of a book that is now into a double-digit printing.) When I finally achieved hometown escape velocity I took the book with me. That isn't normal. Most people dump their musty old college textbooks (if they can't sell them at the end of the semester for laundry money)--and no sane person totes around their parent's highlighted tomes. Now tell me, at what point have I tried to convince you that I'm normal? Or sane?

I loved that book. I read it, and my mom's costume history textbook, so frequently that I based my choice of major and minor on them. (Theatrical Costume Design, and Art History, respectively. But that's a post for another day.) The pictures and the text--dry and academic as they were--opened all sorts of possibilities to me. And when I was actually able to go and see the works that had been only pictures on a page until that time, I was blown away. I believe my exact words were, "I cannot believe I'm actually here. I have spent my whole life wanting to be here! Do you know how fabulous this is?!!" (Apparently it got stale after a while for my companions, who took to openly mocking my awe-struckedness. You'd think sisters would be more charitable.)

That overly long bit of exposition gets us to the point: saints. Most of those works of art were representations of saints. (I have a real thing for Italian Renaissance art. I'm pretty sure Michelangelo and I dated in the Pre-Existence. I probably turned him off by my pathetic inability to keep the two past tenses of Italian sorted out. Another match fails because of linguistic incompatibility.) They are everywhere--you can't walk forty feet in Italy without stumbling over a saint in some form--on a canvas, carved in marble, advertising fast food. There's the patron saint of butchers, the patron saint of sailors, the patron saints of candlers, carders, and cookie bakers, too, I'm absolutely positive about that. You name a profession, a condition, an odd and unnatural proclivity, and there's sure to be a saint who is assumed to take care of such things.

Well, I don't live in Italy (good thing, because that whole past-tense thing would be the death of me, no doubt), and I'm about 16 generations removed from Catholicism--depending on which family line you follow. But if I did, or if I weren't, I'd be totally willing to nominate a new saint, if such things are democratically done: Saint Jessica, Patron Saint of Put-Upon Piano Teachers Everywhere. (It's molto impressive with all the capital letters, no?)

Jessica is my sons' piano teacher. She is encouraging, and kind, and patient. And for the totally paltry sum which I pay each month, she actually smiles when she teaches my boys. Even I don't manage that every time I teach my sons. Trust me, there were no smiles while we learned the multiplication tables. Plus--this is where she reaches far beyond the realm of mere mortals and into the stratosphere of sainthood--she comes to our house to teach! (I told you she was amazing. Not even doctors make house calls anymore!)

She's been enduring with us for two years now. We are most appreciative; not many people have the ability to withstand the inevitable mental breakdown that is the result of long-term exposure to our family circus. This is not a quiet, contemplative household. People do not tread lightly here. Children are often heard and not seen. More frequently they are heard and smelled, and then seen. Babies crawl around; dogs sniff and bark at odd times and at odder objects; phones ring; appliances break down; children model their latest paper bag and duct tape fashions. It's chaos. And somehow, piano lessons are managed. Without yelling. With good humor. And the boys are learning. One of the requirement for sainthood, I think, is three verified miracles. Reread the paragraph: there are your miracles, right there.

You want verification? Do I have verification for you!

Yes, that is a toy truck on the piano. It was not part of the original design of the room. Neither was the Cheerio flooring motif.

Totally gratuitous pic of Anders.

Another son, another lesson--Jessica still not frazzled, even while tip-toeing around cereal detritus. How does she do it?

I'll start petitioning the Vatican next week.