Take Me Out to the Ballgame

First off, it was an amazing day yesterday. We took a 4 mile walk to the library along the Erie Canal, visited a coffee shop for a snack, played outside in a beautiful courtyard for an hour, visited the car wash, and went to a baseball game, all for a total of $5. (We bought an ice cream at the ballgame.) Between free tickets and gift cards, it was the perfect Friday off.

The baseball tickets were a gift from a church friend that was rained out. We've been meaning to use them for some time, because James has become quite the little baseball fan. It's through Curious George, of course. We found a beginner book called George Home Run and later the corresponding TV episode that's all about a baseball game and learning how to count. It actually has been very helpful with his numbers--he no longer skips from 2 to 6 when he counts to 12. In the story Curious George has to run the bases for his friend Marco when Marco's foot is hurt, so James for the last few months has regularly done laps around the garden, the living room and the supermarket shouting "I'm runnin' the bases for Marco, I'm runnin' the bases for Marco!" Then he'll slide into you, wait for you to tap him, and declare him "safe!" (He's never out) He ended up picking a plastic baseball bat from a neighbor, a little blue baseball mitt from Target, two old hardballs of mine from the storage unit, and four rubber bases as a special treat. (He loved these so much that they came with him to Houghton, Maryland, and Pennsylvania so that he could continue running the bases for Marco.)

We finally got around to using the tickets last night and set off to downtown Rochester about 6:30. Frontier Field is only a few blocks from Hochstein, where J and I both teach, so we weren't particularly worried about finding a place to park. It turned out to be a mess. This was the second to last game of the season, so more than one couple was using their rained out tickets on a perfect summer evening. And, as it turned out, the Rochester Labor Day parade was just getting set to come down Main Street as we attempted to cross over to our usual Hochstein lot. Traffic was visibly backed up and not moving for about 5 blocks, and we miraculously found some free on street parking behind Hochstein as the parade was set up. James asked lots of questions about the baseball game, but inexplicably burst into tears whenever we suggested that we were going to "watch" it. "No, I not watch it!" he would bawl. (I think he thought that he was going to be playing in the actual game and running the bases for Marco.)

We pulled him out of his carseat, grabbed our bag, and started walking down. The sun was just slanting down over the highway, a train just beyond us, and there was an ever so-slight breeze as we filed in with black and red clad clouds. I forget how exciting it is to walk into a big sporting event. As the stadium came into view we walked past some freshly laid mulch.

"Daddy, I smell a cow."
"How do you know what a cow smells like?"
"He probably knows from Nama's house."
"Where'd the cow go?"
"I don't think the cow is here."
"Where the cow be? Is't comin' the baseball game?"
"Do you think the cow should watch the baseball game with us?"
"No, no, I not watch the baseball game" <cries>

We passed Hochstein, walked under the highway, crossed the street into the ticket queue, and lost all hope. The line was barely moving and backed up nearly half a block. I tried to get in with the rained-out tickets, but we were told we had to make it to the actual ticketing office to get them properly exchanged. After about 15 minutes of waiting in the long line (with James pressing his saddest face up against the fence) an older couple came up and offered us their spare tickets. They told us they were great seats, and that we should get into the park before the game started. We quickly passed off our rained-out tickets to a couple that didn't have any in the line, and made our way into the ballpark. I had one hand and J had the other, and James looked up in awe as we went under the stands, through the crowds, and by all the beer tents and grill stands.

We found our seats just as the national anthem (sung by some RWC students, one of whom Julie knew) started, and we couldn't believe our luck. We were about 6 rows back, almost directly behind home plate.
"I've never sat this close at a sporting event!"
"I've never sat this close at a senior recital...these are amazing seats!"
James clamored down from my lap and stood in stairs, watching as the players warmed up. He was completely captivated by the first pitch, although in the first three at-bats there were two foul balls that came perilously close to us. (Nothing else did the whole night.)

It couldn't have been better weather, or better seats. James was captivated, and the sights and smells of a baseball game washed over us.

"How have we not done this more often? What a great experience."

Then the mascots came onto the field. James saw them, froze, and took a cautious step back. Without taking his eyes off them he found his way back to me, climbed up on my lap as quickly as he could, and then climbed over to J's.

"James are the mascots scary?"
"I wanna go home."
"Oh, they'll go away in a minute."
"I wanna go home."

He didn't move for a while, and would periodically repeat his request to go home. (We had bet that we could make it to the sixth inning, and we were just in the second when we saw the mascots for the first time.)

There was a peanut vendor that came by us several times shouting about peanuts, cracker jack, and beer at the top of his voice. A skinny elderly man in white socks, loafers, a baseball cap and glasses kept a scorebook with a pen next to us as he munched on peanuts. Eventually J had the idea to get some ice cream to perk him up, and I took James up to the food vendors between innings. I couldn't see any place with ice cream in the bustle and the multitude of shops, but then all of a sudden James pointed straight back behind me, declared "I see it!" and showed me a big plastic ice cream cone he'd spotted. We got a huge soft-serve sundae, brought it back to J, and made a mess of it with plastic spoons and napkins as it began to get dark out and we pulled our jackets on.

The game was interesting enough to hold our attention. There was a home team homerun, a double play, and a couple of close calls along the baseline. Once James got some sugar in him he perked up again and began narrating what was happening on the field. He cheered loud every time a foul ball went "way high to the sky" and clapped along with all of the organ music and little pump-up jams.

We made it to the sixth inning before he started misbehaving enough to warrant an iPad bribe, and left after we heard God Bless America and Take Me Out to the Ballgame in the seventh inning stretch. James perked up when he heard the Ballgame song (it's in George Baseball) and I sat him up on my shoulders as we made our way out of the park and back towards our car.

"James, did you have a good time at the baseball game."
"Yeah, I wanna go back" <yawns>
"We'll have to go back sometime, but it is way past bedtime. We need to go to sleep."
"I wanna go back."
"What was your favorite part? Did you like seeing the balls go way high to the sky?"
"Yeah, way high. Wanna do it again."
"Did you like the mascots?"
"No. The mascots wanna go to sleep."
"Yeah, I think the mascots will go to sleep soon."
"They go to sleep in the mascot's house. There's the mascot's house." <points to Hochstein>
"Well, no that's Hochstein. They'll sleep somewhere far far away."
"The mascots sleep far far away?"
"Yes, very far away."
"Okay, the mascots sleep in Pennsylvania."
"Sure."

Family

There isn't much time to see family recently. If there were an abundance of time and we had no obligations this weekend, I'd like nothing better than to drive around and visit each of you. But since we probably can't,

M-
I hope the first week of classes has gone well. I wish we could stop in and surprise you walking from class to Garlock at some point. It sounds like there are some good friends there for the making. College is so much better than high school, isn't it? Still, I remember the first week or two at Roberts being a little lonely. Everyone else is looking forward to seeing friends they made last year, and as a freshman you're trying to figure out who to eat and sit with. Whoever you're eating and sitting with is lucky to be with you.

Lux-
Are you reading anything interesting? Any chance of you blogging again soon? I miss having you around, since it's a laugh a minute, usually. I think you should hang out with James again sometime. Aside from S, you're the uncle he's seen the least of over the summer. Do you have a secret girlfriend that no one knows about? Or are you working your way into the heart of some young Roberts girl? Or have you sworn yourself to the bachelor life this semester, a term of late library nights reading dusty books in comfortable chairs?

Calvus-
It was so good to see you this morning; we shouldn't wait that long to do Hebrew again. You have an amazing gift for the vocabulary, and I think I learn the words faster from hearing you remember them than trying to memorize flashcards on my own. It's great to see you with Silas, too, of course. James still pretends that Silas is his only cousin, even though he was a little standoffish when he saw him the other day. J and I both miss Beka...is she doing well with the start of the semester?

Pax-
One more week until Sunday afternoon Bills games start! Has it been okay to leave Abby and K this week while you've been going in for school stuff? Isn't it terrible for the first week or two when you've been used to spending all day with them over the summer? I have to say again how relieved and happy for you I am that you have a job for the fall. It's no easy thing to make a living as a music teacher nowadays...I hope you feel like you're good at this job (you are) and that they give you a little more respect than they did at that other place.

S-
We were so close to you the other night! I've been thinking about you a lot, actually. We had your daughter over and she talked about you constantly. When will you see her again? I know she misses you terribly. I don't even know where you're living nowadays, but I'm glad you've found stability with the new job. I'd stop in and order a coffee, but I don't want to distract you if you have other responsibilities you need to be taking care of...are you doing okay?

Mom-
You must be going nuts with all this RWC stuff. J is only very distantly involved with it, and I hear about the preparations every time she comes home from work. Is it thankless, or are you reaching benchmarks and hearing thank yous? Do you like your new boss? What's it like to have an empty house? I hope you and Dad are just exquisitely happy together? Can we take the kids for a weekend so that you can have a truly quiet Saturday morning? (I don't know what weekend it would be, of course.) I feel like we should have made a bigger deal out of this...what an accomplishment to send the last of six off to college!

Dad-
So really, how was Nashville? Was it fun? Did it satisfy any long-delayed desires to be in a pro studio and work with that sort of expertise? Did you enjoy the music at all, or was it just another job? It had to have been fun, I think. When will you get a recording? I would love to hear what you sound like through a professionally engineered mix. This mortgage stuff has been crazy. I can't even begin to imagine how you juggled two mortgages and owned a business and were a father to six kids all at the same time. I'm barely keeping my head above water looking after James and trying to answer all the phone calls that come in. Did you feel like you were underwater? You always had such a calm exterior...

Advice

Should we buy a house?

Achilleus: Nay, spend not silver or other guerdon to make purchase of yonder house, but let us take it by force as once I sacked seven-gated Thebes and plundered it. The strength of the house shall not prevail against us, but we shall pull down its walls and despoil all the cattle of their fields, and their wives will be our concubines.
Odysseus: Even better, listen to my much-crafty counsel. We shall build to them a great gift of wood and feign our departure, as though we had conceded defeat and abandoned the high-walled house. Then in the midst of their reveling will the noble first-fighters climb down from our deceitful gift and slaughter them all in their drunkenness, and we will take the house by the cleverness of our wits.
Me: Any chance we could do this without putting anyone to the sword?
Achilleus: We came all this way, I think we need to use the swords.

Jesus: No man can serve two masters. Either he will love the one and hate the other or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve both God and Mammon.
Me: I was kind of hoping that your bit would be about the foundation of sand vs. the foundation of rock. Because I was just in the basement and it looks pretty good down there, aside from the smell.
Jesus: Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy.
Me: Dangit

Ovid: Men say that long ago in this country there was a certain nymph who very beautiful and lovely in form, and seeing her one of the river gods was struck with a violent passion. He gave her chase, but she was devout unto Diana and would not surrender her chastity. Yet the young river god was more swift of foot than she, and as he was about to overtake her and do her violence she prayed unto Father Zeus that she be saved from the injury he meant to do her. Then even as she collapsed upon the ground she felt her knees begin to grow solid and turn into concrete, and her arms were turning into aluminum siding, and when she touched her hair it had become as asphalt shingles.
Me: This really isn't helpful
Ovid: I'm not finished yet. The river god was turned into a cat, which is what you smell when you go down into the basement. He's still trying to get into her crawlspace. <giggles>
Me: No wonder they kicked you out of Rome.

Saul: Well, I was going to wait for Samuel to get here to sign the mortgage, but I say we just do it ourselves.
Me: I think we should wait for Samuel. And perhaps the Realtor and the lawyers as well.
Saul: Nah, we've waited long enough. Let's just sign it ourselves, go beat back the Philistines, and call it a day.
Me: You aren't qualified to sign the mortgage. I mean, you're a great warrior and all, but Samuel said specifically to wait for him.
Saul: Too late. <signs "Saul, son of Kish, King of Israel, esquire> Now it's done. Boom.

Froissart

I have already related how the noble families of the Smiths and the family of Hanover-Davis had met in Grantham for the marriage of their children on Saint Bartholomew's Day to which wedding were come many other noble families, and a magnificent occasion it was. Of the Hanover Davises were come the household of the bride with two young sons, and sundry cousins with her Aunt Donelda, her Uncle Douglas, and the Count and Countess of the Davis estate of Grantham Farm with their small children. The Lord and Lady of Monk's Misery were there, of the Weitzel family, from whom the bride was a granddaughter and with them came attendants and many cousins also. Of the house of Smith there were many fine gentry, including the grandparents of the groom who had suggested the wedding in the first place. Also there were numerous knights and ladies of the house of Dudley which had come several days ride from the north, though some then also dwelt in the mountains of Pennsylvania, and the groom stayed with them as he rode to his wedding feast. His own parents of Albion were there and many young brothers and a sister as yet a child who stood beside the bride in the party. Because the profession of both families was to make musick there were many singers and players who thronged about the hall and made much splendid musick, whether former musick masters to the families or fellow students from the schools in which they trained. There were also seen several great old lords who lived only a short time afterward and were hardly seen again, such as the Lord Seitz.

The marriage itself was made in the afternoon, and happened according to the custom of the time. The bride and groom kissed and were much applauded by their friends and kin for making a suitable match, and once the service had been said all the party retired for the evening revels not even a stone's throw north. It is in the hills of Pennsylvania still against all custom to dance or make merry with wine, so the weddings guests were not drunk that night, but ate much fine food according to the hospitality of the region and the house of the Hanover-Davises and even then ate rich cakes and coffees. Once the revels were complete the children (for the bride and groom were scarcely over twenty years old) departed south, and for friendship many of the northern guests were lodged with hosts from Hanover and Grantham.

There was much joy in the business, because it seemed a good match, and very little of the weeping and foolishness which was in those days sometime the custom. Most descriptions of the bridal wardrobe have been written in strange and unintelligible words, but the popular account seems to be that the bride was a girl of exceptional beauty, and she was much loved by all who celebrated her for her kindness and goodness as much as her loveliness on her bridal day. There were many beautiful girls at the feast, which made the young men happy, and one story is told of how three fools shaved off all the hair on their heads in a latrine before they interrupted the wedding party with a raucous song, but I do not think this is a true account.

What's Happening

I'm finding it difficult to provide continuous interesting updates on this blog, but I know that there are a distressingly large number of people who apparently follow it regularly. I usually find the experience of writing and posting pretty therapeutic, but at some point (like right now) I should make the general disclaimer that I make no editing efforts whatsoever. Usually, as is the case right now, I sit down at the laptop with a half hour or twenty minutes left in James' nap, WRITE as quickly as possible for fifteen minutes, and then post whatever came out without looking at it again until Julie later asks me, "What did you mean when you said that you 'practicled the flumplet for a half a half an our?'"

So here's what's happening today:

I played a church gig/half-recital at Wrath of God Lutheran Church in S---use this morning, where two of my orchestra colleagues attend. They asked me to come out a few months ago and offered enough money to cover the gas and still make the gig worth it, so I dropped off a couple books of music for the pianist and then emailed back and forth with her for a few weeks until I had her convinced that we didn't really need to rehearse anything until the morning of the service. It actually went fine, once I got there. I got turned around twice coming into the city, which makes me more angry than just about anything else. I am (if I do say so myself) pretty good at keeping my composure and at least presenting a level head to the world if I'm frustrated or ticked. Getting lost, however, makes me wax wroth. As in, someone attempted to wax my wroth-hair, and now I am bellowing at the misleading road signs about how the town can't be two miles east if I just drove through it two miles west ago.

I did get there, eventually, and the gig went fine. I played the first movement of Steve S.'s Trumpet Sonata (spelled Shuwan, in the bulletin, speaking of a lack of editing), and did Endearing Young Charms (listed as Traditional Irish Folk Tune, in the bulletin) from memory, which I am increasingly convinced is the only way to do solo playing. (This is why haven't done any serious solo playing in over a year.) For the postlude I played the last movement of the Hubeau Sonata, and it was easily the best run out of the three times I've played it publicly. I love my new C trumpet.

When I got back James gave me a hug and called me "Dad" instead of "Daddy" again. He's looking less and less like a baby. We had acorn squash for lunch, which, along with drinking coffee and kissing girls, is yet another part of adulthood which turns out to be something I appreciate after all. You were right, Mom and Dad.

I've taken to running checks down to the bank as soon as they come in now instead of massing them all together for a big single deposit at the end of the week. It's a nice naptime activity, because the run to the bank and back is considerably shorter than the usual run around the block, plus I get to stand in a nice air-conditioned building for 90 seconds halfway through the run. Also, it's nice to see the account go up and to think, "Well, that could be another 2 square feet of our house!"

I'm calling around to get quotes for homeowner's insurance quotes this weekend. This is one part of the process that I actually have a bit of a jump on, since I worked for an insurance restoration company for the better part of two years while we lived in North Carolina. A few months ago I called them trying to figure out if anyone I remembered from down there could do a favor for a friend who lives in North Carolina, and I found out the company went out of business. All returns to dust, I suppose. I spent an hour on hold yesterday before I had to give up and get around to my other important business. (The Bills game) But today I talked to three actual human beings, each of which told me that they couldn't personally help me, but they would have someone give me a call Monday morning when the regional offices opened.

I'm also listening to old lesson tapes from grad school, thanks to Dad lending me a tape player. So far I haven't actually heard myself or Charlie play a note. In two afternoons of sitting at the kitchen table with headphones on, I've just heard a bunch of Chicago Symphony and New York Philharmonic stories.

It looks to be a pretty low key evening tonight. We'll take James outside for a bit, and then get ready for tomorrow, which is the big day--the day I get calls back regarding insurance quotes from three different companies. Also, our anniversary. We were going to use some old gift cards to go to dinner and see a movie, but it turns out we're going to get the house inspected and then see how much time is left. So if you see us tomorrow, wish us a happy inspectaversary!

Overnight

"Hi, I'm calling to make sure that I'll be able to pick up my niece from daycare this afternoon."
"Let's see. If you've been added to the release form you'll just need to bring ID. What's your niece's name?"
"Last name Smith, first name Hayden."
"Oh, HAYDEN. We know Hayden."
"Yes."
................................

James, J, and I are walking past the playground. James asks to go play, but we say no. Also, stay out of the mud. It's just a little breezy out, and it looks like it might start to sprinkle. A church bell chimes softly. We walk through the cool and silent portico, and in through the air-conditioned hum of the first set of double doors. We enter the empty foyer through the second double doors.
"Well, I'm not sure where she is, but I can hear Hayden."
...................................


"JAMES! ROY! AUNT JUUUULIEEEEE!"
"Hi Hayden, how are you?"
"I'M GONNA COME OVER TO YOUR HOUSE! I'VE BEEN THERE BEFORE!"
"I know, we're so excited to have you over! It's just too bad that Liam can't come too."
"Yeah, my brover has the chicken cox."
.....................................

"We need to run some errands before we go back to our apartment, Hayden."
"Are we gonna go to WEGMANS?"
"Ooh, I yike Wegmans! I wanna cookie!"
"Hey, James learned to talk! He's not a baby anymore."
"Yeah, James has been talking for a long time, Hayden."
"He doesn't talk as good as me, though."
"No, he doesn't talk nearly as much."
"George wanna ride in the cart at Wegmans too!"
......................................

"ARE WE ALMOST TO WEGMANS YET?"
"We're getting close. Remember how we talked about using an inside voice in the car."
"Hed'n, I see it. I see Wegmans--yaaaay!!!!"
"YAYYY!!!!!"
<both children applaud wildly in the backseat as Wegmans comes into view>
..................................

"I wanna ride my bike."
"Hayden's riding your bike right now. In a few minutes you can switch and she can push your mower."
"OK."
"Just a sec, sweetie, my phone is ringing."
"Stay on the path, though, James."
"It's the realtor. Hello?"
"Hayden, don't get too far ahead."
"Where's Hed'n goin'?"
"Okay."
"That's a good place to wait for us. What does she say?"
"They accepted our offer on the house."
...........................

<splash splash, giggle giggle, splash splash>
"Careful Hayden, don't get water in James' eyes again."
"AAAAHHH! THIS WATER IS IN MY BRAAAAIN!"
"AAAAAHHH!"
<splash splash, giggle giggle, splash splash>
...........................

"Okay, let's say our prayers now. Help me to be loving, obedient,"
"HEY, I KNOW THIS PRAYER TOO!"
"That's right. Do you do it with Nama?"
"I do this prayer with my Grandma. She's your Mom."
"Mm-hm, and James knows it too. Should we say it all together?"
"Help me to be loving, obedient, truthful, and kind, and to keep others in mind. Praise for your glory, thanks for your goodness, forgive me the wrongs I've done, bless my friends and family, and bless me too."
"Love you guys. Sleep so good!"





































































































"AUNT JULIE, I NEED A HUG AND A KISS!!!"

Updates

The day started well. My alarm on my phone went off at 5:45, and when I rolled over to shut it off I saw that my old C trumpet had finally sold on eBay. It's probably been listed half a dozen times by now, and I lowered the auction price by over three hundred dollars over the course of the last month and a half. Someone was messaging me a month ago asking for everything I knew about model 5 mouthpipes. He said he was going to buy it, but never did. Someone else was messaging me last week trying to negotiate a private sale, and he offered me $925. I countered with $950 plus shipping, and never heard back from him. I checked the email to see how much it sold for, and someone had used the Buy It Now...$1300 dollars, and the money had already cleared. When trying to scrape together a down payment, that's some serious good news. I had it in the mail by 11:30 in the morning, and it's off to Arizona now. I hope that whoever bought it likes it. It was a good and faithful horn for me.

We looked at two new houses today, both up in the North Winton/Irondequoit neighborhood. When we left the first place we were talking seriously about putting in a bid. The second was better than any of the locations we'd looked at previously, but not as good as the first. I'm trying not to get too attached to the place we might bid on, so I won't say anything more about it, except that James loved it. (We brought him along today. That went about as well as you'd expect.)

I swing back and forth between the exhilaration of thinking "this is actually going to happen...we're going to be homeowners. We have the income and the credit to pull it off, and we're going to have a place of our own in a few months." Then I think about trying to add closing fees on top of our down payment money (definitely not 20%) and I remember the cover letter I wrote up trying to make excuses for the fact that "even though neither my wife or I have a full time job, you can see from the total sum of our 17 W-2s that we make a comfortable living." Then I think that it just isn't going to happen. No lender in their right mind would give us a loan worth accepting.

Ah, adulthood. I spent about two hours today reading a homebuyers guide from the library and punching in numbers to an amortization schedule. If we don't get the house, the next year or so will be an anxious struggle to stabilize our earning situations, save aggressively, and take auditions. If we do get a house, I'll still be taking auditions, and I'll be constantly checking the amortization schedule and running numbers about tax assessments and equity.

The thing is, this isn't some unique and tragic set of circumstances that demands general sympathy. I think this is just normal adult life. (Maybe this is why adults look so tired.) This process makes me appreciate the people who can find genuine joy in their own skin despite the constant weather of bills and loans and responsibilities battering at their door.

My parents come to mind. Today is their anniversary, and I still hope for nothing more out of my marriage than to resemble them in twenty-odd years. I know that they don't have a perfect marriage and that there must be a hundred undercurrents and troubles I'm never aware of. But just before I got married my Dad told me that he felt sorry for friends of his who dreaded going home to their wives at the end of a long day, and were always looking for an excuse to be out of the house. "And it's always been the other way for me," he said "and at the end of the day we want to be together"

Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad.

In some truly tragical news, James is enacting a small scale German opera whenever he gets up from his afternoon nap. He's almost always bright and bubbly first thing in the morning, but he must sleep heavier in the afternoon, and he is CRANKY lately. Here are some highlights:

"Oh NOOO my bike needs to be in'a kitchen!" <begins to cry>

"Uh-OH, my milk is gone an'I need WATER!" <begins to cry>

"Don't read that book in the yiying room, you must read it in'a kitchen."
"Why can't I read it in the living room?"
"Because...Daddy's gonna practice, and it's gonna be LOUD." <begins to cry>

"Nope, my book is not in the ottoman. I can't find it in the ottoman. Can't. No. No. <shakes head> It's not in there."

In the past we've also heard:

"Oh NOOO somebody cleaned up my mess!"

"I'm hungwy for my breakfast."
"But it's almost time for dinner, little bear. Do you think it's morning?"
"Uh-OH, I need my cereal!"

Quick Hitters

We don't have cable, so whenever I check into a hotel room I put on SportsCenter. There are all sorts of amazing highlights and countdowns and special interest segments that I thoroughly enjoy for about 5 minutes as I kick off my shoes and practice trumpet for a bit. And then, after the 5 minutes are up, I remember why SportsCenter is stupid and we will never pay for cable.

SMITHS GO TO THE LIBRARY
Host 1: Okay, so the Smith Family was out at the Pittsford public library today, let's roll the highlights. Looks like Dad picked up a book on Leopold Stokowski, The Last Days of Pompeii, and in a surprising development you can see him here in the 300 call numbers picking up two books about purchasing a house for the first time. Reactions, guys?

Host 2: Yeah, I think that's a bad idea on his part. Supposedly he's already reading Froissart, and he just isn't going to have time to take care of all of those books before they're due again. I mean, the guy is trying to get up and read Homer and Ovid every morning...he's just overstretched. It isn't gonna happen. He's too old and tired, and he's not going to have time in his reading rotation--and that's not even counting how many times a day he has to read Curious George out loud.

Host 3: I disagree. You know, when I was younger and more important I read books quickly all the time. Of course the tempo of the game and the coaching were different back then, but I set records for how quickly I could read library books. I'd read seven every day. I say he finishes all of those books before they're due again.

Host 1: One other interesting note, it looks like James picked up a Curious George treasury and also Curious George in the Big City and Curious George Makes a Mess, and we can't confirm, but it looks like that DVD that he won't let go of is Dr. Seuss' Green Eggs and Ham.

Host 2: I've got a good source that says that DVD is in fact Green Eggs and Ham, and that he watched it as soon he got home.

Host 3: You know, back in my playing days I took a look through Curious George Makes a Mess, and I tell you, it's the exact same plot as the first part of Curious George Gets a Medal, down to the cow pulling the pump.

2 NEW PROPERTIES

Host 1: Now we have some highlights of two new properties that the Smiths are looking at. Looks like they're going into a yellow house north of the city up here, and then check out this blooper--they drive all the way up to Irondequoit--

Host 2:--yeah, that's not exactly a jog up the street--

Host 1: And they're LOCKED OUT of the property they're trying to visit. Look at them fumbling with the lock. So, sorry guys, you aren't getting in that house today. We'll be seeing that one on the blooper reels all night.

Host 3: Yeah, and the same thing happened to me a couple of times during one of my Pro Bowl years. I went to look at a property and just couldn't get access.

Host 2: I disagree that this was an accident. I say, that they saw how beat up that house looked on the outside and they only PRETENDED they couldn't get in.

J DRINKING COFFEE

Host 1: Well, we've got a follow up on some news that broke the other day. We can officially confirm that J is now a coffee drinker. She's been seen several times this week drinking plain home-brewed coffee in a black mug, albeit with some Bailey's creamer added. Here's a photo of her pouring a french press into a mug, and here she is looking really happy and awake. Guys, what do we think?

Host 2: Well, I can tell you that her husband must be really pleased. He probably regards it as an enormous personal victory that she's finally drinking regular coffee. I'd give him a warning, though. I'd say, "Son, you aren't gonna have enough coffee for yourself if you let your woman take a cup of it every time you brew some."

Host 3: I disagree. I think you're dead wrong on that one, and here's why--I used to make coffee all the time and share it with my wife before I went out and won lots of ball games, and there was always plenty to go around, and do you want to know why? Because if we ran out, I'd just make some more. BOOM, problem solved.

JURY DUTY

Host 1: In some surprising news, we've had it confirmed that R has received a notice of jury duty this week. Our legal team is still unraveling the fine print on this one, but it sounds like he's going to have to call in to a telephone number every night until he's either summoned to appear or he's dismissed from service.

Host 2: Yeah, and I think that there's no way he gets out of this week without having to at least appear at the courtroom. They're already within 200 jurors of his number, and it's only Tuesday--an unpleasant fact, but sorry, you're going to have to make an appearance.

Host 3: You know, I disagree. I think that when you get called for jury duty or you have some kind of substance arrest--you know, I had my fair share of them back in playing days--that all you have to do is just go out and play your game at an all-pro level week in and week out, and you just let the lawyers handle it. I don't think he has anything to worry about.

CHILD HEALTH PLUS

Host 1: And finally, we have some statistics. You can see here R made a phone call to Child Health Plus to enquire about enrollment procedures for the baby due in November, and we ended up with a final time on hold of 23 minutes and 40 odd seconds. A new record, gentlemen...how long do we think this one holds up?

Host 2: I don't think that record is going to hold. With the changes that have been made in the science of the game and the technology, I think that record is gonna be broken by next year.

Host 3: You know, I set the record for everything in every sport multiple times, and I tell ya, records are made to be broken. But you know, this one might stand. I might sound like I'm contradicting myself, but we've just got another couple seconds till we're at the commercial break.

Host 1: And we'll be right back with more gripping analysis after these shoe commercials...

Gig Bag Stories

For some time in my undergraduate degree I didn't have a gig bag at all. I had my B-flat trumpet, my E-Flat trumpet, plus the school's C and piccolo, each in their own hardshell case. Paul must have taken pity on me walking up the hill from wind ensemble trying to hold four bulky single cases and my ensemble folder, because he was the one who showed me an inexpensive double case I could order online.

"It's not going to be super protective," he said "but there are pockets for mouthpieces and music, and this should make your life a little easier."

It did make my life easier, and when I started showing up at Eastman to take summer festival auditions alongside the big bad conservatory kids I felt a little better about my chances when I pulled my trumpets out of a passably-professional looking gig bag. That bag traveled many miles over the next few years. When I'd ride the train back and forth to Chicago I would pack it full of clothes and toiletries so that I wouldn't have to lug around a suitcase. The strap broke more than once, and the inner cloth tore apart where my third valve ring dug into it, opening up big gashes where yellow foam padding could crumble out onto my rolled-up dress shirts.

At some point in graduate school Charlie noticed. Charlie was simultaneously one of the kindest and bluntest people I'd ever met. He would ask if I'd eaten lunch, and when I inevitably said I hadn't gotten around to it yet, he'd give me a $20 and tell me to get some proper food in my stomach. Then he'd tell me my sound was ugly and I needed to play in tune. I imagine that he saw snowdrops of stale yellow bag-foam falling out of my bell in some lesson, and he asked me about my gig bag.

"How old is that thing?"
"Uh, I've had it for a few years now."
"It looks terrible. There's no way your horns can be safe in there. Plus, you must be really embarrassed to carry it around."
"Well, I have had to have a couple of dents taken out."
"Have you looked at getting a Marcus Bona bag? Or a torpedo? You could get a quad and then you wouldn't need to carry around multiple cases all the time."
"Oh, I know. I really like those Brass Bags. They're a little out of my price range, though."
"I see."

Next week, Charlie had his trumpets in a brand now snazzy looking red leather bag. His old gray bag was sitting empty by my chair.

"Well, there you go. Larry Black and I made that bag together back in the early sixties. Barbara wanted to get me a new bag for Christmas anyway, she thinks my old one is ugly. So, there you go."
"Are you serious? This is a triple!"
"Yup, and it's a good bag. It'll fit above or below an airline seat and I never get dings in my horns. It's pretty old, but I put in a couple of cans of spray paint so you can match the color if you want."
"Charlie, I don't even know what to say...thank you so much."
"Not a problem. Now, let's talk about all those high notes you missed in solo class earlier..."

And suddenly, I had not only a great sturdy triple bag, but an actual historical artifact; a bag that had played second trumpet to Bud Herseth's gig bag in Chicago, a bag that hundreds of professional trumpeters across the country would recognize from when Charlie perched above their toes with a hammer to keep them from tapping while they played.

The next week, Charlie caught me in the hall.
"Well, I told Barbara that I gave you my old bag, and she says you have to give it back."
"Oh..what?"
"Yes, she's right that we can't just give things away free to some students and not to others. And, this bag was worth a lot of money."
"Oh, well...okay. Do you know how much she thinks it's worth?"
"No, we didn't talk about that. But here's what I think--why don't you pay me $1 for the bag and don't say anything about it, and now you've bought it from me, right?"
"That sounds like a deal."

I showed it to J the next time I was home in Rochester.

"That is seriously ugly. It looks like somebody stitched together a dead elephant hide."
"Right, but it's very protective."
"How? The zippers don't even work. Doesn't look safe to me."
"It is. And it's a historical artifact."
"...it is definitely old."

And so, we got married and the gig bag entered our marriage. It turned out that it wasn't perfectly safe. The insides began to rip after a while, and my trumpets did occasionally get dinged up, although not nearly with the frequency as my other gig bag experiences. I brought the elephant bag onstage with me to dozens of gigs, and got various reactions, all of which are true:

"Hey, that looks like one of Larry Black's bags!"
"Geez, that bag looks like it could disintegrate at any moment."
"So, your wife is still letting you carry that around, eh?"
"The photographer has asked that you move your bag backstage so that it doesn't end up in the pictures."
"I really think it's time you got a new gig bag."
"Did you just come from the gym or something? Oh, that's a gig bag!"

J in particular has worked long and hard to get me to make a switch, and this year she finally won out. For my birthday we ordered a beautiful Brass Bags quad case. It shipped from the UK and came in this afternoon. Everything about it is pristine, and it's going to be the first non-hardshell case I've stored my beautiful new C trumpet in. Apparently J was scheming about this as far back as July, when I bought the new trumpet. I was testing it out with Paul, and he kept on asking me about whether I liked his roller case or not, and what sorts of bags I liked. At the time, I thought to myself "I'm about to drop $2500 on a new trumpet, why do you keep on showing me the zippers on your bag?"

But now I know--my lovely scheming wife was coming up with a present. And she, finally, after all these years, has succeeded in getting me to stop lugging an elephant bag through airports, churches, and symphony halls. Time for the Charlie bag to retire to a glass case displayed prominently in our living room.

Stress Test

It's interesting to see how people handle stress. Stress, in the psychological sense, is a handy fairly modern word from stringo (?) which covers a lot of phenomena. For example, I am considering buying a house this week. This decision is straining, stretching, stringing, and altogether stressing (maybe it's from distressing) me. A LOT of money rests on this decision, and it's stressful to think about sums with so many zeroes after them. The idea of being responsible for the upkeep of a property weighs heavily on me. I am keenly aware that I know very little about evaluating real estate or real estate transactions, and I'm trying not to be taken advantage of. The amount of money we'd spend in closing costs will probably tie us down the Rochester area (which we love) for several years, but if we don't buy a house we're going to waste thousands of dollars in rent that could be building equity. This all forms a roiling knot of stress in the pit of my stomach, and I'm not handling it particularly well. I'm being more than usually braggy and stupid in pretty much every conversation I have with J, and I am highly distracted.

Thi is how our typical house-hunting conversation goes:

J: Oh, take a look at this one.
R: Which one?
J: This one. I'll send it to you.
R: Didn't you send this one earlier?
J: No, that was the other one.
R: Okay, I've got it.
J: Actually, this one is really nice too.
R: Wait a sec, I just got the other one.
J: Which one?
R: The white one.
J: Which white one? I sent you two.
R: Wait, what?
J: Oh, check out the back yard on this one?
R: The second white one?
J: No, this one's a little further north. It's by that other one I sent you.
R: Wait, what?

To be fair, this is how J remembers that conversation:

J: Oh, I like this one. I'm sending it to you now. It's a red colonial off of Winton. Will you send it to the realtor if you like it?
R: <watches the Bills game in stony silence>
J: Has it come in yet?
R: <sighs, then glances at phone and makes noncommital noise>
J: Okay, well I'm going to send you another one too. This one is towards the top of our price range, but it has a really nice yard.
R: Dangit.
J: Do you think that's too expensive?
R: No, EJ just looks terrible.
J: You know this is only the preseason
R: <watches the beer commercials in silent sorrow>

J is also stressed. She is stressed about the house, and she is stressed about pushing an enormous 30 pound baby out of 10 centimeter aperture in less than three months, and she is stressed about not fitting into any of her clothes any more. In my opinion, this should be the least stressful stressors of all the stressings, because she still looks great and she went back to being skinny really quick after she gave birth to James. But it's not my stress, so I don't get any say in how she deals with it, which is fair. For a while I was extolling the strength of her charms and in her particular the ample preparations that mother nature makes for a soon-to-be nursing mother, but then after several subtle hints (like being told directly) I discerned that constantly and tactlessly hitting on J like a randy teenager might not be particularly what she needs to feel de-stressed these days. What she needs to feel de-stressed, after four weeks of vacation food, is lots of fruits and vegetables plus daily walks and yoga. The switch from camp food and Grandma's house to fruits and vegetables brings us to our last member of the household:

James, who just got back from four weeks of vacation, is having a stressful re-entry into normal life. Between Csehy, the cabin, and Grandma's house, he ate snacks just about whenever he wanted, was always able to find a doting adult who could look after his every need, did lots of fun and exciting new things every day, and pretty much forgot about his whole schedule of going to bed at a reasonable time of night. So far he has thrown food at both of us, refused to eat three meals, and dumped every single box of neatly organized toys into heaps on the floor. (Last week's dream of a clean house seems so far away.) He screams and cries whenever I practice, he's talking back, and he's giving violent resistance to the new potty-training and healthy eating routines, and has started referring to every object that enters his brain with the possessive first personal pronoun. ("Daddy, I'm'a go into my yiying room [living room] and watch George on my TV with my George and eat my ice cream on my couch.")

So, we're going to try not to hurt each other over the next few weeks. Probably in three months time most of this will be forgotten. We'll be in a clean and spacious three bedroom house in the suburbs that looks to appreciate 10% every year, J will be a svelte and glowing mother of a beautiful boy (born perfectly healthy at 5 lbs, 1 oz) and James will be a proud big brother munching on organic vegetables as he welcomes you at the door and tells you that you are not welcome in "his" house.

Mr. and Mrs.

J and I pulled out of the driveway about 9:30. We were going to get some pictures from a friend later, so she'd pulled her hair into a cute arrangement and was wearing a brand new top and jeans. I was dressed up too, and most importantly, there was no car seat or child in the back of the Yaris. James was with Grandma and we had the entire morning to ourselves.

Even if you've lived with her for seven years it's a little startling to be alone with a pretty girl when nearly all the time you spend with her is in the constant (perhaps, incessant?) company of a two year old boy. We held hands as we drove into Hanover, and talked about the most romantic of topics: mortgages. Actually we talked about down payments and closing costs and reasonable emergency funds, and I tried to do lots of math in my head.

We were at Kohl's first, spending some "free money" that turned into a track jacket and athletic pants for me so that I can keep up my running routine in the fall. We slowly started laughing together more and suppressed the instinct to give a panicked check around for where James might have wandered off.

I started to show off as we drove into Gettysburg. I teased her a bit, and tried to find ways to make her call me "professor," and when an email came into my phone from the auditions coordinator of the New York Phil I talked confidently about winning the job and whisking us off to the big city. We picked up coffee, drove through the main circle, parked, scrounged around the car for quarters, and walked about Gettysburg.

Gettysburg isn't exactly our sort of place. Neither of us are particularly into the Civil War or military history. We walked by lots of shops full of antiques and reenactment equipment, but mostly we just talked to each other. We walked by the courthouse where we filled out our marriage license, and browsed in the public library. We went into a Christian bookstore that was playing the 1812 Overture, and we sang the inner voices as we thumbed through the shelves.

After we'd been all through the square we hiked about a quarter mile west to the restaurant where we'd eaten our first meal on our honeymoon. We stayed just outside of Gettysburg the first night and didn't go out again until the following evening. After poking around the battlefields for a half an hour or so we stumbled onto this restaurant, and we both had fond memories of it. The service was bustling, and the room was filled with the sounds of clinking glasses. One of us had ordered crab imperial and the other filet mignon. It was the perfect romantic evening.

"I think it's up there!"
"Yes, that's definitely the place. It's coming back now."
"I remember it looked long. Let's go in."
"Okay, but let's not tell them we ate here on our honeymoon and this is our first time back."

Would we like a table or a booth? A booth would be fine. Although, to be perfectly honest, the booth looked a little dingy. I looked over to the other side of the dining room and saw the table area where we ate seven years ago. Yes, it was certainly there.

There was no sound of clinking glass or the bustle of a dinner rush. The blinds were pulled shut, and everything looked drab. A few old men in the corner were talking about the movies and some car repairs.

J ordered crab imperial, and I ordered crab legs. We are out of crab legs, sir. The scallops? Sure, and your sides? How are the mashed potatoes? They're real, they're good. I'll have a salad and the mashed potatoes.

J and I looked at each other.

"I'm sure this is the same place, but this isn't how I remembered it."
"Well, it was the dinner rush then."

The salads came, two plates of wilting white iceberg lettuce. J picked at hers slowly while I munched on the crutons.

"You know, we hadn't eaten anything since our reception the night before. Maybe we thought it was so good because we were really, really hungry."
"No, I'm sure it was good. I remember that steak. And I remember that crab imperial. It was good."

The main dishes came out, perhaps a little too quickly. J took a nervous bite of the mashed potatoes. I took a bite of my mashed potatoes. They were absolutely from a box. She took a bite of her crab imperial.

"It's cold. It's barely warm. I think they must have just reheated it from last night or something."

I looked down at my scallops. They were little balls of fried dough. I took a bite and found something white and fish-like inside. It kind of tasted like a fish-stick.

"Should...should we say something?"
"I don't think so...I think that maybe this place isn't as good as we remembered."
"These potatoes taste like plastic. I'm not sure I'm going to finish this."

The waitress came over.
"Is everything okay?"
J and I make hesitating eye contact. It isn't her fault.
"Yes, it's fine, thanks."

As she walks away I start to giggle, and she plays with her food a bit. The old men are still talking about movies in thick southern accents, and I giggle harder. I try to eat some more of my fish sticks.

We got the check, had a good laugh on the way back, and found a pub. J wanted cheesecake, and I wanted a beer. We ordered some crab dip and promptly felt real full, and halfway through the meal the waitress came over and told J she was all out of every single dessert.

I'm not sure that the pretty girl on my arm had a good meal on our date, but we did have a good time.

We also did have a lovely photo shoot with her brother's friend, and she promised to do a guest blog about it. She's pregnant, though, and she fell asleep tonight before she got around to it. So you'll just have to ask her in person why she had tape on her boobs all evening.

Rough Morning

Things I wouldn't let James do this morning:

Push around his lawn mower in the street

Run in the street

Walk in other people's yards

Play basketball with the unripe tomatoes

Mow the neighbor's yards

Throw unripe tomatoes in the neighbor's yards

Put the outgoing mail in the neighbor's mailboxes

Check the neighbor's mailboxes for incoming mail

Play drums on Grandma's kitchen table

Be outside for 100% (instead of 90%) of the morning

Throw footballs overhand at his great-grandfather

Throw mega-blocks overhand at his great-grandfather

Use unopened toilet paper packs to build a step into his pack and play

Leave the train that he constructed out of unopened toilet paper packs up for his nap

Eat four dozen (instead of three dozen) unripe green grapes

Open the shed and get out the riding mower

Open the garage door

Play near the bee's nest

Eat fruit salad without eating his avocado first

Sit at the table without helping clean up

Yank on Mommy's hand repeatedly while she was sitting at the table

Put on his pants while he was trying to kick me in the stomach

Eat potato chips for breakfast

Eat pretzels for breakfast

Watch two (instead of one) episodes of Curious George

Play drums on Grandma's plant

Check the ceramic pig for cookies

....he may be a little vacationed out.

Not So Different

I.
I've been up reading for about the last hour and a half, mostly from texts that are over 2,000 years old. This morning I was reading about:

People resent having to pay taxes, but they'll do it anyway

The joy of having good, loyal dogs, with some history of their parentage and distinct appearances

The sort of trouble you have when you go unto in unfamiliar city and are trying to find your way around for the first time

Watching a parade go by on a holiday

Trying to back down gracefully from a contest that you've been put up for but you know you have no chance to win. (Without looking like a coward in public)

II.
Calvus-
Matt 18 runs like this:
1 In that hour the disciples came to Jesus saying Who then is greatest in the kingdom of the heavens? 2 And calling a paidion he stood him in their midst 3 And said Amen I say to you, unless you turn and become as ta paidia, in now way will you enter unto the kingdom of the heavens. 4 Consequently (oun) whoever would lower himself as to paidion, he is the greatest in the kingdom of the heavens. 5 And if any would receive one paidion such as this in my name, he receives me.

Do you think that slave might be a better translation than child for this passage? Is there supposed to be an ambiguity there? The LSJ entry for pais says 1) in relation to Descent child (with special reference to the father) 2) in relation to Age child, boy or girl, and 3) in relation to Condition, slave. The entry for the diminutive form (paidion) doesn't differentiate those usages, but has "young slave" as a possible translation.

It appears to me to make more sense to interpret Jesus' command as an injunction to become as servants/slaves more than to become "as children." What do you think?

III.
James is mostly very happy to have me back. He loves being outside at Grandma's house and in her various gardens. There are three tomato (tomayo) plants that he is busy harvesting whether red, orange, or green, and then throwing through their stands. (Ba-ball hoops.) He can't get into the netting around her blueberries, but he climbs under the blackberry nets and picks anything ripe. (This one's ready, Daddy. I'm'a eat it. This one is not ready.) But the best part of Grandma's garden is the grapevine, full of purple concord clusters. I think that short of my wife there's nothing more beautiful than a cluster of ripe grapes. James appears to agree.

I Samuel 8

But the Lord said to Samuel, Listen to the voice of the people in all which they are saying to thee, yet bear witness to them and foresay to them the law of owning a house which will be over them.

And thus Samuel said all the words of the Lord to the people which sought from him to buy a house, and he said:

This is the law of buying a house which shall be to you. They sons will take up drumsticks and beat them against thy walls, and it shall be up to thee to replace the wallpaper and the drywall, and they shall make markings of crayons and markers upon the same

And there will be established on you school taxes, even though you homeschool, and also shall you pay insurance and thine own utilities, not to mention closing costs and the fees of thy realtors

And thy daughters also, shouldst thou have any, will seek of thee to paint their rooms anew, though the paint be as precious as gold and thou would have no idea how to paint in any fashion

But thy money and thy credit will be given to repairs and to upgrades, and thy wife will demand of thee that the kitchen shouldst be upgraded and that thou madest pledge to her of fixing the bathroom although there is to thee no remembrance of such covenant

Thy books as well shall be in boxes in the basement, yet that basement will flood and thou will make effort to deliver them barefooted and in thy underwear, lo, even though it be midwinter will thy basement flood as the waters cover the sea

And when the wintertime cometh thou shalt shovel thine own snowy driveways, and surely in the spring thou shalt clean thine own gutters, and in all season will thou payest utilities, and the neighbor kids will steal thy trash cans.

And you will clamor in that day before the face of thy house which thou boughtest with the gold of the bank, and the Lord will not hear thee, for even at his heavenly house he must needs mow his own grass each week

But the people did not hear the voice of Samuel, but they said surely shall our own house be unto us, and we will be owners over it just as the gentiles, and our house will be our own, and it will be over us and keepest us warm in the winter

And Samuel heard all the words of the people and spoke them in the ears of the Lord. But the Lord said to Samuel, listen to their voice and establish over them a Realtor, and Samuel spoke to the men of Israel, and each departed unto his own city.

Close Calls

6:45
I've already been up since 5:30, first reading over at Bruegger's and then back home to take care of a few minor to-dos before rehearsal this morning. I have "one for the road" with me, a second large cup of morning coffee that costs me nothing since I have the Bottomless Mug card. (It's going to be really hard to give this up at the end of the year.)

I sit down at my desk with the laptop and print out an application form to the PSLF program, which would potentially forgive the balance of my student loans. Feeling cheerful about the prospect I sip my still mostly untouched coffee and stand up to get a stamp out of our mail box. I print the letter, address the envelope, and check on the other side of the desk to see if there's anything else that requires the laptop on my to-do list. One line says "Look up possible dates/activities with J for next week." I swivel back to my chair to do a google search, and as I move my hand, this happens.

The world stands still. I can see individual drops of coffee sloshing into the laptop keypad and a slow moving puddle spreading from the j-k-l cluster over towards asdf and down towards the arrow keys. In that paused moment in time I snap out of my shock and yank the coffee cup back upright with one hand while flipping the laptop on its side with the other and emptying the coffee onto the carpet.

Idiot, don't spill it on the carpet!
Better the carpet than the laptop!
Turn the power off!
The power is off...it needs to dry.
How do I dry it?
Turn the fan on, blast the fan!
What about the carpet?
Worry about the carpet later, take care of the laptop!
Make sure it's upside down so that if anything is left in there it can drain out.
Where's my phone?
Look up what to do if you spill coffee on your laptop?
What about the carpet?
Where's the carpet cleaner?

An agonizing 30 minutes pass. With two fans cranked to their highest setting beside the laptop. I almost call J, then decide against it. This is no way to start your morning.

7:15
I put the laptop back on the desk and press the power button. It turns on. I open up a word document and press all the keys that might've been affected by the spill. They all work fine.

8:00
I can't find my wallet. I can't find it anywhere. It isn't on the desk. It isn't in my pocket. It isn't in the basket by the door. I didn't leave it on my dresser or my nightstand. Did I leave it at Bruegger's? I had it with me at Bruegger's, even though I didn't buy anything. It can't be in the car. It's not in my trumpet case. It's not in my jeans from yesterday. It isn't in my tux coat from yesterday. It isn't on the bed. It isn't on the ottoman. It isn't anywhere? It must be at Bruegger's. I have to get over there, but it's sort of cold, so I'd better....put on a jacket. It's in my jacket.

8:15
I'm leaving a little later than I want to, but I should still get to rehearsal in plenty of time. I grab my keys out of the basket by the door and stuff them in my pocket...at least I had no trouble finding my keys. I pick up my trumpet and my lunchbox, and step outside. I set down my lunchbox to close the door, and just as it's about to latch I realize that I heard a tiny "clink" sound as I put my keys in my pocket. I open the door again and look on the kitchen floor. There, somehow separated from everything else on my key ring, is my sole house key, which I was just about to lock inside the house.

11:45
I'm on my way back from rehearsal, which was fine. I'm just passing the Batavia exit on the thruway, and there's been some slow-up because of the construction. I have a podcast playing from the LSE, and after 15 minutes of brake-lights and a jogging pace I'm ready to go the speed limit again. Finally we reach a spot where there are two lanes of traffic, and everyone speeds up to 65 again. Ah, the open road. I see off to my right that someone was enjoying the open road a little too much...they got pulled over. I pull over to the left lane to avoid the pulled over vehicles. Something is happening in front of me, but I can't tell what. All of a sudden the car two ahead completely stops and pulls off hard to the left, trying to avoid hitting something in front of it. The car in front of that car slams on it's brakes, and I slam on mine, but we're still all too close together--I wrench back to my right, praying that there's nothing speeding behind me in the right lane and bracing to get rear-ended. Nothing happens. No one pulls off, but all three cars ahead of me accelerate again, and I shift to first, start from my dead stop, and feel my hands tremble with adrenaline. I still have no idea what made them all brake so suddenly.

12:45
I'm in downtown Pittsford waiting for a walk signal to cross the road. A middle-school aged girl with her elementary-school aged brother walk up and press the button to cross the adjacent street. They are chatting as the traffic glides by, and then they get a walk sign. The boy steps out, and a big pick-up truck turning right roars out of the red light without looking at all where he's going. The boy is still talking as his sister yanks him back onto the pavement so hard that he falls down. The truck is off onto Monroe Avenue without even seeing what happened.

Everybody take care out there today, okay?

The Plan, Completed

Well, mostly completed. The cleaning part is done, anyway.

That's right--I am sitting in a clean house. The rubbermaid container overflowing with copies of trumpet excerpts has been repacked in alphabetical order and stowed in a closet. The bathroom sink and the kitchen table have been scraped, sanitized, and wiped down. The books have been straightened. All the mail has been answered. The bed has been made. If James and J were to walk in at this very instant, this house would be completely ready for habitation.

But it isn't, quite yet. I'm still catching little things that have been broken or a little out of order for so long that I can't see them unless I force myself to, like the screen in the kitchen window. It's been slightly out of it's track since the Spring, but I got so used to it that I didn't even notice it was wrong. I suspect that there are still some out-of-place screens in this house, but I'll have to really look to track them down.

What I'd really like to do, though, is borrow M's brain for about 24 hours. I wish that I could have the house really looking special for when they get back. If M was here she'd have transformed the bathroom with Chinese lanterns and streamers and possibly a trap bookcase. So far I've put out a sheet of Thomas the Train stickers for James, and that's been about it.

The past few days have actually been quite a revelation for me. I used to make almost no effort to keep my room tidy in college, which actually wasn't as bad as you'd think--I had about a week's worth of clothes, a sleeping bag, and nothing else except books. The worst that could happen would be that the books would get into the sleeping bag and the laundry. (This happened regularly.)

Then I became married to a woman, and all of a sudden there were fantastic luxuries like proper dishes in my life. This made my living quarters much more elegant, but also much more prone to degradation and mess. J, who was not particularly fastidious about keeping her college dorm clean either, did a good job of making sure that we kept up with our apartment, which was much too small to accommodate a Protestant wedding's worth of gifts. (Thank you to everyone, by the way. I appreciate eating my food off of real dishes and other lovely gifts.)

This is all to say that I have learned the immense value of keeping house. I have learned that how you present your home is part of how you present yourself in adult life, and that the state of your life is often reflected by the state of your living space...and that putting things back together or letting them fall apart is a whole life phenomenon.

With that said, it is also painfully obvious that a perfectly clean apartment without a wife or a two-year old lincoln-log-hurling, baseball-playing, tricycle-riding, mud-tracking, pillow-throwing menace is no home at all. It's an empty room that's only remotely interesting because of the possibility that they might come back.

So how do you say welcome back to your wife and your little monster? M, how would you do it? (I've actually already copied your Chinese lanterns idea.) If anyone has an idea text or message me...I'll just be waiting here in a clean house.

Alternate Universe

"And tonight in our sports segment we bring you live to the campus of St. John Fisher College, where the RPO is conducting their training camp and excitement for the new year has reached a fever pitch. Here's our sports and orchestra correspondent."

"Thanks, Jim. The players arrived here yesterday to crowds and cheering as they moved into the dorms. Everyone was excited to see the players taking the field for the first practice this afternoon, and many eyes were on the newest high profile member of the orchestra, their talented young bassoonist. Now the players haven't put on their tuxedos yet, but you can see most of the orchestra members wearing suits and ties as they practice scales and arpeggios on the sidelines. There are a few musicians, like the second trombone, who are nursing some minor injuries and will be held out of drills and exercises until they are cleared by a medical staff that fusses over them and then reports to the press. In the meantime, we're expecting big crowds for the night practices. There are rumors that we'll be seeing some chamber music and perhaps even a reading of a small symphony as early as next week, and as always, the players will be signing autographs afterwards. RPO merchandise can be purchased in the big tent, and we'll be providing hourly updates on the radio."

"Thanks Steve, that's the RPO at St. John Fisher all this week. If you'd like to attend a rehearsal, you'll need a free ticket from Tops or Sunoco, and the bus from one of the satellite locations costs one dollar. And now to weather..."

The Plan, Updated

Well, the house is a lot cleaner.

I was up at 5:30, and I worked like a man possessed by the knowledge that this would be the only the week all year when he could clean, email, and errandize without a two year old actively making new messes in his wake. ("Ooh Daddy, I knocked that over!")

This is the sort of stuff I did today--we had a crock pot that was given to us as a wedding present, and it sat in J's closet for seven years. (We had another, lesser crock pot.) When we became a three-person-solid food-family we decided to get the nice wedding crock pot out of storage. We used it once and enjoyed a delicious roast. Then J washed it, dried it, and put it away in the pantry. (Or, the "pankry" as James calls it. As in "the yakum cleaner needs to go back in the pankry, Daddy.")

Anyway, the next time J went into the pankry she found that the glass cover to the once-used crock pot had shattered. We guessed that there must have been enough moisture left that it created a seal with the temperature fluctuation, and the pressure burst the glass. Either that or a wizard put a curse on it. Either explanation would be perfectly valid. J, being pregnant, left the dangerous glassy mess for me to pick up. I did not clean up the mess, because my interactions with the pankry are limited to 1) getting crackers out 2) getting beer out, or 3) taking the recycling down to the garage doors. (Actually I take it down to the recycling bin, but that's not why James comes with me.)

So the crock pot sat with a burst glass lid inside of it for about a month while neither of us cleaned it up. But today, since James wasn't here, I could clean up the glass mess. I was very careful and didn't cut myself at all. I got all the glass into the trash can, cleaned the ceramic crock out in the sink, dug through our file box and found the owner's manual, found the warranty, looked up the model number, and emailed the company. (They emailed back an hour later saying that our model had been discontinued and they no longer provided replacement parts.)

But the point is that I got that job done. That sort of thing would be impossible with James around. He would need to read a George, or to go outside and mow, or to tell me about how George wanted to watch the tractor mow, or about how the tractor thought George was funny. I worked with no interruptions. I had Beethoven on in the background. It was glorious.

I sorted through the rest of the pankry and tossed out old Halloween candy and bags of cereal that had been left 90% finished for months. I washed all of the dirty dishes. I sorted the tupperware cabinet. I sorted the mail tray and paid all the bills. I dusted the tops of the cabinets. I wiped out the microwave and the top of the stove. (There was a lot of grease, and I have no idea where it all came from.) I cleaned out the fridge and threw away old bottles of salad dressing that expired before James was born. I put all the measuring cups in one kitchen drawer.

It was hard to keep up with myself, actually. I had that huge three page list to live up to, and there was so much to do that I ended up tripping over myself. For example, I recently got an updated license. It's very official looking, and it even has my current address on it, not to mention a little heart signifying that I am an organ donor, and hence, a person of high moral excellence. I had put my old license in the little basket where we drop our keys and wallets as we go in and out. (Really it's full of old hairclips and necklaces, but theoretically it should be for keys and wallets.) I knew that I should take my old license down to the storage unit and put it in the box where I keep old documents that might be a federal crime to throw away. (For example, this is where I keep my expired insurance cards and my college ID)

I figured I'd take my old license down to the storage unit when I took the third load of trash out. (I threw away a LOT of trash today.) I put it in my pocket, and I even put it in the same pocket as my keys so I would remember it was there when I pulled out my keys to come back in from the garage.

I came back upstairs without going to the storage unit.

So I took a load of laundry downstairs, and figured I'd have to go into the storage unit anyway to get the detergent. Which I did. But without putting the old license away.

"Okay," I said to myself as I realized that the license was still in my pocket "I'm going to go downstairs again to put away this stack of music that I don't need, and THIS time I will remember to put away my license."

And that time I remembered to put away the music and the license. But when I got back to the top of the stairs I couldn't remember whether I'd actually turned the washing machines on or not, so I had to go back down and check. When I get old, I may be in really tough shape.

I put away all the candles (of which we have LOTS) that were out in the kitchen. I cleaned out the toaster. I put away the stack of Julie's music that had been on the clav. I sorted James' toys. I put away all of my books that were lying around in piles. I dusted the tops of the shelves. I sent a bunch of emails. I called a mortgage specialist. I refilled our laundry card. I went to the bank. I went to the library. I went to the liquor store and bought a bottle of wine as a present. I went to the craft store and bought a frame. I went to the grocery store and got some food for the week. I flipped six loads of laundry and then folded them all. I practiced for an hour and a half. I went for a run. I vacuumed the whole house. I mopped the kitchen floor. I scrubbed the bathroom.

And still, there's more on the list. Some of the projects have been fun. I bought magnets as a possible solution to the "beer cap" problem, and discovered that magnets do not stick to mirrors. (That makes no sense, since they both start with the letter M.) Magnets do, however, stick to other magnets that are on the other side of the mirror.

Tomorrow I'll have more to tackle. I'm going to try to sort the endless piles of my music that are currently in the storage unit. I'm going to clean James' wagon. I'm going to clean my trumpets, and I may even yet write that curriculum map. (Kind of doubtful, though.)

And do you know what I think, at the end of the Most Productive Day of All Time?

I miss James. I miss him making a mess and doing his own thing completely single-mindedly and being a two year old boy. Apparently there's a tent at the lake house where he's staying, and he's set up inside of it with Deedee and Oo-Ah and every wordly possession he holds dear, which apparently includes the Mancala marbles. I would so much rather be with him and with J.

Phooey.

The Plan

Well, James and J are gone for the week. The plan is that I'm going to get a lot of stuff done here. I'm going to get up early and go running and read and practice until the neighbors start banging down the door. I'm going to deep clean the house. I'm going to take care of all the tiny to-dos and errands that you can't do with a two year old in tow, and I'm going to get our lives ready for the new year.

We'll see how it goes.

I have a three page to do list next to me. Here are some highlights.

Mop kitchen floor
Can't usually do this, because it is a high traffic tricycle zone. Basically anything you try to do in the kitchen is dangerous around here. In order to put something in the microwave, you ought to be wearing one of those orange safety vests and set several cones around you. But it wouldn't matter, because a tiny person on a tricycle would still come roaring by and run over your bare foot (which still hurts, by the way) as he makes his way around for another circuit.

Wash, fold, and stow ALL LAUNDRY
You can tell I meant business when I wrote this because I put ALL LAUNDRY in caps. This is a hard job right now because J is pregnant, which means that she has about three pregnancy wardrobes lying on our bedroom floor. (Hers, her friends, and her sisters.) She's constantly trying stuff on and taking it off, since what fits one week no longer fits but what didn't fit the last week might fit now. Also, she isn't sure whether she likes this particular shirt or that particular pair of pants, so she tries on a couple of different things whenever she gets dressed, and usually just throws them back on the heap once they are done. So basically, she has a good idea of what's clean and what fits, but I am completely lost. My plan is just to wash all the clothes, fold them, and put them in her closet.

Vacuum all areas (including behind sofa)
Because usually when I vacuum James bursts into tears and hides in the closet. Hence, I try to keep it as short as possible.

System for beer caps
I don't really need a system for beer caps, I just made a slight code for "J's hair accessories and random jewelry that are lying on her nightstand, the kitchen counter, the dresser, and the bathroom sink" because, like beer caps, they are everywhere and she no longer sees them. I am in the market for some sort of wooden jewelry chest to put on her dresser. Or perhaps, an industrial sized magnet that I could mount next to the bathroom mirror. Haven't decided which system to use yet.

Curriculum map
I was supposed to write this and hand it in for my Lima job back in November, I think. I may or may not get to it.

Discharge excess keys
I have at least 30 keys riding along on my key ring, and some of them I have no idea what they or for or where they came from. A bunch of them were Hochstein keys, but I figured out which ones I needed the last time I was in the office there and left all the unnecessary ones on the receptionist's desk. It was a very liberating feeling. If I can't figure out what the key is for, it's coming off and going in an envelope down in the storage unit. I realize that I am running the risk that I may put away a key to a safe deposit box taken out in my name with hitherto unknown large sums of money, but that is a risk I am willing to take

Mount JAMES picture
Dad did a great photo for us of James holding up all the different letters of his name, and then ordered a print. We got it almost a year ago, and said to ourselves "let's get that framed and hung right away." We had company coming over, so I put it behind the clavinova. I remember it's there about once a month, usually when I'm driving somewhere. Time to get that up on the wall.

New eBay items
I've been very active lately selling old mouthpieces and unused trumpet gear on eBay, mostly out of guilt about buying my first ever brand new trumpet. (Which I love.) I know I have at least one more box of random trumpet detritus down in the storage unit, and apparently there are people out there on the internet who are willing to pay for this stuff and the shipping to get it to them. One man's trash, I suppose. Sadly, my C trumpet hasn't sold yet, but that's okay. It needs a minor repair, and that's also on the to-do list.

Stow James' toys
Every couple of months we go through James' toys and put away some of the talking/annoying ones in his closet. I don't know why, but he regards his closet with some pretty serious circumspection. (Does he think there's a monster in there?) He has no problem digging through the bathroom cupboards, the tupperware drawer, or my nightstand, but he won't get into his closet unless I open the door for him. When he does, however, he usually pulls out all the toys that we were trying to hide from him.

There are lots of other items too, and I'll be getting up at 5 AM tomorrow to start in on the list. Updates to follow!