When Irish Eyes Are Smiling

     Many of you may not know, our daughter, Fiona, was adopted by my husband and me when she was an infant.  Her story is quite unique since she was born in Northern Ireland and brought to us here in California by her birth mom when she was seven weeks old.  It was not considered an international adoption like those from China or Ethiopia since it was privately arranged through a lawyer, not the involved government authorities.  Because of this, it took us over six years for Fiona to become a US citizen. The upside is, she could have dual citizenship should she choose.  We have always maintained a relationship with Fiona's birth family and have seen her birth mom, whom I will call Erin, a number of times over the years.  We have always felt, through all the literature we have read on the subject, that this was the healthiest and best thing for Fiona.  And it was what Erin wanted as well.

     Last June, we got word that Erin had just found out that she had cancer.  She was told there was a good chance she could be treated successfully and began chemotherapy immediately.  Fiona was naturally very upset by this news and wanted to go to Ireland as soon as possible to visit Erin and to have some of her questions answered.  Now that Fiona is fifteen, adoption has become a very important issue for her.  She wanted to know why she, as well as two other birth siblings, were placed for adoption while Erin kept her three other children with her.  My husband Rich and I have always tried to be as honest and open as we could be about the circumstances of Fiona's adoption.  And Fiona has always been open about and almost proud of being adopted and her Irish heritage.  But becoming more mature and more aware of such things, as well as Erin's illness, made Fiona desperate to find out the "truth" from her birth mother herself.  Fee wanted to leave tomorrow and stay all summer.  And she wanted to go all by herself.

     Though Fiona has traveled to Europe and Asia with me on Symphony tours, and flew to Denver last summer by herself, she has never traveled alone internationally.  Rich and I weren't about to let her go by herself or for that long to a place neither of us knew.  Plus Fiona's passport had expired and we didn't have a lot of money to spare for airline tickets.  We just weren't that crazy about the whole idea.  But we did, at Erin's urging, get Fee a new passport, made hotel arrangements, and bought TWO round trip tickets.  I asked for, and got, a week off from the Symphony (very supportive of them) to accompany Fiona to Ireland.  I finally realized that, should Erin suddenly die, Fiona would have lost forever the opportunity to find the answers she wanted.  Of course, Fee wanted to go for a longer period of time and go BY HERSELF.  But, simply put, she wasn't going unless I went with her.  And we thought a week in a strange place with a lot of unknowns was sufficient.

     Erin comes from a large family which was directly affected in a serious and tragic way by "The Troubles," Northern Ireland's fight for independence from Great Britain.  Her father was in the IRA and was captured and imprisoned by the British when Erin was a baby.  Much of this has affected her entire life. Fiona is now mature enough to grasp the gravity of this and to better understand Erin's story.  But I truly felt that Fee needed my support while she was there.  So in early July,  Fiona and I took off for Belfast International Airport. 

     We were totally jet-lagged as we got off the plane and were met by Erin's sister, Molly and her young son.  Erin was having a chemo treatment so we went directly to Erin's other sister, Shannon's house for tea and a quick nap.  I'll never be able to sleep, I thought to myself as I lay my head on the pillow.  But the next thing I knew, an hour had passed and Erin had arrived.  She was so happy to see Fiona, that that moment alone made the whole trip worthwhile.

To be continued.....

Another Visit to the DMV

     I feel I have to let you all know why I have gotten behind in my blogging.  A week and a half ago, on my way from the parking lot to the concert, I tripped over one of those "parking bumps" against which the tires of you car go while parking, and as it turns out, broke my tibia.  I am on crutches and off work for the next few weeks.  It is hard for me to sit at the computer in the kitchen, but will try to use my daughter's lap top as soon as she shows me the password.

      My daughter, Fiona, has been a great help to me.  And thank god she can drive, with me in the car, or we would be in even worse shape.  She drove me to the DMV yesterday to apply for a handicapped placard so we can park in disabled zones when necessary.  Of course, in the DMV parking lot, we had to park a half mile away from the office.  But aside from that, the whole process took about 10 minutes.  I was incredulous at how easy and fast it was.  To which the woman at the window said, "We aim to please!"  I am not kidding.

     So with handicapped placard in hand, my daughter, who is doing quite well in the driver's seat, drove us back home.  Lucky for me, she is eager to drive me anywhere I want to go, as long as it is not on the freeway (she hasn't covered that in her drivers' education lessons with a trained professional).  Once I am off the crutches, I will be back at work and with any luck,  will be able to able to schlep my bass to the stage unassisted.  I will keep you posted as to my progress.  Thanks for reading!

Rags to Riches

     In my first posting, as you may recall, I talked about The Clapper.  Well, last Sunday afternoon he was back with a New Year's vengeance.  We hadn't seen him in at least a month and I didn't spot him during the first half of the program, Sylvestov Elegie and Schumann Piano Concerto in A Minor.  He must have been using restraint because he didn't make himself known until the second half.

     After the Rachmaninoff Symphonic Dances, (always a hit) the audience burst into applause and rose to its feet.  And who was among the first?  Yes, The Clapper.  He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, which threw me off at first.  He usually looks like he stopped in for a concert after a workout at the gym.  He wears a tight, black short-sleeved tee shirt and track pants.  Because the weather had been quite cold, for San Francisco that is, he must have decided to wear a warmer shirt.  But his clapping style is unmistakable, and before I knew it, I had spotted him in the center, Orchestra.  My stand partner, Mark, commented that it was unusual for The Clapper to be at a matinee since in the past, he was seen mostly at Saturday night concerts.  But now we know that he could appear at any concert, so we'll have to be vigilant in our observations.  At any rate, it is always a joy to see him and admire his stamina.  He is unfailingly the first to his feet and the last to stop applauding.

     We couldn't help but wonder a little about The Clapper's life.  He clearly loves symphonic music.  We have even spotted him at outdoor concerts we play.  But as I mentioned in the earlier piece, he has sat in the student rush seats for years and now is in the center of the Orchestra section.  Much pricier tickets.  Did he come into some money?  Get a new job?  Or maybe he just decided that his symphony seats would take priority.  I kind of like to think it is the latter.  It gives me such a great feeling to know that he enjoys  the music so much.

     Speaking of enjoyment....last Saturday night, as we were walking to our cars after the concert, a young man started chatting with us and said how much he enjoyed the concert.  We pleasantly thanked him.  And then he said he was newly turned on to orchestral music and absolutely loves it.  In fact he attends every week!  Wow, I must say that is impressive.  I'm thrilled that there are members of the younger generation who love this music as much as I do.  Thank you to our loyal audience!

Permit to Drive

     Nothing says Happy Holidays like a trip to the California DMV.  Today we made such a trek, my 15-and-a-half year old daughter, Fiona, and I.  She had an appointment to take her Learners' Permit Test today at 10:20 AM.  Good thing she had that appointment, or we would still be there.  As it was, we didn't get called to Window 13 until close to 10:45.  There, a man who appeared to shave his eyebrows explained the procedure, stamped, stamped, stamped our forms, and gave Fiona her vision test.  She passed that with flying colors, I paid $31 and it was off to the Test and Photo Window.  She had her picture taken there, took her written test in isolation while I waited with the huddled masses, and then stood in the Test Correction Line.  She was a bit apprehensive, but only got 3 wrong (you can miss 8 and still pass!)  The lady at the Correction Window congratulated her, explained that she had to have 2 hours of professional drivers' training before she could drive with her Dad or me, and sent us on our way.  All of this took a little more than an hour.

     One thing that always strikes me at places like the DMV, for instance the NYC Subway, is the similar aroma that emanates from them.  Is it that people don't care what they look or smell like when going to these  places?  I do not notice the same scent at, say, Symphony concerts, where people may shower and shave before heading out the door.  Is it that people stop by the DMV before or after work, and are kind of smelly from their labor?  Who the heck knows?  But at any rate, the smell mixed nicely with the festive decorations that the employees had taken great care to put up all around.  Each window had a wreath and there were several nutcrackers bedecking filing cabinets.  There was even a Peanuts Winter Scene on one of the walls.  On one of the windows hung a huge Santa's  sleigh and eight giant reindeer. Winding garlands of tinsel completed the look, putting us in such a joyous mood that we went for a late brunch at Neil's, a local coffee shop.  There, a different odor wafted from the doors:  that of hash browns and toast.  As we got in the car and drove out of sight,  I had to say "Congratulations, Fiona!  And to all a Good Night!"

Great Symphonic Disasters: Part 2

     Back in the late 1970's, a year or so before I played there, a near-fatal tragedy took place at a concert of the Mexico City Philharmonic.  One of the halls we played in doubled as an opera stage, and so was very steeply raked, that is slanted, to enable the illusion of perspective.  A piano concerto was to be performed and a nine foot concert grand was rolled into place.  Someone forgot to lock the wheels properly and as everyone watched, horrified, the piano rolled off the stage and into the audience with a god-awful crash.  Thanks to God and the muses of music, no one happened to be seated in the affected seats, or surely someone would have been crushed.   I am not sure what happened after that, but I assume, after the dust settled, the concert continued, if not exactly as planned.

     After a year in Mexico City, I returned to play in the San Diego Symphony.  I remember a Sunday matinee, when we started the program with Roman Carnival Overture by  Berlioz.  During the lovely English horn solo in the beginning, everything was going along swimmingly when CRASH!, a cymbal back in the percussion fell off the riser and startled the bejeebers out of everyone, most especially the English horn soloist.  But as per usual, the concert went on as if nothing had happened.

     During my final summer in San Diego, we played many, if not mostly, outdoor concerts.  They were in the pops style, with light classics in the first half, and a popular entertainer the second half.   I won't say who the pop star was, (for her safety and mine) but she had a huge voice and had gotten her start in Vaudeville and on the Broadway stage.  During the first half of this particular concert, we were playing a violin concerto.  As the soft and slow second movement got started, we could hear a muffled but rather raucous voice coming over the loudspeakers.  The words were intelligible, but definitely loud and distracting.  We kept playing, hoping against hope that it would stop.  But naturally it did not.  Finally, after the added insult of the sound of a toilet flushing, the conductor could take no more, stopped the orchestra, and walked off stage to see what was going on.  A minute or so later, he returned to a quiet stage, we began again, and finished in peace.  The pop star, we later found out, had had her contact mike on in her dressing room and she was being broadcast over the entire venue.  Always the true professional, she came out for the second half and sang and danced as if nothing had been amiss.  Let's just say her voice was so big, she didn't even really need that microphone!

Wild Kingdom

     As I sit at the computer and gaze out our back sliding door, I am struck by the number and different varieties of birds who fly in and out of the back deck.  Simply by putting up two songbird feeders and a hummingbird feeder, we have created our own small nature preserve.  Every day dozens of finches,  chickadees, towhees, wrens, and of course, sparrows vie for spots at the feeding stations.  We had never even seen goldfinches around here before and now, with their special feeder, I have counted nine perched on it at once.  Usually only one hummingbird uses its feeder; probably the same one, since  hummingbirds are so territorial.  I have seen another one attempt to use it, but then is chased away by the rightful owner.  Only in the late evening have I seen more than one on the feeder.  My sister has named this phenomenon "last call."  Hummingbirds go into an almost hibernating state during the night, since they require so much sustenance during the day when active.  Because that last bit of nightly nutrition is so important, they seem to cut each other some slack right before it gets dark.  One evening in early autumn, when it was still warm at dusk, I sat quietly on the deck.  Suddenly, four hummingbirds flew onto the feeder and shared their last drink of the day.  It was an other-worldly experience;  almost like being in a dream.  They drank quietly for quite some time, and then sated, flew off for the night.

     We have another songbird and another hummingbird feeder in the front yard.  This hummingbird feeder seems to be ruled by a different hummer.  I say that because he has a different style.   While the one in the back sits motionless while feeding, looking up from time to time, the one in front keeps flapping its wings while it sucks the nectar.  The backyard hummer doesn't seem to go out front;  rarely have I seen a skirmish.  But I have seen some pretty daring feats by our resident squirrels.

   There are two main squirrels who live together in the hole of a tree in the back yard.  One is brownish-gray and the other, an unusual, sleek black.  His name is Shadow.  His friend is Gray (after our former California Governor, Gray Davis.)  Shadow's main mission in life is to get seeds from the bird feeders.  In the past, he has been fairly successful.  Our first songbird feeder out front was made, of all things, plastic.  Often, Shadow would be seen hanging by his back toe-nails, chewing away at the top of the feeder.  It didn't take him long to hit the jackpot.  Our next feeder, after the first was demolished, had a supposedly "squirrel-proof" canopy that sat on top.  That was a minor distraction to Shadow.  He immediately climbed over it, a mere inconvenience, and  began chewing away until it, too, was destroyed. We finally ordered the super-deluxe, absolutely-squirrel-proof-or-your-money-back feeder.  Built like a tank, it was steel with smooth sides that no squirrel could conquer.  Shadow took this on as his personal challenge.  Try as he might, he could not get down to the feeder, with its built in canopy.  But that did not deter him.  Perched on the tree trunk directly opposite the feeder by about six feet, he hurled himself into space and tried to grab hold of the feeder from the side.  Unfortunately for Shadow, this was impossible and he fell to the ground.  Never one to give up, he kept at this for most of the afternoon.  By evening, he had called it quits.

     Grim determination has always held a soft spot in my heart.  My husband  and I agreed that we had to provide Shadow and Gray their own dining experience.  The next day, Rich perused squirrel feeders from the squirrel-proof bird feeder catalog.  In it was pictured a small, scale-model  green, metal Adirondack chair with a squirrel seated properly, gnawing on a corncob.  "That's it! We've got to get this one!"  I agreed and one was ordered.  We anxiously awaited its arrival. 

     When it was delivered, Rich immediately installed it in the tree in front and screwed in the corncob-like squirrel chow.   It didn't take very long before Blackie settled in for a good chew.  But to this day, neither he nor his buddy sit properly in the chair as demonstrated in the catalog.  They both sit on the arm rests.  And, I'm happy to report, there has been no more squirrel-hurling at the bird feeder.

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.