I feel good about going out to sporting events. It makes me feel like I'm actually participating in the social and cultural life that couldn't be found anywhere outside of Rochester, unlike staying at home and reading with a glass of wine. So far this year I've been to a basketball, hockey, and baseball game. Going to a football game will mean I've hit all four major sports, and James has already told me he wants to go.
We went with Pax, and it was typically difficult to get parked, get tickets, and negotiate the mass of humanity to get to our seats. James was immediately engrossed in the game. He found the puck (or, "hockey ball" as he called it) right away, and had no problem following the action of the "teams." I bought him a cracker jack at point, and then a white hot after he was brave enough to use one of the Arena's toilets. (Thank goodness for family restrooms)
It was a great night to be out for a game, aside from the fact that the Amerks lost. It was the second to last game of the season, so everything was pretty full, and everyone there was excited to see what would happen with the Sabres. Shortly after we left in the third period, we got the news we were waiting for: they lost to the Blue Jackets and clinched 30th place in the league. (Connor McDavid scored 5 goals in his game just as we were watching the scores come through.)
James stayed engaged the entire time we were there. I asked him repeatedly whether he was ready to leave yet, and each time he answered that he wanted to stay to the end of the game. Secretly, I think he wanted to stay past the end of the game to watch the zambonis come out and clear the ice one more time. As soon as we were out of the building he was asking Uncle Pax whether he remembered the zambonis, how one was blue and one was yellow. They are sort of like tractors, but they aren't tractors. His favorite was the yellow. We ought to buy one for our house.
We dropped Pax off at his place, and he brought out three hockey sticks from his garage for us to take home. Once we finally pulled into our own garage (past 10 PM), and I unbuckled James, he immediately climbed up into the front seat to grab a stick.
"Daddy, can we stay up and play some hockey tonight?"
"No, we need to go to sleep now. It's way past our bed time."
"Can we play hockey in the morning?"
"Yes, we can play hockey as soon as you get up."
"Okay, the blue stick is going to be mine. Can I keep it in bed with me?"
"No, I think we'll leave the sticks in the garage."
While we were saying prayers that night he prayed for the zambonis.
They hockey game was the first thing that he talked about when he was up the next morning. I'd guess that we've played nearly two hours of hockey throughout the course of the day today. He's declared at various times that we need some more ice in the house, that we need to go buy a puck, that he's "falling down like the teams did at the hockey game" and that we can take a break for lunch because the zambonis need to clean the ice.
I think we're raising a hockey fan now. And knowing that we're going to get either McDavid or Eichel in Buffalo? It's a pretty exciting time to be a little boy discovering hockey...
Showing posts with label Pax. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pax. Show all posts
Saturday, April 11, 2015
Friday, January 18, 2013
Creators
On Wednesday evening, I was looking for music for my choir. I should do this much earlier than Wednesday evening, because they rehearse on Wednesday evenings. I could take care of this at school, or even on Sunday after the service. When I try to work on our laptop computer at home, I never get anything done. James' greatest pleasure in life is "typing" on the keyboard. He doesn't even look at the screen, but presses down as many keys as he can over and over again. This, I think, makes him feel like an adult. If we accidentally leave the laptop on and someplace where he can reach it, we'll find that the screen has been resized, the fonts changed, and several yaks purchased from China the next time we turn it on. Needless to say, if you try to get any work done on the computer during his conscious hours (Sunday through Saturday, 6:30 AM to 7:30 PM and then at 11:30 PM and 4:30 AM for 15 minutes each) he will scream and holler at you to let him "share" the keyboard until you either open a word document and let him type (this is not a good idea--he immediately pulls up the mail order yak website) or turn off the computer and put it away out of reach.
Anyway, I was trying to pick music for my choir while listening while James hollered at me, and an email came into my inbox. It was from Calvus, and it had an attachment. He had written an original piece of choral music, a four minute a capella number for church choir. I was saved! I printed it off and copied it, and had my choir sing through it that night. It was beautiful. It sat in their voices well, wasn't terribly difficult, and had a lovely text and melody. (I still have the tune stuck in my head). The setting was tasteful, and I was impressed again with his talent as a composer.
Calvus doesn't need to write music. He is currently a seminary student, so he needs to read endless books on systematic theology and church history. He writes music because creating is part of who he is. Actually, I think it's part of who everyone is, but many people have regretfully let that part of their humanity atrophy. I don't know if he could give you a reason for why he creates. I'm sure there is some pleasure in the process of working out all of the details of a musical composition, but I know from experience there's also quite a bit of tedious drudgery and frustration. I suspect it's more intuitive than that. In fact, I think my whole family are intuitive creators. They just do creation. It is in their nature to reflect beauty, to tell stories, and to give order and meaning to their worlds.
Sam, for example, writes Chemistry papers for the pleasure of the exercise. He reads constantly, and then he writes about anything and everything he's reading. Sometimes he'll ask me to look at his papers, and I'm always astounded at 1) how motley they are--he writes about every book he's read in the past month all at once and 2) how enthusiastic they are. Sam loves his discipline so much that he gets caught up in the splendor of all scientific knowing. He can't write about only ion bonds, because he's too amazed at particle physics to refrain from saying something about it. (I have no idea if those are actual scientific terms or not, but they sound like the sorts of things he'd write about.) He and Kaitlyn are constantly experimenting with new coffees, lattes, teas, and cocoas. There's no particular reason for them to do so--they aren't dissatisfied with the coffee they regularly drink--they are just natural creators, and they have to have an outlet for experimenting and enjoying the process.
Pax and Kylie recently redid their bedroom over the course of a weekend. There was no pressing need to do so. Their bedroom was already clean, warm, and well-decorated. (Especially compared to my premarital sleeping quarters, which were always just four bare walls with a bed. They basically served as a functional place to sleep and to pile up books and laundry.) Yet when they were finished with it, their sleeping space was transformed. It had become not only a beautiful room, but now a part of the amazing story that their whole house tells. Hilltop has become and incredible place under their care. It is elegant but very inviting, and reflects them in many ways. They are not professional decorators. They don't even own the house. But they have created a narrative in that house with such nuance that anyone who enters the house is caught up in the story.
Lux, as you might know if you follow The Old Crow, writes poetry. He does not harbor, as far as I know, any aspirations to be a professional poet. He doesn't publish his work widely, and doesn't get graded for it. Yet somehow he must translate his world into meter and rhyme, and not only traditional meter and rhyme, but forms of his own invention. His work isn't the sort of simpering mush you find in Hallmark cards or anthologies of blank verse about self-discovery either. It's real work, which has been carefully sculpted, edited, and studied--yet it comes out sounding as authentic and spontaneous as if it were just improvised. He never imposes his work on anyone or presumes that it must be heard. He just puts the world in verse quite as naturally as he puts his feet in shoes.
Martha might be the most remarkable of all them. For starters, she always has several long term projects going at once as a true visual artist. She paints, sketches, and sews quality work all year long to decorate her room and to give as gifts. Christmas this year was particularly remarkable. All of us received handcrafted items from her that must have been days each in the making. There were a series of beautifully written Robert Frost poems, framed in a painting of her own imagination. (Mine was about fireflies.) She had crafted a number of household items as well, and I won't pretend to know enough about sewing/knitting/crocheting/whatever else she does to prepare those to give any sort of comment except to say that I'm sure they took a very long time. But not only does Martha plan and work on big projects, her entire day-to-day existence seems to be in a sort of amplified technicolor that none of the rest of us can see. She scribbles and draws constantly on any piece of paper she can put her hands on. She notices and pairs unusual colors in her clothing, her books, and everything she touches. I would love to see the world through her eyes for only an hour. I think I would see more details of shade and hue than I ever knew existed. Martha doesn't even think about creating as a hobby...to be Martha is to recreate the world constantly and to make every minute of the day brand new in her notebooks and on table napkins.
At the risk of being over-prideful, I think this is a part of being human that too many people have forgotten. This is what reflecting the Creator God back into the world looks like.
And I think that maybe we are not called "smiths" in vain.
Anyway, I was trying to pick music for my choir while listening while James hollered at me, and an email came into my inbox. It was from Calvus, and it had an attachment. He had written an original piece of choral music, a four minute a capella number for church choir. I was saved! I printed it off and copied it, and had my choir sing through it that night. It was beautiful. It sat in their voices well, wasn't terribly difficult, and had a lovely text and melody. (I still have the tune stuck in my head). The setting was tasteful, and I was impressed again with his talent as a composer.
Calvus doesn't need to write music. He is currently a seminary student, so he needs to read endless books on systematic theology and church history. He writes music because creating is part of who he is. Actually, I think it's part of who everyone is, but many people have regretfully let that part of their humanity atrophy. I don't know if he could give you a reason for why he creates. I'm sure there is some pleasure in the process of working out all of the details of a musical composition, but I know from experience there's also quite a bit of tedious drudgery and frustration. I suspect it's more intuitive than that. In fact, I think my whole family are intuitive creators. They just do creation. It is in their nature to reflect beauty, to tell stories, and to give order and meaning to their worlds.
Sam, for example, writes Chemistry papers for the pleasure of the exercise. He reads constantly, and then he writes about anything and everything he's reading. Sometimes he'll ask me to look at his papers, and I'm always astounded at 1) how motley they are--he writes about every book he's read in the past month all at once and 2) how enthusiastic they are. Sam loves his discipline so much that he gets caught up in the splendor of all scientific knowing. He can't write about only ion bonds, because he's too amazed at particle physics to refrain from saying something about it. (I have no idea if those are actual scientific terms or not, but they sound like the sorts of things he'd write about.) He and Kaitlyn are constantly experimenting with new coffees, lattes, teas, and cocoas. There's no particular reason for them to do so--they aren't dissatisfied with the coffee they regularly drink--they are just natural creators, and they have to have an outlet for experimenting and enjoying the process.
Pax and Kylie recently redid their bedroom over the course of a weekend. There was no pressing need to do so. Their bedroom was already clean, warm, and well-decorated. (Especially compared to my premarital sleeping quarters, which were always just four bare walls with a bed. They basically served as a functional place to sleep and to pile up books and laundry.) Yet when they were finished with it, their sleeping space was transformed. It had become not only a beautiful room, but now a part of the amazing story that their whole house tells. Hilltop has become and incredible place under their care. It is elegant but very inviting, and reflects them in many ways. They are not professional decorators. They don't even own the house. But they have created a narrative in that house with such nuance that anyone who enters the house is caught up in the story.
Lux, as you might know if you follow The Old Crow, writes poetry. He does not harbor, as far as I know, any aspirations to be a professional poet. He doesn't publish his work widely, and doesn't get graded for it. Yet somehow he must translate his world into meter and rhyme, and not only traditional meter and rhyme, but forms of his own invention. His work isn't the sort of simpering mush you find in Hallmark cards or anthologies of blank verse about self-discovery either. It's real work, which has been carefully sculpted, edited, and studied--yet it comes out sounding as authentic and spontaneous as if it were just improvised. He never imposes his work on anyone or presumes that it must be heard. He just puts the world in verse quite as naturally as he puts his feet in shoes.
Martha might be the most remarkable of all them. For starters, she always has several long term projects going at once as a true visual artist. She paints, sketches, and sews quality work all year long to decorate her room and to give as gifts. Christmas this year was particularly remarkable. All of us received handcrafted items from her that must have been days each in the making. There were a series of beautifully written Robert Frost poems, framed in a painting of her own imagination. (Mine was about fireflies.) She had crafted a number of household items as well, and I won't pretend to know enough about sewing/knitting/crocheting/whatever else she does to prepare those to give any sort of comment except to say that I'm sure they took a very long time. But not only does Martha plan and work on big projects, her entire day-to-day existence seems to be in a sort of amplified technicolor that none of the rest of us can see. She scribbles and draws constantly on any piece of paper she can put her hands on. She notices and pairs unusual colors in her clothing, her books, and everything she touches. I would love to see the world through her eyes for only an hour. I think I would see more details of shade and hue than I ever knew existed. Martha doesn't even think about creating as a hobby...to be Martha is to recreate the world constantly and to make every minute of the day brand new in her notebooks and on table napkins.
At the risk of being over-prideful, I think this is a part of being human that too many people have forgotten. This is what reflecting the Creator God back into the world looks like.
And I think that maybe we are not called "smiths" in vain.
Sunday, December 23, 2012
The Neon Goes Too
I think that the Mayan apocalypse actually happened two days ago, but its effects were limited to our driveway. If you're a regular reader of my blog--this would be my wife and maybe my Mom--you know that we've recently been having lots of trouble with our PT Cruiser, also known as "the Gaxmobile." My parents have been kind enough to lend us their pick-up truck to get through Christmas Eve, so Julie took that to her church job in Warsaw today. Because you aren't supposed to put carseats in pick-ups, I loaded James into our well-loved 2000 Dodge Neon and drove off to my church job in Gates.
Almost as soon as I pulled out of our driveway, I noticed something was wrong. The car was making a funny sound and felt very sluggish. I pulled off to the side and fiddled with the sometimes sticky parking brake. Nothing. After a few more minutes of trying to disengage the parking brake, I put my four-ways on, and (being sure to check for traffic) stepped outside to go through my usual auto-trouble ritual. My auto trouble-ritual consists of kneeling down, looking under the car, making a thoughtful face, and calling someone for help. There was no one else around except James, but I still feel better when I make my concerned face. One of these days I might actually see something under the car that I understand (currently I only see magical calculus problems) and then I'll be glad that I've practiced a facial expression that conveys to everyone around me "I see that something is wrong which has caused my car to stop working."
As it happened, I did recognize the source of my automotive woes for the morning. My driver-front tire had no air in it. I'm not a tire expert, but I understand that it's usually inadvisable to drive your car without air in your tires. I stood up, made sure that James was okay, then engaged the parking brake, secured the rear tires with props, jacked the car up, and replaced the flat tire with our spare.
I am, of course, totally kidding. I am a pathetic girly musician-man, and I wasn't about to change a tire in my only half-decent suit on a hill with my infant son in the back. So I called AAA and asked them for some help. It was probably a good thing I didn't attempt to change the tire anyway, because, as our AAA representative informed us, our spare tire currently doesn't have any air in it.
My pastor drove out to rescue James and I when she heard about our predicament, and drove us into church with enough time to make most of choir rehearsal. James was great through the whole mess, never fussed, and happily exclaimed "yeah!" to every question she asked him. I left the Neon unlocked with the key under the visor, cursing (not out loud--we were with our pastor) our simultaneously broken vehicles and very relieved that we have such a well-behaved son.
I fielded phone calls from AAA, the tow truck driver, and from a Firestone clerk throughout the church service by ducking out during the hymns. Firestone was the only local tire shop open today, and certainly the only place that would be open tomorrow on Christmas Eve. I knew that we were overdue for replacing the very bald tires on the back of the Neon, and we ended up agreeing to replace all 4. (It was buy 3, get 1 free.)
I picked up James from the nursery, where the nursery worker told me that he had been very well behaved and that "he sure does love that bear." Yes, we've noticed that too. I collected all of his snacks and diaper bag and Steven and binky and carried all of those things at once with him over to his car seat, and as I squatted down to put on his coat
RIIIPPP
...there is now a hole in the crotch of my "only half-decent suit."
Uncle Pax and Aunt Kylie came to rescue us from GPC and drove us home after stopping by Hilltop to pick up the finished copy of A Very Uncles Christmas on the way. (We did not remember to pick up James' missing bottles.) The Uncles sounded good. James makes his presence known on the last track. On the way back I got a call from the Firestone rep.
"Hey, did you guys have a tire-rod replaced recently?"
"Yes, we had one replaced about two weeks ago."
"Well, they didn't align it properly afterwards...that's probably what caused the flat. We'd recommend our standard alignment."
"Okay, how much?"
"That's another 79.99...which will bring your total to $420."
"...Okay, go ahead and do it."
Once we got back I gave James some peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch. He was a great sport, and even insisted that he feed me some of his sandwich. (This is cute, but also a little gross. His food travels many miles before he eats it or offers it to anyone else.)
J got back around 12:30 and we waited for the call from Firestone that our car was done. Around 1:00 my phone lit up.
"Hello, Mr. Smith?"
"This is he. Is the car done?"
"I'm afraid not. We found significant rust under the car, and it looks like we're going to need to replace another tire rod."
The total came to $575.
I will say this about today and about all of our recent auto troubles: We are very thankful for cellphones. I can't imagine how we would have done this sort of day without them. We are thankful for Pax and Kylie, who rescued us again. We are thankful for Christmas gigs, which keep money coming into the bank account. We are thankful for neighbors who are willing to watch James while we run to the mechanic. And we are thankful for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and little boys willing to share them. That may be all we're eating for the next few months.
Almost as soon as I pulled out of our driveway, I noticed something was wrong. The car was making a funny sound and felt very sluggish. I pulled off to the side and fiddled with the sometimes sticky parking brake. Nothing. After a few more minutes of trying to disengage the parking brake, I put my four-ways on, and (being sure to check for traffic) stepped outside to go through my usual auto-trouble ritual. My auto trouble-ritual consists of kneeling down, looking under the car, making a thoughtful face, and calling someone for help. There was no one else around except James, but I still feel better when I make my concerned face. One of these days I might actually see something under the car that I understand (currently I only see magical calculus problems) and then I'll be glad that I've practiced a facial expression that conveys to everyone around me "I see that something is wrong which has caused my car to stop working."
As it happened, I did recognize the source of my automotive woes for the morning. My driver-front tire had no air in it. I'm not a tire expert, but I understand that it's usually inadvisable to drive your car without air in your tires. I stood up, made sure that James was okay, then engaged the parking brake, secured the rear tires with props, jacked the car up, and replaced the flat tire with our spare.
I am, of course, totally kidding. I am a pathetic girly musician-man, and I wasn't about to change a tire in my only half-decent suit on a hill with my infant son in the back. So I called AAA and asked them for some help. It was probably a good thing I didn't attempt to change the tire anyway, because, as our AAA representative informed us, our spare tire currently doesn't have any air in it.
My pastor drove out to rescue James and I when she heard about our predicament, and drove us into church with enough time to make most of choir rehearsal. James was great through the whole mess, never fussed, and happily exclaimed "yeah!" to every question she asked him. I left the Neon unlocked with the key under the visor, cursing (not out loud--we were with our pastor) our simultaneously broken vehicles and very relieved that we have such a well-behaved son.
I fielded phone calls from AAA, the tow truck driver, and from a Firestone clerk throughout the church service by ducking out during the hymns. Firestone was the only local tire shop open today, and certainly the only place that would be open tomorrow on Christmas Eve. I knew that we were overdue for replacing the very bald tires on the back of the Neon, and we ended up agreeing to replace all 4. (It was buy 3, get 1 free.)
I picked up James from the nursery, where the nursery worker told me that he had been very well behaved and that "he sure does love that bear." Yes, we've noticed that too. I collected all of his snacks and diaper bag and Steven and binky and carried all of those things at once with him over to his car seat, and as I squatted down to put on his coat
RIIIPPP
...there is now a hole in the crotch of my "only half-decent suit."
Uncle Pax and Aunt Kylie came to rescue us from GPC and drove us home after stopping by Hilltop to pick up the finished copy of A Very Uncles Christmas on the way. (We did not remember to pick up James' missing bottles.) The Uncles sounded good. James makes his presence known on the last track. On the way back I got a call from the Firestone rep.
"Hey, did you guys have a tire-rod replaced recently?"
"Yes, we had one replaced about two weeks ago."
"Well, they didn't align it properly afterwards...that's probably what caused the flat. We'd recommend our standard alignment."
"Okay, how much?"
"That's another 79.99...which will bring your total to $420."
"...Okay, go ahead and do it."
Once we got back I gave James some peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch. He was a great sport, and even insisted that he feed me some of his sandwich. (This is cute, but also a little gross. His food travels many miles before he eats it or offers it to anyone else.)
J got back around 12:30 and we waited for the call from Firestone that our car was done. Around 1:00 my phone lit up.
"Hello, Mr. Smith?"
"This is he. Is the car done?"
"I'm afraid not. We found significant rust under the car, and it looks like we're going to need to replace another tire rod."
The total came to $575.
I will say this about today and about all of our recent auto troubles: We are very thankful for cellphones. I can't imagine how we would have done this sort of day without them. We are thankful for Pax and Kylie, who rescued us again. We are thankful for Christmas gigs, which keep money coming into the bank account. We are thankful for neighbors who are willing to watch James while we run to the mechanic. And we are thankful for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and little boys willing to share them. That may be all we're eating for the next few months.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
3/24-4/2
I've not been silent so long for want of thoughts, events, and musings; I've rather been deluged by them. J and I are back from Pennsylvania, my concerts are completed, and I finally have a cup of coffee at my desk and a free morning to write. Here are some highlights from the past week and a half:
-I played a recital at RWC, shared with the trumpet ensemble, of light classical music. Ryan E. accompanied me, and I was genuinely touched when several loyal supporters from CPC showed up in the front row. The program included a Bach duet with Magister, a lyrical cornet solo (Endearing Young Charms), the Hubeau Sonata, and Bugler's Holiday with Magister and Opifera. It was, as J pointed out, my most serious solo effort since my graduate recital, and (with the assistance of a beta blocker) I thoroughly enjoyed it. Almost thou persuadest me to play solo music, Paul!
-J and I traveled to Hanover, PA, where she performed the Borne Carment Fantasie and the Chaminade with the HSO as a special guest alumna. We visited with the music director (a former trumpet player, and Northwestern/Chicago enthusiast, as we found out) to discuss tempi and transitions on Friday night, rehearsed with the orchestra Saturday morning, and played Sunday afternoon. She sounded marvelous. She looked resplendent. Orchestra and audience were gracious; it was, I hope, a most welcome break from the drudge of her day job. I played along as well, hopping into the orchestra to cover a cornet part on the Suite Algerienne.
-We spent considerable quality time with J's family, including several long and delicious conversations with her parents. It is saddening how little we've seen them in the past year, but every time we have seen them there has been immediate comfort and a genuine thirst for honest talk that can be addressed right up front, without wading through a period of niceties and polite small-talk. We also saw her brother Dan and his fiancee Emily, with whom J went out to buy yet more formalwear. Tim brought home a ladyfriend for us to meet, but spent most of the weekend preparing for his most recent musical project. We also saw all of her grandparents and a small selection of aunts and cousins at the orchestra concert.
-I attended, for the first time since September, a Sunday service outside of CPC. It was wonderful. I will go back to CPC (for Chant Sunday) gladly this week having been refreshed in Hanover. The message addressed dispensational views of the endtimes, a significant piece of JMHEFCOP's identity. Knowing very little of the history of dispensationalism, I had an excellent chat with J's father afterward, and am resolved (especially in the light of my N.T. Wright volume) to explore the subject further.
-No mention at any point was made of preterist considerations, which convinces me all the more that American Christianity is still more unaware of it as a theological position than opposed to it. I am also convinced I ought to blog about it sometime in the near future, though of course I'm hesitant to misrepresent something I understand so poorly and hold so loosely.
-Having traveled back on Monday evening, J and I both played in the RWCCO rehearsal of American in Paris. She is playing the concert, and I was covering the third trumpet part for an absentee student. Steven. S. sounds fantastic on the solos in the part.
-We took my parents out to O'Lacy's in Batavia, where we celebrated their sale of the studio property. After twenty years of business there, they are back to a single mortgage. It has been heartbreaking to watch them scrap the property and the business model, but a relief to see my Dad move away from self-employment. As enjoyable as it was to share IPAs and Reubens with them, we share in their season of grief.
-After sending out several pointed and potentially bossy emails (my younger brothers tell me I can be that way) about rehearsal attendance, I had confirmed all parties of RBQ for a Tuesday evening practice. I arrived at 8:30 (for an 8:40 rehearsal), looked in the backseat, and realized that I'd left everyone's music at home in N. Chili. Incredibly, wonderfully, and mercifully, J left a recital early to drive it into us. It would have been an additional hour for me to drive both ways, and she saved my severely chastened hindquarters for that particular evening.
-I played the RPO Around the Town "March" concerts, getting cornet doubling, and switching back and forth between the 2nd and 3rd books. The concerts were free, and all held at different local churches. In the middle of the Thursday evening show, the conductor was introducing works by Grieg and Halvorsen, then mentioned "and speaking of Norwegians, our new music director Arild Remmereit is in attendance tonight." The orchestra sat visibly straighter. The highlight for me was playing 2nd on Aida, which was enough for a solo bow. I love RPO.
-My college-aged student, Ryan H., will attend Houghton College next year. I am proud of how well he is playing, and saddened that he'll be leaving. I did, however, pick up another student, an adult living in N. Chili, that starts this week.
-The RBQ played three assemblies at the Naples Elementary School on Thursday morning, all of a patriotic disposition. (Including one piece which was hastily renamed "American" Fire Dance, so as to fit the program bill.) The kids were respectful and responsive, though I don't think I'll ever instruct them to march in place again while playing anywhere other than a highly elevated stage. We came perilously close to having a horde of 2nd graders march into our bells while we played Stars and Stripes. I saw an RWC alumna who I overlapped with while at the school, and thoroughly enjoyed walking the halls as a distinguished guest instead of as a substitute teacher.
-I returned to substitute teaching in the form of high school Algebra II (read: Study Hall) on Friday morning, and was able to catch up on some neglected reading. I recently have read Tartuffe, some of the collected letters of C.S. Lewis, N.T. Wright's People of God, Matthew 8-11 (v. interesting stuff) up through Is. 62, some of the early Psalms, more letters of Cicero, and Iliad book 4.
-J and I spent quality time with Pax & K. J likened this video to Pax and I discussing the Bills draft needs. Pax is playing a gig this weekend for which he will travel by private jet and limousine. We also got together with Calvus & Beka last night (and a visit from Baby H!), and Calvus and I read Matt. 4-5 aloud in Greek over coffee and onions.
Needless to say, it has been a full week in the Smith house.
-I played a recital at RWC, shared with the trumpet ensemble, of light classical music. Ryan E. accompanied me, and I was genuinely touched when several loyal supporters from CPC showed up in the front row. The program included a Bach duet with Magister, a lyrical cornet solo (Endearing Young Charms), the Hubeau Sonata, and Bugler's Holiday with Magister and Opifera. It was, as J pointed out, my most serious solo effort since my graduate recital, and (with the assistance of a beta blocker) I thoroughly enjoyed it. Almost thou persuadest me to play solo music, Paul!
-J and I traveled to Hanover, PA, where she performed the Borne Carment Fantasie and the Chaminade with the HSO as a special guest alumna. We visited with the music director (a former trumpet player, and Northwestern/Chicago enthusiast, as we found out) to discuss tempi and transitions on Friday night, rehearsed with the orchestra Saturday morning, and played Sunday afternoon. She sounded marvelous. She looked resplendent. Orchestra and audience were gracious; it was, I hope, a most welcome break from the drudge of her day job. I played along as well, hopping into the orchestra to cover a cornet part on the Suite Algerienne.
-We spent considerable quality time with J's family, including several long and delicious conversations with her parents. It is saddening how little we've seen them in the past year, but every time we have seen them there has been immediate comfort and a genuine thirst for honest talk that can be addressed right up front, without wading through a period of niceties and polite small-talk. We also saw her brother Dan and his fiancee Emily, with whom J went out to buy yet more formalwear. Tim brought home a ladyfriend for us to meet, but spent most of the weekend preparing for his most recent musical project. We also saw all of her grandparents and a small selection of aunts and cousins at the orchestra concert.
-I attended, for the first time since September, a Sunday service outside of CPC. It was wonderful. I will go back to CPC (for Chant Sunday) gladly this week having been refreshed in Hanover. The message addressed dispensational views of the endtimes, a significant piece of JMHEFCOP's identity. Knowing very little of the history of dispensationalism, I had an excellent chat with J's father afterward, and am resolved (especially in the light of my N.T. Wright volume) to explore the subject further.
-No mention at any point was made of preterist considerations, which convinces me all the more that American Christianity is still more unaware of it as a theological position than opposed to it. I am also convinced I ought to blog about it sometime in the near future, though of course I'm hesitant to misrepresent something I understand so poorly and hold so loosely.
-Having traveled back on Monday evening, J and I both played in the RWCCO rehearsal of American in Paris. She is playing the concert, and I was covering the third trumpet part for an absentee student. Steven. S. sounds fantastic on the solos in the part.
-We took my parents out to O'Lacy's in Batavia, where we celebrated their sale of the studio property. After twenty years of business there, they are back to a single mortgage. It has been heartbreaking to watch them scrap the property and the business model, but a relief to see my Dad move away from self-employment. As enjoyable as it was to share IPAs and Reubens with them, we share in their season of grief.
-After sending out several pointed and potentially bossy emails (my younger brothers tell me I can be that way) about rehearsal attendance, I had confirmed all parties of RBQ for a Tuesday evening practice. I arrived at 8:30 (for an 8:40 rehearsal), looked in the backseat, and realized that I'd left everyone's music at home in N. Chili. Incredibly, wonderfully, and mercifully, J left a recital early to drive it into us. It would have been an additional hour for me to drive both ways, and she saved my severely chastened hindquarters for that particular evening.
-I played the RPO Around the Town "March" concerts, getting cornet doubling, and switching back and forth between the 2nd and 3rd books. The concerts were free, and all held at different local churches. In the middle of the Thursday evening show, the conductor was introducing works by Grieg and Halvorsen, then mentioned "and speaking of Norwegians, our new music director Arild Remmereit is in attendance tonight." The orchestra sat visibly straighter. The highlight for me was playing 2nd on Aida, which was enough for a solo bow. I love RPO.
-My college-aged student, Ryan H., will attend Houghton College next year. I am proud of how well he is playing, and saddened that he'll be leaving. I did, however, pick up another student, an adult living in N. Chili, that starts this week.
-The RBQ played three assemblies at the Naples Elementary School on Thursday morning, all of a patriotic disposition. (Including one piece which was hastily renamed "American" Fire Dance, so as to fit the program bill.) The kids were respectful and responsive, though I don't think I'll ever instruct them to march in place again while playing anywhere other than a highly elevated stage. We came perilously close to having a horde of 2nd graders march into our bells while we played Stars and Stripes. I saw an RWC alumna who I overlapped with while at the school, and thoroughly enjoyed walking the halls as a distinguished guest instead of as a substitute teacher.
-I returned to substitute teaching in the form of high school Algebra II (read: Study Hall) on Friday morning, and was able to catch up on some neglected reading. I recently have read Tartuffe, some of the collected letters of C.S. Lewis, N.T. Wright's People of God, Matthew 8-11 (v. interesting stuff) up through Is. 62, some of the early Psalms, more letters of Cicero, and Iliad book 4.
-J and I spent quality time with Pax & K. J likened this video to Pax and I discussing the Bills draft needs. Pax is playing a gig this weekend for which he will travel by private jet and limousine. We also got together with Calvus & Beka last night (and a visit from Baby H!), and Calvus and I read Matt. 4-5 aloud in Greek over coffee and onions.
Needless to say, it has been a full week in the Smith house.
Monday, February 21, 2011
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.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Festus Fratrum
Cranford Presbyterian was quite pleasant this morning, and the Rev. Haybridge (Associate Pastor) spoke well on the history of the Corinthian Epistle. J and I ate with Pax & Kylie in the afternoon, and we ate all afternoon. We had appetizers, then more appetizers, then coffee, then dinner (a magnificent pork roast) and then dessert. And then we went to Pastor Fleming’s for dinner. (We did not eat) The conversation was wonderful everywhere, though I’m rather disoriented to find the weekend over so quickly. J played for the RWC Concerto Competition today, which to my great delight Lydia S. won. I read Iliad 2, Aeneid 6, Is. 42, Rev. 13, and Udolpho before bed.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)