This is James. He lived with his Mommy and his Daddy. He was a good little boy, but always very curious.
One day his Daddy had a surprise for him. "James, today I am going to play a concert with the RPO, and I would like you to come with me and listen."
James had never been to the RPO before, so he was excited to hear the orchestra.
On the way there, he saw many yellow school buses driving along the streets. James was curious what they were doing.
Mommy said "The buses are full of students who are coming to listen to the RPO." James liked to watch the buses, and he pointed at each one.
When Daddy drove to the parking garage, the car broke down again! James was not curious about this, because that's what Daddy's car is supposed to do.
As Mommy and Daddy walked with James inside the theater, James could hear the noises of the orchestra warming up onstage. Somewhere there was a loud trombone playing. James was curious. Could he make loud noises too?
Once they climbed up to their seats, James saw how very full the theater was. There were so many children there to listen to the concert, and every one of them was being loud! James' seat was up very high, even higher than a monkey can climb, and yet still there was a big chandelier over everyone's heads. James was scared.
The orchestra began playing their music, but James did not watch or listen. He snuggled close to Mommy and tried not to think about the loud noises or how high he was. Mommy told James to look at the conductor, but James remembered what Daddy always said: "Don't watch the conductor or else you'll screw up."
After the concert was over, Mommy and Daddy took James out to Wegmans, where he got to eat a cookie.
"You did a good job behaving at the orchestra concert, James," said Daddy "and even though the other kids were noisy, you were completely silent. Thanks to you, the concert was a success!"
James was so happy he asked for another cookie.
Showing posts with label RPO. Show all posts
Showing posts with label RPO. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
Thursday, December 15, 2011
The Story of the Birth of James
By no design or intent, our son was supposed to be born on 11-11-11. We were told many times by friends and relatives (and, as is the lot of the expectant couple, by loose acquaintances and strangers) that we ought not to expect the baby on the due date itself. First-born babies especially, we were cautioned, are notoriously unpredictable. We nodded along to this, then continued filling in our datebooks and calendar almost indifferently. A month before the due date, I thought myself the model of paternal responsibility. After all, I had turned down a gig on 11-11-11, and hadn't accepted any other work until the 14th! I presumed that while predicting childbirth wasn't an exact science (something along the lines of, say, predicting the weather or sports scores) our son would be born within a few days before or after his due date. And by "a few days," I meant "the day before or after." After all, he would be the firstborn child of two fastidiously punctual firstborns. How could he dare to be late?
I was more worried about a performance with the BPO on 11-8 than anything else, and once that was over I breathed an easy sigh of relief. 11-11-11 came and went, and we stayed at home. The weekend passed, and I returned to school uneasily on Monday, 11-13. On Tuesday, I began to be nervous. I'd been hired for a full philharmonics week at RPO, plus the attached Symphony 101 services on Friday and Sunday. J, who'd been home on maternity leave for a full week, was beginning to get restless. She said that she now understood what was meant by the baby "dropping."
She still hadn't experienced much in the way of contractions, pretended or otherwise, and we began to wonder if the due date was wrong. On Thursday night I played my first concert of the week, with my cellphone (turned down to silent) perched on my stand. One down, three to go. That night, I felt a tap on my arm. Groggy, and still half asleep, I rolled over to see that Julie was waking me up. As far as I can remember, the conversation went like this:
Julie: My contractions are every five minutes apart. What do you think?
Roy: Are you sure?
Julie: Yes, I've been timing them.
Roy: For how long?
Julie: At least since midnight.
Roy: Sorry, what time is it now?
Julie: It's about 2 AM. Do you think we should go to the hospital?
Roy: Has your water broken?
Julie: No, but sometimes that doesn't happen until later. What should we do?
Roy: Well, let's call in and see what they say.
Julie, who I should politely and impartially note was in the throes of labor, remembers the conversation like this:
Julie: My contractions are every five minutes apart. What do you think we should do?
Roy: What?
Julie: My contractions are every five minutes apart. What should we do?
Roy: What?
Julie: I'm having contractions every five minutes! What should we do?
Roy: I think we should go to the concert.
Julie: What? That's not what I asked! Should we call the doctor?
Roy: What time is it?
Julie: It's 2 AM.
Roy: How long?
Julie: 2 AM
Roy: How long have you been having contractions?
Julie: Since at least midnight. What should we do?
Roy: Your water hasn't broken?
Julie: No, sometimes that doesn't happen until later. Should we call?
Roy: <falls back asleep>
Clearly Julie does not remember this early morning adventure very clearly, but we do both remember that we eventually got up and called the on-call doctor. They asked us to come in, and by about 2:30 we were driving into Strong, hospital bag in tow. I don't think either of us really expected the baby would be arriving that night, but we wanted to be responsible. We had failed to be responsible parents earlier, and had never gotten around to visiting the hospital or taking the recommended tour. We did, however, find it without difficulty and get checked into triage.
Julie was measured (if you don't know, you don't want to know) and though her contractions were seeming more and more "real" she wasn't dilating at all. We waited around and attempted to stay awake for an hour or so, and then were sent home with compassionate smiles. No baby yet.
Thankfully, I didn't have LCS the following morning, but was able to sleep in for a 9:30 RPO rehearsal. I drove to Hochstein, parked, and sat down for rehearsal. What good would come from telling anyone about visiting the hospital the night before? We just needed to make it through another 72 hours, and then the baby could come anytime he wanted. At the rehearsal break, I checked my voicemail. Julie said it was going to happen today. Her contractions were still every five minutes apart, and they were much more intense. This time it was genuine. I reassured her I'd be home soon, and went to find the principal trumpeter. Awkwardly and apologetically, I told him I thought my wife was going into labor.
He conferenced with the personnel manager (who was also awaiting an imminent delivery from the principal bassoonist's wife) and they found another sub to put on call. I assured them that I would do everything in my power to make the concert, and they (wonderfully) assured me that family came first, and to look to my wife's interests. I drove home, picked up Julie, and drove again to the hospital and the triage room. We waited longer this time, but the news was the same. Julie was not dilating. This time we didn't linger for a second measurement, but just wanted to go home. We were both disappointed, and Julie was starting to be in considerable pain. A kind doctor wrote her a pain prescription, and we had it filled on the way home. It did some good for her, but our nerves were being worn thin.
Neither of us had slept properly for some time, and with the hubbub of the previous night we were both spent. The afternoon was spent in nervous puttering (I had called off of LCS, having thought I'd be in the hospital) and we waited for any changes in Julie's condition. Her pain medication did slightly slow the contractions, but that magical moment (the breaking of her water) still hadn't come. Early in the evening I called into the orchestra and told them I'd be at the concert. I came, I fretted, I played. Two concerts down, two to go. Still no baby.
On Saturday, 11-19, we wandered in the wilderness for 40 years. Really we just wandered about our living room, and really it was just me wandering since Julie had hurt her back earlier in the week. She tried to nap while I paced and read, and we waited, waited, waited. We both started to think about the word "induce," but held off a little longer yet. Oliver was on call for me at Gates the next morning...but I had nothing to tell him. There was still a sub lined up for RPO, but nothing to report. The evening came, and I drove in (in some early snow) for the last Philharmonics concert. Three concerts down, one to go. Still no baby.
After another sleepless night, I drove into CPC on Sunday morning, and reported to my disappointed choir that there was still no news. I drove home, and found Julie exhausted on the couch downstairs. She had been, whatever the "type," in labor since Thursday night, and her contractions continued now as fiercely as ever. The date for induction had been set at Tue. 11-22 by our personal obstetrician, but we both knew that we couldn't wait that long. Whatever we would gain by waiting for labor's natural onset would be lost by the continuing toll of the contractions. If we waited any longer, she simply wouldn't have any stamina. We called the hospital, and they told us to come in at 4 PM. My last concert was at 2. I drove in, and as I'd done all week, played with my phone on my stand. It finished at 3 PM, and I had kept all of my foolish promises.
With the Bills being manhandled by the lowly Miami Dolphins on the radio, Julie and I drove into Strong. Having caught the nursing staff on a shift change, it was about 5 PM before we were checked into our birthing room and officially initiated. (I don't think it's official until you're wearing an uncomfortable plastic bracelet.) This, we told ourselves, was it. Our son was being born today. We let our parents know, and prepared to get things started.
The nurses set up a drip and (after fussing with the very expensive looking machines) gave Julie pitocin, the "inducement" drug. It worked. On the lowest possible setting, her contractions immediately increased in frequency, intensity, and duration. We were visited by staff members, (including an ultrasound technician who gave as an ever-so-brief glimpse of a face) and given vague assurances that we could speak to an anesthetist anytime we wished. We'd decided to play the anesthesia decision by ear, and I still think Julie could have delivered without any drugs if her labor had come on more quickly. Between her exhaustion, however, and the additional intensity of the pitocin-induced contractions, we decided to ask for an epidural.
Around 10 PM an anesthetist arrived. She spoke in a thick and menacing-sounding Russian accent, but gave us nothing but encouragement. The procedure was quick and easily done, and all of a sudden Julie was a new woman. My parents stopped by to visit us, and were even kind enough to bring me dinner. (From McDonald's the only place open at such a late hour...I was that hungry.) The epidural continued its magic, and Julie was convinced she might even be able to sleep for a bit. I agreed, and made myself as comfortable as I could in the "spouse chair" next to her bed.
Here again, our stories diverge. The next thing I remember is someone saying my name and telling me that I was missing my son being born. I was, at this point, quite sleep-deprived, and I apparently went down hard when I fell asleep. Julie had also fallen asleep, but apparently woke up around 2 or 2:30 AM, and without the slightest clue as to where I was. She was positioned away from the chair where I slept, and when she couldn't crane her neck back to where I was sleeping the in the darkened room, or elicit an answer to her calling my name into the dark, she presumed that I'd stepped out for some reason. Her contractions started up quite intensely again, and then she told her nurse it was time to push.
With me still asleep, doctors and students were assembled, and the pushing phase was begun. After fifteen minutes or so, Julie asked again where I was. A student asked, "is that this guy asleep in the chair." Julie instructed that I be woken up, which I was, and in considerable confusion. I immediately leapt to my feet and had the following thoughts:
-I think I'm dreaming...Julie's asleep with the epidural, and we're still just waiting for her to reach 10 cm.
-I don't know any of the people in this room
-My stomach is reminding me why I never eat fast food
Eventually I came into consciousness and realized what was happening. Julie proved to me over the next hour that everything that's ever been assumed about men being tougher than women is nonsense. She was a heroine, and while I was queasy and near-fainting at her knee, she was, incredibly, moving our child closer and closer to life. The doctors showed me his head, and confirmed that he was "sunny-side-up," which would complicate his delivery.
They gave wonderful encouragement to Julie while she was in the midst of pushes, but then promptly demonstrated that it wasn't to be trusted when the supervisor said "Push, Julie! He's almost here!" and then turned to a colleague and remarked "Okay, looks like that woman in 17 is about to deliver. I'll be back in a bit." Julie, however, outpaced their expectations. At the critical moment, only one other doctor and myself were in the room. The others were quickly called, and we saw that the baby was about to emerge.
If you don't know what an episiotomy is, please, do not attempt to find out. I saw that a doctor was about to inflict one upon my wife, and then was when my already unsettled stomach gave out. (Disclaimer: Not that that was anything compared to what Julie was going through) Someone saw me turn white and said "Sit down, Dad, get him out of the way." I remember sitting down and holding a bowl, and as soon as I did I heard a new sound, and then excitement. I stood up, and all of a sudden there was a human being there.
I was beyond amazed. He was a real person, and he was bleating, and looking up with wide open eyes. Julie was attempting to look at him, but couldn't see, and there were several people talking to me at once. I heard someone ask, "what's his name?"
I answered "his name is James" and realized that I was sobbing. There was a pair of scissors in my hand, and I cut his cord, and then his eyes met mine. His cries were just soft mews, and someone had put a cap on his full head of dark hair. He looked like us. I could see my eyes and Julie's ears, and the shape of my face. That a baby was coming had been my all-consuming thought for the past weeks, but I was somehow completely taken by surprise that he would be a person. I held him, and Julie held him, and we loved him. A child was born to us at 4:30 that morning, and his name is James.
I was more worried about a performance with the BPO on 11-8 than anything else, and once that was over I breathed an easy sigh of relief. 11-11-11 came and went, and we stayed at home. The weekend passed, and I returned to school uneasily on Monday, 11-13. On Tuesday, I began to be nervous. I'd been hired for a full philharmonics week at RPO, plus the attached Symphony 101 services on Friday and Sunday. J, who'd been home on maternity leave for a full week, was beginning to get restless. She said that she now understood what was meant by the baby "dropping."
She still hadn't experienced much in the way of contractions, pretended or otherwise, and we began to wonder if the due date was wrong. On Thursday night I played my first concert of the week, with my cellphone (turned down to silent) perched on my stand. One down, three to go. That night, I felt a tap on my arm. Groggy, and still half asleep, I rolled over to see that Julie was waking me up. As far as I can remember, the conversation went like this:
Julie: My contractions are every five minutes apart. What do you think?
Roy: Are you sure?
Julie: Yes, I've been timing them.
Roy: For how long?
Julie: At least since midnight.
Roy: Sorry, what time is it now?
Julie: It's about 2 AM. Do you think we should go to the hospital?
Roy: Has your water broken?
Julie: No, but sometimes that doesn't happen until later. What should we do?
Roy: Well, let's call in and see what they say.
Julie, who I should politely and impartially note was in the throes of labor, remembers the conversation like this:
Julie: My contractions are every five minutes apart. What do you think we should do?
Roy: What?
Julie: My contractions are every five minutes apart. What should we do?
Roy: What?
Julie: I'm having contractions every five minutes! What should we do?
Roy: I think we should go to the concert.
Julie: What? That's not what I asked! Should we call the doctor?
Roy: What time is it?
Julie: It's 2 AM.
Roy: How long?
Julie: 2 AM
Roy: How long have you been having contractions?
Julie: Since at least midnight. What should we do?
Roy: Your water hasn't broken?
Julie: No, sometimes that doesn't happen until later. Should we call?
Roy: <falls back asleep>
Clearly Julie does not remember this early morning adventure very clearly, but we do both remember that we eventually got up and called the on-call doctor. They asked us to come in, and by about 2:30 we were driving into Strong, hospital bag in tow. I don't think either of us really expected the baby would be arriving that night, but we wanted to be responsible. We had failed to be responsible parents earlier, and had never gotten around to visiting the hospital or taking the recommended tour. We did, however, find it without difficulty and get checked into triage.
Julie was measured (if you don't know, you don't want to know) and though her contractions were seeming more and more "real" she wasn't dilating at all. We waited around and attempted to stay awake for an hour or so, and then were sent home with compassionate smiles. No baby yet.
Thankfully, I didn't have LCS the following morning, but was able to sleep in for a 9:30 RPO rehearsal. I drove to Hochstein, parked, and sat down for rehearsal. What good would come from telling anyone about visiting the hospital the night before? We just needed to make it through another 72 hours, and then the baby could come anytime he wanted. At the rehearsal break, I checked my voicemail. Julie said it was going to happen today. Her contractions were still every five minutes apart, and they were much more intense. This time it was genuine. I reassured her I'd be home soon, and went to find the principal trumpeter. Awkwardly and apologetically, I told him I thought my wife was going into labor.
He conferenced with the personnel manager (who was also awaiting an imminent delivery from the principal bassoonist's wife) and they found another sub to put on call. I assured them that I would do everything in my power to make the concert, and they (wonderfully) assured me that family came first, and to look to my wife's interests. I drove home, picked up Julie, and drove again to the hospital and the triage room. We waited longer this time, but the news was the same. Julie was not dilating. This time we didn't linger for a second measurement, but just wanted to go home. We were both disappointed, and Julie was starting to be in considerable pain. A kind doctor wrote her a pain prescription, and we had it filled on the way home. It did some good for her, but our nerves were being worn thin.
Neither of us had slept properly for some time, and with the hubbub of the previous night we were both spent. The afternoon was spent in nervous puttering (I had called off of LCS, having thought I'd be in the hospital) and we waited for any changes in Julie's condition. Her pain medication did slightly slow the contractions, but that magical moment (the breaking of her water) still hadn't come. Early in the evening I called into the orchestra and told them I'd be at the concert. I came, I fretted, I played. Two concerts down, two to go. Still no baby.
On Saturday, 11-19, we wandered in the wilderness for 40 years. Really we just wandered about our living room, and really it was just me wandering since Julie had hurt her back earlier in the week. She tried to nap while I paced and read, and we waited, waited, waited. We both started to think about the word "induce," but held off a little longer yet. Oliver was on call for me at Gates the next morning...but I had nothing to tell him. There was still a sub lined up for RPO, but nothing to report. The evening came, and I drove in (in some early snow) for the last Philharmonics concert. Three concerts down, one to go. Still no baby.
After another sleepless night, I drove into CPC on Sunday morning, and reported to my disappointed choir that there was still no news. I drove home, and found Julie exhausted on the couch downstairs. She had been, whatever the "type," in labor since Thursday night, and her contractions continued now as fiercely as ever. The date for induction had been set at Tue. 11-22 by our personal obstetrician, but we both knew that we couldn't wait that long. Whatever we would gain by waiting for labor's natural onset would be lost by the continuing toll of the contractions. If we waited any longer, she simply wouldn't have any stamina. We called the hospital, and they told us to come in at 4 PM. My last concert was at 2. I drove in, and as I'd done all week, played with my phone on my stand. It finished at 3 PM, and I had kept all of my foolish promises.
With the Bills being manhandled by the lowly Miami Dolphins on the radio, Julie and I drove into Strong. Having caught the nursing staff on a shift change, it was about 5 PM before we were checked into our birthing room and officially initiated. (I don't think it's official until you're wearing an uncomfortable plastic bracelet.) This, we told ourselves, was it. Our son was being born today. We let our parents know, and prepared to get things started.
The nurses set up a drip and (after fussing with the very expensive looking machines) gave Julie pitocin, the "inducement" drug. It worked. On the lowest possible setting, her contractions immediately increased in frequency, intensity, and duration. We were visited by staff members, (including an ultrasound technician who gave as an ever-so-brief glimpse of a face) and given vague assurances that we could speak to an anesthetist anytime we wished. We'd decided to play the anesthesia decision by ear, and I still think Julie could have delivered without any drugs if her labor had come on more quickly. Between her exhaustion, however, and the additional intensity of the pitocin-induced contractions, we decided to ask for an epidural.
Around 10 PM an anesthetist arrived. She spoke in a thick and menacing-sounding Russian accent, but gave us nothing but encouragement. The procedure was quick and easily done, and all of a sudden Julie was a new woman. My parents stopped by to visit us, and were even kind enough to bring me dinner. (From McDonald's the only place open at such a late hour...I was that hungry.) The epidural continued its magic, and Julie was convinced she might even be able to sleep for a bit. I agreed, and made myself as comfortable as I could in the "spouse chair" next to her bed.
Here again, our stories diverge. The next thing I remember is someone saying my name and telling me that I was missing my son being born. I was, at this point, quite sleep-deprived, and I apparently went down hard when I fell asleep. Julie had also fallen asleep, but apparently woke up around 2 or 2:30 AM, and without the slightest clue as to where I was. She was positioned away from the chair where I slept, and when she couldn't crane her neck back to where I was sleeping the in the darkened room, or elicit an answer to her calling my name into the dark, she presumed that I'd stepped out for some reason. Her contractions started up quite intensely again, and then she told her nurse it was time to push.
With me still asleep, doctors and students were assembled, and the pushing phase was begun. After fifteen minutes or so, Julie asked again where I was. A student asked, "is that this guy asleep in the chair." Julie instructed that I be woken up, which I was, and in considerable confusion. I immediately leapt to my feet and had the following thoughts:
-I think I'm dreaming...Julie's asleep with the epidural, and we're still just waiting for her to reach 10 cm.
-I don't know any of the people in this room
-My stomach is reminding me why I never eat fast food
Eventually I came into consciousness and realized what was happening. Julie proved to me over the next hour that everything that's ever been assumed about men being tougher than women is nonsense. She was a heroine, and while I was queasy and near-fainting at her knee, she was, incredibly, moving our child closer and closer to life. The doctors showed me his head, and confirmed that he was "sunny-side-up," which would complicate his delivery.
They gave wonderful encouragement to Julie while she was in the midst of pushes, but then promptly demonstrated that it wasn't to be trusted when the supervisor said "Push, Julie! He's almost here!" and then turned to a colleague and remarked "Okay, looks like that woman in 17 is about to deliver. I'll be back in a bit." Julie, however, outpaced their expectations. At the critical moment, only one other doctor and myself were in the room. The others were quickly called, and we saw that the baby was about to emerge.
If you don't know what an episiotomy is, please, do not attempt to find out. I saw that a doctor was about to inflict one upon my wife, and then was when my already unsettled stomach gave out. (Disclaimer: Not that that was anything compared to what Julie was going through) Someone saw me turn white and said "Sit down, Dad, get him out of the way." I remember sitting down and holding a bowl, and as soon as I did I heard a new sound, and then excitement. I stood up, and all of a sudden there was a human being there.
I was beyond amazed. He was a real person, and he was bleating, and looking up with wide open eyes. Julie was attempting to look at him, but couldn't see, and there were several people talking to me at once. I heard someone ask, "what's his name?"
I answered "his name is James" and realized that I was sobbing. There was a pair of scissors in my hand, and I cut his cord, and then his eyes met mine. His cries were just soft mews, and someone had put a cap on his full head of dark hair. He looked like us. I could see my eyes and Julie's ears, and the shape of my face. That a baby was coming had been my all-consuming thought for the past weeks, but I was somehow completely taken by surprise that he would be a person. I held him, and Julie held him, and we loved him. A child was born to us at 4:30 that morning, and his name is James.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Gig, Gigere, Gigi, Gigatum
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6nYa1jc5u_s
It's gig season! I'm out the door in a few minutes to an RPO Phils rehearsal, followed by wrap-ups of our run-out shows later this week, and then a week of Holiday Pops, shows for two different brass quintets, Christmas Eve services, school concerts, and did I mention I played a Messiah in Buffalo? It's great, but I miss J and the baby, not to mention the other people (mostly brothers and sisters) who I'm not seeing as much as I'd like.
...continued after gigging...
There was finally a break! Yesterday we took James out to meet Uncle Lux for the first time (also meeting his Great-Grandparents Dudley) and had dinner with the Blessed Mother and Father. Here are some of the scatteratti going on in the Smith household:
-M Laine is becoming a more and more polished artist. I watched her yesterday add watercolor to exquisitely drawn greeting cards (done freehand, no less!) and marveled at her skill.
-I'm in the mood, at a very unlikely time, for a Great Clean. I want to clean my desk at school, my choir room, our whole house (except maybe the bathroom) and both of our cars. Whence comes this impulse? I ought to act on it before it passes, but I don't know when I'll have the time.
-This is the most interesting political idea I've heard in quite some time. Perhaps some credit to Neil Postman is order, for pointing out the discrepancy?
-I'm under constant temptation to provoke my coworkers at LCS by using the term X-Mas instead of Christmas, just to see what they'll do. It really is convenient shorthand.
-I read Hofstadter's The American Political Tradition, which is probably the first American political book I've read since the Education of Henry Adams. It was excellent, especially the essays on the Founding Fathers, William Jennings Bryan, and Herbert Hoover.
-This site and this site have become daily pleasures.
-Many thanks to Pax, who filled in for me at CPC so I could play a Rutter Gloria with the RPO brass at a church in Greece.
-I gave a short devotional at LCS last Wednesday, to be published shortly...
It's gig season! I'm out the door in a few minutes to an RPO Phils rehearsal, followed by wrap-ups of our run-out shows later this week, and then a week of Holiday Pops, shows for two different brass quintets, Christmas Eve services, school concerts, and did I mention I played a Messiah in Buffalo? It's great, but I miss J and the baby, not to mention the other people (mostly brothers and sisters) who I'm not seeing as much as I'd like.
...continued after gigging...
There was finally a break! Yesterday we took James out to meet Uncle Lux for the first time (also meeting his Great-Grandparents Dudley) and had dinner with the Blessed Mother and Father. Here are some of the scatteratti going on in the Smith household:
-M Laine is becoming a more and more polished artist. I watched her yesterday add watercolor to exquisitely drawn greeting cards (done freehand, no less!) and marveled at her skill.
-I'm in the mood, at a very unlikely time, for a Great Clean. I want to clean my desk at school, my choir room, our whole house (except maybe the bathroom) and both of our cars. Whence comes this impulse? I ought to act on it before it passes, but I don't know when I'll have the time.
-This is the most interesting political idea I've heard in quite some time. Perhaps some credit to Neil Postman is order, for pointing out the discrepancy?
-I'm under constant temptation to provoke my coworkers at LCS by using the term X-Mas instead of Christmas, just to see what they'll do. It really is convenient shorthand.
-I read Hofstadter's The American Political Tradition, which is probably the first American political book I've read since the Education of Henry Adams. It was excellent, especially the essays on the Founding Fathers, William Jennings Bryan, and Herbert Hoover.
-This site and this site have become daily pleasures.
-Many thanks to Pax, who filled in for me at CPC so I could play a Rutter Gloria with the RPO brass at a church in Greece.
-I gave a short devotional at LCS last Wednesday, to be published shortly...
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Numbers
Καὶ εἶδον ἄγγελον καταβαίνοντα ἐκ τοῦ οὐρανοῦ, ἔχοντα τὴν κλεῖν τῆς ἀβύσσου καὶ ἅλυσιν μεγάλην ἐπὶ τὴν χεῖρα αὐτοῦ. καὶ ἐκράτησεν τὸν δράκοντα, “ὁ ὄφις” ὁ ἀρχαῖος, ὅς ἐστιν “Διάβολος” καὶ “Ὁ Σατανᾶς,” καὶ ἔδησεν αὐτὸν χίλια ἔτη, καὶ ἔβαλεν αὐτὸν εἰς τὴν ἄβυσσον, καὶ ἔκλεισεν καὶ ἐσφράγισεν ἐπάνω αὐτοῦ, ἵνα μὴ πλανήσῃ ἔτι τὰ ἔθνη, ἄχρι τελεσθῇ τὰ χίλια ἔτη: μετὰ ταῦτα δεῖ λυθῆναι αὐτὸν μικρὸν χρόνον.
And I saw an angel descending from heaven, holding the key of the abyss and a great chain in his hand. And he seized (or overpowered) the serpent, the ancient snake, which is accuser and the satan, and he bound him a thousand years, and he cast him into the abyss, and he locked and sealed above him, that he might not yet mislead the gentiles, until the thousand years might be completed; after these it is necessary for him to be loosed a short time.
The passage goes on to describe a select physical resurrection, a ἡ ἀνάστασις ἡ πρώτη. In a recent conversation with my brother-in-law I speculated that perhaps the thousand years, which has been a source of much discussion among the rapture/dispensation camps, from Harold Camping to the Left Behind authors to R.C. Sproul, might not be a millennium in any quantitative sense at all. The terms premillennial, postmillennial, amillennial, etc, have become decisive boundary markers among the various eschatological camps. But perhaps, I wondered, might not the thousand simply mean innumerable? Among first century peasants, would the term "thousand" carry more of a superlative than cardinal sense? Having done some background reading, I was right and wrong.
The word χιλιάς, denoting the number 1000, was certainly the highest cardinal number in regular usage in the Koine language, just like mille (M) in Latin. The earliest Greek attempts at a numerology were quite similar to Hebrew. Including the diagamma and several other vestigial letters, the letters of the alphabet were assigned the values 1-10, then 100-900. (Using the Hebrew alphabet as a cipher, the Revelation 13 riddle about the number of the beast spells out the name of Nero, but this is far beyond the present discussion). Eventually the cardinal numbers were named, and χιλιάς appears as a cardinal and superlative number throughout ancient literature.
For example, Herodotus:
ὡς δὲ ἄβυσσοι εἰσι αἱ πηγαί, ἐς διάπειραν ἔφη τούτου Ψαμμήτιχον Αἰγύπτου βασιλέα ἀπικέσθαι: πολλέων γὰρ αὐτὸν χιλιάδων ὀργυιέων πλεξάμενον κάλον κατεῖναι ταύτῃ καὶ οὐκ ἐξικέσθαι ἐς βυσσόν.
And so that the sources are bottomless (abyssoi) unto trial of this said Psammetichus King of Egypt to come: for he had a rope of many thousands fathoms' length well woven and let down into the spring, but he could not reach to the bottom. (bysson)
In use as a cardinal number, though rather in a mystical than mathematical context, an excerpt from Phaedrus:
τῇ φίλῃ ψυχῇ ἐντεκοῦσα, ἐννέα χιλιάδας ἐτῶν περὶ γῆν κυλινδουμένην αὐτὴν καὶ ὑπὸ γῆς ἄνουν παρέξει.
having caused to the dear soul nine thousands of years above the earth rolled the same and to be present senseless under the earth.
In Revelation itself there are clear differentiations of usage, from a clear cardinal passage in ch. 13
Καὶ ἐν ἐκείνῃ τῇ ὥρᾳ ἐγένετο “σεισμὸς μέγας,” καὶ τὸ δέκατον τῆς πόλεως “ἔπεσεν,” καὶ ἀπεκτάνθησαν ἐν τῷ σεισμῷ ὀνόματα ἀνθρώπων χιλιάδες ἑπτά,
And in that hour came a great earthquake, and a tenth of the city fell and died in the earthquake the names (sic) of men seven thousands.
To a clear superlative passage in ch. 5
καὶ εἶδον, καὶ ἤκουσα φωνὴν ἀγγέλων πολλῶν κύκλῳ τοῦ θρόνου καὶ τῶν ζῴων καὶ τῶν πρεσβυτέρων, καὶ ἦν ὁ ἀριθμὸς αὐτῶν “μυριάδες μυριάδων καὶ χιλιάδες χιλιάδων,”
And I saw, and I heard the voice of many angels encircled round the throne and of the living things and of the elders, their number was myriads of myriads and thousands of thousands.
To the confusing and unclear, as in ch. 9
καὶ ὁ ἀριθμὸς τῶν στρατευμάτων τοῦ ἱππικοῦ δὶς μυριάδες μυριάδων: ἤκουσα τὸν ἀριθμὸν αὐτῶν.
And the number of the armies of the horseman twice myriads of myriads; I heard their number.
Which brings us to the question of μυριάς, which is clearly a higher number than χιλιάς but with an even more facile meaning. It seems to have had a relatively straightforward sense of "ten-thousand" at certain times, as in this passage from Herotodus:
ἐπείτε γὰρ τάχιστά σε ἐπυθόμην ἐπὶ θάλασσαν καταβαίνοντα τὴν Ἑλληνίδα, βουλόμενός τοι δοῦναι ἐς τὸν πόλεμον χρήματα ἐξεμάνθανον, καὶ εὗρον λογιζόμενος ἀργυρίου μὲν δύο χιλιάδας ἐούσας μοι ταλάντων, χρυσίου δὲ τετρακοσίας μυριάδας στατήρων Δαρεικῶν ἐπιδεούσας ἑπτὰ χιλιάδων.
For since swiftly I learned you were coming upon the Greek sea, desiring to give you money unto the war, so I inquired into the matter, and I found reckoned to me being two thousands of talents of silver, and of gold four-hundred ten-thousands of Daric staters, lacking seven thousands.
Yet most often, as in Revelation, myrias meant myriad; an incalculable number, beyond the expression of what was regularly conceivable at the time. Given the language and mathematical crudeness of the time--keep in mind that Euclid dealt mainly with geometry, fractions, and proportions--I suspect that the "thousand years" in Revelation was a conceptually possible figure being used for superlative language. In a crude modern parallel, if I should say that I "sure could use a million bucks," I can, through some mental effort, determine how much, in terms of houses, taxes, and various subdivisions into thousands and ten thousands, that number "million" is. But this mental exercise is not what I meant to express; I really meant to express that I could use money, and superlative wealth in comparison to my habitual monetary life. This expression would mean something quite different to a professional athlete; perhaps the expressions in Revelation would mean something different to a mathematician or even a historian organizing dates. But the author of Revelation, given his use of superlative numbers elsewhere in the book, probably means "an age," without specifying in cardinal exactness its boundaries.
EDIT 7/6/11:
I was reading Plato the other day and came across this usage of muriados in the superlative exclusively, certainly worth mentioning:
ἀλλ᾽ ἐν πενίᾳ μυρίᾳ εἰμὶ διὰ τὴν τοῦ θεοῦ λατρείαν.
but I am in vast (muria) poverty on account of my service to the god.
It's a been a busy week otherwise, full of RPO and patriotic music. We are very near the wedding of Samuel Magus and Kaitlyn...
And I saw an angel descending from heaven, holding the key of the abyss and a great chain in his hand. And he seized (or overpowered) the serpent, the ancient snake, which is accuser and the satan, and he bound him a thousand years, and he cast him into the abyss, and he locked and sealed above him, that he might not yet mislead the gentiles, until the thousand years might be completed; after these it is necessary for him to be loosed a short time.
The passage goes on to describe a select physical resurrection, a ἡ ἀνάστασις ἡ πρώτη. In a recent conversation with my brother-in-law I speculated that perhaps the thousand years, which has been a source of much discussion among the rapture/dispensation camps, from Harold Camping to the Left Behind authors to R.C. Sproul, might not be a millennium in any quantitative sense at all. The terms premillennial, postmillennial, amillennial, etc, have become decisive boundary markers among the various eschatological camps. But perhaps, I wondered, might not the thousand simply mean innumerable? Among first century peasants, would the term "thousand" carry more of a superlative than cardinal sense? Having done some background reading, I was right and wrong.
The word χιλιάς, denoting the number 1000, was certainly the highest cardinal number in regular usage in the Koine language, just like mille (M) in Latin. The earliest Greek attempts at a numerology were quite similar to Hebrew. Including the diagamma and several other vestigial letters, the letters of the alphabet were assigned the values 1-10, then 100-900. (Using the Hebrew alphabet as a cipher, the Revelation 13 riddle about the number of the beast spells out the name of Nero, but this is far beyond the present discussion). Eventually the cardinal numbers were named, and χιλιάς appears as a cardinal and superlative number throughout ancient literature.
For example, Herodotus:
ὡς δὲ ἄβυσσοι εἰσι αἱ πηγαί, ἐς διάπειραν ἔφη τούτου Ψαμμήτιχον Αἰγύπτου βασιλέα ἀπικέσθαι: πολλέων γὰρ αὐτὸν χιλιάδων ὀργυιέων πλεξάμενον κάλον κατεῖναι ταύτῃ καὶ οὐκ ἐξικέσθαι ἐς βυσσόν.
And so that the sources are bottomless (abyssoi) unto trial of this said Psammetichus King of Egypt to come: for he had a rope of many thousands fathoms' length well woven and let down into the spring, but he could not reach to the bottom. (bysson)
In use as a cardinal number, though rather in a mystical than mathematical context, an excerpt from Phaedrus:
τῇ φίλῃ ψυχῇ ἐντεκοῦσα, ἐννέα χιλιάδας ἐτῶν περὶ γῆν κυλινδουμένην αὐτὴν καὶ ὑπὸ γῆς ἄνουν παρέξει.
having caused to the dear soul nine thousands of years above the earth rolled the same and to be present senseless under the earth.
In Revelation itself there are clear differentiations of usage, from a clear cardinal passage in ch. 13
Καὶ ἐν ἐκείνῃ τῇ ὥρᾳ ἐγένετο “σεισμὸς μέγας,” καὶ τὸ δέκατον τῆς πόλεως “ἔπεσεν,” καὶ ἀπεκτάνθησαν ἐν τῷ σεισμῷ ὀνόματα ἀνθρώπων χιλιάδες ἑπτά,
And in that hour came a great earthquake, and a tenth of the city fell and died in the earthquake the names (sic) of men seven thousands.
To a clear superlative passage in ch. 5
καὶ εἶδον, καὶ ἤκουσα φωνὴν ἀγγέλων πολλῶν κύκλῳ τοῦ θρόνου καὶ τῶν ζῴων καὶ τῶν πρεσβυτέρων, καὶ ἦν ὁ ἀριθμὸς αὐτῶν “μυριάδες μυριάδων καὶ χιλιάδες χιλιάδων,”
And I saw, and I heard the voice of many angels encircled round the throne and of the living things and of the elders, their number was myriads of myriads and thousands of thousands.
To the confusing and unclear, as in ch. 9
καὶ ὁ ἀριθμὸς τῶν στρατευμάτων τοῦ ἱππικοῦ δὶς μυριάδες μυριάδων: ἤκουσα τὸν ἀριθμὸν αὐτῶν.
And the number of the armies of the horseman twice myriads of myriads; I heard their number.
Which brings us to the question of μυριάς, which is clearly a higher number than χιλιάς but with an even more facile meaning. It seems to have had a relatively straightforward sense of "ten-thousand" at certain times, as in this passage from Herotodus:
ἐπείτε γὰρ τάχιστά σε ἐπυθόμην ἐπὶ θάλασσαν καταβαίνοντα τὴν Ἑλληνίδα, βουλόμενός τοι δοῦναι ἐς τὸν πόλεμον χρήματα ἐξεμάνθανον, καὶ εὗρον λογιζόμενος ἀργυρίου μὲν δύο χιλιάδας ἐούσας μοι ταλάντων, χρυσίου δὲ τετρακοσίας μυριάδας στατήρων Δαρεικῶν ἐπιδεούσας ἑπτὰ χιλιάδων.
For since swiftly I learned you were coming upon the Greek sea, desiring to give you money unto the war, so I inquired into the matter, and I found reckoned to me being two thousands of talents of silver, and of gold four-hundred ten-thousands of Daric staters, lacking seven thousands.
Yet most often, as in Revelation, myrias meant myriad; an incalculable number, beyond the expression of what was regularly conceivable at the time. Given the language and mathematical crudeness of the time--keep in mind that Euclid dealt mainly with geometry, fractions, and proportions--I suspect that the "thousand years" in Revelation was a conceptually possible figure being used for superlative language. In a crude modern parallel, if I should say that I "sure could use a million bucks," I can, through some mental effort, determine how much, in terms of houses, taxes, and various subdivisions into thousands and ten thousands, that number "million" is. But this mental exercise is not what I meant to express; I really meant to express that I could use money, and superlative wealth in comparison to my habitual monetary life. This expression would mean something quite different to a professional athlete; perhaps the expressions in Revelation would mean something different to a mathematician or even a historian organizing dates. But the author of Revelation, given his use of superlative numbers elsewhere in the book, probably means "an age," without specifying in cardinal exactness its boundaries.
EDIT 7/6/11:
I was reading Plato the other day and came across this usage of muriados in the superlative exclusively, certainly worth mentioning:
ἀλλ᾽ ἐν πενίᾳ μυρίᾳ εἰμὶ διὰ τὴν τοῦ θεοῦ λατρείαν.
but I am in vast (muria) poverty on account of my service to the god.
It's a been a busy week otherwise, full of RPO and patriotic music. We are very near the wedding of Samuel Magus and Kaitlyn...
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.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
RPO!
Congratulations to J, who played a recital at RWC tonight and played as well as I’ve ever heard her. She performed with J. Werner, playing Chaminade, a piece composed for the two of us by D. Anderson, Ian Clarke’s Zoom Tube, the Carmen Fantasie, and a duet with D. Smith from Sonnambula. She looked lovely, played lovely, and gave a great performance. Most wonderfully of all, her audience packed the recital hall. Nearly our entire family was there, along with RWC students, professors, church members, and guests from College Greene.
Today (which was quite the eventful day) is also the 1st birthday of Baby H, which we will celebrate with her and her parents on Sunday. I play RPO (3rd Trumpet on La Mer) this week and had a great double rehearsal day with the guys. It is a privilege to sit in the midst of that glorious sound. I brought and read Udolpho and Chesterton’s Lunacy and Letters. Also reading today Aeneid 6, Iliad 3, Is. 42, and Rev. 14.
Respicit Aeneas subito, et sub rupe sinistra
moenia lata videt, triplici circumdata muro,
quae rapidus flammis ambit torrentibus amnis,
Tartareus Phlegethon, torquetque sonantia saxa.
Porta adversa ingens, solidoque adamante columnae,
vis ut nulla virum, non ipsi exscindere bello
caelicolae valeant; stat ferrea turris ad auras,
Tisiphoneque sedens, palla succincta cruenta,
vestibulum exsomnis servat noctesque diesque,
Hinc exaudiri gemitus, et saeva sonare
verbera; tum stridor ferri, tractaeque catenae.
moenia lata videt, triplici circumdata muro,
quae rapidus flammis ambit torrentibus amnis,
Tartareus Phlegethon, torquetque sonantia saxa.
Porta adversa ingens, solidoque adamante columnae,
vis ut nulla virum, non ipsi exscindere bello
caelicolae valeant; stat ferrea turris ad auras,
Tisiphoneque sedens, palla succincta cruenta,
vestibulum exsomnis servat noctesque diesque,
Hinc exaudiri gemitus, et saeva sonare
verbera; tum stridor ferri, tractaeque catenae.
Suddenly Aeneas looked back, and leftwards he saw wide bulwarks under the cliff, a wall thrice enforced, which fierce flame girded in burning rivers, Phlegethon of Tartarus, and it twists over the resounding rocks. There is an enormous gate in front, and of the column unbroken iron, so strong that no man, nor the dwellers of heaven themselves, might be strong in battle to tear it down. The tower of iron rises to the skies, and it is the seat of Tisiphone, girded with a bloodstained robe, who keeps the porch day and night without sleep. Hence is groaning discerned, and savage lashes sounding; then the grating of iron, and the dragging of chains.
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| vestibulum exsomnis servat noctesque diesque |
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