Intermezzo: Auntie Jean

      I need to back up in time a little to tell about my mom's younger sister, Jean.  As I related before, my mom was instrumental (pun intended) in helping me develop my musical skill.  But I should also say a few words about Auntie Jean.

      She and her husband, Uncle Dave, were public school music teachers: she played bass and he tuba.  (Guess they both loved that bass clef sound!) They went to the Eastman School of Music in Rochester, where they met.  They then moved to West Point, where Uncle Dave played in the West Point Band.  Since Jean played bass, I never thought twice about NOT playing bass due to my gender.  I even remember that we kept her bass trunk, a huge, black, scary coffin-like wooden crate (used for shipping) in our basement when I was quite young.  It was filled with old clothes,  books, and maybe even a mouse nest or two.  I ended up using one just like it when I played in the Kansas City Philharmonic.  But again I digress.  Back to Jean and Dave.

      One summer, when I was about seven or eight, I went to visit Jean and Dave for a couple weeks. I fell in love with their collie, Duff.  He would sleep in my room with me, sometimes on the bed if the grown-ups weren't looking.  I also remember going to visit Rip's Retreat, a storybook-like town set in the time of Washington Irving, the author of Rip Van Winkle.  The people dressed in colonial-style clothes, made their own soap, ran a blacksmith's shop, and blew glass.  I was especially intrigued with the candle makers.  They would pour molten wax into molds with wicks  inlaid.  The smell was intoxicating.  When the candles were dry, you could buy two of any color of the rainbow, joined together by one wick, to be cut later.

     When Dave had fulfilled his army duty at West Point, they moved to Frankfort, NY, a suburb of Utica. There they both taught music, and when I visited in the summer, I got to meet and play with some of their students.  We would have marathon Monopoly games, made all the more fun because Auntie Jean kept a big bowl of candy on the table for us to munch.  I loved the  glasses in which she served us drinks:  gem toned, aluminum cups that would "sweat" when they held cold beverages.  We used little cloth cozies to hold them so our hands wouldn't get wet.  If we didn't finish the game by bedtime, we would take up where we left off the next morning, although I don't think the candy was  quite so free-flowing then.

     By this time, Jean and Dave had the cutest little boy, about two or three, named Will.  He was fascinated with private planes, like Piper Cubs and Cessnas.   In his sweet, chirpy voice he would announce at the airport:  "Dat's a Bonanza.  Wook, a Pipa Cub!" He could identify just about any plane!  They still had Duff and later, they had a second son, John who loved football.  It was a real treat for me to visit them in the summers, and I tried to maintain the friendships I made there throughout the following school year.

      Flash forward eight or nine years.  I waited tables at a now defunct Howard Johnson's restaurant the summer after my senior year in high school.  I worked the evening shift, and when we were done, after midnight, we would make ourselves ice cream cones for the ride home.  My favorite flavor:  mocha chip.  I found out decades later that Auntie Jean's favorite flavor was ALSO Howard Johnson's  mocha chip.  She and I are both left-handed.  And we both love dogs.  When she and her family moved to LeRoy, NY, near Buffalo, she started breeding her own Cardigan Corgie dogs at her home called Trailwyn Kennels.  Though she is no longer a breeder, she is, to this day active at dog shows, doing canine-related artwork, cartoons, and jewelry.  I like to draw cartoons as well, and it really started me thinking about the mystery of genetics, and the roll of the chromosomal dice.  At any rate, we have a lot in common.  She was, and will always be, my heroine!

Foot Note: Mikimoto Knock-off Pearls of Wisdom No. 2

     As we are all aware, music in the public schools is suffering major cut-backs.  I feel very strongly that children can benefit in countless ways from studying music and playing in ensembles.  It develops the brain in ways that nothing else can.  Playing in a band, orchestra, or smaller group is not only fun and exciting, but also provides valuable lessons in social etiquette and team work, respect for the conductor and one's colleagues, and a real appreciation for music.  Of The Five, our high school folk music group, Kathie and one of the Sues became music teachers in public schools.  The other Sue went on to be a chemist at Eastman Kodak, and plays piano at a local restaurant on the weekends.  And I know that a large number of my fellow SF Symphony musicians started music in public school.  Of course, not everyone will go on to play professionally, but learning an instrument is a gift that will last a lifetime.
     My sister Amy started cello in school and now plays a bit professionally on the side.  She also teaches piano, violin, and cello privately.  She is a public school music teacher in Pasadena, California.  You might want to check out her blog:

http://matrixmusicteacher.blogspot.com/

It's funny and enlightening.  And, shows first hand the power of music with children.

Third Movement: Fiddles--Little and Large

       I remember one day, not far into the beginning of  fourth grade, that was especially exciting.  Our class was going to The Instrumental Music Room to pick out instruments to learn to play!  We could choose any string, woodwind, brass or percussion instrument, and when we got good enough, we could play in the school orchestra. Kathie and I had already been experimenting on an old beat up violin in her basement.  I liked it because it made sense to me:   put your fingers down one by one, and the notes get higher.  Being left-handed, I held the violin backwards, not knowing the correct way.  But I knew for sure that is what I wanted to play.  Kathie  was also going to choose violin, and we were both thrilled when we opened the black cases and found beautiful,  shiny violins nestled inside.  I was a bit shocked that Mr. Hasenaur, the music teacher, made me switch to holding and fingering the violin with my left hand and bowing with the right.  He assured me it would become second nature soon enough.  And he was right.  By the Christmas concert, Kathie and I were both in the  orchestra second violin section and having a ball.  We even got applause when we returned to our classroom after the Holiday Concert Assembly.  Playing in an orchestra has always been just about my favorite thing, so I am very thankful that I ended up being able to make a living doing what I love.
                                                         

     As I mentioned earlier, both my parents loved music--my dad so much, that he installed speakers in the bathroom in order to listen to the classical radio station as he showered and got ready for work.  The station came on the air at 7 am and aptly, its theme song was the Hornpipe form Handel's Water Music.  Because the radio was on almost all the time my dad was home, and we often attended Rochester Philharmonic concerts, I got to hear how violin should, in a  perfect world, sound.  But before I could master fancy technique and a lovely tone, I had to learn to play in tune.  I have my devoted mother to thank for that.  As I would practice in the living room during the evenings, she would call out, "B flat!" or "That note is sharp!"  from the kitchen while she was doing dishes.  She would also accompany me on the piano and help me with my etudes. Without my mother's help, I truly don't know if I would have been  successful as a string player.  I finally learned to hear intonation (whether a note is in tune, not too high or too low) because of her constant help.   For that, I am forever grateful.

     Kathie and I eventually moved into the first violin section.  That was really fun because then we got to play the melody.  When we entered  junior high, we played in that orchestra, too and by then I was taking private lessons with a friend of my mother's.  But one day, the orchestra teacher, Mrs. Powell asked me if my new friend Susan, who also played violin, and I, if we would like to try playing the string (or double) bass.  We were both tall (over 5 feet, eight inches) and no one else was interested.  We needed a bass in the orchestra, so we both agreed to give it a try.  I immediately fell in love with the deep tone, and for the first time didn't have a stiff neck, like I did playing violin.  For a while, Sue and I would take turns on bass in the orchestra and then switch back to violin.  But after taking bass and violin lessons that summer at the Hochstein Music School, I decided I wanted to concentrate on bass.  I dropped violin and never looked back.

     When Sue, Kathy and I got to high school, Kathie decided to give up violin and play only piano, which she did in the orchestra.  She also got to play with some sort of contraption which was placed inside the upright piano and made it sound like a harpsichord.  This was great for playing the music of Baroque composers such as Bach and Handel.  Sue and I played bass in the Orchestra, Concert Band, and Dance Band.  We also formed a folk music group, The Five, with Kathie and our other two friends, coincidentally also named Sue and Kathy. (I wanted to call the group Two Kathies, Two Sues and a Lee, but was out-voted.)  I played guitar with the other Sue, the first Sue played bass, and we all sang.  Later I would sing and play bass and guitar in a folk-rock group with another set of friends.  Music was already my life.  I only wish I had done more in the way of studying voice.  But it's not too late, and I may take it up again one day soon.

Second Movement: Piano Lessons

     My piano lessons started a age seven.  Actually, they were my seventh birthday present!  My mother felt it was the perfect time to start.  At this age, a child can read, count and do a bit of math, all good skills to have when learning to play music.   My teacher, Miss Seitz, came to our house every Saturday morning for my lesson.  Miss Thompson, the  Head Teacher, would come by about once a month (accompanied by her three pug dogs) to make sure I was mastering what I was supposed to learn.  My good (and oldest friend--we are still in touch!) Kathie also took lessons from Miss Seitz.  In the spring, there was an annual recital, where all the students got to perform.
        

     A month or two before the recital, Miss Thompson would come by with a bunch of sheet music:  more challenging pieces that we could pick out and learn by rote.  For some reason, I was really into the minor mode, so of course my first piece, India, was in A Minor.  I still remember its plaintive tune.  (Call me crazy, but I can still hum it, and my second and third recital pieces:  Haunted House and Frolicky-Rolicky Wind.  And yes, they too were in minor keys.)
       

     At the recital, Kathie and I  were in the beginning student section, so we got to play toward the start of the program.  As I got older, I'd have to sit and wait for my turn to play, which did not help the butterflies-in-the-stomach I felt.  "Stage fright" is what we call that now, and there is medication to help adults with serious cases.  But at the time, I just sat on my hands and kept wiping off the sweat.  Finally it was my turn.  I went up to the piano, sat down and played my minute-long masterwork flawlessly, if a bit robotic.  When I finished, there was, thankfully, applause.  I curtsied properly and returned to my seat.  And there I had my first lesson in stage deportment.
        

     At the end of each recital, Miss Thompson would walk up front, stand by the piano, and proclaim, "Thank you everyone for doing such a wonderful job.  Now go out with your families and have ICE CREAM!"  I am happy to report that we did just that.  
      

     When Kathie and I were in 3rd  grade, we teamed up as a duo with at least eight other kids, two per piano, or four hands per piano.  We were all to play Mendelssohn's War March of the Priests (a bit of an oxymoron, perhaps) all together on 5 or 6 pianos at an upcoming outdoor recital.
         

      The concert was to be held at the Highland Park Bowl, a large band shell used for Opera Under the Stars and other music concerts in Rochester's lovely Highland Park.  In late spring, Highland Park is THE place to view and smell hundreds of some of the most beautiful and numerous lilacs in the country.  At the time of this particular musical extravaganza, however, it was well into summer.  Kathie and I had practiced our fingers to the bone, knew the music by heart, and were ready to go.
      

     The morning of the recital, which was to begin at 2 pm, we all had to sit in the seats assigned to us, in full sunlight.
    

     We had a run-through on stage and then returned to our seats to hear the more advanced students go through their pieces.  At 2 pm the program began and finished two and a half hours later to a very enthusiastic reception.
      

     On the way home, at least a 30 minute drive, I began to feel ill.  By the time we pulled up to the house, I was nauseous and had a fever.  "You must have sun stroke," my mother the nurse announced.  Ice cream or even sorbet was out of the question.  I ran into the house, promptly threw up, and so began learning first hand about the sacrifice one must make for one's art.

                                                                    *   *   *

     I kept taking piano lessons for another year, but gave it up not long after starting violin in 4th grade.  I am glad to this day that I started on piano, and I wish that I could play it better now.  I tell this to many parents who ask how to start their children in music.  Piano gives a child a true sense of high and low notes, sharps and flats, and pitch.  It also enables a child to learn both the treble and bass clefs, the two clefs used by most orchestral instruments.  Playing piano, lastly, develops the fundamentals:  reading music, playing by ear, counting, rhythm, scales and keys, dynamics and much more.  If you were to ask my colleagues in the San Francisco Symphony, I'll bet many of them  started on piano, and like me, wish they were better at playing piano now.  It's a great way to start music and it can carry you through the rest of your life.

Foot Note: Mikimoto Knock-off Pearl of Wisdom No. 1

     At the risk of sounding a bit preachy, I feel a certain responsibility to make this plea:  unless one is a breeder, we pet owners need to spay and neuter our dogs and cats.  Back when I was a kid, probably out of ignorance, people didn't routinely do it.  In this day and age, there is no excuse not to.  We can prevent hundreds of thousands of unwanted animals from being euthanized if we take care of our pets in this simple, but important way.  Thank you!

Grand Paws

     I was very proud to have such a magnificent dog as Schultz.  In my first grade class, our teacher Mrs. Reed held Show-and-Tell every morning.  I'm not quite sure how I convinced my mom to bring Schultz to school one day so I could show and tell about him.  He calmly walked in with my mother and two little sisters and took his place in the front of the room, sitting next to me.  I told  my classmates about his breed and the circumstances of his adoption.  Then, one by one, each student came up to take a turn petting him.  After the entire class had had a chance to meet him, my mom and sisters took him back home.  What a good mom...and what a good dog!

                                                                             *  *  *

     And what a bad dog Schultz was at staying in the yard.  Back in the 1950's, not many people neutered their male dogs, and we were no exception.  Schultz's desire to hunt, combined with his hormonal wander-lust, resulted in a very frustrating time.  Our yard was not fenced in, and in the morning, some family member would let Schultz out, with a whimsical bit of advice:  "Stay in the yard!"  That did about as much good as telling my sister's hamsters not to run in their exercise wheel.  He would go gallivanting off, happy as you please and be gone the whole day.  In our area we had creeks, female dogs in heat, open fields, and the aforementioned Farmer Fleming's pheasant coop:  all paradise for a paw-loose dog on the run.  My mother would go driving around the neighborhood, calling his name, but he usually came back on his own, miraculously unscathed.
 

     One Saturday though, we got a call from Farmer Fleming himself.  He was extremely upset that our dog had gotten into his pheasant pen and had all but killed one.  "Get your dog out of here before I call the Sheriff!"  My dad and I quickly got into the car and went over to fetch him post haste.  There was Schultz tearing around the pen, pheasants and feathers flying everywhere!  Dad grabbed the dog, put him on the leach, and scolded him soundly.  After some introspection, I would have to say that we humans were the ones who needed some training.

                                                                            *   *   *

     Growing up in a housing development in-progress in the '50's certainly had some exciting perks.  There was a huge pile of dirt across from our house, bulldozed to make way for the construction of  more new houses.  The dirt pile was at least two-stories high and was a great thing to climb around on, especially with one's own dog.  We played wild horses (inspired by the TV shows Fury and My Friend Flicka.)  This involved much discussion concerning the colors of our hides, manes, and tails (dried cornstalks stuffed into our jeans.)  We also played wild dogs, and my name was always "Renegade," a name which perfectly described my imagined untamed ways.  Sometimes my friends Kathie, Nancy and/or Susan and I would take Schultz across the big street, Latta Road, to the vast fields that were yet undeveloped.  There we would let Schultz run his head off, unencumbered by any leash.  He had a grand time pointing at and then scaring up wild pheasants.  We pretended we were hunting, and lucky for Schultz, and the pheasants, there were no guns involved.
 

     Across Latta Road there was also a beautiful creek where we loved to play.  We were enthralled by the crayfish, polliwogs, and the tiny hand-prints of raccoons.  To this day, I marvel at how much unchaperoned freedom we had as young grade school kids!

Further "Tails" of Schultz

     When we got home that afternoon, I dutifully promised to feed, water, walk and clean up after Schultz.  His first supper consisted of Purina Dog Chow, which he inhaled in less than 10 seconds and then promptly threw up.  And then re-ate before we could stop him.  Sweet.   Thus began a life-time of education in the ways of the canine set.  
 

     At bedtime, I wanted Schultz to sleep in my room, but my mother would have nothing of the kind.

     "He's a dog.  He will sleep in the basement.  End of story."

     The next morning, I ran downstairs very early to check on Schultz.  To my horror were three piles of dog poop spread across the floor, which of course I had to clean up.  Now a word to the wise, which we  definitely were not.  A dog who has spent his whole life in kennels learns to poop on concrete.  Our basement floor was concrete.  Where would such a dog poop?  I'm sure you know the answer, but for some reason it took our family at least a year to figure that one out.  My mother finally allowed Schultz to sleep in the kitchen, in a wooden bed my dad had made for him.   From then on he slept upstairs and never pooped in the house again.
 

     I really can't say enough good things about our dog Schultz.  He was patient and gentle with us kids.  He let me dress him up in my mother's maternity blouses, rode in our red wagon, and even pulled us on our roller skates.  My dad caught us doing this one day, with the leach attached to  Schultz's collar, and promptly told us that was not allowed since it could choke him.  Dad then proceeded to make a harness out of canvas straps for Schultz and when winter rolled around, Schultz pulled us in our sled and on our ice skates at the nearby frozen pond.  When spring came again, he pulled us in the wagon and on our roller skates.

     At this point, I should probably give you a little background info.  I was born in 1951 in Minneapolis, while my dad was still in college and my mother worked as an RN at Abbott Hospital.  When my dad got a job at Eastman Kodak, we moved to Rochester, NY when I was about 2 and 1/2 years old.  We lived in apartments until I was four, when we moved into our own brand-new house in Greece, NY, a suburb of Rochester.  Our housing development in Greece, about a mile from Lake Ontario, was once a dairy/apple farm.  Farmer Fleming still had his large brick house, complete with widow's walk, on a number of acres where he continued to have dairy cows grazing.  I must, at this point say a few words about electric fences.  The cows grazed right up to the edge of our back yard.  The only thing between them and us was an electric fence.  The fence provided hours of entertainment for us kids.  We discovered that if you were wearing sneakers, you would not get a shock when you touched the fence.  But if you were wearing the ubiquitous buckle shoe (which for the uninitiated, has a leather sole), you would be zapped!  I don't know many unsuspecting friends were were drawn to this sadistic game of trickery.  But I am sure that we all learned that electric fences should be avoided at all costs, especially in Manolo Blahniks!

Opus 1: Rochester, First Movement: Schultz

     "Please, Mom.  Can't we have a dog?  Pleeeze?"  I remember uttering these words at least once or twice a day to my poor mother, who already had her hands full with three daughters under the age of eight.  I was seven, with little sister Amy, 2, and newborn Lynn Louise.  It was a big year for me:  I was in FIRST GRADE, had learned to read, and had a brand new baby sister...with whom I was quite disappointed.  (I had thought both sisters would be born to look more like one of my dolls, complete with blond ringlets and frilly dresses.  Instead, I got red-faced, hairless, wailing blobs that were nothing like what I had pictured.)  And I had started piano lessons, something of a rite of passage in my family.  Both my parents loved music, especially classical, and both played piano, solos and duets, and sang in the Rochester Philharmonic Oratorio Society.  So naturally, we kids would all take piano lessons, starting at age seven, the stage of life my mother deemed the perfect time.  At this age, she would say, you can read, count, and even do a little addition;  all very important in reading music.
 

     But as ideal a life as I might have had, I still did not feel complete.  We needed a DOG!  My Auntie Jean had a beautiful collie named Duff, whom I adored.  (Collies, popular because of the 1950's TV show Lassie, were definitely out:  too much hair, according to my mom.)  But I was also in love with German Shepherds, ever since watching another hit show, Rin Tin Tin.  At that time, one could order a German Shepherd, or any number of other breeds, from the Sears and Roebuck Catalog.  This is what I wanted to do, but was hung up on the choice of a gray and black Shepherd, or tan and black.  Besides, I didn't have the 50 plus dollars necessary.  My mother's response was, "No dogs!  I'll be the one who ends up feeding it, walking it, cleaning up after it.  No dog, no way!"
 

     Well, I'm not sure how my parents' discussion ensued, but one Saturday, were all in the car going someplace mysterious.  In my family, it was verboten to ask for things from my father.  If you did, the answer would be automatically no.  On this particular Saturday, I had no idea where we were headed, so I ventured a hesitant,  "Hey Dad.  Where are we going?"

     "We are going to Lollipop Farm."

     Lollipop Farm was Rochester's (Monroe County) Humane Society.  I'm not sure if I understood what this meant exactly.  But then my dad added, "We're going to pick out a dog."

    Be still my beating heart.  Had I heard correctly?  All I could picture were throngs of adorable puppies, each cuter than the next.  O rapture!
 

     When we arrived at Lollipop Farm, I was taken aback.  It didn't really look like a farm. And there were no lollipops! There were a few barn-like buildings, some llamas and goats milling around, and at least 30 kennels filled with barking, smelly full-grown dogs.  "Wait, where are the puppies?" I asked in a small voice.

     "We're going to get one of these grown-up dogs that needs a home," replied my dad.  "It's better to have an adult dog, because they are past the gnawing stage and you know what kind of personality they have.  Also, they are probably house-trained."

     How could I hide my disappointment?  I had dreamed of a puppy.  And here were all these loud, smelly frantic dogs.  But one did not argue with my father.
 

     We went into the kennel building, and I first saw a bouncy, collie-like dog.  My mother immediately nixed that one:  too much fur!  We continued looking into each dog run, until my father motioned for us to come over to the cage he was standing by.  Way in the back, curled up in the corner was a timid dog, whose breed was unknown to me.  My dad asked if we could go into the cage to meet "Bing."  My dad went in and stooped down to pet the sad creature.  "He's a nice dog," said the attendant.  "Got turned in because he's gun shy.  You see, he's a German Short haired Pointer.  He's a hunting dog, and he can't stand loud noises."

     "Aw, Bing,"  my dad said gently.  "Come on and let's have a look at you."

     Bing got up hesitantly and sniffed my dad's outstretched hand.  He seemed very gentle and I started to think that he might make a good pet.  Her certainly didn't bark like the other dogs.  Another plus:  he had short hair!
 

     My mother agreed, and we ended up bringing 2 year old Bing home.  On the way back, my dad suggested we think of a new name for him.  "A new name for a new life."  How about Brownie?  How about Speckles?  "Well, he's German,"  my dad said.  "He needs a German name."

     And so Bing became Schultz.

     

     "

     

Prelude

     The applause is deafening.  One might have thought this was a rock concert.  Instead, it is the end of the Finale of Beethoven's Seventh Symphony.  Michael Tilson Thomas, the Music Director of our Orchestra, the San Francisco Symphony, has just conducted the last exciting chords in Davies Symphony Hall.  The audience goes wild.  We learn to expect this kind of ovation for a concerto with a very popular and famous soloist.  Or perhaps for a Mahler or Tchaikowsky symphony.  But to receive this level of enthusiasm for a war horse like the Seventh makes me realize again how much music means to people.  And how great music can move listeners to cheers...or tears.

     Looking out at the standing patrons, I can't help but focus on one man in particular.  He has been a concert-going regular for a number of years, but this is his first concert of the present 2010-11 Symphony Season.  In the past, he has sat in what are called the "student rush" seats:  they go on sale two hours before the concert and are on a first come, first served basis.  But now, here he is in the Lower Orchestra, Center.  How fun to see him there, standing and clapping like there is no tomorrow.  His clapping style is legendary among a few of us musicians.  We call him The Clapper.  But I digress...more about him later.
  

      As the title of this blog suggests, I play the bass,  a very strenuous instrument.  As I mop my sweaty brow, loosen my bow and wipe the rosin from my bass, I am struck by what a great privilege it is to live the life I have ended up with:  playing timeless music with such talented colleagues, traveling to the cultural centers of the world and performing in some of the finest concert halls.  I also have a loving family and live in one of the most beautiful areas of the country, in a progressive city that truly supports the arts.  How did I get so lucky?
  

     As my car-pool buddy, cellist Carolyn and I walk to the parking lot after the concert, I am still caught up in the musical moment.  Experience tells me this week's  concert music will be going through my head until next week's music takes over.  I will have to practice next week's program in preparation for the first rehearsal.  But as we cruise through the starry night on  101 South, I am also looking forward to something cold to drink, a kiss from my husband and daughter, and a cuddle with our dear coon hound, Mona.
  

     This is a life I want to share with others.  How I got the job I have;  how I met and married Rich; the story of how our daughter joined our family; and for the animal lovers out there, a little something about the wonderful dogs--and cats--I have known.