Sleuth

Practicing the trumpet is kind of like detective work.

Well, first it's like getting rid of a dog in footie pajamas, because James followed me down into the basement and laid in my lap while I warmed up, begging me to come upstairs and play hockey and/or color pictures for him.

"Later. I need to practice for a bit and THEN we can play hockey."
"I wanna play hockey now."

After setting James up with something to do on his own for a bit, it's kind of like detective work. It's a matter of finding, through careful analysis, exactly what needs to be improved in your playing, and then working out tricks and solutions for how to get the "fix" in place.

I made a long (almost 40 minute) recording of myself working on some materials last Friday morning then another recording (in three chunks) over the course of Sunday of the exact same stuff, except in reverse order. (So that I was fresh on what I was fatigued on during the previous session, and vice versa) Today was about listening to both versions of the material and figuring out what needed working on.

I started out by listening to the Ballerina dance.
Everyone hates the Ballerina dance. Or at least, everyone in my family hates the Ballerina Dance.

Familiarity breeds contempt

I actually don't mind it so much. It's a nasty little excerpt, but I usually play it pretty well without too much work, so if I'm getting it back up to shipshape condition I shouldn't have much trouble. But it didn't sound great on either recording. On the Friday recording the tempo was too quick, and the internal rhythm ended up being uneven. Plus, the high note was present but a little weak and wobbly sounding. The Sunday recording was also too fast, and the last two measures ended up sounding like I was playing them in a different tempo.

My solution was NOT to put on a metronome. I've put in the requisite metronome work on this piece many years ago. I figured that if I put the metronome on I would just play with the metronome and it would be okay, but since you can't actually play with a metronome (you play with a snare drum, which can be either very steady or wildly inconsistent) it would be better to practice a stronger internal "click" by slowing the tempo down slightly and evening out the internal subdivision. I reconfigured where I putting the emphasis measure to measure (the big arc starting 3 after 136 is a pick-up, not a downbeat) and put in an alternate fingering.

Run it again. Yes, it sounds better.

The hardest part is just counting the rests correctly. Seriously.

Next up was the waltz.

On the Friday recording I was trying to "finesse" the first note too much and it didn't speak very well. On Sunday it was plenty loud but I didn't get my embouchure set right for the first big slur and there were a couple of missed connections. In both recordings the inner time from note to note was kind of okay, but not quite SOLID like you'd want it to sound. Solution: click off the piece in my head by hearing the triplet rhythms that start 3 before 151. It evens out the time, makes you set your chops right from the beginning, and somehow gives you an easier beginning to the first note. Rhythmic stability helps a lot with soft entrances. I listened to a couple of different recordings and there was a huge range of tempi and dynamic interpretations. (It doesn't help that there are two different editions of this piece.) My goal? Prepare all the extremes, but offer up something as in-the-middle as possible unless I have a compelling reason otherwise.

When I turned off the recording I heard sounds of distress from upstairs. James had...well, James had gone to the potty and ended up getting stuck. I rescued him and agreed to a break from practicing long enough for some hockey. We turned over two storage ottomans for goals and hit a tennis ball around the library. Apparently he'd also been sticking stickers all over the downstairs wall when he got tired of coloring. When hockey time was over ("the first period is finished, the zambonis need to clean the ice") I was a little more specific about what he could and could not do while alone upstairs.

Back to the basement. Tchaik 4.

The correct sound color for this guy is "paint-removing bright."

Tchaik 4 can trick you. On the one hand, the high A-flat is the worst, most frackable note on the C trumpet. You could view this as just a test of how many A-flats you're going to crack. On the other hand, there's the whole question of demonstrating the difference between the duple and triple subdivisions, and whether or not you should stylize the 16th note of the triplet. And, if you're hearing the low brass part as you play, there should be some extra weight on the note of the downbeat of A and 3 before A. 

On the Friday recording it was the final bit of material I played after going for about an hour and a half straight. So I was kind of pleased that everything came out--but I kind of sounded like I'd been going for an hour an a half. (If you're playing the whole symphony you have to do this exact same fanfare towards the end of the fourth movement, so it's good to practice it gassed.) The Sunday recording sounded bold and fresh, but I split the entrance one before A all over place (missed high) and then must have been too flustered to shape the rest of the measure the way that I wanted it.

For this kind of playing, the solution is all about building confidence. So, I listened to a couple different recordings, made sure I had it in my head exactly the way that I wanted to, and then rolled tape. Played it once, yes, got it. Waited. Played it a second time, yes, got it. Changed up the tempo and played it a third time, yes, still got it. Played it way slower and played it again, got it again. Theoretically I should be way more confident when I do it for "real" because I can remember all those perfect reps in the basement. But really what I should be doing with this piece is finding ways to play it front of other people. (Preferably people who want to hear it.)

Last up for this morning was the end of Petrushka, the "ghost scene."

Technically it's Petrushka's ghost, but it can kill the two trumpet players

I only had one recording of this, from Friday, and I wasn't super pleased with it. The top Cs (Eb on a piccolo trumpet) all sounded way flat compared to the rest of the arpeggio, and the rhythm one before 107 (eighth note pulse stays consistent, quintuplets over four) was just outright wrong. I listened to a bunch of different recordings and felt a little bit better about the pitch issues--no one really plays this one pristinely in tune. (That is what muted piccolo trumpet means.) I looked for a solution. I tried switching the picc over to the B-flat side and the pitch got worse. I tried an alternate fingering for the high note, and it ended up sounding out-of-tune sharp (and more frackable). I tried to reconfigure where I have my slides, but the third valve slide on my picc is apparently frozen in place. I re-recorded myself and got a better take, but I'm still not sure exactly what to do for this passage. (It's a good thing that it's supposed to sound horrifying.) 

Probably the only solution is to buy more gear.

TWO WEEKS AGO:

J: What do you think we should get Daddy for Christmas?

James: I don't know. What do you think we should get him?
J: Well, what does Daddy like?

James: He likes to play the trumpet.

J: Yeah, he does. Should we get him another trumpet.

James: No, he doesn't need any more trumpets.

#trumpetwives

"Previous studies often find the highest exposure levels among the trumpet players. It is not unusual to find an equivalent continuous sound level (LAeq) of 93-98 dB for several rehearsal hours (McBride et al., 1992)"--Sound Exposure of Symphony Orchestra Musicians, Annals of Occupational Hygiene

....
"Honey, I'm going to be down in the basement for a bit."
"Okay, are you going to run the industrial power mower?"
"Yeah, I'm gonna try to get some mowing in before the kids go down for naps."
"How long do you think you're going to be?"
"Uh...I don't know. Maybe 45 minutes?"
"They might not make it that long."
"Okay, well just shout down the stairs when they need to go to sleep."
"Can you do any of your mowing with the engine covered or anything?"
"...you know it isn't really the same to mow with the engine covered."
"I know, I'm just wondering if there was anything you could save for the end. You know, so you could mow longer."
"No, I really need to to mow at full volume for a bit today."
"...okay."

....
"So, could you tell a difference?"
"Umm...on which bit?"
"Right at the end there, when I was kind going in shorter bursts with the jackhammer? You know, I was going BRRRRRT-BRT! BRRRRT-BRT!"
"You were doing something different than you usually do?"
"Yeah, I was trying out this new titanium coated bit. It definitely feels different. Did it sound any different to you?"
"Mmm...I could listen for it again. But it mostly just sounded like your regular jackhammering."
"Aw, nuts. I was hoping it SOUND different. You know, obviously different."
"Maybe it did and I just wasn't paying very close attention."
"You know, they're selling the titanium coated models now with a diamond tip. I think that might be worth trying."
"That sounds kind of expensive."
"Yeah, it probably wouldn't be cheap. But I already know exactly what size to order, since I like the size I currently have."
"What do you think that would do for the sound?"
"It would make the jackhammer even louder. Maybe a bit brighter too."

....
"Okay, once we get home we need to clean up the kitchen, and we should make sure the table is wiped off before we go to bed tonight...and...oh, you probably need to run your outboard motor in the basement for a bit, don't you."
"Well, I'd rather watch the game, but..."
"Do you think maybe you could take a night off?"
"I don't know."
"Really, you'll have plenty of time to make it up later in the week, won't you?"
"I just don't think I'd be able to relax and enjoy the evening if I knew that I hadn't cranked up the outboard motor in the basement for at least, I don't know, a half-hour or so. It'll be a light session though, I'll go as quick as I can."
"I don't know about the kids, honey. They're kind of squirrely."
"Just let the kids do what they want for a half-hour and I'll put them to bed once I'm done with the outboard motor. And then I'll help with the kitchen, okay?"

....
"Ah yes, Smith. Your reservation is right here. Non-smoking king?"
"Yes, that should be fine."
"We're going to have you in Room 304. Enjoy your stay!"
"Thanks very much. Hey, quick question for you..."
"Yes, sir?"
"I have a garbage truck that I'm going to need to drive around and operate for a bit...probably raise and lower the pressure lifter and run the compacter for about 45 minutes or so. Is there a good spot in the hotel for me to do that?"
"Hmmm...there are lots of other guests this weekend, sir."
"You don't have, maybe, an empty conference room or something? Or, if there's an empty room nearby where I am, I could make sure I'm pointing the truck in that direction?"
"Is it really necessary for you to operate a garbage truck in your hotel room, sir? While you're on vacation?"
"You don't understand...I need to do it every day. My wife can vouch for me on this."
"He definitely does it every day."
"It's kind of like being in perpetual Olympic-style training."
"Except louder."

Old Practicing

I found an old notebook earlier this week. Or rather, I looked through some of the older parts of a notebook that I'd apparently used for a number of years earlier. Some random entries typed out below...can't tell as I re-read them whether I should be thoroughly depressed about hammering away at the same licks for years on end or should feel a sense of peace and pleasure at the long and steady journey that is professional music-making...


7/30/09
fieramente--PROUDLY
-Charlier 1-good, still flexibility issues getting into line 5
-Charlier 22 page 1 too fast for quarter=92, dropped beats; A major sounds better than A-flat major; first 8 bars in one breath? Not very stylish--too notey

8/4/09
Charlier 5 (articulation in lines 8 and 9 messy)
Charlier 27-leaps to Bs in line 5 not high enough; still not making first double bar in one breath; f-g lip trill in bottom of first page claner; staccato binaire clean until end of second line; figure out tempo change into moderato tranquillo
Mahler 5 reh. 7-10 (Recording A66) 7 very nice style and articulation but can't feel time; before 9 splatted B-flat, no cresc. 9 lower on A, E-flat needs sustain 10 G-flats out of tune; play 10 with recordings for timing; fanfare triplet bad, 2nd note; don't give away mf; low A-flats wobbled

9/1/09
Duets with Adam
Listened to first lesson (Halsey Stevens) with Charlie "relax, bell up, don't play so loud. You are a good player, I'm going to give you some new techniques for prep."
Outdoor Overture (with score) playing along with Seattle recording. Trouble on initial entrance after count; Resolve by one breath motion -->
Too many short breaths in phrase? Ask Anita.
Ballerina and Waltz with score--not bad. Too heavy on ending Fs
Credo-too heavy handed
Bruckner-Major score/part discrepancy...different editions?
Find plunger mute, picc mute.

1/20
Nocturnes with practice mute; subdivide appearance of each rhythm; play pppp, ppp, pp; add tuner
Check for Rapsodie Espagnole 24-25
Pines last part p.1 very slow; downward slurs esp.
Bartok-Pitch of first notes, movement 2; C-F jump; also, slurred
PROJECT: List of all influential solos, excerpts, etudes CONCEPTUALLY

2/11
Find recording of Gershwin.
Listening-Bartok lost time between first and second phrase; cresc on E? Bartok 1a-true note on frist B-flat; def. faster, more accent on beat 1? Play with recording.
Leonore-Too much time before breath; decresc too soon. D-Bb intonation
Charlier 8-Jump up to 8v G; true note in jump
Scales not under fingers; jump up to B, downward slurs. Clean slur up B; 16th (illegible) Low D sounds too sudden before recap. Cresc through end of recap phrase; accuracy at end; too mellow, soft?

2/19/10 (15 days to audition)
Brandt 88
first part of Bitsch III
First part of Charlier VI
Shosti PC (all)
Ballerina
Till
83-get through 2nd note of each slur; bottom of on A in Ab really messed up; need more time on this
84-Bitsch III good start; airs out on occasion
85-Charlier 6-E-Db slur, nice dynamic; one note in trips; wrong GOOD
86-Ballerina; heavy handed triplet; catching notes sec. WAY faster in 2nd part
87-bottom C not in tune; p slur; top A doesn't resonate
88-Waltz-First note chipped; pitch on top A-flat; (can this sound more "in the orchestra?")
89-Till (first notes) too slow low Gs not speaking right
90-Shosti I an Eb missed in arpeggio; better 2nd time; more authoritative?

3/17/10
Ask Julie about Irons etudes
Clarkes (Prosser) with metronome for strength>perform
Horn exercises (last page) @quarter=50 +tuner
Russian etude p 94 (w soft at first, record)
Walter Smith (pp) I.7, II.2, (need metronome) III 1-9 (pp)
Carmen intonation (w/tuner)
Schumann II intonation (w/tuner)
Charlier 4
Brandt 24 (last section)
Brandt 23 in D on C

RECODINGS TO BE PURCHASED
Bach Magnificat (mvmnt 1)
Bach B Minor mass (Credo)
Bach Brandenburg Concerto (entire)
Brahms Academic Festival Overture
Bruckner Symphony no 7 (entire)
Debussy Nocturnes no 2 Fetes
Mahler III, V, VII (entire)
Pictures at an Exhibition (Promenade, Schmuyle)
Ravel Piano Concerto (mvmnt 1)
Schumann Sympony no II (mvmnt 1
Shostakovich Symphony no VIII (Entire) London 9.99
Also Sprach Zarathustra (CSO) 11.99
Ein Heldenleben
Tannhauser Overture
Parsifal Vorspiel Berlin 9.99

Sehr gemachlich-very slowly
etwas langsamer wie fruher-somewhat slower than formerly
wie aus weiter Ferne-from a distance
Frei vorgetragen-spoken freely?
Wie die weise eines Posthorns-In the manner of a posthorn
Zeit lassen-give time
Zuruckhaltend-held back
verhallend-fading
verklingend-dying away
weider-again

1/10/11
4 Collins etudes
2 Charliers "du style"
Ravel PC on D
Enesco ending
2 or 3 Bach
Paul's Cornet

Recital Ideas
12' 30" Hubeau
5 My Spirit be Joyful
3 Believe Me if Endearing
3 Bugler's Holiday
5 Seraphim
Steve's piece?
Nelhybel
email Barbara
call Paul
Katie G?

needed:
Curry Mouthpiece
Recording: Sonata Octavi Toni
fix cup mute

Note Shapes
d accent, d melodic tenuto, d accent fanfare, d timpani, d bowstroke, d straight-tone

Concepts:
Creating a sense of direction within a phrase
Practicing slowly to coordinate air/note changes
Taking smaller "sippy" breaths to keep tension out of playing
Being in love with your own sound and happy with every note that comes out of the bell
Using familiar acoustic (GPC) as reference for brightness/connection
High notes vibrate immediately
Rock solid dictated rhythm
Don't move while playing
Slightly rocking mouthpiece placement onto upper lip
Playing with a variety of colors, including covered, highly vibrant, vocal, bleak

5/18
BB buzzing routine-ascending to A; continued buzzing, break at d''; can't get real notes buzzed
BB Scales up to D, down to F half-quarter-quarter slurred
Articulation exercises on G, g, d, g' at fff and ppp
Pitch work with pitch primer
WM Smith Flexibility no 8 quarter 120; p17 1-9, quarter 112
Longinotti no 2 single tongued quarter 112-116 on B-flat
Getchell 65, 66-67 with tuner on A picc
Longinotti 1 in B-flat and C, pushing sharp/cracking; spreading sound @end note; practiced start
Vacchiano 1 on B-flat
Prayer of St Gregory on C w/drone
Pitch on A better on Bach 2

5/22
BPO Am; Louds better, more work on muted playing of all kinds
Irons group 2, 5, 7, 9; 72 did not go
Clarke 1,2,5; double tongued in Ab, B, D F
a little piccolo

Sat PM
John Williams concert-nerves sitting by JAX symphony trombone player; much better first half than 2nd
Some funny random fracks in Star Wars suite, w/mute? Might have impeded unisons
Drew remark about muted solo in Imperial march, mostly positive?
Pushed sharp on Bbs in Star Wars, Abs on last page of ET; missed 2 sections due to inattentiveness@page turns

July 30th
long tones; all notes to open of Charlier 6 w/drone
Irons e'' w/drone; WM Smith ttk etude; Flow studies on Bb and C
Corelli sonata 1st movment on picc (used)
PM-listened to Vaughan Williams; lot reps of L'Histoire helps to think 2+3
Corelli 2nd movement in phrases, 3rd movement pinging off F; trouble w/trill D-C
TTK smith etude was quarter=76 (marked quarter=112)
Loud scales in Mahler 5 pattern leads to good, HEALTHY tired

9/8/15
SWEAT an issue both performances
Sound is different in performances; less stable than "without" nerves
Earle of Oxford, Canzona Bergamasca, prelude at St John Fisher
Ablassan, Military Calls, Ketting, Tull, Gallagher @Cranberry Landing
Endurance an issue by end of Gallagher; (Also, underprepared)
Good, but in C; recovered start
Extremes of range compromised

de cantante bucina

I hardly ever write about trumpet playing, but I think about it all the time. Mostly I don't write or talk about it because my thoughts are specific to the craft, and without being immersed in the craft my thoughts don't mean much. I would share my thoughts with those who are immersed in the craft more often, but that would mean I'd have to talk to trumpet players, and I avoid this whenever possible. However, here are several undeniable truths of trumpet-playing that have some general application.

1) The most difficult part of trumpet playing is finding time to practice. First, because the instrument makes a loud and penetrating sound. Even if you play music intended to be soft or gentle, trumpet playing carries through wood, drywall, and cement. Therefore anyone who has young children, spouses, or roommates must be mindful of those who share their house. Often one's neighbors will also be disturbed by trumpet practicing, especially in apartment situations. Secondly, the trumpet is a physically fatiguing instrument to play. After practicing anything in the upper register or in a loud dynamic, your lips will begin to swell up and impair response. Whenever a trumpet player practices, he is on two clocks--the first being the patience of his family and neighbors, and the second being the endurance of his own body. A great deal of trumpet practicing must necessarily be to extend the length of the second clock.

2) Professional trumpet playing is much like professional cooking. There are many amateur cooks who can concoct fine dishes in their own kitchens, dishes that would have a place in many fine restaurants. A professional cook retains his job because he can prepare these dishes and any other dish that is ordered with great speed in the midst of a chaotic kitchen in the middle of a dinner rush even when he isn't feeling particularly inspired, night after night. Likewise, a professional trumpeter must be able to perform not only one piece well, but any piece that crosses his stand. Often he'll be asked to play a wedding (using piccolo trumpet), a brass quintet ceremony, a classics concert with Haydn on the first half and Bernstein on the second half, a jazz big-band gig, and a newly composed fanfare all in the same week, while keeping an eye on a solo concerto, a rock show, and a Halloween concert that are all coming up the next week, and maybe even getting ready for an audition the following month.

3) Professional satisfaction depends largely on how well you can get along with your colleagues. For some musicians, their instrument is their religion. For others, they're stuck in an unhappy marriage with their career--bitter, disillusioned with the stage, and all too eager to get out of the hall as soon as rehearsal is over. Almost everyone has some sort of pride or disappointment tied up in where they're sitting and how they got there. It's impossible to be best friends with everyone you'll sit next to over the course of your career, but if you can find a way to be cordial and enjoy their company, it goes much better for you. Going to work is drudgery if you dread your stand partner.

4) There are infinite possibilities for equipment, and each piece of equipment does feel a subtly different. There are two solutions--you can spend a small fortune attempting to find the right combination of trumpets and mouthpieces that will feel infinitesimally better for you than every other possible combination, or you can pick up the "standard" gear, bring it to the practice room, and try to figure out how to sound good on it. Option two is better for your wallet and your marriage.

5) There's always someone better than you. Even the "greatest" players in the world have someone, some teacher or old childhood hero, who they look at back over their shoulder. Chances are, in fact, that you aren't particularly special at the trumpet, at least in the cosmic history of trumpet playing. This doesn't mean that you can't love and enjoy your instrument. This doesn't mean that you can't practice hard and always seek to improve yourself. But it does mean that you can truthfully appreciate your colleagues who do some things better than you do, and that you can take a genuine, humble satisfaction in being able to pull off whatever happens to cross your stand on a particular day.

March Madness and March Sanity

Is it uncouth to start another entry about the agonies of writer's blog and to make excuses for having not written any time recently? It is hard to write about life, though, when life is gone mad. When I sit down to write about something that happened at rehearsal or something that happened with James or Owen, I want to be able to tie it off with a neat little ending or a clever joke showing how it's all sorted out now and what a laugh it all was.

March hasn't been a laugh so far. March Madness has been hard.

We have a newborn niece in need of wise prayers and all sorts of extra love. Her situation is going to change anytime soon.
A friend from church (my sister-in-law's father) just passed away after a battle with cancer. It's impossible to imagine breaking away from everything up here to go down and grieve with them, but how could we not try to travel down? And what will they do now?
I have five different shows to learn in the next fourteen days. My gig bag is so full of music and binders that it's getting hard to lift, and all that's on top of the audition folder I've been trying to prep. Even if I do get it all learned, there's no guarantee that after the screech Sinatra show and the six services honking low notes on rotary trumpet I'll be able to get anything to speak in the middle register.
Recording sessions this week, playing assistant principal and trying not to be the reason the whole orchestra has to go back for multiple takes of some high note.
I haven't taught my actual printed schedule at LCS in weeks and weeks. I've made arrangements to get everything covered again, but there are lessons that need to be made up.
Missing too much time from church to play all these gigs.
No idea when I'll get down to teach my college students for the lessons I need to make up with them, knowing I'll be out more Mondays in the coming weeks.
I saw the boys for a half hour in the morning and a half hour in the evening yesterday. Today I saw them for a half hour in the morning. Tomorrow I'll be home for part of the afternoon, but they'll probably be sleeping. They've either been shuttled off to sitters or J has watched them alone.
My favorite chapter in the Brothers Karamazov, possibly my favorite chapter in any novel ever, is the next chapter. It's been marked with a bookmark in my coat pocket since Wednesday, and I still haven't read it.
The car needs an oil change. I've filled the gas tank three times this week already. Is this much driving worth it?
I need to finish the taxes. Which mileage expenses do I log under a schedule C, how do I log the other ones?
The heating bill for January was absurd. February was even colder. What's it going to be?

March Sanity
James is excited to play every time he sees me. He still wants to read stories together before bed.
Getting up early and running
A glass of wine with J at the end of the day
Coming into a house that I own at the end of the day
Paying off debts
Hot coffee
Hearing from brothers

In two weeks time pretty much none of this will be neatly tied up and all taken care of. But I'll still have all the stuff that keeps me sane to hang on to as well.

5 Happy Things

It's the middle of January, so between the cold and dark you have to make sure that you're remembering all the good going on around you.

1. Late dinners with J
We've gotten into the habit of feeding the kids dinner around 5:30 or 6 but waiting to eat ourselves until 8 or so when they're in bed. My Mom used to do this for my Dad on Monday nights (and other nights when he used to work late) and I'm beginning to see the appeal. This way James can eat something that we know he'll eat (like carrots and hummus or pb&j) and we can eat something nice and fancy later on, like a good soup or something exotic. We get out the nice silverware and plates, light candles (can't do that with the boys at the table) and pour a little wine. Then we can talk without checking to remind anyone that eating peas with your fingers is bad manners and remember to swallow before you put the whole sandwich in your mouth.

2. Playing principal trumpet in the orchestra this week
I enjoy playing 2nd, of course. It's a very different set of challenges, mostly making sure that I'm supporting and blending into what's going into the top voice, trying to read their mind about pitch and style. When I play first, I feel graceful and powerful and noble. (Especially when it's going well.) It's a little bit, I think, what it must be like to be a horse running freely on some Mediterranean plain. And, more than, anything else, playing trumpet feels like my own voice. If I hear my own speaking voice played back on a recording it sounds familiar but also jarringly odd...is that what I really sound like? Playing trumpet feels more like my own voice than speaking or writing, and when I play principal I'm freed up from blending into someone else's voice.

3. Great coffee
J's Mom is one of the most conscientious gift-givers I know. In years past she's had J sneak through my closet to get my sizes for dress shirts and sneak through my library to find out about books I don't have. She found a reading lamp for a study, a brown betty teapot for my coffee drawer, and this past year a box of Zabar's coffee. Zabar's is amazing New York City coffee that I got turned onto when our friend Janette brought some back after living there for a summer. I've worked my way through one bag already and just finished a press pot of the Ethiopian bag this morning. At 5:30 in January with the thermostat turned all the way down, it's sometimes hard to force yourself out of bed. Knowing that there's amazing coffee downstairs makes it easier.

4. Uncles and Aunts
We had two spontaneous visits last week, one from O&K and the other from L&his girlfriend Melissa. (Melissa can't be abbreviated to a single letter, otherwise she looks like Martha!) O&K got snowed in with us for the night, which turned out to be great fun for the four (plus three) of us. L&Melissa came over on the night that I had James and Owen to myself the whole day, and I don't know how I could've gotten through everything without their help. Melissa held Owen while I gave James a bath. (Traumatic, as always) L played with James while I tried to give Owen another bottle. (Also traumatic) They both went along with James' "fwiends" and played marble run while Owen was cranking and I was putting away dinner. J is a saint for doing this every day.

5. Two cars
The Corolla is back. Speaking of being at home with two kids, it's really nice to be a two car family again. It appears to be running fine, per my rigorous inspection. (It turns on fine and doesn't sound any different than before the accident.) I paid the deductible, for which I ought to be reimbursed, and drove it back from Syracuse two days ago. The only fault I could find so far is that the windshield wiper fluid appears to be empty. I think I have some in the garage and should probably get outside and refill the reservoir. But right now it's mid-January in Rochester and I have a press pot of really good coffee on my desk, so that will probably need to wait until later.

Quick Hitters

I.
"Mommy, I need to read my Greek book."
"What's he talking about?"
James comes back in holding Richard Scarry's Best Big First Book.
"You need to read me my Greek book."

We're not sure where that one came from.

II.
We moved C&B again. They move so often that I end up feeling pretty good about our six places of residence. But now that they've moved, we're next. We'll be inheriting their boxes soon, and then packing up the house again. I'm glad that we had a practice move before starting work on this one. C&B are very efficient packers/planners. They had every box neatly stacked up in the living room, and a good plan for loading the truck. All of my lifting muscles are now in shape, and I have a huge bruise on my right thigh. I'm not looking forward to moving all our junk again, but here are three great parts about moving: 1) When you see all of your books getting packed and unpacked it makes you want to read them, even the books that have been right under your nose for a year and you've had no interest. There's something about changing it up that makes them all seem fresh. 2) A drink of cold beverage is never so refreshing as when you've put in a day of honest manual labor. (I have not done this since the last time we moved.) 3) L's running commentary of the moving process is pretty entertaining. All of his siblings will continue to move periodically just to hear him complain about it.

III.
"Daddy, George wants to go for a tractor ride."
"Can I talk to George?"
"George, you and James can't go for a tractor ride right now because it's raining. So, we need to stay inside. Do you understand? Okay, thanks George."
"Daddy, I wanna talk to George too."
"Okay, here he is."
"George, you wanna go for a tractor ride, George? You do? Daddy, George is wanna go for a tractor ride."

IV.
"Mr. Smith, I practiced my saxophone a lot this week."
"I can tell, you're doing a good job with your notes and your fingers. Don't forget to keep your right hand all the way down at the thumbrest."
"You know, I sound like a fire alarm."
"...Joe, that is exactly what you sound like."

V.
"Yes, could I have a large black coffee, please? And I'm a bottomless mug member."
"Sure, pull up to the window. Oh, hi, how are you?"
"Good, how are you? Have you met my wife, J?"
"Nice to meet you...what are you guys off to tonight?"
"Well, we've dropped off the little boy and we're out on a date."
"Oh, congratulations. What are you going to do?"
"Well, I guess actually I'll be going to work with RPO and J will be way up at the top of the balcony all evening."
"Yeah, I don't think that's actually a date."

VI.
Friday trumpet itinerary:
8:45 Rehearsal with organ (piccolo trumpet) for chapel service
11:00 Chapel service, processional and recessional
12:30 Trumpet lesson
1:30 Call from RPO about emergency subbing. 30 min. of practicing Berlioz
2:00 Trumpet lesson
2:30 Trumpet lesson
4:00 Trumpet lesson
6:15 Soundcheck for Turrin Intrada
7:30 Wind Ensemble piece
7:45 Turrin Intrada
8:15 Finale of Mahler 2

News

Well, the year started again and I got BUSY. It was such a lovely summer. I could blog almost every day, except on the busy days when I might have the incredible imposition of one random lesson to teach, or a single orchestra service out in a field somewhere. And now, work is back. That's really okay, though. I enjoy going to work most of the time. (Strictly, this isn't true--I enjoy BEING at work, but the commuting to work, especially in Buffalo and Syracuse, is kind of a drag.) Here's how everything has been going for the first few weeks.

GPC-
My choir is eager to be back singing again after a long summer off. We hired a new organist who just moved back from NYC with his partner, who is a pro harp player. As is typical, I am missing too much time to take other gigs. Like tonight. Thanks to Pax, who is covering rehearsal for me.

LCS-
Lots of beginner lessons. I'm starting to get half-decent at coaxing sounds out of 4th grade flute and clarinet players. (Interestingly, none of my trombones are every shy about making a sound.) I had a new vocal music teacher in the room for three weeks, who then quit. The new new vocal music teacher starts next week. I am sad that it didn't work out for the first one, and only wonder a little bit if she might have stayed longer had I not been working through the Colin book of Contemporary Atonal Etudes for Trumpet

SSO-
Wizard of Oz, then Beethoven 5. It's been nice to see my carpool again, and to spend the afternoons of the double days stretched out in a sunny lawn next to Wegmans instead of cramped up inside while the snow comes down. The first week we bought a growler and worked through it all afternoon while we waited for the show. I thought that this year the first week of the season might not catch me quite so off guard since I was deliberately practicing loud long tones (why DID that vocal teacher at LCS quit?) and had a quasi-warm up week of BPO playing 4th on some Berlioz. then there was Beethoven 5. It was loud, but absolutely glorious.

RPO-
It's nice to have quite a bit of RPO lined up for the fall...what a nice short commute! In addition to a community concert I did a fanfare with some of the section guys at a school and a phils week next week.

HSM-
"Mr. Smith, I couldn't practice this week because I was really busy."
"Oh? How much tv did you watch this week?"
"Well, also I kind of forgot..."

H. College-
Interestingly, when the students are paying their own tuition (and are college students) they do a much better job of practicing. The commute is killer, but the job has been fun so far. J and I go down this Friday to play a trumpet ditty for the homecoming concert, and I sat in on their Wind Ensemble rehearsal last week. I forget how incredibly LOUD you end up playing in college band. Probably should work on more loud long tones soon. And maybe some shakes and trills on high notes, and some really percussive high register attacks. I wonder what the new vocal music teacher will be like...

BPO-
There were a few services of Berlioz early in the month, and I'm out for a double today playing a Bartok opera. Quote from the trumpet section: "Oh, yes, I was whistling that tune in the shower just this morning."

J-
J is watching three boys under the age of three today. I will get back at 9:30 or so tonight, and I suspect she will not be awake. Aside from the babysitting and church work, though, I think she's having a pretty nice Fall. James is much better behaved in a single-parent situation. When we're both around he's a little tyrant.

James-
James is...looking big. Looking downright, three years old, I'd say. He is routinely offered options by his parents, such as "Your choice is to eat three bites of squash, or to get down without dessert," or "Your choice is to stay up and pick up toys or to go to bed right now." Last night he told us "your choice are to make me a fruit smoothie or to set up the tent." I guess that cuts both ways. He's also started to imbue George with the faculty of speech and reason. He now holds lengthy furtive conversations with George and then emerges to inform us that "George wants to watch a George," or "George wants to watch his-self." When we tell James no, George (not James, mind you) keeps insisting that George really does want to watch a George. J has resorted to picking up George and telling him no in person.

What's Happening

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

So here's what's happening today:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Trumpet Player's Lament

When a plumber needs to practice piping for some project
And says to his wife "I'm off to plumb" she gives him a kiss
And when a purple helicopter riding toaster needs to toast
He says "I'll toast for five minutes at most some rye and swiss"
And when a juggler jiggles or a pope pontificates or carpenter carps
Or a lawyer lies or a doctors docts or a doodler doodles
Or a chef goes into his kitchen to press out whole wheat spaghetti noodles
No one complains and no one makes any fuss about them working
But when I need to practice trumpet you'd think the world is ending
My family buries their heads in pillows to block out the sound
The neighbors call the police, endangered birds fall trumpeted dead to the ground
The white hot noise shakes plates and breaks all the wineglasses
Traffic gets backed up on all the highway overpasses
A thousand bassoons and violists gather outside my apartment porch
They carry pitchforks and fiberglass shields, each burning a rosin-lit torch
Frantic calls are exchanged as the stock exchange starts to drop
The UN security council resolves this endless racket must stop
"Enough," they all shout "or surely we all won't survive
Or if he must practice, please no more Mahler five!"

And yesterday evening, my family heard me play
A delightful concert of Beatles tunes, it chanced
And since they were seated about a football field away
They could enjoy the trumpet, from a healthy distance.

Orchestra Duty

Judge Doug Duggerson wearily unzipped his judgely robes, laid his gavel inside his desk, and sat down into his comfortable chair after a long day of judging. He scratched the back of his neck where the robes chafed him, and started to sort through his mail. A bill, another bill. The jury today had been particularly dull. Where did they get these people from? And they all looked so gloomy and unhappy...

He paused and puzzled over a sort of blue envelope he had never seen before. It was sealed tightly shut and marked "OPEN IMMEDIATELY." When he pulled out the letter inside he was surprised to see that the return address was from the local symphony orchestra. He hadn't been to a concert in years, and had never donated any money. Why were they sending him mail?

As he read his face first took an expression of puzzlement, then of wide-eyed disbelief, then shock bordering on laughter. He was being summoned for orchestra duty!

"Mr. Duggerson, please call the orchestra office immediately if you are not a US citizen or are not a resident of this county. You may be permitted to postpone your orchestra service (which requires your commitment to serve at a future time) or, you may be eligible to apply for a deferment. All requests are to be made as soon as possible."

"All musicians must complete all forms below. Please see driving directions attached. When you report, please dress in an appropriate manner. Do not park at a parking meter. A refrigerator and microwave are available if you choose to bring food. All substitute musicians will be paid a total of $80 per service. If you wish to donate your services to the orchestra, please check the box below."

Doug the judge scanned through the document several times looking for a phone number, and eventually found a number with extension for someone called the "personnel manager." He rang the number and got no answer, then hung up before it could go to voicemail. The report date and time was listed as tonight at 8:00--and it was already past 7! He thought for a few moments about blowing the letter of entirely, but then he uneasily remembered the strong language about the penalties that could be imposed if he refused to show up for orchestra duty.

Doug the judge trudged out to his car, fumbled with a map for directions to Orchestra Hall, and then made his way through the thick evening traffic down the expressway and into the heart of downtown. It was just past 8:00 when he arrived the parking garage. He'd circled almost the entire way around Orchestra Hall before he found the musician entrance, and when he went inside he could hardly believe that THIS was what was behind that beautiful stage. There were bare pipes, the sound of hissing steam, and cobwebs dangling down above his head. The lighting was dim, the floor unfinished, and he smelled an ancient stink of unwashed ballet dancers and old tuxedos.

As he made his way through the dark hallway a severe looking woman suddenly appeared and startled him. "You're late!" she hissed "They've already started the first piece! That's going to be a fine off of your paycheck. And you're in the wrong dress too...that will be another fine."

Taken aback by her sudden appearance and harsh voice, Doug stepped back and began to mumble an apology. But before he could get a word out she shoved a old trumpet case into his hand with only one working latch. "Hurry up and get onstage!"

Doug half ran up the steps and by the time he reached the stage door was very much aware that it would be hard to play his instrument while he was out of breath. The applause from the first number died down and he made his way over to the trumpet section. He blushed as he looked down at his clothes, clearly different than the other 80 members of the orchestra. As he sat in the trumpet section, one of the players whispered to him that he'd brought out the wrong trumpet...but it was too late to go back and get another, for the conductor had started the piece.

He completely missed the first trumpet entrance, but to his surprise he recognized the piece...it was Thus Spake Zarathustra, which he'd heard on a hundred soundtracks. As the low strings and organ rumbled by, he remembered vaguely playing some trumpet in high school band and tried to recall some of the fingerings.

All of a sudden there was a tinkling of flutes and high strings, and he saw in the trumpet part that he was supposed to play a perilous looking fanfare. As he counted the rests before his entrance he suddenly became profoundly aware that he would be playing alone, and that every eye in the concert wall was fixed upon him. He looked down at the metal tube in his hand and fear rushed through his whole body. How was he supposed to play such an exact and demanding entrance with any sort of precision when he'd hardly warmed up?

He held up the trumpet and beads of sweat trickled down his face. He looked up into the eye of the sinister face of the conductor, and watched for the cue.

His first note spoke with only a minimal crack, but he could tell as soon as he started playing that there was no chance for the high note. A lower note splatted pathetically, aired out entirely, and then sagged into a comically bad bray.

Looking up out of the corner of his eye, the judge could see audience members looking at him with concern, pointing and whispering. The conductor had turned red with silent fury, and none of the other trumpet players would even look at him. He set the trumpet down on the chair and slinked offstage as quickly as he could, hearing whispers about "amateur" and "never again" as he passed the back row of violins.

The judge awoke with a start in his own bedroom, gasped, and tried to stop his hands from trembling. And then he promised himself that he would never ever ever ever ever ever again summon a musician for jury duty...because they had enough to worry about playing their instruments at the symphony hall.

Questions I Was Asked Today

Q. How often do you practice with the orchestra?
A. It depends on what sort of concert we're rehearsing. For a big Philharmonics concert there are almost always 4 rehearsals. There are usually 2 rehearsals for a Pops concert, and most of the summer programs (or kids shows) are put together in just one rehearsal.

Q. Why are there holes in the valves of my trumpet?
A. Depressing a piston valve releases the flow of air into its corresponding slide, thereby lengthening the instrument and lowering it by a half-step (in the case of the second valve) a whole step (in the case of the first) or a minor third (in the case of the third valve) from the open partial that would otherwise be sounded.

Q. Did you know that I have a star on my shoe?
A. .....

Q. Have you ever seen the horn that's all curled up and they blow into it?
A. Do you mean the french horn?

Q. No, it's like in movies.
A. Maybe a shofar?

Q. Yeah, that's what it's called! But isn't it like a french horn?
A. Yes, they're shaped similarly.

Q. I think the french horn sounds kind of funny. It sounds melby.
A. That's actually a pretty good word for it.

Q. What's the shofar made from?
A. From a ram's horn originally.

Q. Really?! That's so gross.
A. Well, I think they clean it first.

Q. Isn't one kind made from a seashell or something?
A. Yes, you can make some trumpet sounds by blowing in a conch shell.

Q. Where do they come from?
A. I don't know. From the beach, I guess.

Q. So what was I supposed to practice this week?
A. The songs that I circled.

Q. Oh, okay. Here's one.
A. I see. Did you practice this one?

Q. Yes. I was supposed to practice this one.
A. The date on this assignment is 03/19/97.

Q. Oh. That's okay, I didn't practice that one anyway.
A. I was just about your age in 1997.

Q. Wow, you're old.
A. Thanks.

Q. How old is your son now?
A. He's 18 months old now.

Q. Oh. I don't get how baby's ages work. I thought he was two.
A. No, not until November.

Q. Okay. So wait, when will he turn one?
A. He's already one. He turned one at twelve months.

Q. That's confusing.
A. Hm.

Q. Is he still conducting?
A. Yup.

(shows video)

Another productive trumpet lesson...

Trading Fives

5 things I love about my wife
1) She doesn't ever keep score. We've been married for almost six years now, and in that time I've done and said plenty of stupid things. If she were the sort of person who held on to old hurts, she could make me feel pretty miserable. If she were the sort of person who needed a fair distribution of work and responsibilities for the house to function, I'd be in her constant debt. In fact, if J kept score at all, I think that our marriage would have started to look like that sad caricature of the couple who can't even enjoy being around each other because they have to keep up their leverage for the next fight. J forgives, never demands whats owed her, and pours herself out freely. There's a word for that, and it's grace.
2) She is really really talented. You get used to a person when you live for them long enough, so I'm not always conscious of the fact that J is the same girl who came into college playing jaw-dropping Brahms and Ginastera on the piano, and not only that, but was instantly the best flute player in school. It's easy to forget that she was a 4.0 student who wrote the best history papers in her class, edited everyone else's homework, and was also the captain of the all-star softball team. And tested out of theory and aural skills. And could sight sing anything put in front of her and recognize any harmonic progression immediately. And now she's my wife, and I'd almost forget all those things, except that she keeps on being talented and being offered jobs at Hochstein and revitalizing the church where she works.
3) She is a big picture person. She went for four years without any sort of clothing line in the budget. She loves new clothes. But she is incredibly patient, and she is much better about constantly minding the budget than I am. She knows when we need rules for the house, and when it's okay to splash in the mud puddles, even though that's against the rules. (More for James than me.)
4) She takes really good care of us. The most thrown together end-of-the-month leftovers we eat are so much better than anything I ever ate in grad school. She does laundry, she washes dishes, she packs meals, she remembers what I forget, and she stays awake when I come home late. All that would be amazing by itself, but it's even more special because she loves taking care of her men, and it's really obvious.
5) She is really, really, really good-looking. You just can't quite ever get used to it, either. You'd think that after living together for almost six years that it wouldn't be a big deal for your wife to walk inside the door, but when J comes inside it still feels like an event.

5 things I love about my son
1) He loves Steven Bear SO much. It warms my heart just to think about how much he cares for that grubby little bear. Whenever I put him to bed at night he holds him close to his face, and when I get him up in the morning he's usually sitting in his crib and snuggling him. He talks to him (they laugh a lot) takes him everywhere, and is the first thing he reaches for when he's scared or upset. When he eats, Steven has to sit next to him in the booster seat and have food on his tray. (J told me that today James wouldn't even open his mouth for food unless Steven "ate" it first.) The other night J said to me "I worry about that bear...I worry that he won't last as long as James is going to need him." I laid in bed and thought about how heartbroken James would be if (may it never happen) we lost Steven. It made me happy to see him nodding at Steven as they "chatted" when I got him up the next day.
2) Sometimes when I come home J will take James over to the window, and he'll watch me walk up the driveway and the front walk. He grins the whole way, and starts to bounce as I get closer. When I get to the door he'll start laughing and smush his nose up against the glass. It's really nice to know that someone is that happy to see you.
3) He climbs everything now. He isn't very good at it, but he's figured out that he can get on top of stuff if he gets his leg up. It's hysterical to watch him pit-patting over to the rubbermaid blockade in front of the stairs (he needs a running start) and then to lift his left leg up as high as it can go, trying so hard to get it up onto some sort of foothold. He can't get up more often than not, but when he does manage to get up on the blockade or the sofa, he'll just perch there for a few seconds with the most smug and pleased 15-month old grin you can imagine.
4) He loves bath time again. I don't know that he's quite as excited to be in the water as he used to be, or to play with his bath toys, but he loves to KICK. As soon as we lay him down he gets a big grin and looks at us, and then he flails his legs until he has so much water in his eyes that he has to stop. He loves it when we react with "indignation" and he's taken to shrieking as he goes. Occasionally he'll work up to a big "double-barreled" kick where he raises both legs up as high as they can go and then slams them down with a yell. Our bathroom floor is very wet in the evenings.
5) He is still little enough to hold comfortably, and he loves being held. Every once in a while when he comes running up with his arms lifted high, I'll think to myself "Again? James..." and then I think about how little time is left when he'll want to be held by his Daddy. And he's not that heavy yet. He is just the right size for holding.

5 things I love about playing the trumpet
1) I used to get genuinely scared of playing a part other than first trumpet. Did it mean that I wasn't good enough? That I wasn't the best trumpet player in the room? Now I love section playing. I love section playing of all kinds. It is deeply satisfying to play the low note of an octave with another trumpet player and to strike the note precisely in tune with just the right articulation and color. It's satisfying to zap the offbeats with a three or four man section at a pops concert, and it's satisfying to do a slow crescendo in a soft brass chorale that builds and builds until the power of the section is shaking the stage.
2) The stereotype of the average meathead trumpet player is that he only wants to play one color: bright-high-loud. But there are so many colors in the sound of the trumpet, and it really is a joy to practice well-written music and explore them all. There's a loneliness in Quiet City that's hard to capture, and some of the sweetest trumpet moments are in the big Strauss pieces. It's great to play loud and brassy, of course, but there's also a fascinating palette of low sounds for the Carmen prelude and Shostakovitch 5. Practicing for an hour or two really is like putting colors on canvas.
3) It's really nice to have new etudes to practice. I got a new etude book in the mail last week, and it's been a blast to work through it. Even the smell of the manuscript paper is exciting. And not only is it good to have new material to practice, it makes all the old etudes fresh again when you come back to them with new ideas.
4) The trumpet is not too big. Can you imagine having to lug a cello or a harp everywhere? To have to drag that thing out to your car every day, let alone traveling by airplane? Every door would be an ordeal, and forget about going up and down stairs. On the other hand, oboes and clarinets are too small. If I played the oboe I'd lose my instrument once a week. Plus, they're to delicate. If you accidentally drop a trumpet, you might have to get a dent removed. If you accidentally drop an oboe, you're out $7000. I'd much rather play the trumpet
5) You can never have it all figured out. It's always a challenge to play high, loud, soft, low, fast, beautiful, and whatever else is difficult to do on the trumpet. And, contrary to what anyone will tell you, not even the truly great ones have it all figured out. There is always a note that isn't quite secure or an interval that's a little difficult. And that's what makes it so satisfying to play the trumpet well.

5 things I love about living in Western New York
1) There's coffee everywhere. As someone who has personally lived in the South, I can attest to the fact that you have to go to a mall to find any sort of coffee shop, and even then it's usually a Starbucks. (I think there was one Dunkin Donuts about 6 miles away from where I worked.) Here, there's a Tim Horton's in every little hamlet, not to mention all of the local coffee shops. If you need coffee, you can find it. And living here, we need coffee.
2) Yes, the snow is no fun to drive in. But I do love the snow. When you're home for the day and it's snowing outside, it's hard to imagine anything more beautiful. And as much as snow can be ugly when it's all browned and salted, it's beautiful when it's laying all white in the backyard and nested in the trees. I might be an old man in Florida some winter, but for now I love the winters here.
3) The Buffalo Bills. Chris Kelsay retired yesterday, which anywhere else in the league would have been a two sentence blurb at the bottom of the paper. Who cares about a backup defensive end? But in Buffalo, if you've lived with the team and suffered with the team and really get what the city is about, you'll always be a hero. It's a very unique fraternity of suffering up here...but the team means more here than any glitzy big city with multiple championships in storage.
4) My family lives here. I have five siblings, and they are absolutely my favorite people and my best friends. Not one of them lives more than a half-hour away. I'm trying very hard not to take this season for granted.
5) The RPO is here. I loved living in Chicago and going downtown to watch the CSO. I love listening to the New York Phil on the radio and hearing the great orchestras play live. There will never be an orchestra for me like the RPO, though. I still can't believe that I get to sit under the great chandelier at Eastman and play with them sometimes. It's a privilege like nothing else I do.

5 things I'm loving reading
1) Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. It's absurdly long. Gibbon made a lot of mistakes, and he brings some pretty ridiculous assumptions to the story from 17th century England. But it's an amazing book for anyone who's even remotely interested in Rome or Christianity, and I actually find myself wishing it was longer sometimes. I accidentally left it on the bench in the foyer at school today, so I'm hoping I still have my copy when I go in tomorrow!
2) 1 Peter. Just when you think you have the Koine vocabulary pretty well figured out you read 1 Peter and find yourself in the lexicon twice a sentence. It's unlike anything else in the New Testament stylistically and theologically. I need some recommendations for Petrine criticism, if anyone has any, and I'm sure that I'm only scratching the surface with my current notes.
3) Iliad book 14. The battle beside the ships is at fever pitch, and just when you think it has to be settled one way or another the troops regroup and it starts again. It would collapse into boring repetition if it was anything else, but the clanging of bronze and the speeches of heroes are like an old fine wine.
4) Metamorphoses Book II, which I was reading from an old school primer that stopped after Phaethon's fall. I started reading it on my trip out to San Francisco, and once I got back I stayed up late several nights to scribble out a translation in my notebook. I may need to buy a real copy of this sometime soon.
5) Dickens. I finished Pickwick Papers a few days ago, and am in Dickens withdrawal. The world just isn't quite as rosy when you aren't looking through the windowpanes of Dingley Dell every evening. Plus, Dickens' endings are never quite right. I suspect this is because the stories ought to go on forever.

A Day in the Life of a Fool

6:00 AM
My alarm goes off, the "marimba" ringtone on my phone. I roll out of bed, find my slippers in the dark, and make my way downstairs

6:03 AM
Put on water for coffee, grind beans, wash out french press

6:07 AM
Bowl of frosted shredded wheat

6:10 AM
I sit on the couch with my cereal and the french press on the end table and the Iliad in my lap, translating Book 13

6:16 AM
Coffee is ready. I plunge it, pour a cup, and get out my Vulgate Bible to read the last part of Jeremiah chapter 5

6:28 AM
Metamorphoses Book 2

6:41 AM
The gospel of John, chapter 19

6:51 AM
I do a quick scan through the BBC news on my phone

6:52 AM
James starts to cry upstairs. I go up and turn on his light. He's sitting in his crib rubbing his eyes and looking grumpy. I pick him up (with Steven and binky) and we pick out a button-up shirt for me to wear from my closet in his room. He attempts to tip over the humidifier when I set him down. We go into the bathroom and he watches me brush my teeth, apply deodorant, and put in my contacts, all with great interest. I change his diaper, then bring him into our bedroom. He sits on J, who is a sleep, then immediately rolls of the bed and wants to be held again.

7:13 AM
I go out the front door to vehement protestations by James, scrape off the windshield of the Neon, and connect my phone to the tape adapter. I listen to my practice sessions from the day before on the drive to LCS

7:51 AM
I chat briefly with the vice principal in the parking lot, who was sick the week before.

7:57 AM
I sift through my desk for a piece of blank paper, make a handwritten copy of the week's lesson schedule, xerox it in the copy room, and leave copies in the relevant mailboxes.

8:03 AM
Homeroom for the senior class.

8:26 AM
Back at my desk, I turn on my laptop so that it can start it's glacial powering-on routine. I "straighten" my desk and begin to read Dickens' Pickwick Papers

8:45 AM
19 minutes later, my school laptop has finished logging in. I check my school email and respond to a few messages that came in overnight

9:00 AM
Time to practice. I carry my horns down to the chapel, warm up, pull out two etude books, and record miniature performances of four different endurance-intensive etudes

9:45 AM
I pack up my instruments and walk back to my room

9:47 AM
I put on a cup of Keurig coffee and do a google search for "Briticisms." (More on that later)

9:57 AM
Three high school flute players and an oboist come to my room for a lesson. We work on some of the technical passages from Barber of Seville

10:45 AM
The school bells are going off at odd times. My band eventually trickles in, and I rehearse them on the 20 bars of Barber of Seville they were supposed to have practiced at home. They do surprisingly well. They read Stars and Stripes Forever for the second time, and it goes very badly. With dismissal bells still sounding at the wrong times, I send them out for lunch my keeping track of the time with my phone

11:36 AM
Lunch. I have two slices of leftover pizza and a raspberry yogurt cup while looking through more Briticisms. The idea is to collect enough to write a letter to J using only British slang as part of an ongoing "12 days of Valentine" project. (Counting only days when we'll actually see each other in the evening. Today, for example, doesn't count.) Earlier days have included a Greek alphabetic acrostic set of adjectival index cards, and a parenting playbook with actual football playcards organized in a three ring binder. At some point the office makes a very flustered announcement apologizing for the confusion about the bell schedule.

12:04 PM
I finish writing the letter. It is not particularly romantic, but it might be a little funny. And it also might vindicate me from the oft-recurring charge of Anglophilia. (Let the record show that I just finished a book of American literary criticism.) I walk down to the staff room to wash out my mug and heat up water for a cup of cocoa.

12:10 PM
One of my two high school clarinets tells me that her stand partner is going home sick and asks if they can come together to the make-up lesson on Wednesday. I give permission and get out my trumpets to practice some more in my room.

12:50 PM
J and I text a little bit, and then FaceTime so that I can say hello to James. He is excited to see me and plays peek-a-boo a couple of times, but then gets down from J's lap and tries to see if he can find me behind her iPad. He doesn't have any luck.

1:01 PM
My music theory student comes down for me to review his homework. (Intervals) We talk about triads of all sorts and I help him through the first couple exercises. Another senior percussion student comes down attempting to drop band in order to get another study hall. He is profoundly unsuccessful in this endeavor.

1:38 PM
My theory student leaves and I answer several new emails that have come in

1:45 PM
More Pickwick Papers.

2:11 PM
I write a letter of recommendation for a student and take care of several emails for my church account.

2:19 PM
I find a cleaner copy of Mendelssohn's Lord Hear My Prayer than the scrawled version I originally handed out to them and print it to distribute on Wednesday.

2:23 PM
I go out to the front entrance for bus duty. It is very very cold. The kids are too chilly to even think about throwing snowballs. They go straight to their buses.

2:40 PM
An emergency faculty meeting is convened about the clock crisis. Despite desperate fears, it appears the school will remain open. If all else fails, the staff may be asked to rely on individual time-keeping devices tomorrow. The mood is tense.

2:52 PM
I check my voicemail, and one of my HSM students has cancelled for the evening.

2:54 PM
I brew another cup of Keurig coffee and translate a few verses in Hebrew from Genesis.

3:06 PM
I submit my attendance for the day and begin to pack up my desk and my trumpets

3:18 PM
I leave the school lot, fill up at the gas station down the road, and listen to my practicing from earlier in the day while driving to HSM, where I park on the street

3:55 PM
I see several very stressed looking bassoon players who I've met at various gigs sitting on couches in the library. "RPO auditions?" I ask one of them. He nods. I wish him luck and head upstairs, where I meet a new student. His name is Steven, he is in the fourth grade, and he has a lisp. I do not tell him how I will remember his name, but I am pleased to meet him. His Mom wants him to start trumpet earlier than the rest of his class, because she wants to make sure he gets the trumpet when he picks instruments. (He has wanted to play the trumpet since he was five, and he likes to listen to the Canadian Brass.) I think Steven is a swell fellow.

4:30 PM
My second student comes in. We go searching in the library at the end of his lesson for a new duet book, but we can't find the one I'm looking for.

5:02 PM
A later student calls to confirm we are still on for a lesson. I practice more etudes.

5:35 PM
My little 5th grade Asian student comes in ten minutes early. She tells me that she practiced part A of the duet because A is for Anna. And B is for me. "Anna," I say "do you know what my name actually is?" She is quiet for a second, then says "No. You're in my phone as Mr. Trumpet." I do not tease her about this, because her mother is listed in my phone as "Anna's Mom."

6:05 PM
My last student is also early. He forgot his duet book, so I play (very badly) the accompaniment to "Theme from New World Symphony" and write out several bugle calls for him at the end of his lesson. He is also in 5th grade, and he came tonight with his shirt inside out. It was an Abercrombie shirt, and it had several lovely tags.

6:36 PM
I walk out to my car to drive to North Chili. On Monday evenings James spends a fifteen minute "handoff" period with our friend Joy while J goes to orchestra but before I can pick him up after my last lesson. She is very gracious about watching him, and he loves her pet songbird.

6:56 PM
I arrive at Joy's and as soon as James sees me he grins from ear to ear, yells "Dada!" and barrels into me. I give him a big hug, pick him up, and find out that I only missed J by two minutes or so--James just got his coat off. He is very eager to show me the bird, and we chat for a few minutes.

7:05 PM
James is bundled up and we are ready to drive home for the night. We flip through all three classical stations and nobody is playing anything but harpsichord music. I ask James what he thinks of this, and he laughs.

7:15 PM
We arrive home and James is deeply upset that I don't let him play outside. (It is dark out and he is not wearing anything on his feet except socks.) I suspect that he is overtired. We take his coat off and hang it up, and he wants to be held very badly. We heat up water for his bottle, and he fusses some more when I set him down to wash a bottle out.

7:18 PM
We change his diaper upstairs. He laughs a little bit and plays peek-a-boo, and when we walk out of the room he waves "good-bye" to the humidifier. When we go downstairs the bottle isn't quite ready, and he points and signs "please" repeatedly to play with the blender. Eventually he is mollified by listening to the recording of Grandma and Grandpa Davis reading "All the Ways I Love You."

7:26 PM
I take James, Steven, and the bottle upstairs. We snuggle in his rocking chair, and he covers his eyes with Steven while I give him the bottle. He drinks the whole thing nice and slowly, and then I lay him down in his crib for the night and turn on the humidifier.

7:37 PM
I straighten up stray toys in the living room and put away all of the books that James tore off the shelves over the course of the day. My Liddell and Scott Lexicon no longer has a cover.

7:45 PM
Dinner. I heat up some homemade beef stroganoff from the other night and have half of an orange with it.

7:51 PM
I wash some of the dishes that are left in the sink. There was a mountain when I left this morning. J must have spent at least an hour getting as many done as she apparently did.

8:01 PM
Upstairs for a shower, shave, and clean pajamas.

8:06 PM
I pour a glass of brandy and begin to write a narcissistic blog post...

San Francisco

I was in San Francisco from last Saturday to Wednesday. I had never been further west than Kansas before, but I had an audition with the San Francisco Symphony. I wasn't sure whether I would write about this or not--I usually don't make audition trips very public--but so long as everyone swears not to tell any of my current employers that I occasionally look at other jobs (okay, thanks everyone!) I'll write about how it all went down.

It all started going down(hill) on Friday night. J's brother Tim was arriving to fix our broken-down Gaxmobile, and J and I were going to my church's holiday staff party. My departing flight was very early Saturday morning and we needed to put James to bed, so I knew we'd have a good excuse to leave at a reasonable hour. Sometimes professional social events give me chills. And then, I realized, the chills I was feeling were unusually strong. And I felt a bit achy. But no, I couldn't be sick.

We dropped off James at our friend Laura's house (soon to be Dr. Laura) and drove over to the party. It was very cold and windy out. That, obviously, was why I was feeling so chilly and why my teeth were chattering so much. We went inside and socialized politely. And I felt terrible. J told me I looked chalk-white, and though I made it through the party and had a reasonably good time, I was definitely aware that I was sick by the time we got home. Naturally, I hadn't packed yet, so I threw some clothes and snacks in a suitcase while J dug through the medicine cabinet. I went to bed early and a full-blown fever came on.

In defense of my wife, she was dutifully wary about letting me go across the country while running a high fever. She took my temperature several times and made sure I was semi-rational in the morning. (It was 4 AM, though, so I'm not sure how she had any point of reference to evaluate me.) I slept at least a little bit, and then dragged my luggage through the snow and into the car, shivering and trying to stay lucid. I actually don't remember anything about the trip to my connection in Philly...apparently they let me through security and I found my way onto the right plane.

At 6:30 when I got to Philly I had a little fruit and got on board the San Francisco flight, having caught a few more hours sleep and medicated up. Some coffee helped, and I alternated between reading Ovid and dozing for the very long 7 hour trip to the West Coast. I was in an interesting row of people...the gentleman in the aisle seat was doing some sort of engineering work in Hebrew, the woman in the middle was a Stanford grad student reading in Chinese, and I was writing out scansion marks. I hope I didn't get any of them sick. One small advantage of being under the weather was having no appetite whatsoever over the course of the flight, in which $6 would basically buy you a bag of chips.

I'm not great at travel planning. I had made arrangements to stay at a hostel in downtown San Francisco that night, but had no idea where it was or how I was getting there once the plane landed. I'm not sure what I would have done without an iPhone. I found my way somehow to a public train, and got my first (and only) glimpse of the West Coast. It was very nice. I was more worried about keeping my stomach together with all of the hurky-jerky motion on the train, at the time.

I got to the hostel around 3:30 PST (7:30 civilized time) and checked in. I'd decided to stay at a hostel because the flight to San Francisco cost about twice as much as most audition trips usually run. (I had already passed through a taped round, which was how we justified it) I figured it would be cheaper than a hotel, and it actually wasn't too bad. The rooms were like college dorms (I was on a top bunk) and we had to wash our own dishes at breakfast. But there were clean sheets and towels, and wireless internet that sometimes worked, and everyone was very pleasant.

My two roomates while I was there were Adam, who was from Perth, and Jack, who was from somewhere in the American South. Adam was completing some sort of 8 month long tour of the world before starting a job with the company in Perth where he had interned in college. Jack worked a record store, but was, in his own words, "capable of great things."

Great things...terrible, but great.

They were both pleasant and quiet and reasonably hygienic. (I still contend that spraying manly smelling must all over yourself is neither attractive nor a substitute for regular deodorant.) I was tired enough on the first night that I passed out at 6:00 their time and didn't even do the usual night-before-the-audition nervous vomiting.

Not great...just terrible.

Sunday morning was the day of the preliminary round, and I was scheduled to go at 4 PM. (And to show up at the hall at 2:30) I found some decent coffee and laid around reading Edward Gibbon's Impossibly Exact Record of the Every Minute Detail of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. (I wanted to bring a book I wouldn't finish right away) I took a shower, got dressed, and got ready to go to the hall. Having spent so much money on the plane ticket, I decided that I needed to save some money on the day of the audition. So, instead of calling a cab, I made up my mind to walk the 1.1 miles to the hall.

This was stupid. This was stupid for several reasons. The first reason was that I did not have my backpack-style gig bag. Walking with a gig bag is pretty easy. Walking with hardshell cases is not. The second reason why walking was stupid was because I had three hardshell cases, and only two arms. I needed five trumpets for the audition, according to the rep list, and three hardshell cases get heavy in a hurry. And the third reason why walking to the hall was stupid was because I was very sick with the flu. I didn't feel so bad lounging around in my pajamas in the morning. I felt like death by the time I'd lugged five trumpets in three cases through downtown San Francisco to the hall.

Once I arrived, I was met by the personnel manager. I politely declined to shake her hand, explaining that I was under the weather. (Given how sweaty and washed out I was at that point, I'm sure she wasn't offended.) She showed me to a warm up room, gave me the rep list for the preliminary round, and told me that since the audition was running a little ahead, I ought to expect to play around 3:50 instead of 4. I thanked her. It's very helpful to know when you're going to play, because you want to time your warm-up so that you've warmed up enough to be comfortable, but you haven't been playing so long that you're starting to get fatigued.

It was about 2:45. I listened to recordings on the preliminary round rep list for about a half an hour, and decided I'd warm up around 3:20. That would be perfect. At 3:20 I got my instrument out and buzzed a little on my mouthpiece. At 3:23, the door opened and the personnel manager told me I needed to be ready to play in 5 minutes.

"I thought I'd be going at 3:50...I think I may need a little bit of time to warm up!"
"Okay, well, they're on the candidate before you."
I accelerated my warming up, and at 3:25 the audition proctor opened the door.
"The committee is waiting for you."

I won't go into detail on how the actual audition went.

 I really don't have an excuse. Charlie Geyer told me multiple times to practice playing audition excerpts as the first notes out of the case, preparing for just such a circumstance. I might be able to plead violent illness and exhaustion, but I'm pretty sure he would have a story about Herseth preparing for big Mahler weeks by rolling about in dirty linen from the sick ward just in case he had to ever play the Posthorn with a cold.

I didn't stay to hear the results announced. I just went outside and, giving up on the "save money by walking scheme" called a cab for a ride home. (I'm just bummed I didn't get to shake the personnel manager's hand...)

So, that was the audition. I got Chinese food and a beer that night, but that was about the extent of my moping. It was Sunday evening, and I wouldn't be leaving until Tuesday. What to do with two days in a beautiful tourist paradise?

Mostly, I missed J. Once the audition was over I became the world's most attentive husband. I wrote her a nice long letter, bought souvenirs for her and James, planned out some date nights for us for the next few months, and texted with her a lot. (She was having a trying time herself trying to take care of James alone while the Gaxmobile repairs got on about as well as you'd expect for that vehicle.)

I went to a big mall to buy Ghirardelli chocolates to bring home and trotted around with my Gibbon under arm, scowling and the music and looking indignant at the price tags. (I was channeling Carl Frederickson.) I read a lot and tried not to spend any more money than I absolutely had to. The fever turned into a really nasty cold, but I got a lot better over the course of the next few days. I heard a lovely rendition of "Stand By Me" by homeless man who stood outside the hostel window from 6 PM to 1 AM on Monday night, and I read all about the Bills' new coach. All in all, it was a lonely but restful few days.

And then I came home. I looked like a mountain man--I hadn't brought a razor--and I did not come back having won a high-profile six-figure dream job. But by the time I got home I was VERY happy to see my wife and my little boy, and happy I am to be with them now.

Special thanks to:
Tim, for fixing our PT Cruiser and looking after James and J while I was gone.
Pax & Kylie, for donating garage space to the repair effort, and for giving James and J a place to visit, and for filling in at CPC in my stead
Mom, for bringing lots of steak to fill our freezer
and Ghirardelli Chocolatiers, for being really good at what you do.

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...

Orwell and a Hard Decision

A few weeks ago I found an Orwell novel at the local used bookstore called Keep the Aspidistra Flying. It was my last summer novel before the school year started, and it was, as is always the case with Orwell, a provocative book. It tells the story of Gordon Comstock, a poet who has declared a personal war on Money. Living in England after the first World War, he is disgusted by the servitude of all around him to the endless and pointless task of earning more money. He is pressed reluctantly through school towards employable skills, and then coerced into finding a "good job"--something that will preserve the appearance of middle-class respectability. This unspoken pressure to be respectable is personified by the aspidistra, an ugly and useless plant kept in most middle class windows at the time. It can survive with little water or light, and scarcely anything--even burning it with half smoked cigarettes--seems to be able to kill it. Gordon finds ready employment in the advertising industry, where he has an unwelcome talent for writing slogans. He despises his vapid co-workers, the artless job, and the waste of his real literary talent. He is allured by some small successes in his poetic work to quit the advertising firm and devote himself fully to real literature, taking a menial job as a bookseller to support himself. He finds in doing so that his creative and personal vitality is sapped by lack of money; he doesn't have money to eat, smoke, have a cup of tea, or even take his girlfriend (Rosemary) for a train ride in the country. Constantly feeling the pressure of family and the ubiquitous aspidistra to take a "good job," he maintains his principled stand and works when he can to become a real poet, tortured by days when success seems imminent, followed by days of utter despair at his failure. Broke, indebted, and friendless, he learns that Rosemary is pregnant with his child. With London Pleasures (his unfinished magnum opus) in his pocket, he reluctantly takes the hateful job that will cost him his literary future but will provide for Rosemary and his unborn child.


"He was aware of a lumpish weight in his inner pocket. It was the manuscript of London Pleasures. He took it out and had a look at it under the street lamp. A great wad of paper, soiled and tattered, with that peculiar, nasty, grimed-at-the-edges look of papers which have been a long time in one's pocket. About four hundred lines in all. The sole fruit of his exile, a two years' fetus which would never be born. Well, he had finished with all that. Poetry! Poetry, indeed! In 1935!
What should he do with the manuscript? Best thing, shove it down the w.c. But he was a long way from home and had not the necessary penny. He halted by the iron grating of a drain. In the window of the nearest house an aspidistra, a striped one, peeped between the yellow lace curtains. He unrolled a page of London Pleasures. In the middle of the labyrinthine scrawlings a line caught his eye. Momentary regret stabbed him. After all, parts of it weren't half bad! If only it could ever be finished! It seemed such a shame to shy it way after all the work he had done on it. Save it, perhaps? Keep it by him and finish it secretly in his spare time? Even now it might come to something. 
No, no! Keep your parole. Either surrender or don't surrender. 
He doubled up the manuscript and stuffed it between the bars of the drain. It fell with a plop into the water below.
Vicisti, O aspidistra!"

A little over two weeks ago I was offered a fellowship with the New World Symphony Orchestra in Miami, FL. For the past ten years I have studied to be an orchestral trumpet player. I have practiced every day, I have attended six years of school, and I have taken more auditions than I can count. At times I've been among the last few standing at the finals. At times I've not even advanced beyond the first round.
My wife has waited patiently for me win an audition. She has endured daily hours of the same excerpts for years, listened to my inevitable vomiting the night before an audition, consoled me in the aftermath, and sacrificed much financial and personal stability that could be had by the same zealous pursuit of a career teaching music in the public schools.
The process of our decision was complicated and wretched. It came to us unsought, and with either choice would come much grieving. The orchestra, which is a musical academy functioning as a full-time performing orchestra, was only able to offer us dormitory-style housing in the company of twentysomethings. Accepting the fellowship would require us to leave friends and family in Rochester. It would mean the sacrifice of our professional inroads in the NY area. It would mean that our son would only see his uncles and grandparents over holidays. It would have no guarantee of a job or income at the end of the three and a half year program. It would mean the sacrifice of my uninteresting but hard-to-find teaching job at LCS.
I couldn't abide the thought of not going. Every former orchestra member and professional connection recommended the program with high praise. Those who knew us personally and our situation told us not to go. None envied the task of making the decision. Should we voluntarily turn down a won audition? Should we bring an infant to a cramped dormitory in Miami?
During and after I shrunk from the counsel of Christians. They simplified the decision to a choice between family or career values. They insinuated that God had purposed this, as some sort of test. They promised great rewards if I chose the right answer on the test. They are people I love and respect. And they (unwittingly) painted our God as a vivisectionist, directing me along ten years of work only to be forced to kill with my own hands the long-awaited issue. Yet perhaps it is time to rethink a God I would prefer be distant and, on my terms, benevolent.

ὃν γὰρ ἀγαπᾷ Κύριος παιδεύει,
     μαστιγοῖ δὲ πάντα υἱὸν ὃν παραδέχεται.

For the Lord loves he who he rears, and chastises every son he recieves.

I do not know why the events of the past few weeks have come. Was I committing some sort of career idolatry that needed to be punished? I still don't have an answer. I do know that there are two things I find untenable. One is to stop taking orchestra auditions, if there is, somewhere, a chair in an orchestra where I can play Brahms and Bach for a living. The second, and more important, is to compromise how I love my wife. It would have been dishonor to compel her to Florida, although, I think, she would have gone. It is dishonor now for me to sulk and hold it against her, as I have selfishly done for the past few days. No more--it was already a marvel and a wonder that I should have the privilege to be married to her. I will forget it no longer.

O aspidsitra, invicti erimus.