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!"

5/27-6/9

As usual, I am posting in haste and trying to keep pace with the day-to-day business  of the past few weeks. I had planned to write much more about my profound reflections; I spend a great deal of time in contemplation and argument, but a blog is unhelpful without computer access, or in the case of the past two weeks, being out of the state. Here are, however, some of the more important personal happenings of late:

We celebrated, amidst the preparations for Calvus and Bekah’s wedding, Blessed Mother’s and Kaitlyn’s birthday.

I played two weeks with the BPO, the first a patriotic pops show, and the second their classics finale, the Verdi Requiem. Verdi was more satisfying musically, of course, but I prefer sitting in the middle of the orchestra to waiting offstage. Not only did I play many more notes in the pops concert, but I got to sit in the thick of the sound. There was cornet (extra money!) and some assistant principal playing…all very much fun. Still, we were excused from two of the four Verdi rehearsals; I can’t complain about that either.

I finished Scott’s Antiquary and N.T. Wright’s Jesus and the Victory of God.  I knew N.T. Wright was important; I didn’t know, before this book that he might be historically important. I can’t think of a book published in the past 100 years more theologically significant than this one. Even you disagreed with him, any systematic theology to come will have to account for his work. While I was in PA I had a good discussion with J’s Father about the nature of biblical authority as it relates to this article, and we talked quite a bit about eschatology and dispensationalism.

I’ve also been reading Romans, Livy, Iliad 5, and the Summa Contra Gentiles.  I may read some Henry V today, but my teaching schedule (at least in Albion) will be much heavier than it was yesterday.

My trips were mainly related to auditions. I drove to New London, CT two Mondays ago to audition for the Coast Guard band. It was a long trip (400 miles) and I did it the same day as the prelims…perhaps unwise, but I did play well. I had dinner with an old trumpet friend from Chicago after being advanced (he is also a Christian, recently married, and looking for steadier work than freelancing) and then found a hotel for the evening. I played well in the semis, but wasn’t advanced. The committee was kind enough to send comments, and their principal concern was time, especially in the J. Williams Summon the Heroes solo.

Last Sunday after the BPO concert (which was made inaccessible by a lesbian parade, and also some foul mouthed “Christian” protestors) I drove to J’s parents, and then the next morning to Washington D.C. Our GPS, Rhonda, needs updating very badly. She is perpetually confused about where the new and altered roads are going, and attempted several times during the morning drive in to re-route me against the flow of a one-way street. Perhaps she’s trying to kill me off. I didn’t play very well in the NSO prelims; accurate, but without real convincing character or authority. Instead of driving straight to New York, I spent another night with J’s parents, which was very agreeable.

I drove back to New York (knowing, fortunately, the entire way without Rhonda’s assistance) and made it back in enough time to teach a Hochstein student who never showed up.  The following morning I started a long-term substitute position in Albion, covering middle school vocal music. 

I vaguely remember watching the movie Sister Act (n.b. boyfriend duty) at some point, and commenting afterwards that the arrangement they sang of the Ode to Joy was near blasphemy. Justly, I now have to conduct this piece on a chorus concert. (And when I say conduct, I mean stand around and pretend that I’m into it…there’s no actual point to beating time.) The other selections are just as bad. It’s rather a grating welcome back to public school life after spending most of the past two weeks in concert halls. Still, the weather is warm, and the end is in sight. It will be a sore test to get through the next few weeks. Yesterday I taught until 2:30, started teaching at Hochstein at 3, and then immediately rushed from Hochstein to a rehearsal at 7. 

Needless to say, I haven’t seen much of J recently. We’re very glad to have Cheryl M. visiting us this week, so she’s had some company. Still, I’ll be glad to have an evening meal with her soon. And then, after school is out, even if I’m unemployed, I won’t have 1) CPC choir or 2) quite so much private teaching…come swiftly, summer!

Easter to the Present

It's only been a week and change since my last entry, but mind and body feel that months have passed. We now live in a new house in S-port, and have departed St. Vivian's. One of our most pressing responsibilities with the move completed is to find a name for this new house. (J is, as always, opposed to this idea. I here note her objection.) Pax lives at Hilltop. Calvus is moving into a parsonage which will also need a name. I was thinking Washington Square, but I'm now leaning towards Washington Willows. (There is a nice old willow out back.) Any ideas? J, I should note, wants the place to be simply "home." I, of course, am not opposed to this, but I think, just as we would be able to distinguish fairly well what we mean by "the baby," naming will be both formative and honoring.

I've finished Barnaby Rudge, in which I marked a passage I underlined for future bloggery. Unfortunately, as is the case with most of my worldly goods, I have packed it somewhere in an unmarked brown box and haven't the slightest idea where to start looking for it. Hopefully it will reappear in the next few days. I've always had a suspicion that moving-gremlins steal boxes from pick-up trucks and switch them with other households, leaving us to wonder what happened to our measuring cups and where on earth these patriotic candles came from. The Dickens passage, at any rate, is one of the most perfect pictures of Christian courage I've ever read. I've continued to plod along (with frequent interruptions from that fickle woman Responsibility) in Joshua, the Psalms, Iliad IV, Matthew, and Livy. I read The Maid's Tragedy in one sitting the other night, which turned out, to my great surprise, to be a tragedy. I rarely start a book knowing nothing about it, and the Maid's Tragedy recalled to me what it was like to read the classics as a child for the first time. It was gripping and horrifying, a wonderful read. I'm currently re-reading more Paradise Lost and Reflections on the Psalms, but hope to unearth another novel tonight. (Providing, of course, that the gremlins have left one.)

I played RPO last week, the second cornet (there ought to be an "s" in cornet, so I could spell it with the U.S. $ sign) on France$ca Di Rimini. It wa$ a $plendid week, and I received a double $alary. The orchestra cornets don't play particularly well in tune, but the section put up with me, and as usual, I had a glorious time. It's not quite possible to write how satisfying an orchestra week is.


I also played a concert with some ESM students of German Brass arrangements. The program included a Scheidt antiphonal number, the famous Bach Air, Corelli's Christmas Concerto, and this great Bach-Vivaldi concerto, which I enjoy almost as much as my favorite German brass number. It was an excellent chance to play some piccolo and "network," though I'd forgotten how late the rehearsal hours ran on conservatory events.

The week was full of tedious negotii, a necessary but easily neglected swarm of chores that accompany a move; I changed our address, forwarded our mail, updated my resume, called the power company, etc. I've probably forgotten some of them. If you, personally, are waiting for me to send in a form or make a necessary phone call, please post in the blog or write to
R. Dudlius
Washington Willows
S-Port, New York

On a less pleasant note, I visited the dentist for the first time in over ten years today, and only for the third time in my life. I know nothing of modern dentistry, so I can't say for sure whether this particular practice has changed at all from the 17th century. They had, of course, plenty of modern equipment, but the hygienist who came to clean (read: remove) my teeth appeared to be using a flint axe and stone hammer. She was a perfectly friendly and professional woman, and I believe she received her training from the Guantanamo Bay School of Interrogation and Dentistry. After seeing her I was visited by a serious-looking woman with a lab coat and perfect teeth who informed me I'd need to undergo at least three more visits for either "fillings" or "filings" (I can't decide which is worse) and that she would require, in the meantime, all of my money.

All of this is, perhaps, just punishment for our recent thievery. After casting mistrustful glances at Opifera during the entire course of her move, we have ourselves been found guilty of stealing several laundry baskets and vital electronics parts from St. Vivian's. Furthermore, we left (unwittingly) clocks, foil, candles, jars, checks, boxes, and brooms behind, thus further littering the property in addition to the enormous mound of garbage we generated. The rubbish at St. Vivian's is nothing, however, compared to the pile currently standing watch in our driveway, which, as we found out last night, does not receive garbage pick-up from the town. In all of these things, again, I blame the gremlins.

We really do owe significant credit to Pax, Kylie, Calvus, J's friend Michelle, Blessed Mother, and Truck-Bringing Bill, all of whom helped us move on Saturday. With such an array of vehicles we were able to move all of our worldly goods in just two trips. More impressively, the women were able to scour St. Vivian's to near perfection. We bought pizza for all of our helpers, but our gratitude runs much deeper. Remembering our lonely North Carolina days, we are blessed beyond measure to live among our people again. Perhaps the best part of the whole.

Running through the Thursday concert, a Friday night party (with a great growler of Scotch ale from Pax) and the Saturday move was the 2011 NFL draft, the great cornerstone of hope to the Buffalo Bills fan. Pax, Bill, and I made nonsensical analysis of the whole thing, and are come to the same consensus we find every year: This will be the year we return to the playoffs and glory.

Since we've moved in to Washington Willows we've made a rare indulgence in the furniture budget. Moving to a new home is a significant blank slate, and we've tried to make the most of this chance. We are re-enacting our budget, rolling out a cleaning/dishwashing policy, and once and for all getting organized. We bought end-tables, folders, lamps, a bookshelf, cleaning supplies, and organizers. We acquired (through odd circumstances) a couch, and got rid of (through even odder circumstances) a piano. The couch happened like this: On Friday morning I walked over to the local church garage sale in search of a serviceable piece of used furniture. (I can never use the word "furniture" now without thinking of CSL's Studies In Words analysis; apologies, Jack.) I joined outside the sale a long and eager looking line of elderly folk, all awaiting the 9 AM church bell. The bell rang, and I got to see, for the first time in my life, what the looting of a village might look like. There was throughout the gymnasium a swarming throng of angry geriatric people, shoving and colliding walkers, wheelchairs, and canes. Each person appeared to be contented with no less than buying every item in the sale. At one point I did find a couch, but as soon as I'd put my hand on it to examine the fabric a woman ran over and threw herself on it, as if to claim it first. As I made my way (hoping only for safe passage) towards the exit I saw an old man among the books sweeping armfuls into a box without even looking at the titles. Eventually we found that Pax and Kylie have a spare couch in their basement, which we'll use for the time being. It wasn't easy to move, but I shudder to think what might have happened if I'd tried to escape the plundering of N. Chili with anything other than my own head. The case of our piano was simply miraculous. To put it simply, I forgot it existed until we'd already packed away the rest of our house. Knowing that we had no room or desire for it in our new apartment, my brothers made the helpful suggestions of 1) pretending it had been in the garage before we moved or 2) painting it camouflage colors and hoping no one would notice it. We loaded it into Bill's truck and decided to take a chance on putting it at the end of the road. Within in an hour it was picked up by persons who, even knowing the truth about its soundboard and receiving repeated warnings from J, carted it away and out of our lives forever. We will probably need to offer libations to the gremlins to keep it from re-appearing in the future.

Though it seems long, long ago, Easter was only a week ago. I had in a brass quintet (not RBQ) for the Sunday service and Cranford Pres, including a trumpet student at RWC, a former member of the church (horn, Ithaca college) and her fiancee (trombone), and my ever-faithful tuba playing choir member. The group played quite well, and I got to show off on the Handel Suite in D Major. It's been an active few weeks at church, trumpet-wise. Ryan and I last week reprised our Endearing Young Charms, and of course I played with the hymns as well. I always feel a certain kinship with even the most liberal of Creedal Christians around Easter, what with our holding together the doctrine of the Resurrection. This year was, however, particularly chafing. The Easter sermon (which I won't detail here) was a concise example of every illiberal liberalism that the Cranfordians wander in; and the past week proved that Thomas was, after all, quite right to doubt.

Finally, I've immensely enjoyed a look through my old notebooks and mail. I found in one of them a note from M (at age 8) attached to a necklace and Catholic coin which read:

Dear R--, I hope you like it in Chicago. I'll miss you. Try not to lose your present. If you do, I'll understand. Love more than one could write, MLS

I've said goodbye to a house, sat in a symphony orchestra, and been gouged by a sadistic dentist over the last week. But it was this that brought tears to my eyes.

From M. Laine

From the marriage of Darryl and Tom many children were born. Some of the children were very beautiful; others were terrifying monsters. They were called Smiths. They were six in number and of great size and strength; like men, only much grander. There was R. Dudlius, who ruled the library, Samuel Magus, master of carpentry, Pax, otherwise known as the guitarsmith; Calvus, the breadmaker, Lux, author and poet, and M. Laine, youngest and most powerful of them all.

Damnation

Hic, quos durus amor crudeli tabe peredit,
secreti celant calles et myrtea circum
silva tegit: curae non ipsa in morte relinquunt.

Here, those which rude love devoured in cruel decay
wander in hidden in paths and the myrtle wood cover
them round; their cares in death they have not left behind.

If, as C.S.L. points out in Problem of Pain, one the healings of the resurrected body shall be a restored will which no longer requires the disciplined exertion of the Christian who must teach it to obey, all the time guarding against its "journey homeward to the habitual self." We shall ourselves be resurrected, but we shall no longer struggle against that curse of our mortal flesh which set up our self as its own god. The self will recognize fully the master which, fighting against its own imbalance, serves imperfectly now. I wonder if Virgil is not so far off of Hell in his Campi Lugentes. A sinner restored to his body with all the memory of all his sorrows, and no inclination towards the dulling medicine of forgetfulness and self-commendation would decay indefinitely pining for those imperfect goods he bowed before in this life. His cares would not leave him behind in death, neither being released from his hands nor pardoned for him. He would be just like a disappointed lover, ever tormented by himself. Also, if it needs to be said, exspectamus resurrectionem mortuorum!

I taught 8th grade Spanish today, and supervised the cafeteria. Lux and M came over after school and we had coffee, talking about Ethan Frome (which Lux finished), Baby H, Lemony Snicket, and Shakespeare Night, which is beginning to take shape. I read Aeneid VI, Iliad II, Rev. 10, Is. 40, Cicero, and Udolpho. This is a little gem from The Sea-Nymph

Sometimes, a single note I swell
That, softly sweet, at distance dies
Then wake the magic of my shell,
And choral voices round me rise!

It could be called "The Lot of the Tam-Tam"

Romney, I'm convinced all people shall be saved!

LOL!

Poem from Lux

My mother calmly sips her coffee
In content repose she's sighing.
But if there were no coffee, well,
She would be terrifying.

 and in Latin:

 Placide libat coffeam Mater
Suspirans in quietem posita est.
 Sed nisi caffea esset, O vae!
Vero ipsa formidolosa esset.