"Hi, I'm calling to make sure that I'll be able to pick up my niece from daycare this afternoon."
"Let's see. If you've been added to the release form you'll just need to bring ID. What's your niece's name?"
"Last name Smith, first name Hayden."
"Oh, HAYDEN. We know Hayden."
"Yes."
................................
James, J, and I are walking past the playground. James asks to go play, but we say no. Also, stay out of the mud. It's just a little breezy out, and it looks like it might start to sprinkle. A church bell chimes softly. We walk through the cool and silent portico, and in through the air-conditioned hum of the first set of double doors. We enter the empty foyer through the second double doors.
"Well, I'm not sure where she is, but I can hear Hayden."
...................................
"JAMES! ROY! AUNT JUUUULIEEEEE!"
"Hi Hayden, how are you?"
"I'M GONNA COME OVER TO YOUR HOUSE! I'VE BEEN THERE BEFORE!"
"I know, we're so excited to have you over! It's just too bad that Liam can't come too."
"Yeah, my brover has the chicken cox."
.....................................
"We need to run some errands before we go back to our apartment, Hayden."
"Are we gonna go to WEGMANS?"
"Ooh, I yike Wegmans! I wanna cookie!"
"Hey, James learned to talk! He's not a baby anymore."
"Yeah, James has been talking for a long time, Hayden."
"He doesn't talk as good as me, though."
"No, he doesn't talk nearly as much."
"George wanna ride in the cart at Wegmans too!"
......................................
"ARE WE ALMOST TO WEGMANS YET?"
"We're getting close. Remember how we talked about using an inside voice in the car."
"Hed'n, I see it. I see Wegmans--yaaaay!!!!"
"YAYYY!!!!!"
<both children applaud wildly in the backseat as Wegmans comes into view>
..................................
"I wanna ride my bike."
"Hayden's riding your bike right now. In a few minutes you can switch and she can push your mower."
"OK."
"Just a sec, sweetie, my phone is ringing."
"Stay on the path, though, James."
"It's the realtor. Hello?"
"Hayden, don't get too far ahead."
"Where's Hed'n goin'?"
"Okay."
"That's a good place to wait for us. What does she say?"
"They accepted our offer on the house."
...........................
<splash splash, giggle giggle, splash splash>
"Careful Hayden, don't get water in James' eyes again."
"AAAAHHH! THIS WATER IS IN MY BRAAAAIN!"
"AAAAAHHH!"
<splash splash, giggle giggle, splash splash>
...........................
"Okay, let's say our prayers now. Help me to be loving, obedient,"
"HEY, I KNOW THIS PRAYER TOO!"
"That's right. Do you do it with Nama?"
"I do this prayer with my Grandma. She's your Mom."
"Mm-hm, and James knows it too. Should we say it all together?"
"Help me to be loving, obedient, truthful, and kind, and to keep others in mind. Praise for your glory, thanks for your goodness, forgive me the wrongs I've done, bless my friends and family, and bless me too."
"Love you guys. Sleep so good!"
"AUNT JULIE, I NEED A HUG AND A KISS!!!"
Friday, August 22, 2014
Wednesday, August 20, 2014
Updates
The day started well. My alarm on my phone went off at 5:45, and when I rolled over to shut it off I saw that my old C trumpet had finally sold on eBay. It's probably been listed half a dozen times by now, and I lowered the auction price by over three hundred dollars over the course of the last month and a half. Someone was messaging me a month ago asking for everything I knew about model 5 mouthpipes. He said he was going to buy it, but never did. Someone else was messaging me last week trying to negotiate a private sale, and he offered me $925. I countered with $950 plus shipping, and never heard back from him. I checked the email to see how much it sold for, and someone had used the Buy It Now...$1300 dollars, and the money had already cleared. When trying to scrape together a down payment, that's some serious good news. I had it in the mail by 11:30 in the morning, and it's off to Arizona now. I hope that whoever bought it likes it. It was a good and faithful horn for me.
We looked at two new houses today, both up in the North Winton/Irondequoit neighborhood. When we left the first place we were talking seriously about putting in a bid. The second was better than any of the locations we'd looked at previously, but not as good as the first. I'm trying not to get too attached to the place we might bid on, so I won't say anything more about it, except that James loved it. (We brought him along today. That went about as well as you'd expect.)
I swing back and forth between the exhilaration of thinking "this is actually going to happen...we're going to be homeowners. We have the income and the credit to pull it off, and we're going to have a place of our own in a few months." Then I think about trying to add closing fees on top of our down payment money (definitely not 20%) and I remember the cover letter I wrote up trying to make excuses for the fact that "even though neither my wife or I have a full time job, you can see from the total sum of our 17 W-2s that we make a comfortable living." Then I think that it just isn't going to happen. No lender in their right mind would give us a loan worth accepting.
Ah, adulthood. I spent about two hours today reading a homebuyers guide from the library and punching in numbers to an amortization schedule. If we don't get the house, the next year or so will be an anxious struggle to stabilize our earning situations, save aggressively, and take auditions. If we do get a house, I'll still be taking auditions, and I'll be constantly checking the amortization schedule and running numbers about tax assessments and equity.
The thing is, this isn't some unique and tragic set of circumstances that demands general sympathy. I think this is just normal adult life. (Maybe this is why adults look so tired.) This process makes me appreciate the people who can find genuine joy in their own skin despite the constant weather of bills and loans and responsibilities battering at their door.
My parents come to mind. Today is their anniversary, and I still hope for nothing more out of my marriage than to resemble them in twenty-odd years. I know that they don't have a perfect marriage and that there must be a hundred undercurrents and troubles I'm never aware of. But just before I got married my Dad told me that he felt sorry for friends of his who dreaded going home to their wives at the end of a long day, and were always looking for an excuse to be out of the house. "And it's always been the other way for me," he said "and at the end of the day we want to be together"
Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad.
In some truly tragical news, James is enacting a small scale German opera whenever he gets up from his afternoon nap. He's almost always bright and bubbly first thing in the morning, but he must sleep heavier in the afternoon, and he is CRANKY lately. Here are some highlights:
"Oh NOOO my bike needs to be in'a kitchen!" <begins to cry>
"Uh-OH, my milk is gone an'I need WATER!" <begins to cry>
"Don't read that book in the yiying room, you must read it in'a kitchen."
"Why can't I read it in the living room?"
"Because...Daddy's gonna practice, and it's gonna be LOUD." <begins to cry>
"Nope, my book is not in the ottoman. I can't find it in the ottoman. Can't. No. No. <shakes head> It's not in there."
In the past we've also heard:
"Oh NOOO somebody cleaned up my mess!"
"I'm hungwy for my breakfast."
"But it's almost time for dinner, little bear. Do you think it's morning?"
"Uh-OH, I need my cereal!"
We looked at two new houses today, both up in the North Winton/Irondequoit neighborhood. When we left the first place we were talking seriously about putting in a bid. The second was better than any of the locations we'd looked at previously, but not as good as the first. I'm trying not to get too attached to the place we might bid on, so I won't say anything more about it, except that James loved it. (We brought him along today. That went about as well as you'd expect.)
I swing back and forth between the exhilaration of thinking "this is actually going to happen...we're going to be homeowners. We have the income and the credit to pull it off, and we're going to have a place of our own in a few months." Then I think about trying to add closing fees on top of our down payment money (definitely not 20%) and I remember the cover letter I wrote up trying to make excuses for the fact that "even though neither my wife or I have a full time job, you can see from the total sum of our 17 W-2s that we make a comfortable living." Then I think that it just isn't going to happen. No lender in their right mind would give us a loan worth accepting.
Ah, adulthood. I spent about two hours today reading a homebuyers guide from the library and punching in numbers to an amortization schedule. If we don't get the house, the next year or so will be an anxious struggle to stabilize our earning situations, save aggressively, and take auditions. If we do get a house, I'll still be taking auditions, and I'll be constantly checking the amortization schedule and running numbers about tax assessments and equity.
The thing is, this isn't some unique and tragic set of circumstances that demands general sympathy. I think this is just normal adult life. (Maybe this is why adults look so tired.) This process makes me appreciate the people who can find genuine joy in their own skin despite the constant weather of bills and loans and responsibilities battering at their door.
My parents come to mind. Today is their anniversary, and I still hope for nothing more out of my marriage than to resemble them in twenty-odd years. I know that they don't have a perfect marriage and that there must be a hundred undercurrents and troubles I'm never aware of. But just before I got married my Dad told me that he felt sorry for friends of his who dreaded going home to their wives at the end of a long day, and were always looking for an excuse to be out of the house. "And it's always been the other way for me," he said "and at the end of the day we want to be together"
Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad.
In some truly tragical news, James is enacting a small scale German opera whenever he gets up from his afternoon nap. He's almost always bright and bubbly first thing in the morning, but he must sleep heavier in the afternoon, and he is CRANKY lately. Here are some highlights:
"Oh NOOO my bike needs to be in'a kitchen!" <begins to cry>
"Uh-OH, my milk is gone an'I need WATER!" <begins to cry>
"Don't read that book in the yiying room, you must read it in'a kitchen."
"Why can't I read it in the living room?"
"Because...Daddy's gonna practice, and it's gonna be LOUD." <begins to cry>
"Nope, my book is not in the ottoman. I can't find it in the ottoman. Can't. No. No. <shakes head> It's not in there."
In the past we've also heard:
"Oh NOOO somebody cleaned up my mess!"
"I'm hungwy for my breakfast."
"But it's almost time for dinner, little bear. Do you think it's morning?"
"Uh-OH, I need my cereal!"
Tuesday, August 19, 2014
Quick Hitters
We don't have cable, so whenever I check into a hotel room I put on SportsCenter. There are all sorts of amazing highlights and countdowns and special interest segments that I thoroughly enjoy for about 5 minutes as I kick off my shoes and practice trumpet for a bit. And then, after the 5 minutes are up, I remember why SportsCenter is stupid and we will never pay for cable.
SMITHS GO TO THE LIBRARY
Host 1: Okay, so the Smith Family was out at the Pittsford public library today, let's roll the highlights. Looks like Dad picked up a book on Leopold Stokowski, The Last Days of Pompeii, and in a surprising development you can see him here in the 300 call numbers picking up two books about purchasing a house for the first time. Reactions, guys?
Host 2: Yeah, I think that's a bad idea on his part. Supposedly he's already reading Froissart, and he just isn't going to have time to take care of all of those books before they're due again. I mean, the guy is trying to get up and read Homer and Ovid every morning...he's just overstretched. It isn't gonna happen. He's too old and tired, and he's not going to have time in his reading rotation--and that's not even counting how many times a day he has to read Curious George out loud.
Host 3: I disagree. You know, when I was younger and more important I read books quickly all the time. Of course the tempo of the game and the coaching were different back then, but I set records for how quickly I could read library books. I'd read seven every day. I say he finishes all of those books before they're due again.
Host 1: One other interesting note, it looks like James picked up a Curious George treasury and also Curious George in the Big City and Curious George Makes a Mess, and we can't confirm, but it looks like that DVD that he won't let go of is Dr. Seuss' Green Eggs and Ham.
Host 2: I've got a good source that says that DVD is in fact Green Eggs and Ham, and that he watched it as soon he got home.
Host 3: You know, back in my playing days I took a look through Curious George Makes a Mess, and I tell you, it's the exact same plot as the first part of Curious George Gets a Medal, down to the cow pulling the pump.
2 NEW PROPERTIES
Host 1: Now we have some highlights of two new properties that the Smiths are looking at. Looks like they're going into a yellow house north of the city up here, and then check out this blooper--they drive all the way up to Irondequoit--
Host 2:--yeah, that's not exactly a jog up the street--
Host 1: And they're LOCKED OUT of the property they're trying to visit. Look at them fumbling with the lock. So, sorry guys, you aren't getting in that house today. We'll be seeing that one on the blooper reels all night.
Host 3: Yeah, and the same thing happened to me a couple of times during one of my Pro Bowl years. I went to look at a property and just couldn't get access.
Host 2: I disagree that this was an accident. I say, that they saw how beat up that house looked on the outside and they only PRETENDED they couldn't get in.
J DRINKING COFFEE
Host 1: Well, we've got a follow up on some news that broke the other day. We can officially confirm that J is now a coffee drinker. She's been seen several times this week drinking plain home-brewed coffee in a black mug, albeit with some Bailey's creamer added. Here's a photo of her pouring a french press into a mug, and here she is looking really happy and awake. Guys, what do we think?
Host 2: Well, I can tell you that her husband must be really pleased. He probably regards it as an enormous personal victory that she's finally drinking regular coffee. I'd give him a warning, though. I'd say, "Son, you aren't gonna have enough coffee for yourself if you let your woman take a cup of it every time you brew some."
Host 3: I disagree. I think you're dead wrong on that one, and here's why--I used to make coffee all the time and share it with my wife before I went out and won lots of ball games, and there was always plenty to go around, and do you want to know why? Because if we ran out, I'd just make some more. BOOM, problem solved.
JURY DUTY
Host 1: In some surprising news, we've had it confirmed that R has received a notice of jury duty this week. Our legal team is still unraveling the fine print on this one, but it sounds like he's going to have to call in to a telephone number every night until he's either summoned to appear or he's dismissed from service.
Host 2: Yeah, and I think that there's no way he gets out of this week without having to at least appear at the courtroom. They're already within 200 jurors of his number, and it's only Tuesday--an unpleasant fact, but sorry, you're going to have to make an appearance.
Host 3: You know, I disagree. I think that when you get called for jury duty or you have some kind of substance arrest--you know, I had my fair share of them back in playing days--that all you have to do is just go out and play your game at an all-pro level week in and week out, and you just let the lawyers handle it. I don't think he has anything to worry about.
CHILD HEALTH PLUS
Host 1: And finally, we have some statistics. You can see here R made a phone call to Child Health Plus to enquire about enrollment procedures for the baby due in November, and we ended up with a final time on hold of 23 minutes and 40 odd seconds. A new record, gentlemen...how long do we think this one holds up?
Host 2: I don't think that record is going to hold. With the changes that have been made in the science of the game and the technology, I think that record is gonna be broken by next year.
Host 3: You know, I set the record for everything in every sport multiple times, and I tell ya, records are made to be broken. But you know, this one might stand. I might sound like I'm contradicting myself, but we've just got another couple seconds till we're at the commercial break.
Host 1: And we'll be right back with more gripping analysis after these shoe commercials...
SMITHS GO TO THE LIBRARY
Host 1: Okay, so the Smith Family was out at the Pittsford public library today, let's roll the highlights. Looks like Dad picked up a book on Leopold Stokowski, The Last Days of Pompeii, and in a surprising development you can see him here in the 300 call numbers picking up two books about purchasing a house for the first time. Reactions, guys?
Host 2: Yeah, I think that's a bad idea on his part. Supposedly he's already reading Froissart, and he just isn't going to have time to take care of all of those books before they're due again. I mean, the guy is trying to get up and read Homer and Ovid every morning...he's just overstretched. It isn't gonna happen. He's too old and tired, and he's not going to have time in his reading rotation--and that's not even counting how many times a day he has to read Curious George out loud.
Host 3: I disagree. You know, when I was younger and more important I read books quickly all the time. Of course the tempo of the game and the coaching were different back then, but I set records for how quickly I could read library books. I'd read seven every day. I say he finishes all of those books before they're due again.
Host 1: One other interesting note, it looks like James picked up a Curious George treasury and also Curious George in the Big City and Curious George Makes a Mess, and we can't confirm, but it looks like that DVD that he won't let go of is Dr. Seuss' Green Eggs and Ham.
Host 2: I've got a good source that says that DVD is in fact Green Eggs and Ham, and that he watched it as soon he got home.
Host 3: You know, back in my playing days I took a look through Curious George Makes a Mess, and I tell you, it's the exact same plot as the first part of Curious George Gets a Medal, down to the cow pulling the pump.
2 NEW PROPERTIES
Host 1: Now we have some highlights of two new properties that the Smiths are looking at. Looks like they're going into a yellow house north of the city up here, and then check out this blooper--they drive all the way up to Irondequoit--
Host 2:--yeah, that's not exactly a jog up the street--
Host 1: And they're LOCKED OUT of the property they're trying to visit. Look at them fumbling with the lock. So, sorry guys, you aren't getting in that house today. We'll be seeing that one on the blooper reels all night.
Host 3: Yeah, and the same thing happened to me a couple of times during one of my Pro Bowl years. I went to look at a property and just couldn't get access.
Host 2: I disagree that this was an accident. I say, that they saw how beat up that house looked on the outside and they only PRETENDED they couldn't get in.
J DRINKING COFFEE
Host 1: Well, we've got a follow up on some news that broke the other day. We can officially confirm that J is now a coffee drinker. She's been seen several times this week drinking plain home-brewed coffee in a black mug, albeit with some Bailey's creamer added. Here's a photo of her pouring a french press into a mug, and here she is looking really happy and awake. Guys, what do we think?
Host 2: Well, I can tell you that her husband must be really pleased. He probably regards it as an enormous personal victory that she's finally drinking regular coffee. I'd give him a warning, though. I'd say, "Son, you aren't gonna have enough coffee for yourself if you let your woman take a cup of it every time you brew some."
Host 3: I disagree. I think you're dead wrong on that one, and here's why--I used to make coffee all the time and share it with my wife before I went out and won lots of ball games, and there was always plenty to go around, and do you want to know why? Because if we ran out, I'd just make some more. BOOM, problem solved.
JURY DUTY
Host 1: In some surprising news, we've had it confirmed that R has received a notice of jury duty this week. Our legal team is still unraveling the fine print on this one, but it sounds like he's going to have to call in to a telephone number every night until he's either summoned to appear or he's dismissed from service.
Host 2: Yeah, and I think that there's no way he gets out of this week without having to at least appear at the courtroom. They're already within 200 jurors of his number, and it's only Tuesday--an unpleasant fact, but sorry, you're going to have to make an appearance.
Host 3: You know, I disagree. I think that when you get called for jury duty or you have some kind of substance arrest--you know, I had my fair share of them back in playing days--that all you have to do is just go out and play your game at an all-pro level week in and week out, and you just let the lawyers handle it. I don't think he has anything to worry about.
CHILD HEALTH PLUS
Host 1: And finally, we have some statistics. You can see here R made a phone call to Child Health Plus to enquire about enrollment procedures for the baby due in November, and we ended up with a final time on hold of 23 minutes and 40 odd seconds. A new record, gentlemen...how long do we think this one holds up?
Host 2: I don't think that record is going to hold. With the changes that have been made in the science of the game and the technology, I think that record is gonna be broken by next year.
Host 3: You know, I set the record for everything in every sport multiple times, and I tell ya, records are made to be broken. But you know, this one might stand. I might sound like I'm contradicting myself, but we've just got another couple seconds till we're at the commercial break.
Host 1: And we'll be right back with more gripping analysis after these shoe commercials...
Monday, August 18, 2014
Gig Bag Stories
For some time in my undergraduate degree I didn't have a gig bag at all. I had my B-flat trumpet, my E-Flat trumpet, plus the school's C and piccolo, each in their own hardshell case. Paul must have taken pity on me walking up the hill from wind ensemble trying to hold four bulky single cases and my ensemble folder, because he was the one who showed me an inexpensive double case I could order online.
"It's not going to be super protective," he said "but there are pockets for mouthpieces and music, and this should make your life a little easier."
It did make my life easier, and when I started showing up at Eastman to take summer festival auditions alongside the big bad conservatory kids I felt a little better about my chances when I pulled my trumpets out of a passably-professional looking gig bag. That bag traveled many miles over the next few years. When I'd ride the train back and forth to Chicago I would pack it full of clothes and toiletries so that I wouldn't have to lug around a suitcase. The strap broke more than once, and the inner cloth tore apart where my third valve ring dug into it, opening up big gashes where yellow foam padding could crumble out onto my rolled-up dress shirts.
At some point in graduate school Charlie noticed. Charlie was simultaneously one of the kindest and bluntest people I'd ever met. He would ask if I'd eaten lunch, and when I inevitably said I hadn't gotten around to it yet, he'd give me a $20 and tell me to get some proper food in my stomach. Then he'd tell me my sound was ugly and I needed to play in tune. I imagine that he saw snowdrops of stale yellow bag-foam falling out of my bell in some lesson, and he asked me about my gig bag.
"How old is that thing?"
"Uh, I've had it for a few years now."
"It looks terrible. There's no way your horns can be safe in there. Plus, you must be really embarrassed to carry it around."
"Well, I have had to have a couple of dents taken out."
"Have you looked at getting a Marcus Bona bag? Or a torpedo? You could get a quad and then you wouldn't need to carry around multiple cases all the time."
"Oh, I know. I really like those Brass Bags. They're a little out of my price range, though."
"I see."
Next week, Charlie had his trumpets in a brand now snazzy looking red leather bag. His old gray bag was sitting empty by my chair.
"Well, there you go. Larry Black and I made that bag together back in the early sixties. Barbara wanted to get me a new bag for Christmas anyway, she thinks my old one is ugly. So, there you go."
"Are you serious? This is a triple!"
"Yup, and it's a good bag. It'll fit above or below an airline seat and I never get dings in my horns. It's pretty old, but I put in a couple of cans of spray paint so you can match the color if you want."
"Charlie, I don't even know what to say...thank you so much."
"Not a problem. Now, let's talk about all those high notes you missed in solo class earlier..."
And suddenly, I had not only a great sturdy triple bag, but an actual historical artifact; a bag that had played second trumpet to Bud Herseth's gig bag in Chicago, a bag that hundreds of professional trumpeters across the country would recognize from when Charlie perched above their toes with a hammer to keep them from tapping while they played.
The next week, Charlie caught me in the hall.
"Well, I told Barbara that I gave you my old bag, and she says you have to give it back."
"Oh..what?"
"Yes, she's right that we can't just give things away free to some students and not to others. And, this bag was worth a lot of money."
"Oh, well...okay. Do you know how much she thinks it's worth?"
"No, we didn't talk about that. But here's what I think--why don't you pay me $1 for the bag and don't say anything about it, and now you've bought it from me, right?"
"That sounds like a deal."
I showed it to J the next time I was home in Rochester.
"That is seriously ugly. It looks like somebody stitched together a dead elephant hide."
"Right, but it's very protective."
"How? The zippers don't even work. Doesn't look safe to me."
"It is. And it's a historical artifact."
"...it is definitely old."
And so, we got married and the gig bag entered our marriage. It turned out that it wasn't perfectly safe. The insides began to rip after a while, and my trumpets did occasionally get dinged up, although not nearly with the frequency as my other gig bag experiences. I brought the elephant bag onstage with me to dozens of gigs, and got various reactions, all of which are true:
"Hey, that looks like one of Larry Black's bags!"
"Geez, that bag looks like it could disintegrate at any moment."
"So, your wife is still letting you carry that around, eh?"
"The photographer has asked that you move your bag backstage so that it doesn't end up in the pictures."
"I really think it's time you got a new gig bag."
"Did you just come from the gym or something? Oh, that's a gig bag!"
J in particular has worked long and hard to get me to make a switch, and this year she finally won out. For my birthday we ordered a beautiful Brass Bags quad case. It shipped from the UK and came in this afternoon. Everything about it is pristine, and it's going to be the first non-hardshell case I've stored my beautiful new C trumpet in. Apparently J was scheming about this as far back as July, when I bought the new trumpet. I was testing it out with Paul, and he kept on asking me about whether I liked his roller case or not, and what sorts of bags I liked. At the time, I thought to myself "I'm about to drop $2500 on a new trumpet, why do you keep on showing me the zippers on your bag?"
But now I know--my lovely scheming wife was coming up with a present. And she, finally, after all these years, has succeeded in getting me to stop lugging an elephant bag through airports, churches, and symphony halls. Time for the Charlie bag to retire to a glass case displayed prominently in our living room.
"It's not going to be super protective," he said "but there are pockets for mouthpieces and music, and this should make your life a little easier."
It did make my life easier, and when I started showing up at Eastman to take summer festival auditions alongside the big bad conservatory kids I felt a little better about my chances when I pulled my trumpets out of a passably-professional looking gig bag. That bag traveled many miles over the next few years. When I'd ride the train back and forth to Chicago I would pack it full of clothes and toiletries so that I wouldn't have to lug around a suitcase. The strap broke more than once, and the inner cloth tore apart where my third valve ring dug into it, opening up big gashes where yellow foam padding could crumble out onto my rolled-up dress shirts.
At some point in graduate school Charlie noticed. Charlie was simultaneously one of the kindest and bluntest people I'd ever met. He would ask if I'd eaten lunch, and when I inevitably said I hadn't gotten around to it yet, he'd give me a $20 and tell me to get some proper food in my stomach. Then he'd tell me my sound was ugly and I needed to play in tune. I imagine that he saw snowdrops of stale yellow bag-foam falling out of my bell in some lesson, and he asked me about my gig bag.
"How old is that thing?"
"Uh, I've had it for a few years now."
"It looks terrible. There's no way your horns can be safe in there. Plus, you must be really embarrassed to carry it around."
"Well, I have had to have a couple of dents taken out."
"Have you looked at getting a Marcus Bona bag? Or a torpedo? You could get a quad and then you wouldn't need to carry around multiple cases all the time."
"Oh, I know. I really like those Brass Bags. They're a little out of my price range, though."
"I see."
Next week, Charlie had his trumpets in a brand now snazzy looking red leather bag. His old gray bag was sitting empty by my chair.
"Well, there you go. Larry Black and I made that bag together back in the early sixties. Barbara wanted to get me a new bag for Christmas anyway, she thinks my old one is ugly. So, there you go."
"Are you serious? This is a triple!"
"Yup, and it's a good bag. It'll fit above or below an airline seat and I never get dings in my horns. It's pretty old, but I put in a couple of cans of spray paint so you can match the color if you want."
"Charlie, I don't even know what to say...thank you so much."
"Not a problem. Now, let's talk about all those high notes you missed in solo class earlier..."
And suddenly, I had not only a great sturdy triple bag, but an actual historical artifact; a bag that had played second trumpet to Bud Herseth's gig bag in Chicago, a bag that hundreds of professional trumpeters across the country would recognize from when Charlie perched above their toes with a hammer to keep them from tapping while they played.
The next week, Charlie caught me in the hall.
"Well, I told Barbara that I gave you my old bag, and she says you have to give it back."
"Oh..what?"
"Yes, she's right that we can't just give things away free to some students and not to others. And, this bag was worth a lot of money."
"Oh, well...okay. Do you know how much she thinks it's worth?"
"No, we didn't talk about that. But here's what I think--why don't you pay me $1 for the bag and don't say anything about it, and now you've bought it from me, right?"
"That sounds like a deal."
I showed it to J the next time I was home in Rochester.
"That is seriously ugly. It looks like somebody stitched together a dead elephant hide."
"Right, but it's very protective."
"How? The zippers don't even work. Doesn't look safe to me."
"It is. And it's a historical artifact."
"...it is definitely old."
And so, we got married and the gig bag entered our marriage. It turned out that it wasn't perfectly safe. The insides began to rip after a while, and my trumpets did occasionally get dinged up, although not nearly with the frequency as my other gig bag experiences. I brought the elephant bag onstage with me to dozens of gigs, and got various reactions, all of which are true:
"Hey, that looks like one of Larry Black's bags!"
"Geez, that bag looks like it could disintegrate at any moment."
"So, your wife is still letting you carry that around, eh?"
"The photographer has asked that you move your bag backstage so that it doesn't end up in the pictures."
"I really think it's time you got a new gig bag."
"Did you just come from the gym or something? Oh, that's a gig bag!"
J in particular has worked long and hard to get me to make a switch, and this year she finally won out. For my birthday we ordered a beautiful Brass Bags quad case. It shipped from the UK and came in this afternoon. Everything about it is pristine, and it's going to be the first non-hardshell case I've stored my beautiful new C trumpet in. Apparently J was scheming about this as far back as July, when I bought the new trumpet. I was testing it out with Paul, and he kept on asking me about whether I liked his roller case or not, and what sorts of bags I liked. At the time, I thought to myself "I'm about to drop $2500 on a new trumpet, why do you keep on showing me the zippers on your bag?"
But now I know--my lovely scheming wife was coming up with a present. And she, finally, after all these years, has succeeded in getting me to stop lugging an elephant bag through airports, churches, and symphony halls. Time for the Charlie bag to retire to a glass case displayed prominently in our living room.
Sunday, August 17, 2014
Stress Test
It's interesting to see how people handle stress. Stress, in the psychological sense, is a handy fairly modern word from stringo (?) which covers a lot of phenomena. For example, I am considering buying a house this week. This decision is straining, stretching, stringing, and altogether stressing (maybe it's from distressing) me. A LOT of money rests on this decision, and it's stressful to think about sums with so many zeroes after them. The idea of being responsible for the upkeep of a property weighs heavily on me. I am keenly aware that I know very little about evaluating real estate or real estate transactions, and I'm trying not to be taken advantage of. The amount of money we'd spend in closing costs will probably tie us down the Rochester area (which we love) for several years, but if we don't buy a house we're going to waste thousands of dollars in rent that could be building equity. This all forms a roiling knot of stress in the pit of my stomach, and I'm not handling it particularly well. I'm being more than usually braggy and stupid in pretty much every conversation I have with J, and I am highly distracted.
Thi is how our typical house-hunting conversation goes:
J: Oh, take a look at this one.
R: Which one?
J: This one. I'll send it to you.
R: Didn't you send this one earlier?
J: No, that was the other one.
R: Okay, I've got it.
J: Actually, this one is really nice too.
R: Wait a sec, I just got the other one.
J: Which one?
R: The white one.
J: Which white one? I sent you two.
R: Wait, what?
J: Oh, check out the back yard on this one?
R: The second white one?
J: No, this one's a little further north. It's by that other one I sent you.
R: Wait, what?
To be fair, this is how J remembers that conversation:
J: Oh, I like this one. I'm sending it to you now. It's a red colonial off of Winton. Will you send it to the realtor if you like it?
R: <watches the Bills game in stony silence>
J: Has it come in yet?
R: <sighs, then glances at phone and makes noncommital noise>
J: Okay, well I'm going to send you another one too. This one is towards the top of our price range, but it has a really nice yard.
R: Dangit.
J: Do you think that's too expensive?
R: No, EJ just looks terrible.
J: You know this is only the preseason
R: <watches the beer commercials in silent sorrow>
J is also stressed. She is stressed about the house, and she is stressed about pushing an enormous 30 pound baby out of 10 centimeter aperture in less than three months, and she is stressed about not fitting into any of her clothes any more. In my opinion, this should be the least stressful stressors of all the stressings, because she still looks great and she went back to being skinny really quick after she gave birth to James. But it's not my stress, so I don't get any say in how she deals with it, which is fair. For a while I was extolling the strength of her charms and in her particular the ample preparations that mother nature makes for a soon-to-be nursing mother, but then after several subtle hints (like being told directly) I discerned that constantly and tactlessly hitting on J like a randy teenager might not be particularly what she needs to feel de-stressed these days. What she needs to feel de-stressed, after four weeks of vacation food, is lots of fruits and vegetables plus daily walks and yoga. The switch from camp food and Grandma's house to fruits and vegetables brings us to our last member of the household:
James, who just got back from four weeks of vacation, is having a stressful re-entry into normal life. Between Csehy, the cabin, and Grandma's house, he ate snacks just about whenever he wanted, was always able to find a doting adult who could look after his every need, did lots of fun and exciting new things every day, and pretty much forgot about his whole schedule of going to bed at a reasonable time of night. So far he has thrown food at both of us, refused to eat three meals, and dumped every single box of neatly organized toys into heaps on the floor. (Last week's dream of a clean house seems so far away.) He screams and cries whenever I practice, he's talking back, and he's giving violent resistance to the new potty-training and healthy eating routines, and has started referring to every object that enters his brain with the possessive first personal pronoun. ("Daddy, I'm'a go into my yiying room [living room] and watch George on my TV with my George and eat my ice cream on my couch.")
So, we're going to try not to hurt each other over the next few weeks. Probably in three months time most of this will be forgotten. We'll be in a clean and spacious three bedroom house in the suburbs that looks to appreciate 10% every year, J will be a svelte and glowing mother of a beautiful boy (born perfectly healthy at 5 lbs, 1 oz) and James will be a proud big brother munching on organic vegetables as he welcomes you at the door and tells you that you are not welcome in "his" house.
Thi is how our typical house-hunting conversation goes:
J: Oh, take a look at this one.
R: Which one?
J: This one. I'll send it to you.
R: Didn't you send this one earlier?
J: No, that was the other one.
R: Okay, I've got it.
J: Actually, this one is really nice too.
R: Wait a sec, I just got the other one.
J: Which one?
R: The white one.
J: Which white one? I sent you two.
R: Wait, what?
J: Oh, check out the back yard on this one?
R: The second white one?
J: No, this one's a little further north. It's by that other one I sent you.
R: Wait, what?
To be fair, this is how J remembers that conversation:
J: Oh, I like this one. I'm sending it to you now. It's a red colonial off of Winton. Will you send it to the realtor if you like it?
R: <watches the Bills game in stony silence>
J: Has it come in yet?
R: <sighs, then glances at phone and makes noncommital noise>
J: Okay, well I'm going to send you another one too. This one is towards the top of our price range, but it has a really nice yard.
R: Dangit.
J: Do you think that's too expensive?
R: No, EJ just looks terrible.
J: You know this is only the preseason
R: <watches the beer commercials in silent sorrow>
J is also stressed. She is stressed about the house, and she is stressed about pushing an enormous 30 pound baby out of 10 centimeter aperture in less than three months, and she is stressed about not fitting into any of her clothes any more. In my opinion, this should be the least stressful stressors of all the stressings, because she still looks great and she went back to being skinny really quick after she gave birth to James. But it's not my stress, so I don't get any say in how she deals with it, which is fair. For a while I was extolling the strength of her charms and in her particular the ample preparations that mother nature makes for a soon-to-be nursing mother, but then after several subtle hints (like being told directly) I discerned that constantly and tactlessly hitting on J like a randy teenager might not be particularly what she needs to feel de-stressed these days. What she needs to feel de-stressed, after four weeks of vacation food, is lots of fruits and vegetables plus daily walks and yoga. The switch from camp food and Grandma's house to fruits and vegetables brings us to our last member of the household:
James, who just got back from four weeks of vacation, is having a stressful re-entry into normal life. Between Csehy, the cabin, and Grandma's house, he ate snacks just about whenever he wanted, was always able to find a doting adult who could look after his every need, did lots of fun and exciting new things every day, and pretty much forgot about his whole schedule of going to bed at a reasonable time of night. So far he has thrown food at both of us, refused to eat three meals, and dumped every single box of neatly organized toys into heaps on the floor. (Last week's dream of a clean house seems so far away.) He screams and cries whenever I practice, he's talking back, and he's giving violent resistance to the new potty-training and healthy eating routines, and has started referring to every object that enters his brain with the possessive first personal pronoun. ("Daddy, I'm'a go into my yiying room [living room] and watch George on my TV with my George and eat my ice cream on my couch.")
So, we're going to try not to hurt each other over the next few weeks. Probably in three months time most of this will be forgotten. We'll be in a clean and spacious three bedroom house in the suburbs that looks to appreciate 10% every year, J will be a svelte and glowing mother of a beautiful boy (born perfectly healthy at 5 lbs, 1 oz) and James will be a proud big brother munching on organic vegetables as he welcomes you at the door and tells you that you are not welcome in "his" house.
Thursday, August 14, 2014
Mr. and Mrs.
J and I pulled out of the driveway about 9:30. We were going to get some pictures from a friend later, so she'd pulled her hair into a cute arrangement and was wearing a brand new top and jeans. I was dressed up too, and most importantly, there was no car seat or child in the back of the Yaris. James was with Grandma and we had the entire morning to ourselves.
Even if you've lived with her for seven years it's a little startling to be alone with a pretty girl when nearly all the time you spend with her is in the constant (perhaps, incessant?) company of a two year old boy. We held hands as we drove into Hanover, and talked about the most romantic of topics: mortgages. Actually we talked about down payments and closing costs and reasonable emergency funds, and I tried to do lots of math in my head.
We were at Kohl's first, spending some "free money" that turned into a track jacket and athletic pants for me so that I can keep up my running routine in the fall. We slowly started laughing together more and suppressed the instinct to give a panicked check around for where James might have wandered off.
I started to show off as we drove into Gettysburg. I teased her a bit, and tried to find ways to make her call me "professor," and when an email came into my phone from the auditions coordinator of the New York Phil I talked confidently about winning the job and whisking us off to the big city. We picked up coffee, drove through the main circle, parked, scrounged around the car for quarters, and walked about Gettysburg.
Gettysburg isn't exactly our sort of place. Neither of us are particularly into the Civil War or military history. We walked by lots of shops full of antiques and reenactment equipment, but mostly we just talked to each other. We walked by the courthouse where we filled out our marriage license, and browsed in the public library. We went into a Christian bookstore that was playing the 1812 Overture, and we sang the inner voices as we thumbed through the shelves.
After we'd been all through the square we hiked about a quarter mile west to the restaurant where we'd eaten our first meal on our honeymoon. We stayed just outside of Gettysburg the first night and didn't go out again until the following evening. After poking around the battlefields for a half an hour or so we stumbled onto this restaurant, and we both had fond memories of it. The service was bustling, and the room was filled with the sounds of clinking glasses. One of us had ordered crab imperial and the other filet mignon. It was the perfect romantic evening.
"I think it's up there!"
"Yes, that's definitely the place. It's coming back now."
"I remember it looked long. Let's go in."
"Okay, but let's not tell them we ate here on our honeymoon and this is our first time back."
Would we like a table or a booth? A booth would be fine. Although, to be perfectly honest, the booth looked a little dingy. I looked over to the other side of the dining room and saw the table area where we ate seven years ago. Yes, it was certainly there.
There was no sound of clinking glass or the bustle of a dinner rush. The blinds were pulled shut, and everything looked drab. A few old men in the corner were talking about the movies and some car repairs.
J ordered crab imperial, and I ordered crab legs. We are out of crab legs, sir. The scallops? Sure, and your sides? How are the mashed potatoes? They're real, they're good. I'll have a salad and the mashed potatoes.
J and I looked at each other.
"I'm sure this is the same place, but this isn't how I remembered it."
"Well, it was the dinner rush then."
The salads came, two plates of wilting white iceberg lettuce. J picked at hers slowly while I munched on the crutons.
"You know, we hadn't eaten anything since our reception the night before. Maybe we thought it was so good because we were really, really hungry."
"No, I'm sure it was good. I remember that steak. And I remember that crab imperial. It was good."
The main dishes came out, perhaps a little too quickly. J took a nervous bite of the mashed potatoes. I took a bite of my mashed potatoes. They were absolutely from a box. She took a bite of her crab imperial.
"It's cold. It's barely warm. I think they must have just reheated it from last night or something."
I looked down at my scallops. They were little balls of fried dough. I took a bite and found something white and fish-like inside. It kind of tasted like a fish-stick.
"Should...should we say something?"
"I don't think so...I think that maybe this place isn't as good as we remembered."
"These potatoes taste like plastic. I'm not sure I'm going to finish this."
The waitress came over.
"Is everything okay?"
J and I make hesitating eye contact. It isn't her fault.
"Yes, it's fine, thanks."
As she walks away I start to giggle, and she plays with her food a bit. The old men are still talking about movies in thick southern accents, and I giggle harder. I try to eat some more of my fish sticks.
We got the check, had a good laugh on the way back, and found a pub. J wanted cheesecake, and I wanted a beer. We ordered some crab dip and promptly felt real full, and halfway through the meal the waitress came over and told J she was all out of every single dessert.
I'm not sure that the pretty girl on my arm had a good meal on our date, but we did have a good time.
We also did have a lovely photo shoot with her brother's friend, and she promised to do a guest blog about it. She's pregnant, though, and she fell asleep tonight before she got around to it. So you'll just have to ask her in person why she had tape on her boobs all evening.
Even if you've lived with her for seven years it's a little startling to be alone with a pretty girl when nearly all the time you spend with her is in the constant (perhaps, incessant?) company of a two year old boy. We held hands as we drove into Hanover, and talked about the most romantic of topics: mortgages. Actually we talked about down payments and closing costs and reasonable emergency funds, and I tried to do lots of math in my head.
We were at Kohl's first, spending some "free money" that turned into a track jacket and athletic pants for me so that I can keep up my running routine in the fall. We slowly started laughing together more and suppressed the instinct to give a panicked check around for where James might have wandered off.
I started to show off as we drove into Gettysburg. I teased her a bit, and tried to find ways to make her call me "professor," and when an email came into my phone from the auditions coordinator of the New York Phil I talked confidently about winning the job and whisking us off to the big city. We picked up coffee, drove through the main circle, parked, scrounged around the car for quarters, and walked about Gettysburg.
Gettysburg isn't exactly our sort of place. Neither of us are particularly into the Civil War or military history. We walked by lots of shops full of antiques and reenactment equipment, but mostly we just talked to each other. We walked by the courthouse where we filled out our marriage license, and browsed in the public library. We went into a Christian bookstore that was playing the 1812 Overture, and we sang the inner voices as we thumbed through the shelves.
After we'd been all through the square we hiked about a quarter mile west to the restaurant where we'd eaten our first meal on our honeymoon. We stayed just outside of Gettysburg the first night and didn't go out again until the following evening. After poking around the battlefields for a half an hour or so we stumbled onto this restaurant, and we both had fond memories of it. The service was bustling, and the room was filled with the sounds of clinking glasses. One of us had ordered crab imperial and the other filet mignon. It was the perfect romantic evening.
"I think it's up there!"
"Yes, that's definitely the place. It's coming back now."
"I remember it looked long. Let's go in."
"Okay, but let's not tell them we ate here on our honeymoon and this is our first time back."
Would we like a table or a booth? A booth would be fine. Although, to be perfectly honest, the booth looked a little dingy. I looked over to the other side of the dining room and saw the table area where we ate seven years ago. Yes, it was certainly there.
There was no sound of clinking glass or the bustle of a dinner rush. The blinds were pulled shut, and everything looked drab. A few old men in the corner were talking about the movies and some car repairs.
J ordered crab imperial, and I ordered crab legs. We are out of crab legs, sir. The scallops? Sure, and your sides? How are the mashed potatoes? They're real, they're good. I'll have a salad and the mashed potatoes.
J and I looked at each other.
"I'm sure this is the same place, but this isn't how I remembered it."
"Well, it was the dinner rush then."
The salads came, two plates of wilting white iceberg lettuce. J picked at hers slowly while I munched on the crutons.
"You know, we hadn't eaten anything since our reception the night before. Maybe we thought it was so good because we were really, really hungry."
"No, I'm sure it was good. I remember that steak. And I remember that crab imperial. It was good."
The main dishes came out, perhaps a little too quickly. J took a nervous bite of the mashed potatoes. I took a bite of my mashed potatoes. They were absolutely from a box. She took a bite of her crab imperial.
"It's cold. It's barely warm. I think they must have just reheated it from last night or something."
I looked down at my scallops. They were little balls of fried dough. I took a bite and found something white and fish-like inside. It kind of tasted like a fish-stick.
"Should...should we say something?"
"I don't think so...I think that maybe this place isn't as good as we remembered."
"These potatoes taste like plastic. I'm not sure I'm going to finish this."
The waitress came over.
"Is everything okay?"
J and I make hesitating eye contact. It isn't her fault.
"Yes, it's fine, thanks."
As she walks away I start to giggle, and she plays with her food a bit. The old men are still talking about movies in thick southern accents, and I giggle harder. I try to eat some more of my fish sticks.
We got the check, had a good laugh on the way back, and found a pub. J wanted cheesecake, and I wanted a beer. We ordered some crab dip and promptly felt real full, and halfway through the meal the waitress came over and told J she was all out of every single dessert.
I'm not sure that the pretty girl on my arm had a good meal on our date, but we did have a good time.
We also did have a lovely photo shoot with her brother's friend, and she promised to do a guest blog about it. She's pregnant, though, and she fell asleep tonight before she got around to it. So you'll just have to ask her in person why she had tape on her boobs all evening.
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
Rough Morning
Things I wouldn't let James do this morning:
Push around his lawn mower in the street
Run in the street
Walk in other people's yards
Play basketball with the unripe tomatoes
Mow the neighbor's yards
Throw unripe tomatoes in the neighbor's yards
Put the outgoing mail in the neighbor's mailboxes
Check the neighbor's mailboxes for incoming mail
Play drums on Grandma's kitchen table
Be outside for 100% (instead of 90%) of the morning
Throw footballs overhand at his great-grandfather
Throw mega-blocks overhand at his great-grandfather
Use unopened toilet paper packs to build a step into his pack and play
Leave the train that he constructed out of unopened toilet paper packs up for his nap
Eat four dozen (instead of three dozen) unripe green grapes
Open the shed and get out the riding mower
Open the garage door
Play near the bee's nest
Eat fruit salad without eating his avocado first
Sit at the table without helping clean up
Yank on Mommy's hand repeatedly while she was sitting at the table
Put on his pants while he was trying to kick me in the stomach
Eat potato chips for breakfast
Eat pretzels for breakfast
Watch two (instead of one) episodes of Curious George
Play drums on Grandma's plant
Check the ceramic pig for cookies
....he may be a little vacationed out.
Push around his lawn mower in the street
Run in the street
Walk in other people's yards
Play basketball with the unripe tomatoes
Mow the neighbor's yards
Throw unripe tomatoes in the neighbor's yards
Put the outgoing mail in the neighbor's mailboxes
Check the neighbor's mailboxes for incoming mail
Play drums on Grandma's kitchen table
Be outside for 100% (instead of 90%) of the morning
Throw footballs overhand at his great-grandfather
Throw mega-blocks overhand at his great-grandfather
Use unopened toilet paper packs to build a step into his pack and play
Leave the train that he constructed out of unopened toilet paper packs up for his nap
Eat four dozen (instead of three dozen) unripe green grapes
Open the shed and get out the riding mower
Open the garage door
Play near the bee's nest
Eat fruit salad without eating his avocado first
Sit at the table without helping clean up
Yank on Mommy's hand repeatedly while she was sitting at the table
Put on his pants while he was trying to kick me in the stomach
Eat potato chips for breakfast
Eat pretzels for breakfast
Watch two (instead of one) episodes of Curious George
Play drums on Grandma's plant
Check the ceramic pig for cookies
....he may be a little vacationed out.
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