The Really Terrible String Orchestra

     Yesterday evening, on my day off, I went to play a rehearsal.  I didn't get paid and I didn't play the bass.  The secret premise was a surprise-going away party for the SF Symphony's former Principal Bass, now retired, and his wife, also a bassist.  They are moving from the Bay Area up to Washington State.  Both of them have been playing for quite a while in a musical group in Berkeley called The Really Terrible String Orchestra (RTSO).  This is an ensemble where the musicians play string instruments that they cannot play with any sort of skill.  Both MB and his wife play violin in this group;  in fact, MB is the Concertmaster.  I came with a violin as well, thinking how hard can this be?  I started on violin as a fourth-grader, but hadn't picked one up in 40 years.  I remember where the notes are and the coordination is basically the same.  But much to my chagrin,  not only could I not find the right pair of glasses to wear, (the music is much closer than when playing bass) but because of the thick callouses on my left hand, I  was unable to feel the strings.  On top of that, my  bow hand would not cooperate.  Fortunately, I was seated in the second violin section, but let me just say, I might as well have been trying to play the Tchaikovsky Concerto.  My main problem was trying to isolate the two middle strings, A and D.  As long as my bow was on the outer two strings, E and G, I did a barely acceptable job.  But trying to play on just one of the inner strings at a time was for me,  the equivalent of climbing Mt. Everest:  it felt like I was in the Death Zone.  I certainly could have used a canister of oxygen.

     The only skills I had to fall back on were being able to minimally follow the conductor and, with great concentration,  to keep a fairly steady tempo.  But I must say, I now have the greatest respect for anyone over the age of eight and a half who is attempting to learn a string instrument.   My husband, who had brought me a violin from his music store, asked if I were going to practice.  "Heck no!" I responded.  "You're not supposed to." But in retrospect, I think that would have been a good move on my part.  There is so much to think about at once, particularly in this orchestra.  We were not playing elementary school pieces, but actual works for string orchestra by serious, if obscure, composers.  At one point, the conductor asked that we try to play a little more in the correct style of the piece.  "You mean the style of playing on the right string?" I quipped, only half in jest.

   Scott, the SF Symphony's current Principal Bass attended the rehearsal as well.  He brought his wife's cello, which presented a litany of other problems.  Yes, it is played vertically and the hands are in roughly the same positions.  But the strings are not the same and they are tuned in fifths, not fourths, as on the bass.  And though bigger than the violin, it is so much smaller than the bass.   Nevertheless, Scott seemed to get the hang of it rather quickly and was a great addition to the evening's entertainment.

     When it was time for the break, we all went upstairs to the Fellowship Hall where dozens of friends and family were secretly waiting for the right moment to jump out and yell "Surprise!!"  The two guests of honor were duly caught off guard, and much merriment and knoshing ensued.  A lovely photograph of sailboats against the Golden Gate Bridge was presented and signed by everyone.  Intermission lasted until 9:00 PM, and so there was no more time to play music.  Who knows?  I may attend another rehearsal.  But one thing is for sure:  my hat--and bow--go off to anyone trying something new.

A Life Not Lost

     At last Sunday's matinee concert, as we played the final burnished chords of Richard Strauss' Four Last Songs with soprano Elza van den Heever, a sustained hush lasted a good while before the audience began to applaud.  As we were taking our bow, my stand partner, Charles, pointed out an elderly woman in the fourth row in the orchestra section of the audience.  She looked like she had fallen asleep, head back and mouth open.  But as the applause increased when the soloist and conductor came back on stage for a second bow, the woman did not move.  We could see that she was white as a sheet.  When the ovation had finished and the audience members got up for intermission, the woman still did not move.  An usher was summoned who then called 911.  A short time later, the paramedics arrived and tried to revive her.  A good twenty minutes later, when it was time to start the second half, they were still working.  Finally, someone saw the woman move slightly and then the EMS personnel got her onto a stretcher.  They wheeled her out of the hall and the whole audience applauded as she rolled by, color back in her cheeks.

     Many of us had been afraid that she had passed away.  Some people commented that that is how they would like to leave this earthly life: sitting in a concert hall without a  care in the world, listening to beautiful,  poignant music.  Others thought that dying is a very personal thing and should be experienced in private, surrounded by loved ones.  Either way, I wondered about the act of applauding for the lady.  Was that a rather crass form of expressing relief?  Or perhaps it was good for her to know that everybody cared about her and was happy that she had been revived.

     Great symphonic music can elicit very strong emotions in the listener, feelings that words cannot adequately express.  But it is rare for emotion to surface during an intermission.  In this particular case, the Songs were the last that Richard Strauss wrote.  He was near the end of his life, and our elderly patron, though granted a reprieve, is nearing the end of hers.   We are hopeful she will fully recover and be able to return to the Symphony to hear more evocative and powerful music.

Great Symphonic Disasters: Part 1

     Today at our rehearsal for Alban Berg's Lyric Suite, my stand partner Charles turned to me and said that his dad had had a terrific idea for a web page:  Great Symphonic Disasters.  That sounded  like it could lead to  a gold mine of wacky stories.  OK, I'm in.   And Mr. C., here you go!

     The first, and probably weirdest disaster that I can remember, happened at the San Francisco Symphony back in 1989.  It was All San Francisco Night, when SF neighborhoods buy groups of tickets and come to the Symphony the night after the opening Gala.  I remember it was 1989 because it was right around the time of Tiananmen Square.  We were playing the National Anthem, as we do for all the concerts during the first week.  As we got to the middle section, I saw out of the corner of my left eye, two legs kicking wildly in the air.  Our conductor, Herbert Blomstedt, must have noticed it as well, because I saw him look over his right shoulder to see what all the flailing was about.  There, hanging by his two hands from the first balcony rail, was a male audience member.  He could have fallen at any moment and been killed, and crushed the people below.  What was even stranger was that no one around him appeared to be alarmed by this, nor did anyone try to help him up.  On top of that, we just kept playing like nothing  out of the ordinary was happening.  While we finished the final chords of the anthem, the man somehow managed to crawl back up, and was gone by the time the next piece started.  What the heck was that about?  Perhaps it sounds racist, but because Tiananmen Square  had just happened and the gentleman was Asian, plus the fact that no one was helping him back to his seat, I thought that this could have been some kind of planned protest against China.  We played the rest of the first half and at intermission I asked the stage manager if he knew what had happened.  "The guy got faint when he stood for the Star Spangle Banner and fell over the railing," Jim said.   That did not sound right to those of us who had witnessed the stunt.  Why were his surrounding seat-mates paying no attention?  To this day it remains a musical mystery.

     Another disaster occurred a few years later, during the actual Gala concert.  The orchestra was well into the first piece when the stage door behind the third stand of basses opened and out stumbled a very inebriated man in a tuxedo.  He pushed his way between the two bass players and their music stand, teetered to the edge of the stage, and jumped off into the audience.  Word had it that he was a professional party crasher, but how did he get to the back stage area in the first place?  Again, the Orchestra kept on playing during this episode of guerrilla theater like there was nothing amiss.  To stop the music, it takes an act of God.

     Or a fire drill.  During yet another Gala concert, the fire alarm went off right after the first piece had started.  Flashing lights, obnoxious beeping noises, and a voice over the loud speaker announced that everyone had to evacuate immediately.  The Orchestra actually stopped playing.  We were told not to  take our instruments and leave the hall through the closest exit.  Being good orchestra musicians, we did as we were told and headed out into the chilly night.  Of course, the audience, dressed in designer gowns and tuxedos, had to leave as well.  We were all milling about together on the sidewalk, chatting and hugging ourselves for warmth.  Suddenly, Larry,  a Symphony cellist, said to me "Hey,  that's Ronnie Lotte over there!"  We marched over and Larry introduced us.  He was very excited to meet the former Forty-Niner free-safety.  Mr. Lotte was quite gracious and introduced us to his lovely wife.  We finally got the all clear, said our good byes, and returned to our previous activity of putting on a concert.  Larry, who sadly has since passed away, was an avid football fan and very glad that that fire alarm went off.

     Hmm.....I'm starting to see a pattern here.  Are our Gala week concerts being hijacked by symphony insurgents?  Is there a plot?  Stay tuned for more Musical Mysteries and Disasters!

Alina Ming Kobialka

     This past Sunday, I did an unusual thing.  I went to hear an orchestra concert.  I was not playing but part of the audience.  It's good to do that sort of thing now and again.  It is enlightening and a good way to get a fresh feel for the business of performing music.

     The concert was Symphony Parnassus, a group of amateur musicians who love to play.  It gets its name from the street on which University of California, San Francisco Medical Center is located.  I assume many of the players are doctors, nurses, and medical students.  One of the bass players runs the business end of his wife's hand therapy clinic.  The concertmaster, Victor Romasevich, is a professional musician; he is a violinist in the SF Symphony.  The conductor, Stephen Paulson, is the Principal Bassoon in the SF Symphony.  He is a tireless, dedicated soul who  designs interesting programs and enables the Parnassus Orchestra to sound its best.

   The first half of the program included a a tone poem by Samuel Barber, Fadograph of a Yestern Scene.  It is a strangely lush and romantic work which the Orchestra carried off well.  Next came the well-known Romeo and Juliet by Tchaikovsky.  It is also very romantic and dramatic.  The strings, particularly the cellos and basses, played with a rich and singing tone.  After intermission came the treat many of us were excitedly anticipating.

     Alina Ming Kobialka was the soloist in Barber's Violin Concerto.  Miss Kobialka, age 13, was poised and confident in a one-shoulder, floor-length coral gown.  To say that she is mature beyond her years would be an understatement.  Her technique and expressiveness were first rate for a person of any age.  She is the daughter of retired SF Symphony Principal Second Violin, Daniel Kobialka and SF Symphony violinist, Chun Ming Mo.  That both her parents are wonderful violinists in their own right is an obvious legacy inherited by Miss Kobialka.  But I do not want to slight the  individual accomplishment of this talented young lady.  In the lyric and melancholy first two movements, her rich tone, flawless intonation, and graceful phrasing had a glistening sheen and luster.  During the perpetual motion of the third movement, her completely relaxed bow hand combined with her agile left, resulting in an absolutely riveting performance.  She played from memory and imparted total command of the stage.  It was breathtaking to hear her and she was a true inspiration to all.  Stay tuned because we have not heard the last from this extraordinary violinist.

     For an encore, Miss Kobialka preformed Sonata No. 3 in D minor, Ballade, by the Belgian violinist, Eugene Ysaye.  It, too, was wondrous.

     To see and hear Alina play the Barber, go to You Tube.com and type in Alina Ming Kobialka Plays Barber Violin Concerto.

Why the Bass? Part 2

   Because it's fun!  The people in the orchestra are some the most interesting, thoughtful, kind people I know.  And out of those, the bass players are among the most entertaining.  I think the very act of playing such a ridiculously large instrument requires an outstanding sense of humor.   And our roll as the plow horses of the orchestra, as one former colleague put it, demands a certain appreciation for the absurd.

     Just yesterday, we started rehearsals for Ein Heldenleben (a Hero's Life), Richard Strauss' autobiographic tone poem (talk about an ego!)  I came to my place on stage, and noticed there was no music stand.  Without missing a beat, Charles, my stand partner quipped,"Sorry, budget cuts."  We quickly summoned a stage hand who righted the situation.  Charles has a few other famous quotables:  for marking bowings (whether the bows go up or down, in unison) he is a firm believer in the "Set it and forget it" method as well as "Bow it and stow it."  He is also a proponent of, if all else fails "Keep the bow moving."  Another member of the section can always be counted on to mimic  on the bass, what the violins are playing, in the same register!

     While we are on the topic of Heldenleben, I should just say that it alone would be a very good reason to play the bass. It is one of the most powerful and spectacular pieces, as well as bass parts, in the repertoire.  The range itself of the bass part is over three octaves.  We start out on a low E-flat, (the piece is in E-flat Major, the key of heroes!), a note on the bass's extension.  What is the extension?  This is one of the most frequently asked questions we bass players get.  Audience members come up and ask this almost every concert.  On the scroll of every bass in the section is a strange looking gizmo, a mini-fingerboard attached to the curved part of the peg box.  This extra piece of wood allows the low E-string to be extended down to low-C, or on two basses, to low-B.  This enables us to play 4 or 5 extra low notes and makes for an even more dramatic sound-chasm in the depths of the orchestra.  We as bass players, love these low notes and they are very plentiful in Heldenleben.

     When we start the piece, it is like a locomotive of sound, all power and steam. It pulls away from the station at full tilt, and never stops its journey until the very end.  In the meantime, Strauss covers various parts of his life, including those nasty critics (pecky woodwinds), true love (solo violin) and even a battle scene.  He also quotes himself by including a few passages from his some of his other orchestral works:  Don Juan, Death and Transfiguration, Don Quixote, and Also sprach Zarathustra.  Ego aside, this is truly one of the great orchestral pieces.  Come and check it out this coming week at Davies Symphony Hall.

Why the Bass?

     As one friend put it, "Because it's there."  And in a way, that was one reason I got started on it;  it was lying dormant in the corner of the band room in junior high.  (See Blog Entry:  Fiddles, Little and Large)  But once I started to play the bass, I fell totally in love with the deep tone.  No matter that I rarely got to play the melody in the orchestra, I loved being the bottom of the whole orchestral sound.  To me, the basses of an orchestra give the whole wash of sound its third dimension.  Ever see the Hitchcock movie Vertigo?  Whenever Jimmy Stewart's character (who is afraid of heights) looks down from a great distance, he sees a telescoping special effect, which suddenly seems to be in three dimensions.  That is what I picture when the basses enter the scene in orchestral music.  When, for instance, the strings are playing without the basses, it sounds very lush and beautiful, of course.  But when the basses enter, an octave below the cellos, it's as if  the ground suddenly opens up and the rest of the orchestra is floating above a deep chasm.  The very best composers are to me, the best orchestrators, as well.  To skillfully use the full range of sound available, all the way from the bottom, with the basses and low brass,  up to the very top with the piccolo, triangle, and cymbals, or the full orchestral palette, is a true gift.

     Speaking of tonal colors:  I love the combination of cellos and basses, for instance  in the Recitative from Beethoven's Ninth Symphony.  The recitative, played by the cellos and basses in unison, one octave apart, is a foreshadowing of the upcoming baritone singer's solo.  It does sound quite vocal, like a men's chorus singing with all its heart and soul.  The passage is very dramatic and one of my favorite places in the entire repertoire.  And to think Beethoven wrote the entire symphony after he became  completely deaf.  Makes one realize what a true genius he was!

     The bass also serves as a rhythm instrument, and that part is also fun and rewarding to play.  The pizzicato, or plucking of the bass is the most resonant of all the bowed string instruments.  It is deep and vital, like the beating of a heart.  And many times, it is used to depict just that.  It is usually the bottom of the harmonic structure of the orchestra as well;  it is the very foundation of the orchestral sound.

     I also love that the bass sound resonates so deeply within our very beings.  The better the concert hall, the easier this is to accomplish, in my mind.   One of my favorite places to play, aside from our own Davies Symphony Hall, is Symphony Hall in Boston.  There, to me, the bass response is unsurpassed by any hall, except maybe the Musikverein in Vienna, Austria.  One has just to touch the string, and a fat, juicy whoosh of sound practically explodes from the instrument.

      Back to San Francisco.  We have a very nice hall with good bass response.  It wasn't always that way.  About 17 or 18 years ago, the hall was totally redone inside to improve the acoustics.  The hall before that, made the listener feel as if the orchestra were playing behind a veil.  Nothing was clear or three-dimensional.  Thankfully, the Board took this seriously and raised the  money necessary to remedy the situation.  We now have a very fine hall that truly embellishes the sound of the entire orchestra.  Come and check it out.  You won't be disappointed!

Confession 1: Inside the Mind of a Musician, Part 2: Let's Get Technical

     And so the concert begins;  not with the first downbeat, but with the up beat before it.  The upbeat is very important for indicating the tempo, or speed, of the upcoming music, and also the amount of force to be used.  This is all communicated by the conductor in his upbeat.  After the upbeat, comes the downbeat, and the actual music begins!

     Aside:  I remember one conductor, Alain Lombard, the Music Director of the then Miami Philharmonic back in the '70's, who would practically run out on stage and leap up onto the podium.  He would immediately give the down beat, and if one was not ready, it was tough luck!

     Anyway, back to this concert.  What are we playing?  Let's say, since I was talking about it in the Prerlude of this blog, Beethoven's Seventh Symphony.  We play the opening chord, and release it together as we have rehearsed.  I then listen to the Principal Oboe, who has the theme, and am also counting to four while watching the Conductor for the downbeat of the next measure.  I am listening to the entire orchestra, with special attention to the Oboe, to myself, and to the rest of the Bass Section.  In a few measures, (the grouping of notes into sections, making it easier to read along) we (the strings) begin our sixteenth notes, which we must play absolutely together and with exactly the same articulation.  We do this a lot in the Orchestra.  Different sections of the entire orchestra play together at various times, although cellos can play with horns, violins with flutes, etc. for a wonderful mix of texture and color.  In a piece like the Beethoven, the tempo of the Introduction does not vary a whole lot, so the conductor doesn't need to signal much change in that regard.  But toward the end of the introduction, the notes slow down a bit without the tempo actually changing, so it seems as if there is a ritard, or slowing down.  Then the notes start to speed up as we head into the main part of the first movement, or Vivace (fast, full of life).  This is where watching the conductor is crucial, to make sure we transition from one tempo to another seamlessly and totally together.  So much of what a conductor does is telegraphing subtly, and just a bit ahead of time, what the new tempo will be.  Being able to read that information, while listening to oneself and everyone else, is just one of the skills needed to be able to play successfully in an orchestra.

     Playing chamber music, pieces written for smaller ensembles, with no conductor, is all about listening to and watching one's fellow musicians.  In an orchestral setting, however, with 60 to 100 players or more, a conductor is simply the most practical solution to the very complicated problem of deciding how fast, how loud, etc. to play.  There are a very few orchestras that play with no conductor, Orpheus Chamber Orchestra being perhaps  one of the most famous.  I have not played in such a group, but have heard that there is much discussion about tempos, dynamics, and whom to watch, when, during rehearsals.  I have heard the results on recordings, and they are spectacular.

     We, in San Francisco Symphony, have a Music Director, Michael Tilson Thomas, who conducts the majority of the time.  He makes all the final decisions as to repertoire, tempos, etc.  We also have a number of guest conductors each season, which keeps us on our toes, and allows MTT time to pursue other projects.

     By now, it must be obvious that too much is going on in the brain of a musician during a concert to really be in anything resembling a trance.  But when the adrenaline is flowing and the music is churning, there is perhaps, a zen-like feeling to performing, and there is no better place to be than in the middle of a symphony orchestra, soaking up all that delicious sound!

Opus 2: Confession 1, Inside the Mind of a Musician

     People seem to think that when playing music, a musician is in some sort of trance.  That couldn't be further from the truth.  Granted, when I am in some kind of musical "groove", the music flows almost automatically.  But even that has different connotations.  At it's best, I suppose, playing music in an orchestra can be like a sort of meditation, in that the mind is focused on the music and nothing else.  But then again, it depends on the music.  And the state of my mind.  At any rate, when the down beat comes, I am in Hyper-Alert Mode, ready for anything!  But let's start at the beginning.

     Even before the concert begins, there is a specific ritual of events that takes place.  Instruments are being taken out out of cases, or as in my "case," out of my locker.  I have two basses: one at the hall, and one at home.  That is because I am simply too darned lazy to carry a bass back and forth.  That and because my 1930's house is a bit drafty.  Not a good environment for a 200+ year  old, wooden instrument (English, William Forster, or so I'm told--I don't have any official papers, like many of my colleagues).  Though it is, at times, a bit too hot on stage, for my taste, the climate at Davies Symphony Hall is fairly controlled.  I do take my bow home, and practice with it.   I am very fond of my bow, made in the 1920's by Victor Fetique, for those of you interested in that sort of thing, and play  nothing else.  I carry it in a leather case with a shoulder-strap.  People sometimes think it's a flute, or a pool cue.  Now THAT would be cool.  I tell them that I don't play pool, but classical music.

     "Can you make a living doing that?" they ask.  

     "It's a full-time job." 

     Most people don't know that we usually have four, two-and-a-half hour rehearsals per week.  We usually play four, sometimes five concerts a week.  Now that doesn't add up to a 40-hour work week.  But add in all the hours we spend at home, practicing alone, and you get a full-time job.  On Wednesday and Saturdays, we make two trips to the hall in one day.  And many of us volunteer our time for the numerous committees that help run things at the Symphony.  Now that we've settled that, back to the pre-concert doings.

     With the bow out of its case, I place it, length-wise, under the strings.  It's a good way to carry the bow, since I need both hands to carry the big, old fiddle.  There is a leather "apron" around the bass to protect  it  from belt-buckle scratches, and it has a pocket for my glasses, pencil, and rosin.  I walk about 50 feet to the stage door, which is on the same level as the lockers.  I do have to go up a few steps to get to my spot on the correct riser.  

     Once there, I let out and tightly fasten the end-pin.  That's the sharply-pointed, metal shaft on which the bass rests while being played.  We have black wooden boxes, on which we set our "stuff:"  rosin, glasses cases, rags, tuners, and the bass, when not in use.  At this point, I tighten the bow;  that is, I tighten the hair from the tails of special Mongolian horses, and coat it with rosin.  All string players use rosin, boiled down resin from pine trees.  But we bass players use REALLY sticky rosin because the strings we play on are the size of knitting needles!  (At this point, I just have to say how much I like that we, as orchestral musicians in the 21st century, are still doing things pretty much the same as they did in the 18th Century!)  Our bows, though about the same length  as violin bows, are much more massive, and have  much thicker shanks of hair.  One of my fellow bass players likes to tell how his teacher would point out that if violinists used bows the same ratio to their instruments as bassists, they'd be playing with bows the size of pencils!  At any rate, everything about the bass is huge.  And we bass players love it that way!

     Now that my bow is tightened and rosined ("Rosin up for Safety!" we like to say), I then get out my electronic tuner, and "pre-tune" my bass to A-441.  This way, I am in the correct ball-park (how 'bout those Giants?!!) before the formal tuning takes place.  After I am satisfied with my tuning, I take the opportunity to play a few scales and review some of the trickier passages in the music we are about to play.  It's not unlike an athlete warming up before the game; we just use smaller muscle groups, for the most part. 

     At 8:oo, the concertmaster walks on stage and tunes the orchestra: the Principal Oboe plays two A's,  one for the strings, and the second, for the winds, brass, timpani, and harp.  The conductor then walks out, takes his bow with the Orchestra, lifts his baton, and the concert begins.

     See tomorrow's blog entry for the conclusion!

Opus 1; Finale: Finally, a Feline!

     To tell about my first cat, we need to jump ahead a few years, to my days in Miami, Florida.  I was attending the University of Miami School of Music for my Master's Degree and studying with the illustrious Dr. Lucas Drew, a fabulous teacher and Principal Bass of the Miami Philharmonic.  "What happened to college?" you may ask.  Well, we'll go back there later.  But since I changed my blog title to include the feline set, I thought a kitty story would be in order.

     For a time, while I was in  Miami, I had a boyfriend, John, who also played bass.  Our mutual friend, Joe, another bassist, was from  a small town near Daytona, Florida.  His folks still lived there, in a rural, sort of Everglades, swampy area.  They had a nice cabin, and John and I went one week to visit.  While we were there, we found a mother cat who was living under one of the other cottages with her litter of kittens.  She was very skittish, obviously feral and afraid of humans.   So were her kittens, except for one:  a pure white, little puff-ball with one green eye and one, blue.  He would come right up the steps (he couldn't have been more than 7 or 8 weeks old) and would meow pitifully for us to come out and feed him.  I got to be very fond of him over the next few days.  We asked around, and the cats didn't belong to anybody.  I decided to take the tiny, white kitten home with us.  We named him Nimbus, the little cloud.

     We got cat food, a kitty-leash and a small box to keep him in on the ride back to Miami.  He was remarkably at ease in the Jeep that John drove (and I mean an olive-drab, noisy Army Jeep.)  When we arrived at home, we fed him, showed him the litter box, and went to bed.

      The next morning, the little cutie was mewing like crazy to be fed.  But when I called him into the kitchen, he didn't come.  Now granted, I had not had a cat before, and did not know that they didn't necessarily come when called.  But later that day, a book fell down right next to Nimbus, and he didn't so much as blink.  We started making loud noises, to see if he would respond.  I began to think that Nimbus might be deaf.

      I called a veterinarian the next day and took him in for his shots and exam.  I asked the doctor if he thought Nimbus was deaf.  He told me that sometimes, white male cats with blue eyes can be deaf.  Since Nimbus had one green eye, he didn't know for sure.  The doctor then put his fingers to his lips and let out an ear-piercing whistle.  Nimbus didn't flinch.  "Yep, he's deaf," the vet announced.

     Having a deaf cat was not all that much different from having a hearing cat, I guess.  We couldn't let him outside by himself, of course, but I would take him on walks on a leash.  We also learned that if we stomped on the floor, he could feel the vibrations and would come.  He also liked to fetch pencils that we threw across the room.  When I flew up to Rochester to visit my folks, I took him on the plane, with me, and he was very well behaved.  He also got along quite nicely with our dog. And we discovered, I'm not sure how, that Nimbus liked to be vacuumed.  The noise certainly didn't scare him and he seemed to like the sensation of having his fur pulled on by the suction.  

     When I left the Miami area for Kansas City, I really couldn't take Nimbus with me.  My sister Amy, who lived on a farm in Ohio at the time , was happy to have him.  There he lived out his days with  her other cat, the two of them sleeping side-by-side on the water heater, the warmest spot in the house.