Zachariah In Memoriam

We found out several months ago that our beloved cat, Zachy, 11 years old, had terminal stomach cancer.  There was really nothing to do but try to keep him comfortable and put him down when it was time.  For me, figuring out when to euthanize an animal is the hardest part.  But I had faith that we would know when the time came.  So, with a bottle of Prednizone, we went home and hoped for the best.

The steroid really seemed to help, and Zach was almost back to his normal self.  Meanwhile, we were also taking care of our daughter Fiona's three kittens.  Zach actually got along with them quite well;  in fact one, Harley, seemed to love Zach and followed him all around and slept next to him.

As the weeks went by, Zach got sicker, of course, and sat on my lap less and less. Eating became more and more difficult and he stopped grooming himself.  Finally, last week, he couldn't keep anything down.  We knew it was time.

We took him to the pet hospital and he sat on Rich's lap on the way.  When we got there, he was very calm and stoic.  We were called and went into the smaller of the two examination rooms.  As Zach lay on the table, we cradled his warm, furry body and stroked his white whiskers.  His bony spine was a ridge of tiny mountains.  Dr. Merrill came in and shaved a small patch on his leg, then inserted the first needle which put him to sleep.  He relaxed and became limp.  After the second shot, he was a rag doll with no stuffing. We buried him in the backyard next to our other cat, Sam. Deciding that today was the day was difficult, but I knew he was finally at peace.

We miss our tiny kitten (who in his prime was a huge 16 pound cat).  He was more like a dog than a cat:  he came when called, played with our dog, and led us to his food bowl.  He was always hungry!  We have many pictures of him to enjoy and he will live in our hearts forever.  Good bye Zachy.

Mom

"She passed at 7:15," the hospice nurse told us as we, my sisters and I, arrived that morning five years ago, at my mother's apartment.  We had been called a week ago to come "now" because she didn't have much longer to live.  My mother, so opinionated, precise, funny was gone, just as they had said she would.  And typical to her style, she had died on schedule the day before we were leaving.

"You might want to go in separately and spend a little time with her," the nurse suggested.  It was hard to imagine my mom not criticizing the nurse because she smoked, making jokes, cracking us up with her humor.  My sister Lynn did not want to go in, prefering to remember her as she was in life.

I decided to go into her room.  I held her cold limp hand.  The blue veins stood out under the translucent  skin, but she was still my mom.  "You were a wonderful mother," I said,  something that sounded so trite but was in fact very true.  "You did so much for me.  I am a musician because of your love of music spreading to us girls."  (My sister Amy is a public school music teacher in Pasadena.  My sister Lynn played oboe through high school and has handed down the love of music to her daughters.)  "You always had advice to give, most of it very wise and useful.  And I loved that you loved polar bears."  My mother worried about polar bears, how their habitat was vanishing.  But in her last week, she told us she didn't need to worry about them anymore.  Let someone else do that now.  Maybe that is how paradise would be for my mother, happy with the life she had lived.

Metro Man

The year was 1981 and I was spending that season playing bass in the Mexico City Philharmonic.  This is an excellent Orchestra that is made up of about a third Mexican musicians, a third American, and a third eastern European.  My younger sister, Lynn had come to visit for a week.  She is fluent in Spanish and had spent a summer in Cali, Colombia.  Now she wanted to experience Mexico City.  The DF, as Mexico City is called, had a population at the time of at least 20 million and was considered the largest city n the world.  I was living in a beautiful colonia called Coyoacan, in the southern part of the city. But I decided to take Lynn to the city center, La Zona Rosa, where we would have lunch at La Fonda de Refugio, a favorite restaurant among my friends and me.  It served traditional Mexican cuisine, food from this more southern part of the country.  It was nothing like the Tex-Mex stuff you get in the United States.  Since the restaurant was in a very crowded part of town, the Metro (or subway) seemed the most expeditious way to get there.

It was 11 AM and rush over was supposedly over.  But the Metro was still packed.  Lynn and I crammed ourselves into one of the cars and were standing as close to our fellow passengers as jelly beans in a jar, unable to move.  Both my sister and I are 5 feet, 8 inches tall and she has yellow, blond hair.  Being taller than most of the other passengers, we could see all around us and stood out from the crowd like two geese in a flock of chickens.  After a while jostling and bumping, I felt a strange poking in my backside.  Not anything sharp, but a blunt instrument.  I managed to turn part way and look down.  To my horror, I saw an erect penis butting up against me.  Completely unable to move away, I yelled something unintelligible in Spanish OR English and started bonking the offender on the shoulder.  The people around me couldn't see what had transpired and thought I was the crazy one.  They backed away from me as fast as they could.  I still vividly remember the startled expressions of the other passengers, not to mention the look of consternation on the man in question.

After what seemed like hours, though it was probably just a minute or two, I grabbed my puzzled sister and promptly got off at the next stop.  "What the heck happened?" she wanted to know.  I filled her in and after I calmed down a bit, we went and had a delicious comida (lunch) of squash blossom tacos and huite la coche.  And I vowed that the next time I rode the Metro at rush hour, I would definitely take one of the cars for women and children.

Nutcracker

Back when our daughter Fiona, now 18, was 9 and in Ballet 2 at the San Francisco Ballet School, we found out that she had gotten two roles in the company's brand new production of the Nutcracker.  She was to be Daisy in the party scene and as a clown in Mother Ginger in the second act.  We were very excited as this was Fiona's first time  performing in the Nutcracker.  First row tickets were on reserve at the Opera House for parents, so I naturally bought two for Rich and me.  I also bought three more so my mother and sister could come to San Francisco to see the ballet.

On opening night, Rich and I sat in the darkness, listening to the Overture.  A thrill washed over us.  As the curtain went up, and Fiona came running down the stairs with the other party children, my heart nearly burst.  She absolutely glowed in her yellow dress, with her hair curled into shining ringlets. Rich and I turned to look at each other and we could see  tears in each other's eyes.  A swell of pride washed over us both.  This has to be one of the best moments of parenthood, I thought.  There are many triumphs, big and small, along the path of raising a child.  But something like this makes for pure, unadulterated love and joy!

As it turned out, Fiona danced beautifully and really put herself into the role of Daisy, the youngest girl at the party.  When all the guests were leaving, Daisy went to sit in a chair by the fire, all by herself.  It was a sight beautiful as any painting.  When her "mother" called, Daisy sleepily got up, hugged the teddy bear she had gotten as a gift, and ran to her mom.

In Act Two, Fiona was a clown who led the circus bear (an enlarged version of the one Daisy received at the party) back under the dress of Mother Ginger.  Fee was very cute in her black and white costume, complete with a pointed, European style clown hat.  When we picked her up after the performance, we told her how proud we were of her.  It seemed to us that she hadn't just played the role, but had actually become Daisy and the clown.  Seeing Fiona dance on stage has become one of my fondest memories, one that I can take out of the album of my mind and admire anytime.

Three Little Kittens

My eighteen-year-old daughter Fiona came home for Thanksgiving and brought with her three kittens that she had rescued.  They are about three months old and unbelievably cute.  They are all gray tabbies with varying degrees of white fur.  Each one has four white mittens for paws and beautiful hazel eyes.  My husband and I have a big orange tabby cat and a coon hound mix.  We weren't sure how they would react to the kittens, but I have to say that they were real troopers.  When the kitties first came in the house, Mona the dog lay down, as if to say that she was cool.  Zach, the orange tabby, hissed a little but soon got used to their rambunctious ways.  The kittens were little dickens, but the two older animals took it all in stride.

When they would sleep, the kittens piled all together in one big mass.  They loved to be held, and would purr like crazy while cuddling in a willing lap.  Their names seemed to suit them well: Harley is kind of an instigator and independent spirit; Bentley is very proper; and Rover is all over the place.  Meal time was a feeding frenzy, and they had to be sequestered in Fiona's room  to prevent Mona and Zach from eating their food.  They have no manners yet and constantly had to be removed by hand from the dining table and kitchen counters.  It felt like being a grandparent, just with four-legged grandkids.  Fiona drove back to Los Angeles yesterday so we were kittenless last night.  This morning, waking up without the kittens there to pester us and without Fiona to hug, felt kind of lonely.  Oh well, Christmas is just around the corner, and we'll be able to host Fiona and the kids again.

O The Humanity

It was last Monday afternoon and I boarded the 4:46 PM BART  for my Writers' Class in Berkeley.  I got on the train in Millbrae with just a few other people and easily got a seat.  By the time we reached the Embarcadero Station, my car was filled to capacity.  O the smell of humanity--especially in tight quarters!  The man sitting next to me had some peculiar metallic odor emanating from his person.  A young woman standing in front of me suddenly sat down on the floor and asked, "Am I OK here?"

"You're fine," I answered.  Her skirt, slit to the hip, was riding up, exposing legs in tights and trendy suede boots.  Fancy perfume wafted over from her direction, mixing with the odors of the other passengers.  Just then, I remembered a TV commercial from my childhood:  "Aren't you glad you use Dial?  Don't you wish everybody did?"  Yes, I am glad I do use Dial and would love it it everybody bathed daily and used deodorant.  But I am wondering if, nonetheless, my own particular odor was being noticed by other passengers.  Soon my North Berkeley stop arrived and I disembarked with the washed and unwashed masses and headed off to class.

Agility: Dog or God?

Since Mona (my coon hound mix) and I completed  beginning and intermediate agility classes on Sunday mornings at the Peninsula Humane Society, I felt it was time to up the ante a little.  Rachel, our teacher, was no longer going to make the hour drive from her home up to Burlingame.  She was, however, going to teach a more advanced class down in San Martin (about an hour's drive for me).  The class was going to be on Sunday mornings (again).  I have no conflicts during that time except for singing in a friend's church choir.  But because I cannot make very many of the rehearsals since they are on Thursday evenings, my choice between God and Dog is easy: Dog wins out.

When Rachel said this would be a more advanced class, she really wasn't kidding.  Held in a competition size field, it has all the equipment set up.  Rachel makes different courses by placing yellow plastic numbers by each element (hurdle, A-frame, tunnel, etc.) and the people run their dogs--RUN being the operative word.  The other folks in the class have dogs who are way more advanced.  The dogs are able to whisk through the weave poles like lightening and go to each jump with a point of the finger or verbal command.  It's really inspiring and at the same time, frustrating.  Mona, who is 11 years old, is still learning a few of the elements, i.e. the weave poles.  I ordered some poles of my own, and now have them set up in our living room for easy access.  It looks silly, but allows us to practice when ever the mood hits.  As far as the teeter-totter goes, we will just have to learn it during class time.  Because of Mona's advanced age (though she is still very agile, leaping over the fence at the local dog park to chase rabbits) she jumps hurdles that are only 16 inches high.  The other dogs her size jump 22 inches, some with room to spare.  One mini-Australian shepherd soars over the jumps, obviously really enjoying it.  Mona is doing very well, especially when I know the drill.  And isn't that the way most things go?  For examples of dog agility, simply go to You Tube and type in Dog Agility.

News Flash:  This just in.  Rachel and her dog Kubby got 3rd place at the national competition in Tennessee they attended last week.  Congratulations! 

A Musical Mystery: Part 4

When I got home that afternoon, I saw James' Jeep in front of the house and knew I would have to confront him.  I stormed inside, with my stomach in my mouth.  "How could you have done such a thing?" I demanded as he calmly sat on a living room cushion. "How could you have taken Portnoy's bow and bass?

"I didn't really do anything wrong," James explained matter of factly. "I took the bass because he has several others and doesn't really need this one.  And the bow, I actually didn't think he would miss it."

"The bow, I can see that it would be easy to take and get away with it.  But the bass...how on earth did you get it  and where is it?"

"I just put it in its BSO trunk backstage at the Shed (where they played) and had it shipped down here to my folk's house.  It's sitting in their garage right now," he replied.

"You know Portnoy is coming down here tomorrow.  He is furious!  Who knows what he is going to do.  I can't believe you did this!  Don't you realize how serious it is?"

Totally unsatisfied with James' behavior and rationalizations, I stayed at a friend's house that night.  Thankfully, I had a very busy schedule the next day and missed the police and Mr. Portnoy coming to our house for the bow and then driving up to James' parents in North Miami.  After retrieving his bow and bass, Mr. Portnoy decided not to press charges as long as James promised to see a psychiatrist.  I quickly moved out of our house and into student housing with a friend.  As far as I know, James never did seek counseling, and Mr. Portnoy never pressed charges.  James had explained that I had had nothing to do with the heist, and miraculously I was left alone.  But I was not invited back to Tanglewood again, something I regret to this day.  I also found out that Portnoy told his next summer's class of bass students that I had helped James with the robbery.  I immediately called him up and begged him to believe that I had known nothing about the heist until Dr. Drew had told me and that I had been blinded by love.  He seemed to believe me.  Nearly 40 years later, I spoke with one of the current BSO bassists and he told me that it would not be impossible to smuggle a bass from backstage at the Shed, since things can get pretty chaotic there at the end of the summer.  Needless to say, I have had no further contact with James and hopefully have gained some wisdom along the way.  I am truly sorry about what happened and learned a valuable lesson.

The End

A Musical Mystery: Part 3

James and I drove the rest of the way to Miami, he with his bass and I with mine, without incident.  We stayed at  his parents' house until we were able to find a cute  bungalow near the University, where I would be starting my second year of graduate school.  I was studying privately with Dr. Lucas Drew and had 11 private students of my own.  I also was playing with the Miami Philharmonic.  James continued to practice, freelance and tend to his bees.  We decorated our little house which mercifully sat in the shade most of the time;  we didn't have air conditioning--just fans.  I was thoroughly enjoying my life:  I loved playing the bass and was still madly in love with James.

We lived happily like this for all of the first semester.   In January, when the second semester started at the University, we met a student from Boston who had come to Miami to study with Dr. Drew.  His name was Jeff and he had been taking lessons with BSO Principal Bass, Henry Portnoy.  One day, we invited him over to our house to play duets and trios.  Jeff brought his bass and bow and was  interested in what kind of basses and bows James and I were playing.  He looked at James' bow and was very surprised.  "There are only two bows by this maker--Henry Portnoy has one and BSO Bassist X (false name used to protect the innocent) has the other.  I'll have to call Henry and tell him about this extra bow!" Jeff said.  I didn't think anything of it at the time,  but a few days later, Dr. Drew called me into his office for a private meeting.

"Henry Portnoy called me this morning and told me he has been missing a bow since Tanglewood was over.  Jeff called and told him that there was a third bow by that same maker down here in Miami. Henry immediately exclaimed that there was no third bow.  He said the bow James has is his bow and that James stole it.  But that's not all.  Henry's summer Tanglewood bass has also been missing since the end of the summer season, and he is sure James has that too.  Does James have that bow and bass?"

I was shocked beyond words.  I hadn't paid any attention to what bow James had been using.  And he only had his Ceruti bass at home.  I couldn't believe my ears---how had James managed to steal a bass from Tanglewood and bring it down to Miami.  It certainly wasn't at our house.  I told Dr. Drew that I had no knowledge of any of it.  "Well," he said.  "You'll have to tell Henry what you know.  He's convinced that you and James thought up a plot, and were in cahoots in order to steal the bass and the bow.  He's flying down from Boston tomorrow."  I didn't know how James could have gotten the bass down to Miami, since he and I had driven back together, and he only had one bass.  How could this have happened?  Was I so in love that I had totally missed what had gone on?

A Musical Mystery: Part 2

Staying out in the woods, with a few members of the BSO in neighboring campsites, turned out to be a very pleasant experience.  We could see the lake through the trees from the doorway of the tent.  I could also go back to the dorm for a shower, or for a sick bay as I had a bad kidney infection and had to spend a few days in bed.  James continued to take lessons with Larry and had to be gone for his court date.  But I never really questioned him about that, mainly, I think, due to naivite.

Our concerts were amazing:  I had never played in such a good orchestra.  We also got to play a concert with the BSO:   Guerrelieder by Schoenberg which calls for a huge orchestra, chorus and vocal soloists.  It was conducted by Seigi Ozawa and was an experience that I will never forget.

The five other bass players in the program and I got to be very good friends.  We drove with the other woman bassist to New York City to check out a bass that she ended up buying.  We also would go out after the concerts for food and drink and have remained in touch to this day.  Before long though, the summer was over and we were packing up to go home.  James and I took down the tent and drove in convoy south to return to Miami.

On our trip, we stayed in some motels, but one night we came to a KOA campground.  It was close to midnight and the sign said it was full for the night. The office was closed but James said, "Let's go in anyway.  There's bound to be an empty campsite."  So, against my better judgement, we went in.

The trees were black around us, standing tall, silent giants.  Fireflies flitted about, magical flashing pinpoints, forming a kaleidoscope of tiny lights.  Driving up and down the rows, we didn't see any empty sites until we were almost to the end.  There was a vacant campsite that was marked reserved.  "Oh, that's probably for tomorrow," said James.  "Besides, it's so late, no one would be coming in at this hour."

Famous last words.  After we had set up the tent, gotten into our sleeping bags, and been asleep for a couple hours, we were awakened by voices and flashlights shining into the tent.  "Can't you see the "reserved" sign?" shouted a male voice.  "Get out of there right now and leave the campground!" The camp host was there with the people who had reserved the site.  We sheepishly got dressed, took down the tent as fast as we could and got back on the road.  We ended up parking on the side of the highway, a few miles away, and slept until dawn.

A Musical Mystery: Part 1

It was the summer of 1974.  I was 23 and ecstatic.  I had just finished my first year of graduate school, studying  at the University of Miami with Professor of String Bass, Lucas Drew.  I had a new boyfriend, James.  And I had been accepted at Tanglewood, the summer home of the renowned Boston Symphony and the prestigious training ground for young orchestral musicians at the Berkshire Music Center.

I was spending a few days with my parents at my childhood home in Rochester, NY before leaving for Tanglewood, which is about a day's drive,  located in the picturesque Berkshire Mountains.  While in Rochester, I got a call from James down in Miami.  He told me he wanted to come up to visit, and asked if it would be OK for him to go with me to Tanglewood.  I didn't know exactly what he would do there, but I was madly in love and was excited to see him.  I said yes, come on, and anxiously awaited his arrival.

James showed up several days later.  Tall, athletic, and good-looking, he was brown from the sun and wore a beard.  Although he played bass, he didn't perform with the Miami Philharmonic, like I did, and wasn't enrolled in graduate school.  He free-lanced as best he could and was a bee keeper on the side.  He enjoyed giving samples and selling the dark amber honey from exotic Florida plants, like avocado and hibiscus.  He had driven up with his bass in his pride and joy, an Army surplus Jeep.  And he had brought a few jars of honey, which he gave my parents.  With his innocent personality and generous nature, he quickly charmed my parents, just as he had charmed me.  We spent a few fun-filled days in Rochester and then left for Tanglewood, James in the Jeep and I in my Pinto wagon.

Arriving at Tanglewood, I felt like I was in heaven.  The luscious green mountains faded into the gray mist, like a Japanese paining,  The student orchestra was magnificent, with players from all over the country.  Our conductors were Gunther Schuller, Seigi Ozawa, Leonard Bernstein as well as several talented student conductors. We also had master classes with BSO Principal Bass, Henry Portnoy, and chamber music. What a great opportunity I thought.  I am so lucky to be here.  I started feeling like James was a fifth wheel, not really belonging there.  He was camping out at a nearby KOA while I was staying in the dorm.  But then he auditioned for BSO bassist, Larry Wolfe, and it was decided that James would take private lessons with Larry for the summer.

After several weeks of wonderful music making, James mysteriously disappeared for a couple days.

Even though we were staying in different places, we managed to eat together and go out in the evenings with the other student bass players.  Having no cell phones back then, I worried myself sick that something terrible had happened to him.  He finally showed up, acting like nothing unusual had transpired.  "Where were you?"  I demanded.

"Well, if you must know," he replied, "I spent a couple days in jail."

"What on earth for?" I asked

He explained that he had "borrowed" some lumber from a construction site to make a platform for his tent in the woods where a few BSO members camped for the summer.  He didn't think the 2x4's would be missed, but he had gotten caught and arrested.  Since he couldn't post bail, he had spent two nights in the slammer.

"But come see the tent," he beckoned.  "It looks great and now we'll be able to stay together in the woods."

The tent did look very inviting--sturdy and civilized, complete with a pallet for the sleeping bags and an oriental rug on the floor.  Somehow, I was able to overlook his crime and was happy to move to the woods--mosquitoes, felon, and all.

To be continued...

(James is not his real name,)

Another Day at the Beach

Last week my friend Carolyn, her sister Janice, my dog Mona and I went to Santa Cruz for a day at the State Park Beach.  It was a bit hazy when we first arrived around 11:30 AM.  The sun would peep through the fog, and then the wind would change and the clouds would creep back in.  Nevertheless, we optimistically set up the beach umbrella, deposited our towels and lunches underneath and went for a walk along the shore.  Dogs had to be on leash, according to the rules, so Mona got her first experience on a retractable lead.  She would run full blast to the end and then get whipped around by the neck.  Being a coon hound mix, she loves to bay, so I had to try to keep her from alienating everyone around with her cries of joy.  When the coast looked clear, I would free her from the leash and toss a tennis ball into the waves.  She delightedly jumped in after it AND brought it back.  Retrieving is not really her forte, so I was very impressed with her focus that day.  If she started to run too far ahead, I simply had to give the "ah-ah-ah!" command and she would come running back.

Even though it was foggy, the salt water did not feel too cold and we walked with our feet in the sea. 

When we returned to our umbrella, Janice got to witness a gull making off with her sandwich, which it swallowed in one gulp. She chased it off and saved the other half from a similar fate.  As we sat in the sand, eating our lunches, we looked out into the Pacific.  Suddenly, we saw a black head, not unlike that of a dog without ears.  Then another popped up:  Two sea lions checking out the shore.  Maybe they smelled our food.  

After lunch, we all went for a dip.  The water seemed pretty warm until our whole bodies went in...Yow!  But swimming around in the waves got us warmed up and we actually enjoyed it.  Poor Mona..she got caught in a big wave that washed right over her, making her shake and shake and sneeze.

Just as we were about to leave, around 4 PM, the sun was fully out and glistened  on the water.  Then, only a few hundred feet out, we spotted a pod of dolphins, arcing in and out of the waves.  They looked black against the steel gray water  and there had to be at least 20 of them. What a glorious sight, a real treat that makes living in the Bay Area so special.

As we returned to the car and brushed off the excess sand as best we could, we reflected on what a great day it had been.  I was happy Mona had been so well-behaved, and Mona?  She was sound asleep on the back seat before we left the parking lot.

Half Moon Bay

Last week, my friend Carolyn and I went to Half Moon Bay, mainly to have lunch at Sam's Chowder House.  I had been there once before, last summer, but didn't remember what good food they served.  We both had the prawn salad, and it was possibly the best one like it I've ever had.  We sat at a table facing the water...very important since we had just seen a lot of bird activity out in the Bay on our way into the restaurant.  The gray skies, reflected in the silver water, provided a beautiful sea-scape for bird watching.

I love pelicans and am always excited to observe them, flying in formation just inches above the water.  But this was like nothing I had ever seen.  There had to be at least a hundred pelicans, along with terns and gulls, swooping and diving (crashing might be a better word) for fish.  We thought there had to have been a huge school of fish to generate that much activity.  We had never witnessed such a feeding frenzy and were practically hypnotized by the view.  We decided to go outside after we finished our key lime pie and walk along the beach. 

The sounds of gulls yapping and water splashing gave the scene even more dimension.  Every now and then, we could spot a fish in the beak of a tern.  The pelicans must have swallowed their catches immediately, for there were no fish tails hanging out of their bills.  Perhaps the fish were in their beak-pouches.  How they are able to see the fish below the water's surface and dive in on target, is a great mystery of Nature.

We strolled for a while in the sand, taking it all in.  Suddenly, a squadron of pelicans broke away from the others and flew north toward the outer channel.  We figured that they knew something we didn't and got in the car to follow them.  At the north end of the bay, where the boats are moored, is a secluded park where you can walk along the shore to the ocean. We hiked all the way to the end of the trail. There were a few people, some with dogs, picnicking and frolicking.  And, there were the pelicans, diving for fish in a much more private locale.  No paparazzi for these birds.

Agility for Dogs

Yesterday, Sunday, my dog Mona and I attended our first Intermediate Agility class at the Peninsula Humane Society.  For those not familiar with Agility, it is basically an obstical course of equipment that a dog learns to go on, over or through.  (If you want a good example, go on You Tube under Dog Agility.  Actually, you can even see a turtle doing an agility course.)  We had completed Beginner Agility a couple of weeks earlier and were eager to start the next phase.

We began by reviewing the elements we had already learned.  That included three hurtles, a hoop, and a table (onto which they jump).  The dogs are encouraged (actually, bribed) with treats, and love jumping over, through and onto the obstacles. And, of course, they love getting that edible reward.  Each person must learn the correct technique as well, since the dog has to learn which obstacle to go to next by following its persons lead.  I can think of nothing more entertaining than watching all the various humans and dogs attempting these behaviors.  Then it is my turn, with Mona, to make fools of ourselves.

Since there is a beginner class right before our class, there are lots of treats left in the grass.  The biggest challenge we humans faced was keeping our dogs from sniffing each blade of grass, searching for all the left-over treats.  Our teacher suggested for our homework that we find some reward that will trump any tiny morsel of food.  Perhaps a squeaky toy or Porter House steak will do the trick.

There are eight dogs in the class, ranging from a huge, lanky Rhodesian Ridge Back to a tiny chihuahua mix.  My dog, Mona is on the larger size.  She is some sort of coon hound mix (see picture in profile.)  My personal task is to try to keep Mona quiet while we are waiting for our turn.  Being a hound makes her very vocal and she always wants to express her excitement or boredom with a yelp or bark.  I swear I used up about a third of her treats just trying to keep her silent.  The Ridge Back always wants to play with the other dogs, so he has to be sequestered off to the side.  And it smells like there is a skunk living under the equipment shed.  Several of the dogs keep making bee lines over to check it out.  By the time class was over, all humans and canines were hot, tired and panting.  Can't wait for next week!

Back in the Saddle

     After almost eight months of recuperation, I am now back at work after breaking my leg and then my back.  It is so great to be making music again, and I have been inspired to try something completely new: voice lessons.

      To start something so foreign at age 60..(yes, Nation, I have turned that corner into senior citizen land)... may sound crazy to some.   But to learn to produce music in an entirely different way is both challenging and liberating.  The biggest thing I have to carry to my lessons is a portable CD player.  It is great fun not having to haul a 50 pound instrument around.   And then there is the task of producing a beautiful sound with one's own body.  The sound I hear is not the sound my teacher hears;  she is very encouraging and yells "Yes!" when I get close to the sound she is looking for.  Playing the bass, I never really had to worry about diaphragmatic support and breathing.  This is all new territory for me and I get a small sense of accomplishment when I get something right or even sort of right.  My teacher, Alexandra Sessler, is a very talented young soprano who teaches at my husband's music store, Bronstein Music.  She is also one of the paid members of the San Francisco Symphony Chorus.  She never tires of all my questions and is ever encouraging.

     Last week I started reading The Inner Voice, a book by Renee Fleming about her life and career.  It is very inspiring and led me to purchase some of her recordings.  (She has sung with the Symphony on several occasions.)  I have been trying to sound like her, and though not entirely successful, at least got a nod of approval from Alex.  "When I have trouble getting a student to get the correct sound and feeling, I often ask him/her to imitate an opera singer."  Well, that is what I have been doing.  There is so much more to classical singing than I ever imagined.  I have new respect for our Symphony Chorus, and really, all singers.  Next week, we are performing Brahms' German Requiem and I am looking forward to hearing the chorus and soloists.  I hope to soak up as much as I can.

Tiny Kitten

     We got our cat, Zachariah, at the Humane Society seven years ago.  He was an orange tabby  with a very long tail in a small cage all by himself.  There were at least fifty other cats in the two rooms reserved for homeless felines.  How to pick just one when there were so many wonderful cats to choose from?  Zack, or Tweety, as the name on his cage stated, was about four months old and had been picked up as a stray.  Our daughter, Fiona, who was then about nine years old, had been begging for another cat ever since our beloved Samantha had passed at the ripe old age of 21.  Tweety was very friendly and wanted terribly to be touched.  He purred and purred and rubbed up against my outstretched finger.  "I think we have a good candidate here,"  I announced to Rich and Fiona, who were looking at a bunch of six-week-old kittens that all had already been reserved.  Rich and Fee came over to see Tweety and agreed that he, indeed, was a very friendly cat.  We asked the attendant to let us take him into the Get Acquainted Room.  He was quite curious and immediately had to explore the entire perimeter.  My husband Rich, who is a real cat person, got Tweety to come over and start playing with him.  We all thought he was a good match and decided to take him home.

     "He has to be neutered first," the attendant told us.  "Oh, but we really want to take him today!" Fiona exclaimed.  The attendant responded that Tweety would be neutered the next day and we could take him home that evening.  Knowing that was the responsible thing to do, (plus the fact that we had no choice), we agreed to pick him up the following day.

     When we retrieved him the next evening, he was in a little cardboard carrying case that didn't give him much wiggle room.  We brought him home to our two very curious dogs, Sophie and Chumley. We took Tweety in his box to the back bedroom so he could explore that first, before meeting the two canines.  He sniffed every inch of the room while the two dogs whimpered and squeaked behind the closed door.  After about a half hour, we finally brought in the dogs, one at a time.  They both had been used to having Samantha around, so once they came in and gave Tweety a sniff, they pretty much said "Oh, a cat.  Big whoop," and went back out to await their dinner.

  "Well that went well," we all agreed.  "Now, let's give Tweety a new name."  We went through dozens of choices, but when Rich suggested Zachariah, a name as long as his tail, Fiona really liked it.  And it was so.

    In the meantime, Zack, or Tiny Kitten, as Fiona likes to call him, has become a big bruiser of a cat.  At one point, he weighed 16 pounds and we were told by his vet that he needed to lose weight.  Now weighing in at a svelte 12 pounds, he is still one of the biggest cats I have ever seen.  He continues to be very friendly, but can only handle new people one or two at a time.  He has one rather annoying habit, and I know he is not alone among cats. After spending the night sleeping at the foot of our bed, he begins walking on us, starting around 5:30 AM, purring furiously.  I wake up as he strokes my cheek with a velvet paw and then he curls up on my neck.  I shove him off and look over to see him proudly sitting on Rich's hip.  At this point, I get up, take him out of the bedroom and shut the door. He will have to wait until 7 o'clock for his breakfast.

     

The Best of the Best

     The other night, my husband and I attended a wonderful fund-raiser for San Francisco's Fleet Week.  It was my first real outing since breaking my leg and back.  It took place at the Marines' Memorial Theatre in downtown San Francisco and was titled "The Best of the Best".  There was a dinner held before a terrific concert featuring my husband's band:  The Rich Welker Big Band.  The food was good and the music even better.  There were so many accomplished musicians, but I will mention a few of the most outstanding.

     The pianist, Shelton "Shelly" Berg was a highlight.  He is able to play in any style of jazz and pop music.  His improvisation  is off the charts and he seems to be having the time of his life while he is playing.  When not in San Francisco, he is the Dean of the Frost School of Music at the University of Miami (for which I have a soft spot in my heart since, coincidentally, I went there for graduate school).  Look for his recordings;  you won't be disappointed!

     Four fabulous singers appeared with the band:  Brian Nova, also playing guitar, Erich Stratmann, Billy Valentine, and Marcie Henderson.  Ms. Henderson is an up and coming vocalist who is originally from San Francisco but now lives in New York City.  If you get a chance to hear her, make sure you do.  This girl can sing!

     Jim Salestrom, who has appeared with John Denver, Dolly Parton, and Kenny Rogers, played guitar and sang his own material.

     Lastly, the legendary Tom Scott, renowned composer, arranger, producer, music director, and saxophonist lent his big sound and intricate ad libs to the evening.

     Rich, my husband, didn't play but did start and stop the tunes.  He reports just loving to sit back and enjoy the great sound.  As did I.  What a treat to hear such talent!

DMV Revisited

     Last week I went again to the DMV for a reactivation of my handicapped placard.  Guess what?  It was closed!  There was a "Closed" sign on the door, but no explanation.  I tried calling the California DMV to get more information, but could only reach computer prompts.  As you may recall I had a leg fracture at the Symphony parking lot a couple months ago.  I was hoping the musicians would set up a shrine in my honor, at the notorious spot:  complete with cross and flowers.  So far, none has been erected.  Then a few weeks after that calamity, I fell again and fractured a vertebra in my back.  I just turned 60, but the way I have been hobbling around, I feel like 60 is the new 80!

     Back to the DMV.  With no helpful information on the phone, I decided to wing it and drive down to the Redwood City Office.  They were closed as well.  Nuts!  When I got home, I called DMV again, and found out that they were closed for Cesar Chavez Day.  I think that might have been April Fool's Day as well.  At any rate, I gathered my courage and went the following day.

     When I arrived in the parking lot, there was a line of at least 100 people coming out the door.  I asked one of the people if the handicapped (and with my cane and limp, I  am the poster child of handicapped) had to wait in the line.  A very nice young couple said I should go in and ask the security guard.  He told me to go to the front of the appointments line, where I was helped within five minutes.  I then had to sit and wait about 10 minutes until my number was called on the TV screen.  I  then sashayed over to Window 8 (as well as someone can with a cane) and received my new handicapped card.  I asked the clerk if he had had a nice day off, to which he laughed and said yes, it was a state holiday.  Live and learn!  And now I can drive with confidence knowing that I will be able to use handicapped parking spots, if I can ever find an empty one!

An Irish Air Continued

     We were thrilled and relieved that Fiona got to Ireland in one piece.  She spent a lot of her time with Erin, her birth mother, and with her three half-siblings.  Fiona and brother David, one year her junior, got to be especially close.  She hung out with him and his school chums for a good part of every day.  Erin turned out to be in better-than-expected-shape, and so the sense of urgency with which we had sent Fiona there had dissipated.  We really didn't know what to expect, since much of the time Erin was so heavily medicated for the pain that she couldn't communicate very effectively.  Fiona was going to be gone for three weeks.  It now seems like that was too long a time to spend away from her school here, but at the time we did what we thought best.

     There was not much change in Erin's condition over the next couple of weeks.  By the third week Fiona was ready to come home.  We asked if she wanted to come back sooner than planned, but she decided to stick it out until her scheduled return.  Being an old hand at changing terminals at Heathrow for her connecting flight, Fiona made it through the travel labyrinth without a hitch.  Though we had meant for this visit to be one of farewell, Erin's status had improved enough that she was given several more months.  Of course we all know that doctor's estimates on these sorts of things are just that:  guesses.  Fiona left Erin with the thought of perhaps returning in the summer or even possibly for school next year.

    

     We were delighted to have Fiona back safe and sound.  And she was very happy to get back together with her boyfriend and other friends.  But within a few days, she wanted to go back to Ireland to live, for the summer and into the next school year, if not permanently.  This is where I become very uncertain about the pros and cons of open adoption.  Legally, Rich and I are Fiona's parents, and we absolutely feel like we are her parents.  We took on that responsibility 16 years ago.  I do think it's a good idea for a child to know about his/her birth family and to have some contact.  But the situation that we have created here, that is, a birth family that is having trouble letting go, seems like it does the child more harm perhaps than good.  Fiona is feeling very torn between her Irish and American families.  And the pressure she is feeling from her Irish family is seriously undermining our family unit here in the states.  I am curious if there are any other adoptive families faced with this dilemma.  Please feel free to comment.

An Irish Air

     With a leap ahead to the present, we are now faced with Erin's illness being very serious, fatal in fact.  We got word a few weeks ago that Erin didn't have much longer on this Earth and wanted to hold Fiona's hand one last time.  How could we say no to that request?  My traveling with Fiona to  Ireland was out of the question since not only do I have a fractured tibia at the moment, but a fractured vertebra as well.  If Fiona were going to go, she would have to go by herself.  Fiona was up to the challenge and insisted she could manage.  She found a non-stop flight to London Heathrow with a connecting flight to Belfast, which is about an hour's drive from Erin's house.  Fiona assured us she could change terminals by herself and would be met in Belfast by her great aunt Colleen.  Fiona also worked out a plan with her teachers to have her school assignments with her, and to do the required work while she was gone.  She would stay with one of her aunts or her birth mother.  Since I had been there myself last summer, I had a better idea what type of environment she would be in and felt comfortable with her solo trip.  And believing this was Fiona's last chance to see her birth mother, we agreed to let her go.

     We took her to the airport and were assured by the people at the ticket counter that Fiona would be well looked after.  We checked her bags and walked her to security where we hugged and kissed and wished her all the best.  No sooner had we gotten home from the airport (ten minutes away) when Fiona texted me that the airline people would not let her board the plane.  They said they had no personnel at Heathrow to walk her to the Aer Lingus terminal.  I asked to speak with one of them, but was told it had nothing to do with my wishes.  Finally, after about twenty minutes of uncertainty, Fiona called me and said they had agreed to let her board.  She said she had started crying and told them it was her last chance to see her Irish birth mother.  A superintendent was called and made the decision to let her go.  She was given a seat to herself with extra leg room and an escort at Heathrow was arranged.  Next time I have problems at the airport,  I will start crying.  It's a powerful weapon!

     Fiona made her connection and arrived in Belfast on schedule.  Great aunt Colleen met her and drove her to one of her other aunt's where she spent the first night.  And then she went immediately to see Erin.

To be continued.....