O Tannenbaum

We had three things to do today.

J had to teach a lesson at home, I had to teach two lessons at H---n, and we needed to pick up a Christmas tree. It was going to be a low-stress sort of Friday.

We've been playing up the Christmas tree thing quite a bit over the last few weeks for James, and he's finally been getting into it. He visited Alexa the other week, and she has a Christmas tree up at her house. When I picked James up I asked her if she had set up the tree with her Mommy and Daddy.

"No," she whispered "Santa."

Alexa has the most baleful deep brown eyes that have ever appeared on a child, and I think that for a second I believed her.

We loaded James into the Neon carseat and scraped the car off. This is not as easy as it sounds. First of all, the Neon is small car, and James is very heavy. Whenever you put him in the carseat, you have to hold a wriggling thirty pound bundle while stooping over and trying not to bonk either of your heads, and since it's been snowy out he usually gets you both soaked in the process. He also has developed a great love for brushing/scraping snow off the car, and he is deeply upset when you don't let him take part in the process. (I promised him that when he's a teenager he can scrape my car off every morning, but he doesn't want to wait that long.) So, I put him in his carseat while he wiggled and shouted and kicked snow all over me, and then scraped off the Neon and also scraped off the PT Cruiser, which we needed to drop off for some tire service.

That part of the trip went fine--it was starting to snow pretty heavily and traffic was bad, but the tire place is just down the street from us, as is Mt. Wegmans, which was our second stop. We picked up lights and ribbons for our tree--James, won't decorating the tree be fun?--and said hello to the train as we puttered around in our race-car shopping cart. He dropped George in the muddy parking lot on the way out, so George now has a filthy stain on his face as well as backside and paws. (Separate incidents.)

I loaded James into the car (and got us both soaked) again, and we drove to the P---d Farms Dairy, where a Christmas tree vendor was selling trees, stands, and festive woodcarvings. It bothered me to be purchasing a Christmas tree from someplace other than Hu-Lane Farm, where my grandparents have sold Christmas trees my entire life. I spent many winter breaks working there for them, helping to bale and load the trees or to clean the Christmas shop. More than anything else, the smell of wreaths and cinnamon bread in the front of their barn evokes the Christmas spirit for me. My cousin K has taken over the operation starting this year, but between the bad weather setting in and a hectic orchestra schedule next week, we agreed that there was no way we could make it all the way out to Albion and back to keep our Christmas purchase in the family.

We arrived at the Dairy and unloaded James into the snow. There was a dog and two cows outside, so he was immediately pleased. I looked at the prices on the Christmas trees, and was not. The cheapest trees were $65, and the tree stands would cost another $40 on top of that. Also, there was a big "cash or check only" sign up front. We had maybe $50 between the two of us. I asked whether there was an ATM in the dairy, and there wasn't. J and I huddled and talked through our options, and James began to cry as he suddenly realized how cold he was. We went into the dairy and used my phone to look up other sellers. There was a Boy Scout stand 20 min south of us in H--e Falls which I knew sold cheaper trees, and we decided to try our luck there.

J bought a latte while James ran around the Dairy and tried to touch all of the pies, and we received news that J's student had cancelled. "All we need to do is get this tree, and then I'll be done for the day!" she told me.

I picked up the snowy wriggling bundle and loaded him into the car again. The snowfall had turned from heavy to very heavy, and the rural roads to H---e Falls were completely coated with no signs of a plow. I could feel us slipping on the snow and ice, and J asked if I wanted to turn back.

"No," I said "We've worked all morning to get this blasted tree, and we're going to bring one back with us and have fun doing it!"

James was decidedly not having fun at this point. He wasn't crying, but we heard a lot of whining from the backseat as I crawled along in the snow and tried to keep my windshield clean and some sense of where the yellow lines might be.

When we finally arrived at the tree stand James immediately spotted a playground on the other side of the square. He was begging and reaching for it before we'd even unbuckled him. J told him maybe we could visit the playground and say hello once we'd picked up a tree? "Don't you want to help Daddy pick out a tree?" she asked. James just pointed to the playground and made more beggy whines. There was no one at the tree stand, but someone put up a big sign that read "Weekday shoppers please leave payment in the drop box outside the Scouthouse." The prices were much better, and in no time I'd found a suitable tree to load into the trunk of our car.

I threw it over my shoulder, and (proudly remembering the tree-hauling days of my youth) carried it back to our car where I was promptly informed that I would have to return it and select another. So, I threw it back over my shoulder and put it back where it came from, then found another tree and took it back to the car. (Have I mentioned that we were parked rather far away--the fond recollection of doing this when I was younger wore off very quickly.)

Meanwhile, J had attempted to take James over to the playground to "say hello"--this is Momspeak for "not actually play on any of the playground equipment since it is covered in snow" and they didn't even make it all the way over before James completely melted down. It was snowing so hard that they were both coated, and James was sobbing enormous two-year old tears. She loaded him into his carseat--and got soaked--and then we set about trying to load the tree in the car.

We opened the trunk and discovered it was full, of course. <2 year old screaming> There was a huge black trash bag filled with clothes we'd intended to take to Salvation Army, as well as a roadside kit and a box full of miscellaneous auto junk. I moved the trash bag to the backseat next to James <2 year old screaming>, which ripped in several places while I moved it, and he immediately protested it being next to him. We collapsed part of the backseat to slide the tree through, and pushed it as far into the car as it would go...and there was no way that the trunk would shut. <2 year old still screaming>

We both began digging for something to tie down the trunk, and I eventually found something small and elastic in the salvation army bag of clothes. The wind was blowing, the snow was everywhere, James was still screaming, and when J found that I was trying to use a thong to tie down the trunk she immediately yanked it away and put it in her coat pocket. I walked back up to the tree stand and rooted around in the muddy snow until I'd found a length of baler twine--we really could have thought some of this through ahead of time--and then came back to the car, where James was still screaming and I managed to tie down the trunk.

J had started the car and blasted the heat for James, who was still screaming. I walked over the scouthouse with forty dollars and found no evidence that there was or ever had been a drop box there. And that was how we stole our Christmas tree.

Eventually we got home and brought the tree upstairs, where it is currently leaning against a wall, since we forgot to buy a tree stand. James eventually stopped crying on the way back, and seemed to feel a lot better after he had a grilled cheese sandwich and some juice. I felt very good about getting the tree inside, even though it isn't set up, and after I left a message for the Boy Scouts inquiring how I might pay them, I went back out to close the trunk and discovered that the latch was broken, requiring a call to the locksmith. J, as far as I know, still has a thong in her coat pocket.

And that is the story of the 2013 Christmas tree.

UPDATE:
A locksmith repaired the back of the car, and I went to teach at Hochstein. I told J I'd pick up a tree stand on the way back. I went to the P---d Plaza and struck out at Rite Aid, Michaels, Bed Bath and Beyond, TJ Maxx, and Wegmans before giving up and coming home. The tree is still tied up and lying in the corner of our apartment. If we think we can survive it, we'll make another attempt to go out and find a stand tomorrow. Also, here is a picture of James on the trip back:

Thank You

Well, it's now been over a month since I've blogged, and it's time to say what I always say when I come back from a long hiatus--thank you.

Thank you to all of you who celebrated James' second birthday with us. A nasty cold notwithstanding, he's had an awesome 48 hours playing with all of his new toys, and he definitely knows he's been showered with attention and love. He loves his family so much, and it's been fun to watch him make some genuine "buddies" over the past year. Not just his stuffed animals, either--I think he's completely in love with Alexa Hamway. And her vacuum cleaner.

Thank you to all of you who have watched James at some point over the last month. We've been figuring out our new weekly rhythm in Pittsford, and we like it. It definitely requires more childcare than we used to need, and we are so thankful to those of you who have helped us out. We know that he can be tiring and that it can be an inconvenience to you. We are so thankful that you are around. Thank you Calvin, for listening to him practice drums on Wednesday evenings, thank you Kylie for lighting every candle in your house, thank you Lucas for spending the night on our couch, thank you Mom and Dad and everyone who have loved on him.

Thank you especially to Mom and Dad for hosting a birthday party for James last Sunday. Thanks for getting the food ready, for cleaning up, for entertaining a dozen people, and for celebrating that little bear with us.

And thank you to J, for being a great mom and a great wife. Your son loves you so much--I love to see him light up when he interacts with you, and I even love it when he howls for you instead of me when it's my turn to rub his back during a sick night. The last two years have been spectacular. And you look amazing in those new jeans. Holy cow.

Okay, more fun blogging coming up shortly. We finally moved our desk upstairs, so I have a writing surface again. This week's homework is to send me topical ideas or verses for LCS devotions on Dec. 4th. The name of the game is to be interesting without being so provocative that I get fired.

And now, get ye hence, for Shakespeare night approacheth.

A Good Morning

This morning was one of those beautiful half-days that I hope I'll remember twenty years from now. Outside it was crisp and bordering on downright cold, and James woke up on the wrong side of the bed. I got him up out of his crib at 7:45, he and his "entourage." His entourage is Steven, New Steven, and the stuffed monkey we've been calling George. James has fallen in love with the Curious George books, and so he loves anything monkey-related. He wants to wear monkey pajamas, make monkey sounds, and most of all to read "Curious George and the Birthday Surprise" about thirty five times a day.

"George" doesn't look much like Curious George from the books--he's too light, and the proportions are all wrong--but James felt it was important to have a monkey in his retinue, and insisted that we call him George. We visited the Pittsford Library last week, and in their splendid children's section there were two very authentic Curious George monkeys, along with about a hundred Curious George books. James toted the two library Georges around for an hour, and it was only with the greatest reluctance that we put them back on the shelves for the other library patrons to sneeze on. Our substitute George didn't seem as nice after that.

James' friend Alexa happens to own the exact same authentic George, and she brought it with her when we had a playdate at RWC the other day. Needless to say, James was the designated George-carrier all morning, and there were many tears at their parting. He howled and fussed and complained when we gave George back to Alexa.

I could tell right away that this morning was going to be a rough morning. He wasn't interested in his brand new Thomas the Train shirt. He tried to spill his cereal on purpose, he only wanted to beg for television and iPad time, and he fussed at anything that didn't go his way immediately. When he declined my offer to take him outside I wondered if he might be getting sick. "I think we need to strap him down in the stroller and take a long walk."

 "You know" said J "they sell the real G-E-O-R-G-E at Barnes and Noble."

And that was how we went outside. The sun was bright, the cold wind was behind us, and the leaves skittered across the sidewalks and crunched under our feet. We walked past Mt. Wegmans, circled round the grand plaza, and smelled the cinnamon brooms and pumpkin displays outside. We bought coffee beans and quinoa at Trader Joes, picked up hot drinks and Finger Lakes Coffee Roasters, and poked inside various shops. Then we went to the Barnes and Noble, and James set up camp with substitute George by the Thomas the Train toys. ("Dada, look, I have Thomas on my shirt!")

I browsed the children's books and thumbed through copies of Blueberries for Sal and The Mitten. We replaced our half destroyed copy of Chika-Chika-Boom-Boom, and debated whether or not to let him know we would by an authentic George. He found them on his own before we could decide, and attempted to carry off five at once. To his great surprise we told him he could take one, and he snuggled it tight as we made our traditional exit. (Go to the checkout counter via seven trips up and down the escalators.)

He wouldn't let go of the new George, and I had to hold him up on the counter, snuggling him tight, while the cashier scanned his tag. He snuggled new George (and old George) in the stroller in the face of the wind as we walked back home, and when we got back home he insisted on taking new George, old George, new Steven, and old Steven everywhere he went for the rest of the day. J pointed out that if we have another boy at some point he'll probably expect us to name him "new James."

He's been a completely delighted and delightful little boy ever since. I told J, "he knows this is the real George...George with a capital G."

"I think you mean George with a capital 'TM'."

Exodus, Chapter II

And it came then that the summer days ended and the time of harvest was begun, and in the ninth month R. Dudlius gathered his wife and her all her possessions and his son and all his possessions, and they made journey eastward beyond past the great city and its river unto the slopes of Mt. Wegmans, and they made their dwelling there in a new home which was strange unto them and unknown.

And on the day they made their journey they were joined by men of stout hands, including Thomas, son of Richard, the father of R. Dudlius and the grandfather of James Bear. Also with him did he bring his other strong sons, the minstrel Pax and the priest Calvus. Even up from the southern lands came the mother of fair Julie, in a journey not made lightly. Yet there was burdensome toil to be wrought, and in no wise was even their strength together equal to the labor. And then came also goodly William the Engineer, who had fit conveyance for such work and was much skilled in its accomplishment. And then also came the flute-girl Cassandra, and goodly Joseph, the father of Alexa.

On the twentieth day of the ninth month did R. Dudlius and his wife and his son strike their dwelling and move all their possessions, and there were exceeding many, even more than they had counted in their careful reckoning. So many were there indeed, that their conveyance was overbrimmed and could only be moved by the strength of its subtle engine. Among their possessions numbered many fine clothes, garments and undergarments and coats to be worn in cold of the northern-lands. There were also many fine costumes of such sort as the musicians should wear, yet the odor of these was no longer pleasant. There was also woodcraft for sturdy chairs and tables, and of these some were fine and carved well, but some also were rude and made by unskilled hands. There were in those days many boxes heavy laden with books. And in those lands books are contrived with light expense, and even the basest laborer might buy many books for himself to little cost. Yet these books are full of idle tales and nonsense, and it would not profit a man to read the books of that land, for they have no poets or wise men and such as they have pay no thought to the words they write in books. Yet R. Dudlius had among his books several dozen in the olden tongues, and even among these was he urged to lock them away in hidden places, for their appearance was in no way sightly to the eye. And also among the possessions of R. Dudlius and his wife and his son were devices made by strange craft for to be used with foods, and in that land also a base laborer might keep his own kitchen without cook or servant. There were also musical instruments of great beauty and value, and fine things for the small James Bear--pictures and skin-balls and doll animals and wheel-shod toys. And all these did R. Dudlius and his father and his brothers and his friends carry by the strength of their arms. And when all was finished the sun had descended and the night had grown cold, yet they took strong refreshment of ale for the toil of their work.

And thus was the manner of their new dwelling. It an hour's walk from the home of Calvus the priest, though many wide roads lay between upon which mighty engines passed through the day and through the night. And there was beside one of these roads a circuit of buildings which enclosed a green courtyard. And this courtyard was much loved by James Bear, for in it he would take refreshment and hunt the squirrels which made their home in its trees, and he would also stand in the gazebos and give mighty shouts, for he considered himself as a great knight in the order of Sir Thopas. And there was entrance from this courtyard to a wooden house with six dwellings, and R. Dudlius made his dwelling at the top of steep stairs. Their dwelling was not according to their usual custom, for all the inside was much-bathed and clean from all dirt and defilement. This was pleasing to the wife of R. Dudlius, but most pleasing of all to her was the sorcerous device by which she would wash her kitchen vessels without basin water or the toil of her hands. On this device she was much overjoyed.

And it came one day that R. Dudlius and his wife and his son made visit to the house of Hamway, where dwelled their friend Joseph and his wife and son, and their maiden daughter Alexa. And when Alexa beheld James Bear she was smitten with the sting of love, and she desired much to embrace him and be embraced. Yet after the manner of Pan and the nymph Syrinx or Apollo and the river-maiden Daphne did Love cheat the maiden Alexa. For James Bear in no way desired her love, but wished only to disport himself with thundering engine which they call "vakyum" in their tongue. And Alexa burned with love, and entreated James Bear that he might hold her hand or embrace her and offer kisses, but he only looked upon his vakyum and paid her no heed. And even when the maiden Alexa seized him and made attempt to kiss his brow, even then would James Bear, son of R. Dudlius, not look upon her, but was only minded to hold his vakyum.

Program Notes

Last night was the Symph--a opening gala concert, featuring four works by Russian composers. The evening started with

Festive Overture by Dmitri Shostakovich

Shostakovich was the foremost Soviet composer of his generation and is especially remarkable for his powers of survival. He was the only major composer (besides Haydn) in the western canon to survive beyond his ninth symphony and also managed to escape Siberian exile despite several dissident works while living in the USSR. Festive Overture was written in 1921 or 1943, or possibly sometime in between, to celebrate all four days of Russian summer. The work starts with a three trumpet fanfare, which is a much more explicit way of letting the audience knowing that the concert has started than low and rumbly bass notes. Following more blaring and banging the strings take over with the presto theme--a word which here means "a tempo at which the musicians cannot turn the pages fast enough to put their instruments back up without being late for the next entrance." The tune is repeated with syncopated offbeats in the brass as they attempt to catch up and culminating in a grand tutti statement of the melody. The initial fanfare comes back at the end, but usually by this point the winds and brass are too tired to play it.

Violin Concerto in D by Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky

The Tchaikovsky Violin Concerto is one of the great works of the romantic era and a special favorite of conservatory violinsts, each of whom is convinced that he he or she will soon be a famous international soloist, but willing (if they must) to temporarily serve as concertmaster of a top-5 orchestra in order to pay the bills while their solo career takes off. Each of these budding soloists puts this concerto on their junior recital jury and plays it slightly under tempo (that pesky third movement is so difficult!) with a tired looking accompanist. The work starts with a movement in sonata allegro form and features a celebrated cadenza which is not quite long enough for the timpanist to get in a full hand of poker with the third and fourth horns. The second movement is a canzonetta--an Italian word which means "little canzon"--and since the brass tacet, we will speak of it no longer except to mention that it transitions attacca into the third movement, and anyone in the back row that was playing on their phone usually misses the first few notes. The last movement is a rondo, a form in which an "A" theme is repeated between statements of other themes, meaning that every time the audience thinks they'll finally be free to clap and visit the lavatory that darn melody comes back in and reminds them that they have at least another 32 bars to go.

The Nocturne by Borodin

is strings only, and mostly gives time to the percussion section to finish their smoke break before the Stravinsky starts.

The Firebird Suite by Igor Stravinsky

The Firebird was originally an opera composed in 1911, and the suite highlights the musical episodes of the famous Russian fairytale. A wondrous bird of fire is captured by the heroic Prince Ivan, who wins a princess, bewitches the subjects of the evil King Katschei in an infernal dance, and then heals the basilisk wound on Harry's harm and flies him to safety with Ginny and Professor Lockhart. The opening music features lots of low notes in exceptionally tiny print, and then then it looks as if someone vomited thirty second notes all over the parts in the woodwind section. The Round Dance of the princesses lulls the audience to sleep, and then the opening "shock note" of the Infernal Dance makes Haydn's Surprise Symphony seem like a mild wheeze in comparison. A particular favorite of conductor James Smith is the Berceuse and Finale, which I know "berceuse" he listens to it several times a day. The brilliant ending is written in an odd 7/4 time signature, which means that no one in the back row actually counts it, but they just wait and hope that the conductor remembers to point at them in the right spots.

iOS7

The new iOS7 has advanced multitasking, an updated interface, and multiple usability improvements.

J and I spent the last half hour making Siri say "boobs."

Week 2 Bills Game vs. Birthday Party for a 2 year old

I went to the stunning Buffalo triumph over the dastardly Panthers last Sunday, and today I spent three hours at a birthday party for James’ friend Alexa. After both events I was tired, hoarse, and a little over-full of junk food. Here are some other things that happened at both events:

Keeping unbalanced people from crashing into you, other people, and furniture

At the birthday party, it was about fifteen toddlers who were running as fast as they could and screaming. Oftentimes they would not look where they were running and stumble over stray toys or other toddlers. (It was hard even for the adults to move anywhere without stepping on one.)

At the game, it was a procession of drunk people who swayed unsteadily and then crashed into you awkwardly, thereby giving you an intimate idea of their personal odor as they either processed out of the aisles towards the bathroom or back into the seats holding even more beer.

Loud denunciation of authority figures

At the birthday party each toddler felt obliged to assert to his or her own parents that they were in NO WAY going to do whatever it was that that particular parent had asked them to do, unless the parent had requested that they stop doing something, in which case the toddler would should that they absolutely WOULD continue to do that thing.

At the football game the fans in our section kept up a steady stream of advice to and criticism of the coaching staff, informing them in the most colorful language that they ought to be calling more passes than runs, unless there were consecutive incompletions, in which case they would wonder in amazement why the coach didn’t just “run the expletive ball.”

Odors

At the birthday party, it was unmistakable aroma of soiled diapers, though there was no way to tell from which particular child it might be emanating. At first the parents attempted to corral their own children long enough to check their backsides, but a general surrender to mob rule was made about halfway through the party.

At the football game, it was a mix of beer, nacho cheese, and a long phalanx of porta-johns outside the parking lot. Woe betide the poor souls who waited in line for their use—I don’t see any way in which the aftermath of their usage didn’t require the burning of clothes and a chemical shower.

Merchandising

At the birthday party Curious George was the unchallenged sponsor of the day. He appeared on the plates, the napkins, the favors, and the tablecloth. The birthday girl herself wore a Curious George outfit, and his dominance of the day was shared only with Barbie and Dora. He inspired great reverence, even among the three-foot savages.

At the football game the charging buffalo (and the throwback standing buffalo) were sponsored by a number of companies, including Tim Hortons, Subway, Carruba Collision, and the-attorneys-who-shall-not-be-named. Above all, the Bills logo inspired great reverence, even among the six-foot savages.

Overbold assurance of future success

At the birthday party each child who was not granted immediate access to his or desired toy made their case to the nearest adult that whoever was using the desired toy was not doing it right, or that they could do it much better. There was no shortage of self-praise.

At the game the phrase “15-1, baby!” was heard multiple times while exiting the parking lot.

Removal of unwanted clothing

At the birthday party the young ladies made numerous wardrobe changes and more than one young man shed a sweater or shoe without looking ever looking back toward it.

At the game I turned to Pax as I saw a shirtless man being escorted out by security and said “Looks like that guy’s getting kicked out.” And he said “I don’t think that’s a guy…”

Haphazard disposal of waste

At the party—which was hosted at the impeccably clean home of our friends, the Hamways—there were used napkins and plates strewn everywhere, pizza crusts and strawberry stems lying in the driveway, balls of every size lying in the yard, toys cars turned on their sides and entire diaper bags overturned.

At the game there were empty beer bottles, cans, and cups everywhere one looked, smushed slices of dropped pizza, confettied programs, human refuse that might have been vomit, and human refuse that might have been even worse.

Unwieldy traffic

At the game there were tens of thousands of vehicles piling into six main parking lots and hundreds of unofficial parking spaces. There were ambulances, mounted police, busses, golf carts, and pedestrian traffic pouring through the streets.

At the party there were two toy cars, two trikes, a toy slide, and a ball pit. There was no mercy.

Group singing

At the game, there was the famous Shout! song whenever the Bills kicked a field goal or scored a touchdown, followed of course by Sweet Caroline at the close of the game.

At the party, there was Happy Birthday, the solemnity of which was somewhat offset by our practice of singing it every time we read Curious George and the Birthday Surprise—therefore, nearly a dozen times a day.

A moment of inexpressible joy leading to the wild embrace of total strangers

At the Bills game, there was an improbable defensive stop with less than two minutes to play, then a masterfully engineered 80 yard drive with no timeouts by a rookie quarterback in his second game that nearly ended in a disaster but was resuscitated by a pass interference penalty, culminating in a scramble to the 3 yard line and a game winning touchdown pass to Stevie Johnson with just six seconds left! Then ensued wild applause, the hugging of strangers, and chanting of the quarterback’s name.

At the party there was a cake with a picture of Curious George on it!

Recitals

Tomorrow is a big day. I'm going to the Bills-Panthers game at Ralph Wilson Stadium after church with my Dad, Pax, and Bill. This trip was planned several months ago, but when J and I did our September calendar, we discovered a problem--her recital was the same day.

Calendar planning is an important part of our family life. J has a great combination of jobs that allow her to stay at home with James during the day, but also to contribute substantially to the family income and to get an investment on all the time and money she poured into her degrees. We sit down at the kitchen table every month and pull out our iDevices. We erase the previous month from the dry erase board, and then J writes in our regular commitments. (I'm not allowed to write on the white board, because my handwriting is too messy.)  We mark up my school days, regular private lessons, Hochstein evenings, and church services. Then we go day by day to mark in which extra rehearsals and gigs we've taken, starring the evenings for which we're going to need childcare. It's a good system, and we usually know well in advance when we're going to need a sitter. One of the sacred rules of the system is that you must always mark entries into the calendar of your iDevice onto the master kitchen calendar as soon as you're aware of them lest there be unintended conflicts. Most of the serious quarrels in our marriage have arisen from one or the other of us (by which I mean, me) forgetting to mark new gigs onto the master calendar.

So anyway, as we were preparing our September calendar a few weeks ago we discovered that there was a conflict on Sunday the 15th. J is doing a recital with one of her college friends and a prominent area professional. They sound amazing (I listened to one of their rehearsals) and they're going to perform it at our alma mater and a local church in October. (I have a concert that afternoon in Syracuse.) J was a great sport about it. She encouraged me to go to the game when I offered to give up my ticket, and I've done my best to give her encouragement and childcare as she's rehearsed and prepared.

It's a real bummer to miss it, though. Recitals are integral to our story. In 2004, when I was a senior in college and J was a sophomore, I was about to begin my long-dreaded semester of student teaching. My senior recital was scheduled for the spring, and I felt I needed some sort of big performance project to get me through the slog of actually working five days a week.

At that point I was feeling rather snobby about the quality of trumpet solo music, and having at the age of 18 already performed all the trumpet repertoire worth playing (so I thought) I decided to do a "transcription" of a Beethoven cello sonata. I also put a baroque suite on the program and the Halsey Stevens sonata. Now all I needed was an accompanist crazy enough to put together the Halsey Stevens and a Beethoven sonata on the same program. Really, the Beethoven was a piano sonata with cello (trumpet) accompaniment. I knew that almost from the beginning, and I knew it would have to be J almost from the beginning. It was the beginning of the semester, and she wasn't yet over-committed to a dozen vocal recitals. She was in the last few months of considering herself a pianist first and a flutist second. We were pretty good friends, and had gotten along quite nicely putting together a few pieces on my junior recital. And she was very friendly and very pretty--and I was newly single. It would not be difficult at all to spend at least two evenings a week rehearsing together.

I pitched the recital to her more as a chamber music opportunity than as "accompanying" a trumpet recital. I think she asked to look at the music first, and then agreed. We had moved in all the same circles the previous year, but it was the evenings together in Cox Auditorium putting together the Stevens bar by bar that changed friendship into something more. I still can't hear the first four notes of the Beethoven without feeling a deep chill. This was the music over which we fell in love.

Not that the recital was easy on either of us. We scrambled to get it together in time, and never once looked at the opener or encore until the night before. J was in the lowest ebb of her crisis between flute and piano during our rehearsals. (I'd like to think that I didn't drive her away from piano by the program.) A few days before the performance I was taken to task and there were several upset phone calls made to RWC administration by a supervising teacher (though, not my master teacher) at my student teaching placement who was incensed that I dare distract myself with a recital when I ought to be lesson planning how to teach trumpet fingerings.

We played the recital, and more than one friend gave one or the other of us a knowing smile as we stood next to each other in the reception line, both dressed in our finest and smiling with relief. My Smith grandparents even took me aside and told me how nice we looked onstage together. I attempted to brush off the comment, but then my grandfather took my arm and said "If you get a chance to marry that one, do it!"

There were a few intervening weeks of missing the evenings together, and then some dates to RPO, and by the new year we were known for a fact to be together.

The Smith grandparents were quite happy, of course, and they provided the next recital and our first public performance as a couple. We dusted off one or two easy numbers, threw in some simple sacred songs, and went to their little rural church in Waterport to play for their congregation. It was our first official performance as a couple. It also occasioned the first official picture of us as a couple, so that we could hang some posters in the music building. The crusty patriarch of the music department laughed when he saw them and told me that we looked like siblings.

It was a recital in December of 2005 that brought me home for a surprise visit from Chicago. J was now a confirmed flutist, and I came back a week earlier than expected to see her perform. I hid in the back of the recital hall behind some stacks of chairs, and listened to her play an extraordinary program while only able to see her feet. After she left the hall from her last encore I made my way backstage--followed by a crowd of peering friends who had learned what was afoot--and occasioned one of the loudest shrieks I've ever heard. I'm still not sure whether it would have been better to let her know I would be coming, but certainly neither of us will forget that recital.

Another long year and a half of graduate school followed, and we were engaged to be married once I graduated from Northwestern. Only my final master's recital remained, and J flew out to Chicago to accompany me at an old church in Evanston. I was exhausted, emaciated, and burned out. I only wanted to go home and get married, and then maybe think about playing the trumpet again once I'd done some very serious sleeping and healthy eating. She came in a few days early to rehearse and stayed with some friends of mine while I packed up my little studio for the last time and made ready to leave. I don't remember much about the recital--I do remember that it was unbearably hot in the church, and I'd stripped off my jacket and tie before we were two movements into the second piece--but I do remember walking along Lake Michigan on an afternoon threatening of rain, and sitting together having soup and coffee and a bread shop. Being together made us both a little more human again.

We played, I said good-byes to my teachers and studio mates, and we loaded up the few boxes of books, clothes, and music that had been my life in Chicago. J took a train to O'Hare to fly to Pennsylvania, and I was to ride back to New York through the night with my Mom and siblings. J's flight was cancelled, and she ended up coming back with us. We drove east through the night, almost too excited to sleep. With that recital finished, my life in the Central Time Zone was over, and we were to start our life together back east.

The

James' Toys

Hello! My name is James D. Bear, and I am almost two years old. I have many beloved toys, and I like to use them in very specific ways and places--woe betide the parent who tries to use a toy in a way that I don't like. Here are some of my favorites:

Red plastic baseball bat

This is my FAVORITE toy and no one is allowed to play with it except for me. The nice-but-scary neighbor man gave it to my Daddy for me to use. I mostly use it for my game of hitting balls that are lying on the ground, but I also use can slide it behind the couch or under the bushes when one of my balls is lost. It makes a funny sound when I drag it on the sidewalk, and Daddy and Mommy always hold it by the wrong end. (It ought to be held by the heavy end.) Mommy and Daddy tell me that I can't use it to hit people, but sometimes I really want to hit them with it to see what happens.

Trucks puzzle

This is my FAVORITE toy and no one else is allowed to play with it except when I get to the helicopter piece, because I can't get that one in by myself. I am SO GOOD at solving puzzles, and everyone claps for me when I put the pieces in the right way. Except sometimes I am very sad because I do not know where the police car piece has gone. I ask Daddy, and he doesn't know either. I am very good at solving puzzles.

Racquetball racquets

These are my FAVORITE toys and no one is allowed to play with them except me. And besides, Mommy and Daddy use them wrong anyway. They think you can only use the racquets to hit balls. The racquets give me super powers, which is why I always push them on the ground in front of me. I like to hit things with them, and my favorite is to dig up driveway gravel with a racquet in each hand. When I look through the racquet netting everything is funny looking, and they are also good to stand on.

Bodran drum

This is my FAVORITE toy and no one is allowed to play with it unless I have a better and louder drum to bang on. Every morning when I get up the first thing I do is to pull my bodran drum out of my toy box and bang on it as loud as I can, whether anyone is sleeping or not. I am a great drummer and I play very good music, so everyone always claps for me. Sometimes Daddy yells at me because I stand on the drum to look out the window.

Duplos

I have a big box of duplos, but there are only two that are worth anything--kitty duplo and doggy duplo. I want my own real kitty and doggy so VERY badly, but Mommy and Daddy always say no. Sometimes I have friends over to play and they want to play with my duplos, and then I must have every single duplo and no one else is allowed to touch any of them. Best of all, though, is the duplo box. This is what I sit on when I play the drums.

Wii exercise board

Mommy and Daddy have an exercise board because they think that they will use it for exercising when it is past my bed time. Ha! I always make sure that they are too tired for that. Besides, that is not what it is used for anyway. It is my conducting podium, and I have conducted many stirring performances of the Firebird Suite from this very spot. I wave my baton and jump and down, and then when the music is over I get applause and take a bow and ask to conduct it again. And again. And again. And again.

Pelican

My pelican toy is so silly. It makes a funny squawk sound, and you can tow it around by a string. There is only one place where we are allowed to play with the pelican toy, and that is in the kitchen. If someone tries to play with it in the the living room, I must explain to them that is the wrong place. I like it when I hide behind my high chair in the kitchen and Daddy tows the pelican in behind him. I think this is the funniest thing I've ever seen every single time he does it! Then, I take the pelican away from him and make him do it again.

Magnadoodle

My magnadoodle was a present from Aunt Jessica last Christmas, and it is one of my favorite toys. Mommy and Daddy think it is for drawing, but I know better. I hold onto the pen and tow it behind me like it is a dog on a leash. Mommy and Daddy will not let me have a real doggy, and I want one ever so badly. I can walk around all afternoon giving my magnadoodle some exercise. It is also good for stepping on, but my silly parents shoo me off of it. They don't know how to use any of my toys!

Tower equipment

There are so many things in my house that can be used to make towers. I especially like to use my rubber blocks, and my favorite rubber block is the RED one. I make sure that the red block is the last one I put away and the first one I take out every morning. Most of the time when I build towers I don't even use the red block, because I love it so much that I have to hold it. I also use Mommy's spices to make tall towers, and then I knock them over. But best of all is when I can use the foam chiropractic noodle that our friend Janette gave us. It is taller than me just on its own, but when Daddy builds towers on top of it, it is SO tall. I love to knock those towers over! And then we must build them again!

Tractors

I have two tractors, and they are my favorite toys. One of them has three buttons on the top that used to make sounds. One of the sounds was an engine starting, the other was a horn, and the last horn was a manly-sounding voice that said "Nothing runs like a Deere--Grrrr!!!" I play with my tractors every day, and the best place to use them is on top of Daddy's legs. He will bend his knees, and then I will drive my tractors up and down his legs. Sometimes he tries to read a book, but them I make him hold one of my tractors and drive it up and down his legs. I like it best when he makes his engine sound with his lips. Then I will make MY tractor engine sound too!

Sleigh Ride Puppy

My Mommy and Daddy got this book at a "white elephant" gift exchange, and they even tried to give it back. They're so silly! This is the greatest Christmas present ever. It is a toy doggy that sings "Sleigh Ride," except it changes the words to "curled up together like two fleas on a doggy would be." He has a silly voice, and he rocks back and forth when he sings. I could listen to him sing "Sleigh Ride" forty or fifty times in a row! And sometimes, I copy his dancing or wave my baton to conduct him. He makes me feel like Christmas all year round. I really wish I had a real doggy...

Another Pizza Catastrophe

I am not a stupid person. I need to remind everyone before they read any further that at one point in my life I was offered a full ride to Yale. I am tolerably humorous and an excellent speller, and my total ignorance of the culinary arts ought not to reflect poorly on the arts in which I am competent.

Everything started with my attempt to practice in the kitchen while also being the lone set of eyes on James. It did not go well. Two of my mutes have dents in them, James knocked over all the music on my stand, bonked his head on my stand, stole my metronome, and dropped my B-flat trumpet on the floor, the third valve of which no longer works. By the time dinner came around he was in full-fledged mischief mode.

"James," I said "I don't think either of us want to eat minestrone soup."

I knew that James didn't want to eat minestrone soup. J made it last night, and he turned his nose up at it all night long. I ate mine because it was hot and good, and according to J, minestrone is one of my favorites. Except actually it isn't. I asked her last night what inspired her to make minestrone and she said "Because you love minestrone! Isn't this one of your favorite things that your mother makes?"

In her defense, "minestrone" does sound an awful lot like "chicken wings."

But I didn't say anything to her, because once you've been married for a number of years you learn that it's not a good idea to tell your wife that you aren't interested in whatever it is that she just spent the last hour and half preparing over a hot stove while looking after your hurricane-force son so that you can practice upstairs in your bathrobe. (Hint to newly married husbands: It's much better to tell her by letting her find out that you've written about it on the internet without saying anything at all to her.)

So there was leftover minestrone in the fridge, and James had stopped hurling books off of the bookshelves long enough to confirm to me that he was interested in what I was saying if there was some chance it might be about food.

"James, I think we both want a pizza, don't we?"

He nodded.

I should have stopped here. I should have remembered what happened the last time that I was home alone with James on a Saturday afternoon while J was at church and decided that I absolutely had to have a pizza even though I'd have to make the whole thing on my own from scratch with no help.

I thought through my situation. I knew that there was cheese in the freezer, and I knew that there was leftover sauce in the fridge. I would just need to come up with some sort of dough. It was already five o'clock, so it was definitely too late to attempt dough in the bread machine--besides, I wasn't eager to try that again after my last experience. What about flatbread pizza? I had flatbread pizza several times over the summer, and I thought it was very good. I looked through some recipes on my phone, and eventually switched to the idea of a "pita" pizza. The dough only called for four ingredients, and the internet guaranteed that it would be ready to eat in 20 minutes...that sounded great! It sounded just as good as those "one simple tricks that can reduce your car insurance to $.37 a day."

Meanwhile, James had tipped a glass of water all over the kitchen counter. I cleaned him up, mopped up the mess, moved away the chair that he'd pushed to the counter and told him to occupy himself in some non-destructive way while I made us a pizza.

To make a long story short, the dough ended up being a disgusting sticky mess about the consistency of Elmer's glue, only less tasty, that didn't knead, roll, cut, or do anything except stick and ooze to everything it touched. About ten minutes into the attempt I gave up on trying to roll out pitas and just dumped the remaining goo into a frying pan, washed my hands, and removed James from his perch on the chair that he'd scooched over the refrigerator, from which he'd removed every single magnet and picture and thrown it on the kitchen floor.

I managed to turn the goo into the world's ugliest pancake, and set James up in his high chair with green beans. I sprayed a pan, and stretched out the pancake as best I could, then went to retrieve the sauce and cheese. And when I pulled out the sauce, I found out it was leftover quinoa spaghetti, and not pizza sauce. Thankfully there was cheese in the freezer, so at that point I had ugly pancake with cheese on top.

In six years of marriage I am yet to figure out J's system of freezer storage. Every month she neatly packs our freezer full of groceries, and it shuts without any trouble. If I open the freezer and remove an item, I can put that item back in the exact same spot it came from only seconds earlier, and it either won't fit (how is this possible, since I was removing ice cream sandwiches from the container?) or multiple other items will shift and collapse, and then refuse to go back into their spots. So J, if you do decide to come home after reading this blog, be careful when you open the freezer. I only just managed to slam the door shut in time, and I'm quite certain that the next person who opens the door is going to take a bag of frozen peas to the foot.

I was feeling rather defeated as I waited for the oven to preheat. I was also feeling rather hungry, so I had a bowl of leftover minestrone soup. It was exceedingly delicious, and much healthier than pizza. James, who still thought he was going to get real pizza when I was finished, continued to express his excitement at end result. When the oven preheated I had no idea how long to bake a pizza that size, so I started with six minutes and then kept on adding an extra minute or two until the cheese looked brown. James was so excited when I took it out. I cut him off a few pieces, blew on them to cool them off, and gave him one. He chewed it thoughtfully, and then I asked him if he wanted another.

That means "I think you should eat it instead."

I did, and it tasted like undercooked Elmer's glue with cheese on top.

So here's what I propose: This blog is a national resource, often receiving extravagant praise from top critics. I've even heard that my regular entries are "the best thing on the internet since this." I'm asking you, if you're reading this, to support my blogging by donating gift cards to local pizzerias. All gift cards can be sent to "Fabricor Consonvs Pizza Drive" at 749 Washington Street, Spencerport, NY 14559. If you benefit from this blog in any way, please consider supporting it by making a one time gift card donation. And not only do we need one time donations, but we are looking for sustaining members of Fabricor Consonvs who would be willing to get us pizza on a regular basis. Whether it's weekly, biweekly, or even just once a month, your effort will be felt and truly appreciated. I'd also like to make you aware, if you're reading this, that for a limited time we have a matching gift. There is a generous and anonymous almost-two-year old who has pledged that he will eat just as much pizza as I do for at least the next sixteen years, so don't wait...send in your pizza pledges today.

Because seriously, James was really disappointed tonight.

Listening Exam

We listen to a lot of music in the Smith house. I'm always listening to multiple recordings of whatever is on the next concert, plus studying scores for any upcoming auditions and occasionally getting to put on a favorite tune just for the pleasure of it.

The development of James' musical interests has thrown a wrench in our normal listening life. For a long time, as many of you know, the only piece that would do was the Marquez Danzon no. 2, followed by many months of nothing but Stravinsky's Firebird Suite.

This morning I wrote down everything that we listened to (along with James' reactions) so as to fully document a few hours in the musical life of the Smiths.

James got up around 8 AM, and wanted to snuggle on the couch for a glorious 20 minutes before he started his day. I pulled a blanket around the two of us and held him close, but a few minutes in he pointed at the stereo and made his "please" sign?

"Firebird?"

He shook his head no.

"Uncles?"

He nodded. I turned the stereo on with the remote and selected disc three. The Flock of Uncles Christmas CD has been in the CD3 slot since last Christmas, and James hasn't given up listening to it yet. We had Christmas music on almost daily through the long Rochester winter, through spring, and through summer. But come December we'll save ourselves the trouble of having to put new music in the stereo, I suppose.

We listened to the Uncles (starting, as always, at track 3 and listening through the rest of the CD), and then James was down.

Next up was Overture to Die Fledermaus, by Johann Strauss, Jr. I can't confirm that this was the reason J left, but she wasn't seen for several hours afterwards. (Actually, she had a meeting downtown.) James thought it was great and asked for his baton to conduct, which he did with great enthusiasm. (Especially in the waltz.)

After Fledermaus we tried the Troika from the Lt. Kije Suite by Prokofiev, but James got a scowly face and shook his head no. When I didn't change it immediately he became insistent.

He's enjoyed Gilbert and Sullivan before (and with J out of the house, I knew it was a rare opportunity to listen) so I tried the Overture to HMS Pinafore. This was not approved either, and he began to fake cry.

Linus and Lucy by Vince Guaraldi brought about actual tears, along with frantic "please" motions.

By the time I switched away from Stravinsky's Fireworks, we were flailing on the floor. Sometimes I think that we are very nearly two years old.

It was the Marquez Danzon no. 2 that restored us to happiness. James stomped around the kitchen and conducted with vigor. We hadn't listened to this one in a while, and we were very happy to hear it again.

I tried Adventures on Earth from John Williams' E.T. Soundtrack after the Danzon, but that was also turned down.

James has been in a mood for Mahler recently, and the last movement of the Symphony no. 7 was a big hit. It's very brassy, and it brought out some excited conducting while I washed the dishes. I'd turn around from time to time, and whenever he heard timpani he'd stop and make a face that said "Ooooh!"

The first movement of Mahler Symphony no. 8 wasn't as big a hit. James, like many little boys, doesn't particularly care for operatic singing. He tolerated it being on, but gave up on conducting and played with his block for a bit.

Once we were back in the living room it was time to listen to the Uncles Christmas CD again.

And then once we'd listened to the whole CD, we needed even more Uncles.

We were outside for awhile after that--I couldn't take any more Christmas music, especially when it was littered with my own wrong notes--and then we were back in.

Something changed for James over the course of the morning, and we loved Stravinsky's Fireworks while we listened to it with a snack.

The next tracks were from Petroushka, and we took in the fourth tableau.

But it was Rimsky Korsakov's Capriccio Espagnol that got us really excited. We needed the baton back, and I was treated to a conducting showcase.

The rest of the morning was all Tchaikovsky. Tchaikovsky is always exciting, and it seems to fit James' spirit particularly well at present. We listened to:

The 1812 Overture

Marche Slave

The 1812 Overture again. (Steven conducted, which was very funny.

Marche Slave again.

and Romeo and Juliet.

And then it was time for lunch.

We have very full days.

Word Association with Moxie

I've decided to adopt M's very fitting moniker for our niece. We watched her and her baby brother yesterday afternoon and evening, which is why I'm so tired today. At 8:00 we finally had James in bed and Liam calmed down, but Moxie was still going strong. She was tired of reading books, and had decided to do some recreational high-pitched shrieking. I decided to play a game.

"Okay Moxie, I'm going to say a word, and you say the first word that comes into your mind. Do you understand?"

She did.


Flower.
That's me is a girl. Wheee!!!!

Shoe.
I tie my shoe.

Football
Throw.

Homework
I do it

Romance. 
Homance. Oh, no. Why did you say that word?

Taxes.
You keep saying funny words.

Dinner.
Can you just stop? Eat

Lucas
Is my uncle. I hope I love him.

Tractor
Fields

Hugs
I am gonna giving it.

Philosophy
Floss your teeth

Broadway
Umm...I can't say that word

Trumpet
You play the flumpet..she play the flute. Everybody plays instruments

Medicaid
I don't know how to say that. Do you know how to say lemonade?

Nama
Phaaa...no

Spongy
We clean with sponges.


And then she lost interest in the game.

A Back To School Blessing

For M in particular, and in general for all students and teachers who are older than the nonsense in which they'll be immersed until June...

May your weekends be like five days and your weekdays be like two,
May you never ride the morning bus unless compelled to,
May your classmates all remember to take showers and to groom,
May the boys prefer deodorant to noxious Axe perfume.

May your teachers be fair-minded and abandon all designs
Of useless power-pointing to explain the word "cosine."
May you never have a substitute who fills your wasted hour
By showing Stomp on VHS ere she locates the power.

May giggling girls in simpering cliques grow wiser now than old,
And let them cover decently before compelled by cold.
And when one opens mouth again of "boys" to loud complain,
May she be checked before she speaks by some small cell of brain.

May you wake alert each morning with warm woolen socks on toes
May your hair always cooperate and spare you girlish woes,
And when you walk outside the house and hear the willows lisp
May you smell the scents of apples and be charmed by Autumn crisp.

May the hard back seats seem comfortable, their bottoms lacking gum,
May lights fluorescent be withstood till sunlight next might come
May you find a friend in gym class for a partner in contempt
So you might tell tales of Dr. Who, from all games be exempt.

May your Mom pack homemade lunches and on each day of the week
May you shun the cafeteria and of it never speak
May your senior year with winged feet on hasten till next June
Endure the suff'ring one more year; College cometh soon!

Usury

I just finished a fascinating book of essays by Jacques Le Goff called Time, Work,&Culture in the Middle Ages that raised some questions for me about the medieval position on usury. As anyone knows who's read Merchant of Venice, the practice of charging interest was forbidden to Christians during the Middle Ages, and was one of the principal causes of animosity towards the Jews. (Who were allowed to lend money at interest to non-Jews.) Le Goff traces the change in attitude towards interest and relates it to the development of the mechanical clock.

It was Lewis Mumford who first wrote about the importance of the mechanical clock in Technics and Civilization. Originally conceived as a more efficient means of keeping the hours for prayer, the standardization of time allowed for time to be represented as a commodity which could be recorded, bought, and sold--basically making way for the modern theories of labor according to an 8 hour day. (Clearly the ideas about musician labor are pre-modern.)

Le Goff contends that the scholastic argument broke down with the invention of the mechanical clock. It had been argued that interest was unlawful because it represented the purchase of time on capital, and time belonged to God alone, and therefore could not be put to sale. With some casuistic justifications for the merchant's hazard (the lucrum cessans, periculum sortis, and ratio incertitudinis--the tying up of cash in long term undertakings, perils of fate, and uncertainty of success) arguments began to be made in favor of an interest-based economy.

There are also some interesting thoughts by Le Goff on the contrast between Jewish, Pagan, and Christian views of the nature of time, but I won't detail those here. My question for anyone who has stayed interested through the first three paragraphs is this: Do the scriptural prohibitions against lending or borrowing at interest ever concern you? How do you square them against the success of the modern economy? Are you aware of anyone who writes on the subject? I'd appreciate any thoughts...

Parental Preference

James is not happy with me.

Yesterday was my first morning back at LCS. I'll only be there Mondays and Wednesdays this year because of Symphoria, but yesterday we had staff training. I was up and out the door before James woke up, and I didn't get back until 4:00. This was a big change from our regular summer hours.

It's important to note how much James loved the summer schedule. He was so excited in June when I was there every morning to get him up that J began to feel a bit boxed out. I'd get him up from his crib at 7:30 or 8 in the morning, and he'd be bouncing with excitement when I came into the room. Picking him up, I'd ask "should we go wake up Mommy?" He'd shake his head no, because it was Daddy PLAYTIME! We'd go downstairs and eat breakfast together. James would have a banana before he climbed up on my lap to steal my spoon and work on my cereal with me, spreading it all over his front, the table, and the floor. Daddy found this funny. Mommy did not. Then we'd go play with toys, including some toys that weren't in regular use during the school year, like the broom, the jumper cables, and walls. (Where else can you bounce a ball?)

There were some heartfelt talks with J. Far be it from me to put words into my wife's mouth, but most of the conversations, if I had to summarize, went something like this:

J: blah blah blah, blah blah-blah blah, having fun is against all my Mommy rules and you and James are evil rule-breakers.
Me: I wish to be respectful of your feelings, and I sense that you are upset about something. It must be hard on you for your well-planned parenting structures to be altered by my constant presence. Please tell me about what's on your mind while I finish washing these dishes and put them away neatly in their proper places.
J: (sobbing uncontrollably to sad music) James doesn't love me anymore since you came home from school!
Me: (giving a tender hug)There there, why don't you use this time to relax and think about your hopes and dreams whilst I prepare dinner.
J: You're so wise and handsome, and it turns out that all of the new games you taught James are safe and age-appropriate! Make sweet love to me far into the wee hours of the morning!

That was "more or less" how the conversation went, and we came to find a new balance for most of the summer. James and I played a lot together, and we had a wonderful few months while I was hardly ever going in to work.

J told me that when she got James up yesterday morning he immediately pointed to his bedroom door, and when asked what he wanted said "Da-da." She brought him downstairs, and he set about looking for me in the living room, and the kitchen. I wasn't there, of course, nor was I in the laundry room or upstairs in the bathroom.

I arrived home at 4:00 just as he was getting up from his afternoon nap. I heard J asking him "Do you know who is home? Do you know who is here?" I stepped up to him and she said "Daddy is here!" in an excited voice.

He didn't react at all.

"Would you like Daddy to change your diaper?"

He shook his head no.

"Would you like to say hello to Daddy?"

He shook his head again and snuggled her shoulder.

I made an attempt: "James, I missed you today! I'm sorry I didn't get to see you before I had to leave."

He snuggled Mommy again.

J changed his diaper, and he didn't even deign to look at me until we went downstairs. He had been betrayed. When I gave him a bath that night he engaged in active protest. Bathtime is probably our most redneck time of the day. The stopper in our bathtub is broken, so there's no way to seal the water in the tub except by covering the drain with a thick piece of duct tape. James is very good about knowing he can't touch the duct tape, but tonight he ripped it off the drain as soon as I looked away. I chided him and tore off another piece, knowing it would be much harder to get it to stay since the bottom of the tub was wet. I managed to get a seal, but James tore it off again.

"Listen, squirt...you're going to take a bath with no water if you keep on ripping the tape off? Got it?"

He grinned and nodded.

I put on another piece of tape and started to fill the tub again.

Rriiiiippppppp.

And that's how James ended up being soaped up with no water in the tub, and then unceremoniously hosed off under the tap.

He softened up to me by the end of the evening, and he let me brush his teeth and do bedtime prayers with him. We prayed for all our family and said "Help me to be loving." And then, "thank you that Daddy has a job to go to, and help James and Daddy to find good playtime once he gets home."

A Henry Visit

“Vo-yitta ya va kyi da DZA?”

Standing in his crib, James held both arms out in his “question” gesture and waited for me to answer whatever it was he had just asked.

I studied him for a moment and took a guess.

“Are you asking whether Pax and Kylie are still here?”

He grinned, nodded, and rubbed his chest in a “please” sign.

“No, they went home last night after you went to bed.”

“Dah-wee dow. Eeeee”

He waved good-bye to them.

“But do you know what? Henry is coming today. Do you want to see Henry?”

Henry is the same age as James, and we watch him several times a month while his mother works at RWC. James was so excited to see Henry that as soon as got downstairs he stationed himself at the window to watch our driveway, forgoing breakfast and the usual morning tour of toys.

These two boys really enjoy each other’s company. So much so, in fact, that it’s rather hard to keep track of them. Last week when they were playing with chalk, James had us so distracted by his sitting in the chalk that we completely failed to notice Henry was eating the chalk. And later when one of them was eating stones in the driveway, the other got away with a nearly successful attempt at prying the license plate off the front of our PT Cruiser.

Today they played “who can fill the most poopy diapers?” They both won. We’d be in the living room, I’d smell something, and say “Who has a poopy diaper?” I checked Henry first, and of course he did. While I was cleaning him off, James managed to open the desk drawer and dump an entire bag of crayons onto the living room carpet. When I still smelled dirty diaper and took James up for a changing, Henry ate an orange crayon. I think they were planning their diapers together. A sort of coniuriato faetidae. My neck is still very stiff, and they were deliberately taking advantage. It’s hard to keep an almost two year old from throwing his toothbrush in the toilet when he knows that you can’t chase him or pick him up from a bending position. J isn’t any better—she tweaked her hip badly on a run yesterday, and has made a solemn vow to do stretches before any exercise we undertake this month.

I picked up as many of the crayons as I could find, but you always miss a few. When we picked up toys in the afternoon I found several under the couch—it is one of James’ great pleasures in life to look for lost items under the couch—and I also found some crayon scribbles in my Hebrew lexicon that weren’t there this morning.

Today was the last day of my summer vacation, and the weather was as mopey as I was. It was gray and rainy all day long, and the two munchkins didn’t appreciate being cooped up indoors. Fortunately there was an aunt who needed rescuing, and J loaded them into carseats for a trip in the PT Cruiser. (Which, fortunately, still has both license plates legally affixed.)

It was a babbly day for James. Sometimes he is quiet all day, sometimes he attempts to have conversations in his nonsense language (although you do pick up some English from time to time) and on days like today, he talks from sunup to sundown.

“Go be kwa ya HEE je dad da DOT DOT DEE! DEE!!! DEE!!! Ha hahaha! Do yay muh muh muh tay kwi kwi mo do.” (He pauses for dramatic effect and continues with emphatic gestures and a serious slow cadence) Da bah tzi YAH do kwi bo du! Du!”

And so on and so forth.

Henry isn’t as interested in talking, but he went along with James’ itinerary for their play pretty passively. They mostly shared toys fine, although it was easy to tell that balls and wheeled objects are of a much higher value than other toys. In monetary terms, those are the $10s and $20s. James has a bad habit of stealing Henry’s toys between visits, and we’ve tried recently to make a serious effort before he leaves to locate everything that came with him.

Last time we were very proud that he went home with a spiky yellow ball, only to discover afterwards that we had two cups, two toy trucks, and a construction block. It doesn’t even matter if you check very thoroughly under the couch. Today we found a tractor-shape in the secret compartment of the toy grain silo. James is sneaky.

The most precious object of all the day, however, was the golden star balloon that James got at the store yesterday. He always points at the helium balloons when we go the grocery store, and I bought him one yesterday in celebration of our anniversary and also as a bribe to keep him still in the cart. He was deeply excited to carry it around all day, to sleep with it in his room, and to pummel it within in an inch of its life whenever he could get his hands on it. James and Henry both “loved” it hard today, and it isn’t floating nearly as easily as it used to.

It’s upstairs in his room with him now as he sleeps, and it will be the first thing he looks for in the morning. Because when you’re an almost-two-year old, you love people and things with wild abandon. And when you’re an almost-two-year old’s Daddy, it’s nice to be loved with wild abandon.

Six years ago...

Six years ago today I woke up in a hotel bed with four brothers sleeping on the floor. I’d argued the night before that I was perfectly comfortable sleeping on a carpeted floor, and there was certainly no need for me to take the bed by default. At the very least we could draw straws. It was four against one, however, and they had each fixed their minds that I should sleep on the bed. Sam was 20, Pax was just turned 18 and in the midst of a transfer to Roberts, Calvus was just 16 and still in high school, and Lux was only 13 years old. They all had long, shaggy hair.

I had told myself not to rush through the coffee and breakfast, knowing already that the nervous hours of the morning would pass too slowly. My parents brought bagels, and we found ESPN on the hotel’s cable stations. This was long before my parents surprised us all by getting a cable subscription at the house, and it was a rare treat to watch some Sportscenter.

I showered, scrubbed my teeth vigorously, and shaved as closely and as cautiously as I dared—after all, it would be no good to nick myself shaving today. We drove to the church about 10 AM.

It was my wedding day.

I was nervous, but it was more from an abundance of excitement than an abundance of worry. Still, there were flitting moments in which I weighed the enormity of the day. I was taking the most irrevocable step I would ever take in my life. You can change careers if you’re in the wrong job, you can change schools if you’ve gone to the wrong college, and you can sell your house. There would be no taking back of marriage vows.

My brothers were great. They were as goofy and exuberant, of course, but there were no ill-timed jokes about what they’d do to embarrass someone in the ceremony or any complaints about putting on tuxedos. They kept me pleasantly distracted and helped wherever they were needed.

Our family was about to take an irrevocable step as well. There would be no more of “the six Smith kids.” We were bringing in a spouse for the first time, and there would never again be a vacation to Alleghany State Park or a Christmas dinner in which Mom and Dad sat down with only their own children. There was going to be, not just a girl in the house, but a grown-up girl. Family photos would be different, and I wouldn’t be spending my breaks in an old upstairs bedroom anymore. The Smith family, as we knew it, was coming to an end.

I practiced when we got to the church. There were still several hours until the ceremony, and it was the best way I could think of to kill a half an hour doing something that would keep me completely distracted. It didn’t really work. My Dad came around, somehow having agreed to our foolish request to photograph his own son’s wedding. Six years later, that would be the one thing I’d do over. The photos look great, of course, but he ought to have been able to enjoy the ceremony next to Mom.

I changed out my polo and jeans around lunch, and someone came around with food—I remember having no appetite, although I think I ate a few bites of something.

One of my brothers discovered a foosball table in their explorations, and we played a few rounds while one of J’s brothers regaled Lux and Sam with an impression of Gollum’s voice.

When we entered the sanctuary, I immediately missed my trumpet. It’s no trouble for me to be up in front of a few hundred or even a few thousand people, but I’m always holding a trumpet when I’m “performing.” As I walked with the pastor and the groomsmen to the front of the church, I made a mental note to see that my gig bag ended up in a car that was going to New York, since we wouldn’t be taking any instruments on our honeymoon. No need to bow or wait for the accompanist when I got to the front of the church, or to acknowledge applause. I turned and looked at the people in the church.

There were hundreds there. Hundreds of people had driven more than five hours from New York for us, and they were beaming at me as I scanned their faces and met their eyes. I listened to the trumpet prelude as a colleague, rooting for each high note as the bridesmaids processed in. I watched as a proud older brother as M came down the aisle, hair up, glasses off, looking much older than 10 years.

And then the doors shut, and there was a fanfare.

And then the bride came in…

Back Pain

I am currently shut down for repairs.

Last night I pulled James' stroller up the big hill on Colby Street so that he wouldn't be stuck pointed into a bright sunset for ten minutes while we walked to the playground. Somewhere along the way I tweaked a muscle on the left side of my upper back, and by the time I went to bed I knew something was wrong.

I woke up several times during the night. Once I went downstairs to hunt for aspirin, and around 3 AM I even roused my longsuffering wife to rub my back. Around 5:30 it was too painful to lie on my side anymore, and on the fourth or fifth attempt, I rolled my legs off the bed and limped downstairs. My neck was stuck forwards as I walked, and I couldn't turn my head at all. It was barely light out as I turned on hot water for coffee--all with my right arm, since I couldn't lift my left--and measured out four scoops of grounds.

Woe is me.

This happened once before, in the summer of 2008. J and I were in Hanover, getting ready to drive to Philadelphia for a week at Csehy. These were the olden times, before small bears, and we would stay up late every night and sleep in late every morning. Our bodies were younger then, and they didn't break down. It wasn't like now, now that we're 28 years old and our youthful prime is behind us. Interestingly enough, it was that same week at Csehy that I played with the Syracuse Symphony Orchestra for the first time. They needed a trumpet player in a pinch, and they called the RPO personnel manager asking for a recommendation.

We were in the backyard of the Davis homestead, throwing a frisbee about with J's two brothers. I reached high for a toss that was sailing over my head, and I knew instantly that some muscle had moved into a place it shouldn't. We drove to Csehy that same afternoon, and my neck stiffened more with each passing mile of the Pennsylvania Turnpike. By the time we arrived my head was bent over my chest, and I couldn't move my neck at all. Our assignment for that evening was to drive back and forth from the campus in Langhorne through the city of Philadelphia to the airport, and to bring back arriving campers with their luggage. J was, for reasons long forgotten, somehow unable to drive. She checked the lanes around me to tell me when it was safe to turn, since I couldn't turn my head, and I tried to keep track of the dizzying interchanges as we made each half-hour trip in and half-hour trip back. I think we made eight runs before we quit.

Fortunately, our friend Opifera was there that night.

The record should show that I don't like to be massaged. I am painfully ticklish, I'm not particularly good at sitting still for long periods of time, and just when you think that adults can't be reduced to spasmatic giggles at a feather's touch, I am painfully ticklish. "But wait," you say "haven't you and your wife ever passed a cold winter evening with glasses of red wine, some jazz turned down low in the background, and a family-blog-appropriate 'back rub?'" I'm sad to say that back rubs are unromantic when convulsive elbow flailing leaves one or both parties with black eyes.

I was not expecting much help, in the summer of 2008, when Opifera offered to work on whatever knot was immobilizing my entire upper body. She put her hand on my back, felt around where the center of the pain was, and then started to work on what felt like an entirely unrelated spot on my back. My whole neck seized up for about ten minutes, and then just like that, everything had relaxed. I was still a little sore for the next day or so, but I could stand up straight again, and even managed to carry in our luggage from the car.

This morning, as I waited for my coffee to brew, I was thankful that Opifera lived only a few minutes away, and that she'd had six months of formal massage school to hone her gifted instincts.

I enjoyed the hour and a half before James got up--I read Homer and Pliny, and blundered through a few verses of Genesis in Hebrew, and was even fairly comfortable in a hard wooden chair. When I heard James begin his morning chatter upstairs, I climbed my way out of my seat--goodness, my left shoulder throbbed--and made my way up to him. He doesn't wake up from afternoon naps very well (he's always angry at the world) but he's a little angel in the morning. He was cooing to Steven Bear as I walked in the room, and he bounced to his feet in excitement when he saw me.

"James," I said softly "would you like to go downstairs and play with toys?" He gave me a big smile behind his binky and nodded several times. I grinned back and reached in to pick him up. The first two tries were unsuccessful, but he eventually climbed into my outstretched right arm. I couldn't lift him any higher than my waist, so a new diaper on his changing table was out of the question. He snuggled with me in the big downstairs chair for a few minutes (which made the trouble of standing up out of said chair worth it) and then mostly cooperated when I changed his diaper on the floor.

J texted Opifera as soon as she was up, and we got through the morning just fine. James would forget about every fifteen minutes or so that I wasn't available to rough-house or tow him along in a laundry basket or play ring-around-the-rosie today, but then he'd find some way to entertain himself--I even let him watch a little television this morning--and he'd help J look after me. They filled an old brown sock with old white rice (and, unfortunately, some nice brown rice when we ran out of the cheap stuff) and used it as a heating pad. I was given permission to spend the whole morning on the couch reading Annales articles on the Middle Ages, and I was even excused from washing the dishes.

I went over to Opifera's before lunch, and I'm much improved now. I can move both arms freely, and there's just a little bit of stiffness in my neck. It's tough getting to be an old geezer like me, but I'll manage a full recovery on this one.

Only, I may not be quite well enough to help with the dishes yet.

Exodus

And it came in those days that R. Dudlius dismissed his musicians and played no longer with the great orchestras, nor did he rise early in the morning nor drive his hollow-bellied neon, but he made a great rest in his home and took refreshment. And his wife also rested and so did James Bear, the son of R. Dudlius, although he rested in no wise to the whims of his parents, for he was always minded to be outside and in the grass and slime. And the corn grew tall and sun waxed hot overhead, and it was summer, and R. Dudlius took much refreshment.

And in the eighth month of the sixth year of the rule of one whose name means "blessing," R. Dudlius met J. of Raschella in a far journey, and he enticed him with poor enticement to take an oath to sound his trumpet in places far to the East, beyond many lakes and much further than any man should walk on a day, and even further than a horse might ride, but only where the subtle engines might go and come back because of their quickness.

And R. Dudlius said to his wife "Woe unto us, for I have sworn a heavy oath that I should sound the trumpet far in places far to the East, and only poor enticement is my reward! I cannot make my journeys on foot or horse, but I must drive our subtle engines, yet these also are of evil quality, and they always devise to work against us their tricks and wiles."

And his wife said to him "You have taken poor enticement indeed to sound your trumpet, for you are much skilled in its playing, yet your wages are as that of an unskilled servant. We must make our dwelling to the east, although I too must drive our subtle engines to the west among the homes of your kin."

And R. Dudlius asked his wife "Wherefore must you drive subtle engines among the homes of my kinsmen?"

And his wife answered to him "A priest has bidden me to sing among the halls where long ago we met, before you married me and before we journeyed to the south."

And R. Dudlius said to his wife "If I must make my way to the East beyond many lakes and you must make your way west to the halls wherein we met before you grew heavy with child, we must find a suitable place to dwell between."

And his wife made him swear with great fear never again to say "grew heavy with child," and she told him of the wages she would be paid, which were far better than his own, and they searched for many days to find suitable habitation, nor did they sleep on their bed, for their worries were great and the sun had waxed hot even through the night, and their habitation had not air conditioning.

And it came also in the eighth month of that year that R. Dudlius found a suitable place between the viae Durobrevis, and they were exceeding glad. The place which R. Dudlius found lay on the eastern slope of Mt. Wegmans, which is the holiest hill in all their land, and its ways are always full with pilgrims, rich merchants, and great men. The name of the place is melitolus, which they say in their own tongue "clover." R. Dudlius was pleased on account of the strong wall, and his wife was pleased on account of the many fine rooms, and James Bear, the son of R. Dudlius, was pleased on account of the great courtyard full of green grass and many stones fit for throwing.

Also in that place was the priest Calvus, son of Thomas, who was the brother of R. Dudlius, son of Thomas, and his wife. And Calvus greeted the tidings of R. Dudlius with gladness, because they had ere yet been many miles away from each other.

And it came that R. Dudlius ascended Mt. Wegmans with his wife and James Bear his son, and James Bear was in a cart with wheels that looked as though he drove a subtle engine, and he was much pleased. And also upon Mt. Wegmans did R. Dudlius' wife drink a cup of much sweet milk, which is called "latte" in their tongue, and she was much pleased. And R. Dudlius beheld the treasury of Mt. Wegmans, which is many fine cheeses and all manner of fruits and sweet smelling vegetables, all ripe and good to eat, along with coffees and chocolates from beyond the salt seas and flowers of exceeding brightness.

And R. Dudlius said to his wife "Look, wife, this is a a fit and suitable place where you might go to the halls of my kinsmen in the west, and I might go beyond the lakes to the east to sound my trumpet."

And R. Dudlius wrote on many papers and sent letters to the masters of this suitable place, and he wrote with much eloquence, for among those people the wages of a musician are base and not to be trusted. And he long waited their answer, and thus passed the eighth month of the sixth year of the rule of the one whose name means "blessed," and in that month that very king traveled by Mt. Wegmans.