I have been, for the past 12 years, the proud owner of a Sunbeam microwave oven.
J hates it.
Truth be told, I see her point. It isn't a great microwave oven. But it is, along with my hot-pot and black "jazz" coffee mug, one of the relics of my 16th birthday. I was a pretty happy 16 year old that day, because I was getting my own apartment and starting my undergraduate degree in less than two weeks instead of returning for my last two years of high school. The issue had still been in doubt for most of the spring semester, but the financial end of it was cleared up, and I had made arrangements to live the small upstairs studio of dilapidated colonial owned by a reclusive epileptic old man. (How did my parents ever let me do this?)
My 16th birthday party was important. My parents gave me two white plastic crates full of the necessities for independent living. Inside were four bowls, four small plates, and four knives, spoons, forks, and mugs. They were white with a green stripe around them, and have all long since been broken or disappeared. They packed a box of Folger's Instant Coffee teabags, because although I wasn't a coffee drinker, they thought I might discover the luxury of a morning cup in college. They gave me a pay-per-minute cellphone that was primitive by today's standards but might as well have been an iPad in 2001. (It had a little antenna at the top that you had to pull up to use.) They packed me with multiple cans of Chef Boyardee canned ravioli and Dinty Moore stew. (I still can't look either of these in the face) I think there was a skillet, a lone small pan, and the hot pot. I got my still-working black coffee mug with pictures of jazz musicians on the side. I think there might have been a jar of pickles. And last of all, there was a big box--a Sunbeam microwave.
The Sunbeam is appropriately named. If you leave a slice of refrigerated leftover pizza by an eastward facing window for two minutes, you get about the same result as when it goes in the microwave. It was never a great kitchen appliance, even at the height of its powers. But for me, it was a symbol of independence. When I could have been munching on cafeteria tacos with half-brown lettuce awaiting an impending 90 minute block of high school gym, I was instead heating up a bowl of Chef Boyardee ravioli using my very own microwave, before I walked a mile in the snow to practice in the music building for a few hours. The microwave carried great symbolic value.
J faced an interesting situation before we got married. Her Davis grandparents gave her a choice of wedding gifts. The first option was a sleek and high-powered fancy microwave similar to the nuclear model that her parents own. "But," they said "your parents told us that Roy already owns a microwave, so we were thinking you might want <this> instead." (I don't remember what the other option was, but we chose that. I'm sure that whatever it was, it's been very useful and we love it.) J wrestled with this decision.
"Your microwave is pretty pathetic." she said. "And really, it might not be worth saving at this point. I mean, have you ever cleaned that thing?"
"I clean it all the time!" I protested. "And besides, it works great for me. It heats things up eventually. Didn't it make you a great Valentine's day dinner?"
(Less than a month after we started dating I made dinner for J on Valentine's day and served it to her in the upstairs studio of the dilapidated colonial of the epileptic reclusive. Because I didn't own a table or chairs we ate off an old piece of wood laid out on the floor. Dinner was plain white rice, most of which I'd burned on the stove, with chicken and dumplings from a can, and hot chocolate, which I poured from a packet into the white and green mugs after heating up water in the hot pot. But she still married me eventually.)
Anyhow, J and I have always wondered whether we made the right decision about passing on the very nice microwave we were offered at our wedding. Still, the Sunbeam has survived 6 apartments and is still going "strong." We have learned a lot about how to get it working just right for us. At first the only two results we could get while reheating leftovers were "frigid" or "burnt to a crisp." Now we are able to consistently find a sweet spot in the timer knob (it doesn't have power settings, of course) where we can burn the outside of whatever it is we're serving to crisp while still leaving the center of the food freezing cold.
J has begun, as she did with our old Station Wagon, actively hoping for its death. A few months ago she tried to microwave something and nothing happened. There was no power at all. She told me that in the next few minutes she did a happy dance and clapped and sang for James. As it turned out the power cord was just slightly dislodged. She warmed her leftovers most sadly.
James loves the microwave, of course. If we turn it on he wants to be as close to it as possible, pressing his nose up against the clear plastic front and watching the food spin around. I hope he isn't too radioactive by this point. We usually try to pry him away into the other room, but he'll fuss and cry, and then he runs back to watch it some more as soon as we put him down. He's also taken to twisting the timer knob while food is being cooked, but this often doesn't make a difference anyway.
I discovered last night that, although I know exactly how long I need to set the microwave to reheat pizza or leftover casserole, I have no idea how to use the microwave to get James' food ready. J was at church, so I was giving James supper on my own. I knew I needed to start with the bag of frozen vegetable medley. I put some in a bowl, covered them with water, and then put the bowl in the microwave.
"How long should I microwave your veggies, James?"
"Da DA da da. Da! Da! Hahaha!!"
I decided that meant one minute and thirty seconds. The veggies were so hot when I pulled them out of the microwave that I ran my fingers under cold water. James, knowing that it was time to eat NOW, promptly fussed at me.
"Okay, we're going to wait on the vegetables. Let's start on some leftover chili instead."
I put the bowl of hot vegetables in the freezer so they could cool down, and pulled the chili out of the fridge. Clearly a minute and thirty seconds was too long for vegetables. I decided to start at thirty seconds with the chili. The chili dinged, and it was also way to hot too eat. So I pulled the veggies out of the freezer, and put the bowl of chili in there. And then I pulled my pizza out of the fridge, and put that in the microwave.
I gave James some vegetables, and he spread them all around his tray, threw them on the floor, and put them down the front of his shirt. I think he might have even eaten a few of them. My pizza dinged, and I had two slices of delicious leftover homemade BBQ chicken pizza. It was wonderful. There were sweet onions and parsley, and I savored every last bite.
And then I remembered about the chili in the freezer. It had been about 20 minutes, and the chili was pretty much frozen. As it turns out, James likes frozen food. He asked for more chili once we'd finished the first dish, and I didn't even bother putting it in the microwave. He's a good sport.
This isn't his only difficulty with heating food of late, either. Two nights ago when J was cooking our delicious BBQ chicken pizza, she told me that I needed to hold James for a moment. We had been playing with his blue rubber ball, which I think was a racquetball ball before he started gnawing on it. It bounces very well in our kitchen, so we have fun with it. I scooped him up, and we walked over to watch Mommy take the pizza out of the oven.
I think veteran parents would be wiser than this. What do you think happens when you lean over a hot open oven holding a baby who is holding a bouncy rubber ball?
He threw the ball. It bounced once and bounced right into the oven. All three of us yelled "AHHH!!!" at the same time, and J managed to get it out in less than ten seconds using a wooden spoon, with no burns to herself and minimal scorching to the ball. Still, it was pretty traumatic. Fortunately, the pizza tasted great.
One final note: If you are attempting to hire musicians for your event, please model your request after the first of these two examples, which happened within five minutes of each other last Friday and which I am not in any way making up:
EXAMPLE 1:
"Hi, Mr. Smith?"
"Yes?"
"I was wondering if your jazz combo might be able to play at x event on x date. It would start at x o'clock and go to x o'clock."
"Let's see. I think I'm available. I'll check with the others. What would the pay be?"
"It would be x dollars, plus dinner."
"Great, I'll let you know."
EXAMPLE 2:
"Hi, Mr. Smith?"
"Yes?"
"We're having an event on x date, and The LORD told me that your group should play..."
No word from The LORD on whether we'd get paid, but things don't look good.
Sunday, January 27, 2013
Thursday, January 24, 2013
The Notebook(s)
I bought a new notebook tonight. I was a little disappointed. James (who was with me, desperately trying to twist his way out of the shopping cart restraints while shaking a bottle of parsley) and I looked through several aisles of office supplies, but we couldn't find my standard Mead Five Star 2 subject college ruled 9.5*6 notebook. We had to settle for a knock from Norcom, Inc.
I'm not picky about many things. Only black gel pens, notebooks, practice routines, intonation, tempi, articulation, ornamentation, coffee preparation, tea preparation, wine, food, garnishment, scheduling, grammar, spelling, pronunciation, etiquette, and tying my tie to exactly the right length.
I'm quite flexible about everything else.
I know I'm particular about notebooks, anyway. Ever since my senior year of undergrad I've kept a small 9 by 6 notebook (exclusively a five star, up till now) to use for letter writing and a catch-all for my thoughts. Each one has pages missing from written and sent letters. There are to-do lists, practice itineraries, financial columns, New Years resolutions, Greek paradigms, translations, book notes, paper outlines, and even drawings.
I like the smaller notebooks because they fit easily into a backpack or gig bag. I tried using legal pads and 9 by 11 notebooks unsuccessfully. I tried using fancy manuscript diaries too. But they don't stick. I work best out of a notebook. Each time I break in a new one I flip to the very back page of the second section and make two columns. The right-hand column is a "to-read" list that usually goes back several pages. Some books on my latest "to-read" list have been there since the oldest notebook I can find. If anyone has a copy to lend of either William Wymark, Guy Mannering, or Precious Bane, please let me know. On the left-hand side of the back pages, starting from the very back, I try (with varying success) to keep track of what I've read. It's fascinating to go back and look through old readings lists from 3 or 4 years ago. I was on a Chesterton kick for a long while, and then I read a lot of Shakespeare all at once. I guess N.T. Wright has saturated the last few notebook. (Also, coffee stains. There are coffee stains on every old notebook I have.)
I know there are several really old notebooks buried in a box in our laundry room somewhere. I flipped through them when I was cleaning in there recently and found one that was old enough to have a page with "proposal ideas for Julie." (Several of those ideas definitely needed to be rejected.) I don't have any of the really old notebooks out in front of me, but here are some quick hits from the ones that were sitting in the kitchen desk:
-Phone numbers for places that I was applying for work when J and I moved to North Carolina. There were several schools listed, and even some auto care centers. (I remember quite vividly when I was so desperate for work that I attempted to convince an Advance Auto Parts they ought to hire me. I said "I may not know anything about car care, but I learn very quickly.")
-An outline for an academic paper on the use of the term sostenuto in Beethoven.
-An old Scrabble scoresheet from a game with J. Written at the bottom is "combine milk & haircut"
-Notes from a sermon at J's church that devolved into us passing notes to each other about how all we want is "one muffin"
-A to do list for getting our apartment ready for J's return after she'd been away for a two weeks at Csehy. Among the tasks were: Clean car spotless. Flowers ready on Sunday AM (Vestal's Florist, 3001 Pinecroft Road) Pictures of Battleships, Firetrucks, Barad-dur; Notes spread around room (Under pillow, On table, In Cereal boxes, in Flute Case, in Mailbox, etc.)
-A list of questions for us to ask each other on the long drive from Greensboro to Hanover. (Including:) What's the best thing to find in a little brown paper bag? Who will be the next of our friends to get married? What's your favorite odd meter to play in?
-Call numbers to about 20 library books
-Notes on reading The Education of Henry Adams. Including this quote: The boy had a large and overpowering set of brothers and sisters. As far as the outward bearing went, such a family of turbulent children, given free reign by their parents, or indifferent to their check, should have come to more grief. Certainly no one was strong enough to control them, least of all their mother, the queen-bee of the hive, on whom 9/10 of the burden fell, on whose strength they all depended, but whose children were much too self-willed and self-confident to take guidance from her, or from anyone else, unless in the direction they fancied...by some happy chance they grew up to be decent citizens...they were born, like birds, with a certain innate balance.
-The master verb chart from Wallace's Greek Grammar, copied out by hand. On the next page are Colwell's Rule and Sharp's Rule, copied out by hand.
-A half-completed letter to Sam, asking about Kaitlyn, who was pregnant with Hayden.
-A list of trumpet ideas and items to practice. (slide mouthpiece up slightly; spring octave jumps from louder lower note a la Parsifal; conceptualize on rotary for color) Verdi Requiem is May 18, 19, 20, 22
-All the scansion marks written in for some Hendecasyllabics of Catullus
-A solemn promise that 1) I will not use pointlessly excessive modifiers and 2) I will not use the ubiquitous they. (Signed, Roy Smith)
-Various letters are tucked into the central pockets of each notebook, including a letter from Lucas written during the Dinner Dance, about which he says that though Oliver is conducting the Alumni Band, he is not as cool as Lucas because he is not dressed in a cape and beret.
-A small slip of paper that would enable to me entered into a drawing for a free product from the Collingsworth Family. (Sadly, I did not fill out and submit the slip)
-A list of RPO checks from the fall of 2010
-Notes on the book Deep Church, among which I wrote, in all caps, AUGUSTINE OUT OF CONTEXT...HULK ANGRY!!! (wants the dignity of classical scholarship w/out the work)
-A summer to-do list for Martha, including sewing lessons, entrepeneuring, and practicing the dulcimer
-A list of trombone players with names and emails, as I was apparently attempting to put together a quintet
-The email address of a woman at Gates Presbyterian, with whom I needed to confirm within 24 hours that I would be accepting the position they offered me
-A to-do list reminding me to email my quintet, pick up an anniversary card, pay our Verizon bill, write a letter to Emily in boot camp, and renew my library books
-Several phone numbers to prospective apartment leads, including one to a woman named Vivian Robbins
-All of Herrick's Julia poems copied out
-A sketch for the toast I gave at Oliver's wedding
-A list of projects I wanted to work on over the summer. Left unfinished: Read Home Repair book, learn upstate NY birds, subscribe to a periodical, read Wolterstorff, coerce Lydia into playing at O'Lacy's with the Uncles, buy a copy of the Liber Usualis
-An unfinished letter to Lucas in which I ask "I suppose the foremost thought for you these days is your new girlfriend..when did this happen? What should we know about her? (Besides that she plays the trombone.) I know practically nothing other than that and her name.
-The following list: Scrufulous. Wright, Scott @RWC library. Debt article (Egypt) 2 qt. milk 2 qt. orange juice. mustard. cereal (fibrous). P. per what's the Difference
And now I have my new red notebook. I can't wait to see what ends up in it!
I'm not picky about many things. Only black gel pens, notebooks, practice routines, intonation, tempi, articulation, ornamentation, coffee preparation, tea preparation, wine, food, garnishment, scheduling, grammar, spelling, pronunciation, etiquette, and tying my tie to exactly the right length.
I'm quite flexible about everything else.
I know I'm particular about notebooks, anyway. Ever since my senior year of undergrad I've kept a small 9 by 6 notebook (exclusively a five star, up till now) to use for letter writing and a catch-all for my thoughts. Each one has pages missing from written and sent letters. There are to-do lists, practice itineraries, financial columns, New Years resolutions, Greek paradigms, translations, book notes, paper outlines, and even drawings.
I like the smaller notebooks because they fit easily into a backpack or gig bag. I tried using legal pads and 9 by 11 notebooks unsuccessfully. I tried using fancy manuscript diaries too. But they don't stick. I work best out of a notebook. Each time I break in a new one I flip to the very back page of the second section and make two columns. The right-hand column is a "to-read" list that usually goes back several pages. Some books on my latest "to-read" list have been there since the oldest notebook I can find. If anyone has a copy to lend of either William Wymark, Guy Mannering, or Precious Bane, please let me know. On the left-hand side of the back pages, starting from the very back, I try (with varying success) to keep track of what I've read. It's fascinating to go back and look through old readings lists from 3 or 4 years ago. I was on a Chesterton kick for a long while, and then I read a lot of Shakespeare all at once. I guess N.T. Wright has saturated the last few notebook. (Also, coffee stains. There are coffee stains on every old notebook I have.)
I know there are several really old notebooks buried in a box in our laundry room somewhere. I flipped through them when I was cleaning in there recently and found one that was old enough to have a page with "proposal ideas for Julie." (Several of those ideas definitely needed to be rejected.) I don't have any of the really old notebooks out in front of me, but here are some quick hits from the ones that were sitting in the kitchen desk:
-Phone numbers for places that I was applying for work when J and I moved to North Carolina. There were several schools listed, and even some auto care centers. (I remember quite vividly when I was so desperate for work that I attempted to convince an Advance Auto Parts they ought to hire me. I said "I may not know anything about car care, but I learn very quickly.")
-An outline for an academic paper on the use of the term sostenuto in Beethoven.
-An old Scrabble scoresheet from a game with J. Written at the bottom is "combine milk & haircut"
-Notes from a sermon at J's church that devolved into us passing notes to each other about how all we want is "one muffin"
-A to do list for getting our apartment ready for J's return after she'd been away for a two weeks at Csehy. Among the tasks were: Clean car spotless. Flowers ready on Sunday AM (Vestal's Florist, 3001 Pinecroft Road) Pictures of Battleships, Firetrucks, Barad-dur; Notes spread around room (Under pillow, On table, In Cereal boxes, in Flute Case, in Mailbox, etc.)
-A list of questions for us to ask each other on the long drive from Greensboro to Hanover. (Including:) What's the best thing to find in a little brown paper bag? Who will be the next of our friends to get married? What's your favorite odd meter to play in?
-Call numbers to about 20 library books
-Notes on reading The Education of Henry Adams. Including this quote: The boy had a large and overpowering set of brothers and sisters. As far as the outward bearing went, such a family of turbulent children, given free reign by their parents, or indifferent to their check, should have come to more grief. Certainly no one was strong enough to control them, least of all their mother, the queen-bee of the hive, on whom 9/10 of the burden fell, on whose strength they all depended, but whose children were much too self-willed and self-confident to take guidance from her, or from anyone else, unless in the direction they fancied...by some happy chance they grew up to be decent citizens...they were born, like birds, with a certain innate balance.
-The master verb chart from Wallace's Greek Grammar, copied out by hand. On the next page are Colwell's Rule and Sharp's Rule, copied out by hand.
-A half-completed letter to Sam, asking about Kaitlyn, who was pregnant with Hayden.
-A list of trumpet ideas and items to practice. (slide mouthpiece up slightly; spring octave jumps from louder lower note a la Parsifal; conceptualize on rotary for color) Verdi Requiem is May 18, 19, 20, 22
-All the scansion marks written in for some Hendecasyllabics of Catullus
-A solemn promise that 1) I will not use pointlessly excessive modifiers and 2) I will not use the ubiquitous they. (Signed, Roy Smith)
-Various letters are tucked into the central pockets of each notebook, including a letter from Lucas written during the Dinner Dance, about which he says that though Oliver is conducting the Alumni Band, he is not as cool as Lucas because he is not dressed in a cape and beret.
-A small slip of paper that would enable to me entered into a drawing for a free product from the Collingsworth Family. (Sadly, I did not fill out and submit the slip)
-A list of RPO checks from the fall of 2010
-Notes on the book Deep Church, among which I wrote, in all caps, AUGUSTINE OUT OF CONTEXT...HULK ANGRY!!! (wants the dignity of classical scholarship w/out the work)
-A summer to-do list for Martha, including sewing lessons, entrepeneuring, and practicing the dulcimer
-A list of trombone players with names and emails, as I was apparently attempting to put together a quintet
-The email address of a woman at Gates Presbyterian, with whom I needed to confirm within 24 hours that I would be accepting the position they offered me
-A to-do list reminding me to email my quintet, pick up an anniversary card, pay our Verizon bill, write a letter to Emily in boot camp, and renew my library books
-Several phone numbers to prospective apartment leads, including one to a woman named Vivian Robbins
-All of Herrick's Julia poems copied out
-A sketch for the toast I gave at Oliver's wedding
-A list of projects I wanted to work on over the summer. Left unfinished: Read Home Repair book, learn upstate NY birds, subscribe to a periodical, read Wolterstorff, coerce Lydia into playing at O'Lacy's with the Uncles, buy a copy of the Liber Usualis
-An unfinished letter to Lucas in which I ask "I suppose the foremost thought for you these days is your new girlfriend..when did this happen? What should we know about her? (Besides that she plays the trombone.) I know practically nothing other than that and her name.
-The following list: Scrufulous. Wright, Scott @RWC library. Debt article (Egypt) 2 qt. milk 2 qt. orange juice. mustard. cereal (fibrous). P. per what's the Difference
| Old notebooks I've filled since about 2009 |
| Eventually I started using legal pads for whatever translations I was doing. This is the last two years or so of Greek and Latin reading. |
| The new lame notebook. It will have to do. |
And now I have my new red notebook. I can't wait to see what ends up in it!
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Potty Humor
This post contains potty humor.
I used to get in trouble if I used potty humor, and my parents were right to discipline me swiftly and without exception for this sort of thing. If they, with five boys, had given any room to potty humor as acceptable conversation, we would have been completely unpresentable in public. (I think that we were unpresentable anyway, but at least it wasn't because of potty jokes.)
I suspect, however, that in the company of their friends, my parents indulged in copious potty anecdotes and laughs. This is what all young parents do. Young parents are stressed out, overtired, and they are constantly cleaning up the disasters their children leave inside and outside of their diapers. These disasters are both gross and funny, and when young parents get together they finally have an outlet to share their hilarious horror stories.
I remember when J and I were working at her church camp the summer before we got married and we got a lesson in this. Our conversations those days often revolved around the wedding and the life we were to have once we got married. (At that point I still needed a job of any sort.) But those weren't the only sorts of things we talked about. We were both fresh out of college, so we talked about professors, classes, and books. We debated important ideas and used lots of words that ended in "ism" or "ology." We both tried to be perfectly polite to everyone.
There weren't many other couples our age at the camp, but there was a group of a dozen or so young parents who had probably come to camp to unload full-time parenting duties of their aged 2-6 year old children. We would spend the evenings in their company, and we were flabbergasted by their conversation. We expected from this crowd, many of whom were recent seminarians, to hear more talk of "isms" and grand ideas.
All they talked about was poop.
They told diaper disaster stories, they told potty-training nightmares, they laughed at the potty language they were actively punishing, and they laughed even harder at the potty language they found too funny to punish. They also laughed at farts, making wee-wee, and all of the various names for private parts that they had to delegate as they attempted to civilize their children.
This was not a one-night conversation that happened to rabbit trail down to a silly subject. They wanted to tell poop stories, and they did it all week. Okay, I don't think they wanted to tell poop stories, but they did want to talk about their kids, and most of their kids were at that age when figuring out the potty is the most important priority.
Apparently James is approaching that age.
I was thinking about some ism or another when J, out of the blue, told me that James needed to watch me do something. (For the sake of propriety, I will call that something "number one.")
"I just read that it's a good first step for potty training. He needs to see Daddy do it before he'll want to do it himself."
I made a face, but I also knew that what J was saying made sense. James is in a particularly strong phase of doing whatever Daddy wants to do. Am I practicing? James wants to push the valves of my trumpet down too. Am I reading a book? James wants up on my lap so he can see and turn the pages. Am I writing? James needs a pen and paper right now. Am I leaving for work? James is certainly coming too. Am I taking out the trash? James will have his boots on in just a moment.
So yes, he should probably watch me do number one at some point.
"But," I said "he's already seen that."
Yes, it's true. A few months ago I really had to go as I was getting his bath ready. I REALLY had to go. And drawing a bath was not helping me to avoid thinking about it. James was standing up against the tub, but not yet walking. He was (as he still is) fascinated by the water pouring into the tub, and he was trying to reach the water that was gushing into his bath.. I figured that he'd certainly be fine to just watch the tub fill up for 30 seconds while I relieved myself. He couldn't climb in. He couldn't go anywhere. What could go wrong?
I started to "go", and then I felt something against the back of my leg. I looked down, and a tiny hand had appeared at about knee level between my legs, reaching over the toilet bowl and trying to "reach the gushing water." I gave a yell, and tried to squeeze my knees together and block him. This did not block him. It put him in a headlock. And that was how J found us. I had James' head trapped between my knees, bending backwards to keep him away, trying to keep both of our balance, and during all of this, making an attempt to "aim."
J tells me that he needs to see it again.
We tried again last night. I was ready this time, and perfectly prepared to let him be an observer but not a participant.
The experiment ended with both of us washing our hands with lots of soap.
Because James likes to be just like Daddy.
I used to get in trouble if I used potty humor, and my parents were right to discipline me swiftly and without exception for this sort of thing. If they, with five boys, had given any room to potty humor as acceptable conversation, we would have been completely unpresentable in public. (I think that we were unpresentable anyway, but at least it wasn't because of potty jokes.)
I suspect, however, that in the company of their friends, my parents indulged in copious potty anecdotes and laughs. This is what all young parents do. Young parents are stressed out, overtired, and they are constantly cleaning up the disasters their children leave inside and outside of their diapers. These disasters are both gross and funny, and when young parents get together they finally have an outlet to share their hilarious horror stories.
I remember when J and I were working at her church camp the summer before we got married and we got a lesson in this. Our conversations those days often revolved around the wedding and the life we were to have once we got married. (At that point I still needed a job of any sort.) But those weren't the only sorts of things we talked about. We were both fresh out of college, so we talked about professors, classes, and books. We debated important ideas and used lots of words that ended in "ism" or "ology." We both tried to be perfectly polite to everyone.
There weren't many other couples our age at the camp, but there was a group of a dozen or so young parents who had probably come to camp to unload full-time parenting duties of their aged 2-6 year old children. We would spend the evenings in their company, and we were flabbergasted by their conversation. We expected from this crowd, many of whom were recent seminarians, to hear more talk of "isms" and grand ideas.
All they talked about was poop.
They told diaper disaster stories, they told potty-training nightmares, they laughed at the potty language they were actively punishing, and they laughed even harder at the potty language they found too funny to punish. They also laughed at farts, making wee-wee, and all of the various names for private parts that they had to delegate as they attempted to civilize their children.
This was not a one-night conversation that happened to rabbit trail down to a silly subject. They wanted to tell poop stories, and they did it all week. Okay, I don't think they wanted to tell poop stories, but they did want to talk about their kids, and most of their kids were at that age when figuring out the potty is the most important priority.
Apparently James is approaching that age.
I was thinking about some ism or another when J, out of the blue, told me that James needed to watch me do something. (For the sake of propriety, I will call that something "number one.")
"I just read that it's a good first step for potty training. He needs to see Daddy do it before he'll want to do it himself."
I made a face, but I also knew that what J was saying made sense. James is in a particularly strong phase of doing whatever Daddy wants to do. Am I practicing? James wants to push the valves of my trumpet down too. Am I reading a book? James wants up on my lap so he can see and turn the pages. Am I writing? James needs a pen and paper right now. Am I leaving for work? James is certainly coming too. Am I taking out the trash? James will have his boots on in just a moment.
So yes, he should probably watch me do number one at some point.
"But," I said "he's already seen that."
Yes, it's true. A few months ago I really had to go as I was getting his bath ready. I REALLY had to go. And drawing a bath was not helping me to avoid thinking about it. James was standing up against the tub, but not yet walking. He was (as he still is) fascinated by the water pouring into the tub, and he was trying to reach the water that was gushing into his bath.. I figured that he'd certainly be fine to just watch the tub fill up for 30 seconds while I relieved myself. He couldn't climb in. He couldn't go anywhere. What could go wrong?
I started to "go", and then I felt something against the back of my leg. I looked down, and a tiny hand had appeared at about knee level between my legs, reaching over the toilet bowl and trying to "reach the gushing water." I gave a yell, and tried to squeeze my knees together and block him. This did not block him. It put him in a headlock. And that was how J found us. I had James' head trapped between my knees, bending backwards to keep him away, trying to keep both of our balance, and during all of this, making an attempt to "aim."
J tells me that he needs to see it again.
We tried again last night. I was ready this time, and perfectly prepared to let him be an observer but not a participant.
The experiment ended with both of us washing our hands with lots of soap.
Because James likes to be just like Daddy.
Friday, January 18, 2013
Creators
On Wednesday evening, I was looking for music for my choir. I should do this much earlier than Wednesday evening, because they rehearse on Wednesday evenings. I could take care of this at school, or even on Sunday after the service. When I try to work on our laptop computer at home, I never get anything done. James' greatest pleasure in life is "typing" on the keyboard. He doesn't even look at the screen, but presses down as many keys as he can over and over again. This, I think, makes him feel like an adult. If we accidentally leave the laptop on and someplace where he can reach it, we'll find that the screen has been resized, the fonts changed, and several yaks purchased from China the next time we turn it on. Needless to say, if you try to get any work done on the computer during his conscious hours (Sunday through Saturday, 6:30 AM to 7:30 PM and then at 11:30 PM and 4:30 AM for 15 minutes each) he will scream and holler at you to let him "share" the keyboard until you either open a word document and let him type (this is not a good idea--he immediately pulls up the mail order yak website) or turn off the computer and put it away out of reach.
Anyway, I was trying to pick music for my choir while listening while James hollered at me, and an email came into my inbox. It was from Calvus, and it had an attachment. He had written an original piece of choral music, a four minute a capella number for church choir. I was saved! I printed it off and copied it, and had my choir sing through it that night. It was beautiful. It sat in their voices well, wasn't terribly difficult, and had a lovely text and melody. (I still have the tune stuck in my head). The setting was tasteful, and I was impressed again with his talent as a composer.
Calvus doesn't need to write music. He is currently a seminary student, so he needs to read endless books on systematic theology and church history. He writes music because creating is part of who he is. Actually, I think it's part of who everyone is, but many people have regretfully let that part of their humanity atrophy. I don't know if he could give you a reason for why he creates. I'm sure there is some pleasure in the process of working out all of the details of a musical composition, but I know from experience there's also quite a bit of tedious drudgery and frustration. I suspect it's more intuitive than that. In fact, I think my whole family are intuitive creators. They just do creation. It is in their nature to reflect beauty, to tell stories, and to give order and meaning to their worlds.
Sam, for example, writes Chemistry papers for the pleasure of the exercise. He reads constantly, and then he writes about anything and everything he's reading. Sometimes he'll ask me to look at his papers, and I'm always astounded at 1) how motley they are--he writes about every book he's read in the past month all at once and 2) how enthusiastic they are. Sam loves his discipline so much that he gets caught up in the splendor of all scientific knowing. He can't write about only ion bonds, because he's too amazed at particle physics to refrain from saying something about it. (I have no idea if those are actual scientific terms or not, but they sound like the sorts of things he'd write about.) He and Kaitlyn are constantly experimenting with new coffees, lattes, teas, and cocoas. There's no particular reason for them to do so--they aren't dissatisfied with the coffee they regularly drink--they are just natural creators, and they have to have an outlet for experimenting and enjoying the process.
Pax and Kylie recently redid their bedroom over the course of a weekend. There was no pressing need to do so. Their bedroom was already clean, warm, and well-decorated. (Especially compared to my premarital sleeping quarters, which were always just four bare walls with a bed. They basically served as a functional place to sleep and to pile up books and laundry.) Yet when they were finished with it, their sleeping space was transformed. It had become not only a beautiful room, but now a part of the amazing story that their whole house tells. Hilltop has become and incredible place under their care. It is elegant but very inviting, and reflects them in many ways. They are not professional decorators. They don't even own the house. But they have created a narrative in that house with such nuance that anyone who enters the house is caught up in the story.
Lux, as you might know if you follow The Old Crow, writes poetry. He does not harbor, as far as I know, any aspirations to be a professional poet. He doesn't publish his work widely, and doesn't get graded for it. Yet somehow he must translate his world into meter and rhyme, and not only traditional meter and rhyme, but forms of his own invention. His work isn't the sort of simpering mush you find in Hallmark cards or anthologies of blank verse about self-discovery either. It's real work, which has been carefully sculpted, edited, and studied--yet it comes out sounding as authentic and spontaneous as if it were just improvised. He never imposes his work on anyone or presumes that it must be heard. He just puts the world in verse quite as naturally as he puts his feet in shoes.
Martha might be the most remarkable of all them. For starters, she always has several long term projects going at once as a true visual artist. She paints, sketches, and sews quality work all year long to decorate her room and to give as gifts. Christmas this year was particularly remarkable. All of us received handcrafted items from her that must have been days each in the making. There were a series of beautifully written Robert Frost poems, framed in a painting of her own imagination. (Mine was about fireflies.) She had crafted a number of household items as well, and I won't pretend to know enough about sewing/knitting/crocheting/whatever else she does to prepare those to give any sort of comment except to say that I'm sure they took a very long time. But not only does Martha plan and work on big projects, her entire day-to-day existence seems to be in a sort of amplified technicolor that none of the rest of us can see. She scribbles and draws constantly on any piece of paper she can put her hands on. She notices and pairs unusual colors in her clothing, her books, and everything she touches. I would love to see the world through her eyes for only an hour. I think I would see more details of shade and hue than I ever knew existed. Martha doesn't even think about creating as a hobby...to be Martha is to recreate the world constantly and to make every minute of the day brand new in her notebooks and on table napkins.
At the risk of being over-prideful, I think this is a part of being human that too many people have forgotten. This is what reflecting the Creator God back into the world looks like.
And I think that maybe we are not called "smiths" in vain.
Anyway, I was trying to pick music for my choir while listening while James hollered at me, and an email came into my inbox. It was from Calvus, and it had an attachment. He had written an original piece of choral music, a four minute a capella number for church choir. I was saved! I printed it off and copied it, and had my choir sing through it that night. It was beautiful. It sat in their voices well, wasn't terribly difficult, and had a lovely text and melody. (I still have the tune stuck in my head). The setting was tasteful, and I was impressed again with his talent as a composer.
Calvus doesn't need to write music. He is currently a seminary student, so he needs to read endless books on systematic theology and church history. He writes music because creating is part of who he is. Actually, I think it's part of who everyone is, but many people have regretfully let that part of their humanity atrophy. I don't know if he could give you a reason for why he creates. I'm sure there is some pleasure in the process of working out all of the details of a musical composition, but I know from experience there's also quite a bit of tedious drudgery and frustration. I suspect it's more intuitive than that. In fact, I think my whole family are intuitive creators. They just do creation. It is in their nature to reflect beauty, to tell stories, and to give order and meaning to their worlds.
Sam, for example, writes Chemistry papers for the pleasure of the exercise. He reads constantly, and then he writes about anything and everything he's reading. Sometimes he'll ask me to look at his papers, and I'm always astounded at 1) how motley they are--he writes about every book he's read in the past month all at once and 2) how enthusiastic they are. Sam loves his discipline so much that he gets caught up in the splendor of all scientific knowing. He can't write about only ion bonds, because he's too amazed at particle physics to refrain from saying something about it. (I have no idea if those are actual scientific terms or not, but they sound like the sorts of things he'd write about.) He and Kaitlyn are constantly experimenting with new coffees, lattes, teas, and cocoas. There's no particular reason for them to do so--they aren't dissatisfied with the coffee they regularly drink--they are just natural creators, and they have to have an outlet for experimenting and enjoying the process.
Pax and Kylie recently redid their bedroom over the course of a weekend. There was no pressing need to do so. Their bedroom was already clean, warm, and well-decorated. (Especially compared to my premarital sleeping quarters, which were always just four bare walls with a bed. They basically served as a functional place to sleep and to pile up books and laundry.) Yet when they were finished with it, their sleeping space was transformed. It had become not only a beautiful room, but now a part of the amazing story that their whole house tells. Hilltop has become and incredible place under their care. It is elegant but very inviting, and reflects them in many ways. They are not professional decorators. They don't even own the house. But they have created a narrative in that house with such nuance that anyone who enters the house is caught up in the story.
Lux, as you might know if you follow The Old Crow, writes poetry. He does not harbor, as far as I know, any aspirations to be a professional poet. He doesn't publish his work widely, and doesn't get graded for it. Yet somehow he must translate his world into meter and rhyme, and not only traditional meter and rhyme, but forms of his own invention. His work isn't the sort of simpering mush you find in Hallmark cards or anthologies of blank verse about self-discovery either. It's real work, which has been carefully sculpted, edited, and studied--yet it comes out sounding as authentic and spontaneous as if it were just improvised. He never imposes his work on anyone or presumes that it must be heard. He just puts the world in verse quite as naturally as he puts his feet in shoes.
Martha might be the most remarkable of all them. For starters, she always has several long term projects going at once as a true visual artist. She paints, sketches, and sews quality work all year long to decorate her room and to give as gifts. Christmas this year was particularly remarkable. All of us received handcrafted items from her that must have been days each in the making. There were a series of beautifully written Robert Frost poems, framed in a painting of her own imagination. (Mine was about fireflies.) She had crafted a number of household items as well, and I won't pretend to know enough about sewing/knitting/crocheting/whatever else she does to prepare those to give any sort of comment except to say that I'm sure they took a very long time. But not only does Martha plan and work on big projects, her entire day-to-day existence seems to be in a sort of amplified technicolor that none of the rest of us can see. She scribbles and draws constantly on any piece of paper she can put her hands on. She notices and pairs unusual colors in her clothing, her books, and everything she touches. I would love to see the world through her eyes for only an hour. I think I would see more details of shade and hue than I ever knew existed. Martha doesn't even think about creating as a hobby...to be Martha is to recreate the world constantly and to make every minute of the day brand new in her notebooks and on table napkins.
At the risk of being over-prideful, I think this is a part of being human that too many people have forgotten. This is what reflecting the Creator God back into the world looks like.
And I think that maybe we are not called "smiths" in vain.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Dates
J and I are on a date tonight. You can tell it's a hot date because I'm blogging in the middle of it.
No, we really are on a date. A lot of our dates are at home nowadays, because we have a small bear that lives upstairs. We've had to get creative since he entered the picture, because "dinner and a movie" requires "lots of phone calls and emails to get ahold of babysitters and then additional time to prep outfits-diapers-and-food and then heartbreaking separation anxiety when we drop him off and having to get back by 7:30 anyway so that he gets into bed somewhat close to his bedtime."
So we do that sometimes, but more often than not we have our dates at home. This requires creativity, which is a lot of fun. A few weeks ago we made up our own game where we advanced across a homemade board by answering fun conversation cards. We played a game of I Spy awhile ago, but we were "spying" into the five places where we've lived since we were married. We look at old photos and reminisce. We made our own "jazz and dessert" night with cheesecake, dressing up in our finest, and dancing to old Miles Davis recordings in the living room. For awhile we were doing a once-a-month date of cooking international food and taking pictures to show off to the general public. We haven't done one in awhile, mostly because we're saving money by not buying food to help defray the cost of our recent auto repairs. (Paypal donations can be made here.)
So anyway, tonight's date is "lines from the pocket," which we stole from Whose Line. I wrote out about 20 random lines for us to draw out of our pockets and read aloud (in the midst of whatever conversation was happening otherwise) at 10 minute intervals. Don't worry, most of these are not super-romantic lines. There is no card that says "When I gaze into your eyes I see all the splendor of the starry beauty of a sable summer night." There is, however, a card that says "Did you remember to take out the trash?"
I did remember to take out the trash. I was going to take it out after he went to bed, but at 5:30 he was pulling empty cans of crushed tomatoes out of the recycling and dripping their remnants onto the kitchen floor. He's become obsessed with the trash bin recently. I think it's because he figured out that there are empty yogurt containers in there and there might be something left at the bottom. If he's left unattended in the kitchen he knocks the top off of the garbage and digs until he finds an old yogurt. The trash is also dangerous because we're no longer sure what we're throwing out. This afternoon, unbeknownst to James, I watched him take two of my cornet mouthpieces and drop them in his diaper genie. (Ewww...) J asked me recently, "Do you think, if we had a little girl, that we'd be dealing with these sorts of things?" James was standing in a rocking chair and sucking on a power cord at the time.
But back to our date. We're having a grand time. The trash it taken out, we're having some good dark chocolate, and James is in bed. We need good dates nowadays. Thank you, THANK YOU, to all of you who gave us gift certificates to nice restaurants for Christmas. We will love a chance to have a date out of the house.
Now, are any of you interested in doing some babysitting?
No, we really are on a date. A lot of our dates are at home nowadays, because we have a small bear that lives upstairs. We've had to get creative since he entered the picture, because "dinner and a movie" requires "lots of phone calls and emails to get ahold of babysitters and then additional time to prep outfits-diapers-and-food and then heartbreaking separation anxiety when we drop him off and having to get back by 7:30 anyway so that he gets into bed somewhat close to his bedtime."
So we do that sometimes, but more often than not we have our dates at home. This requires creativity, which is a lot of fun. A few weeks ago we made up our own game where we advanced across a homemade board by answering fun conversation cards. We played a game of I Spy awhile ago, but we were "spying" into the five places where we've lived since we were married. We look at old photos and reminisce. We made our own "jazz and dessert" night with cheesecake, dressing up in our finest, and dancing to old Miles Davis recordings in the living room. For awhile we were doing a once-a-month date of cooking international food and taking pictures to show off to the general public. We haven't done one in awhile, mostly because we're saving money by not buying food to help defray the cost of our recent auto repairs. (Paypal donations can be made here.)
So anyway, tonight's date is "lines from the pocket," which we stole from Whose Line. I wrote out about 20 random lines for us to draw out of our pockets and read aloud (in the midst of whatever conversation was happening otherwise) at 10 minute intervals. Don't worry, most of these are not super-romantic lines. There is no card that says "When I gaze into your eyes I see all the splendor of the starry beauty of a sable summer night." There is, however, a card that says "Did you remember to take out the trash?"
I did remember to take out the trash. I was going to take it out after he went to bed, but at 5:30 he was pulling empty cans of crushed tomatoes out of the recycling and dripping their remnants onto the kitchen floor. He's become obsessed with the trash bin recently. I think it's because he figured out that there are empty yogurt containers in there and there might be something left at the bottom. If he's left unattended in the kitchen he knocks the top off of the garbage and digs until he finds an old yogurt. The trash is also dangerous because we're no longer sure what we're throwing out. This afternoon, unbeknownst to James, I watched him take two of my cornet mouthpieces and drop them in his diaper genie. (Ewww...) J asked me recently, "Do you think, if we had a little girl, that we'd be dealing with these sorts of things?" James was standing in a rocking chair and sucking on a power cord at the time.
| He's been pushing the chair up against the table, and using it to climb up and reach whatever we're hiding. |
But back to our date. We're having a grand time. The trash it taken out, we're having some good dark chocolate, and James is in bed. We need good dates nowadays. Thank you, THANK YOU, to all of you who gave us gift certificates to nice restaurants for Christmas. We will love a chance to have a date out of the house.
Now, are any of you interested in doing some babysitting?
Saturday, January 12, 2013
How the World Works
James is busy figuring out how the world works. He wants to know what goes up, what goes down, what goes in, what goes out, what bounces, what breaks, what tastes good, what doesn't, what's hot, what's cold, what's slippery, what's hard, what's squishy, what fits in his mouth, what doesn't, what he can fit inside, what he can't, what he's not allowed to touch and what he's REALLY not allowed to touch. This is exhausting, but it's also fun. We're rediscovering how the world works. For example, did you know that books make a funny sound when you let the pages flick really fast past your thumb? Or did you know that a single roll of toilet paper can stretch all the way from the bathroom into our bedroom and then back to the bathroom again? There are so many things to discover!
My suitcase was particularly full of interesting possibilities when I arrived back home on Wednesday. James was happy to see me and gave me a big hug. Then he started going through my dirty laundry. I had brought back a present for him, a cute little shirt with long sleeves and a white collar. He was more interested in the granola bars. J had packed a whole box of high-fiber granola bars for me, and by the end of the trip I was quite ready to not see another high-fiber granola bar for a good long while. Not so for James. At one point he was flying about the downstairs with one granola bar in each hand and a third clutched between his teeth. We gathered them up to put away at one point, but apparently we missed a few. One turned up the next day in the wicker basket of children's books by the couch, and then two more were in his toy chest. He's been allowed to keep a few, and they are now mashed beyond recognition from being carried around in his teeth.
Speaking of things going in James' mouth, he has become a complete barbarian at the dinner table. Yesterday I was attempting to feed him nickel-sized slices of carrots. He likes carrots. He liked these carrots so much that he put about seven of them in his mouth, cheeks bulging, and clearly with no way to swallow. He pointed at the bowl and made his sign for more. "James, can you swallow some of those?" He pointed at his sippy cup. "James, would you like your sippy?" He made the sign for please. I handed him the cup, and he put his finger in his mouth, pulling out one carrot, two carrots, and then spitting all of the remaining carrots onto his tray. He sucked vigorously on the sippy cup for about ten seconds, then started putting the carrots back in his mouth. All of them. He got his cheeks fully bulged again, and then made the sign for the sippy. (Guess what he did next...)
Something must be going down though, because he is clearly getting bigger and more active. He has started to climb. It used to be that when I went in to pick him up out of his crib at the end of nap time I'd find him sitting in the crib with Steven and sucking on his binky. Then it became common to find him standing in the crib and looking at the door expectantly. Now when we go in he has a leg wedged into the slats in the side, and he is clearly trying to push himself up and over. He can already climb onto the futon in his room, and he is getting closer to climbing over the barrier to our stairs (two big rubbermaid containers) and onto the couch, the back of which has become the last refuge for iPods, books, keys, and other valuables that we don't want put into his mouth.
He is apparently big enough to tune the piano. Our clavinova is a pretty nice instrument, so we were puzzled when it began to sound "off" a few weeks ago. It was subtle, but J and I both noticed there was something wrong with the sound. "I swear it's gone sharp" said J. She and I tried to rehearse a little this afternoon, and the piano was so high to my trumpet (which is always in tune, naturally) that I had to push my tuning slide all the way in and was still flat. We played the middle A with my tuner out, and it was nearly a B-flat. After rummaging around for the owner's manual, we found a way to reset the tuning to A=440. We also found that you raise the pitch incrementally by pressing down the lowest A and the lowest B on the piano together at the same time.
Guess who likes to reach up and push the lowest few keys on the piano? Yes, it's the same little boy who has figured out how to make tractor sounds while he pushes his little John Deere around.
My suitcase was particularly full of interesting possibilities when I arrived back home on Wednesday. James was happy to see me and gave me a big hug. Then he started going through my dirty laundry. I had brought back a present for him, a cute little shirt with long sleeves and a white collar. He was more interested in the granola bars. J had packed a whole box of high-fiber granola bars for me, and by the end of the trip I was quite ready to not see another high-fiber granola bar for a good long while. Not so for James. At one point he was flying about the downstairs with one granola bar in each hand and a third clutched between his teeth. We gathered them up to put away at one point, but apparently we missed a few. One turned up the next day in the wicker basket of children's books by the couch, and then two more were in his toy chest. He's been allowed to keep a few, and they are now mashed beyond recognition from being carried around in his teeth.
Speaking of things going in James' mouth, he has become a complete barbarian at the dinner table. Yesterday I was attempting to feed him nickel-sized slices of carrots. He likes carrots. He liked these carrots so much that he put about seven of them in his mouth, cheeks bulging, and clearly with no way to swallow. He pointed at the bowl and made his sign for more. "James, can you swallow some of those?" He pointed at his sippy cup. "James, would you like your sippy?" He made the sign for please. I handed him the cup, and he put his finger in his mouth, pulling out one carrot, two carrots, and then spitting all of the remaining carrots onto his tray. He sucked vigorously on the sippy cup for about ten seconds, then started putting the carrots back in his mouth. All of them. He got his cheeks fully bulged again, and then made the sign for the sippy. (Guess what he did next...)
Something must be going down though, because he is clearly getting bigger and more active. He has started to climb. It used to be that when I went in to pick him up out of his crib at the end of nap time I'd find him sitting in the crib with Steven and sucking on his binky. Then it became common to find him standing in the crib and looking at the door expectantly. Now when we go in he has a leg wedged into the slats in the side, and he is clearly trying to push himself up and over. He can already climb onto the futon in his room, and he is getting closer to climbing over the barrier to our stairs (two big rubbermaid containers) and onto the couch, the back of which has become the last refuge for iPods, books, keys, and other valuables that we don't want put into his mouth.
He is apparently big enough to tune the piano. Our clavinova is a pretty nice instrument, so we were puzzled when it began to sound "off" a few weeks ago. It was subtle, but J and I both noticed there was something wrong with the sound. "I swear it's gone sharp" said J. She and I tried to rehearse a little this afternoon, and the piano was so high to my trumpet (which is always in tune, naturally) that I had to push my tuning slide all the way in and was still flat. We played the middle A with my tuner out, and it was nearly a B-flat. After rummaging around for the owner's manual, we found a way to reset the tuning to A=440. We also found that you raise the pitch incrementally by pressing down the lowest A and the lowest B on the piano together at the same time.
Guess who likes to reach up and push the lowest few keys on the piano? Yes, it's the same little boy who has figured out how to make tractor sounds while he pushes his little John Deere around.
Thursday, January 10, 2013
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."
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.
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.
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.
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