DON’T ASSUME

June 21, 2014 //
2

Don’t Assume

Making assumptions is problematic. A prime example was our next door neighbor where I was raised in West Philadelphia, Villy Leudig. He moved in with his wife, Aily when I was around seven in the early-1960’s; he still lived in the corner house, separated from my parents’ home by only a thin median of grass, when my parents moved away thirty years later.
My first awareness of the then-thirty-something couple was overhearing my father return from greeting them to tell my mother that our new neighbors were Stonians, and probably D.P.’s.
I didn’t know what either of those things were, but I had heard the latter term used by my father to describe occasional customers at his clothing store, and it didn’t seem to be a good thing.
“What’s a Stonian?” I asked my father at dinner that evening.
“Estonian,” he said, emphasizing the ‘E.’ “Our neighbors are from Estonia, a small country north of Germany,” he said.
“Is that a good country?” I asked.
“Well,” he hedged.
My father was usually straightforward in answering my questions, particularly if I showed interest in a business or political sort of subject. His hesitation was intriguing.
“Is it a bad country?” I asked.
“They were not helpful during World War II. The Nazi’s used Estonians as concentration camp guards; they looked perfectly blond, just the way they wanted people to be,” he explained.
I was wide-eyed with alarm.
“Are the new neighbors Nazi’s?” I asked.
“No, no, I’m sure they’re not,” he said. “They seem like nice people. But I think they’re D.P.’s.”
“What’s a D.P.?” I asked.
“A displaced person,” he said. “It means they didn’t have anywhere to go after the war.”
I was still confused, not sure what ‘displaced’ meant. If they had nowhere to go, maybe our new neighbors were bad people.
“Well, how do we know they didn’t work as guards?” I asked.
My father shrugged. “Those murderers melted back into Germany or Poland or went to South America. I don’t think they came to Philadelphia. You’ll be safe.”
He smiled.

I was not entirely satisfied with my father’s assurance. Not an outgoing child, I was reluctant to encounter our new neighbor, but I followed his movements from the safety of my second floor bedroom window. Sure enough, I observed, Villy looked exactly like a concentration camp guard from every World War II movie I’d seen. He was thin and of medium height, with light skin, a blond crew-cut and blue eyes. Aily, too, was a platinum blonde, with hair braided as though she were auditioning for a part in “The Sound of Music.”
During their first week next door, the couple were busy as bees reshaping their yard. While Aily created gardens and planted flowers, Villy undertook a large project to chop down brush and weeds from an area between our houses. He began to build a sitting area, with paving stones, an ornamental wood fence, and a barbecue pit.
Next, he re-tarred his detached garage roof and painted the trim around his house. Never had I seen such a blur of home-improvement activity, especially by a homeowner. Though our neighborhood was not wealthy, it was comfortable, and landscaping and repairs were rarely performed by anyone who wasn’t hired. Villy was the first neighbor I’d seen who cut his own grass.
I finally met Villy after several weeks, because my father said he was going next door on a hot Sunday afternoon (the only day he didn’t work at his store) to examine the on-going projects and offer Villy a cold beer.
“Why don’t you come along?” he said to me.
I didn’t question why my father chose to be sociable but I followed behind him to be introduced.
“Thanks, Lou,” Villy said, accepting the beer, with a vaguely European accent. “Is this, aaaaaaaaahhh, your son?”
“Yes,” said my father, and told him my name. “Say hello to Mr. Leudig,” he said to me.
“You can call me aaaaaaaahhh, Villy,” he said.
I’d never heard someone speak like that, with such a long hesitation. I looked carefully at him, trying to see if any evil lurked behind his kind smile. My father and Villy spoke for several more minutes while Villy showed us his improvements. I couldn’t ignore the speech impediment, but I detected nothing else amiss; Villy seemed like one of the nicest adults I’d met. My father had a new friend unlike any other friend he’d ever had — significantly younger, not Jewish, and not related to the men’s clothing business in any way.
In the next several years, most of what I knew about Villy came from overhearing my parents. I learned Villy and Aily spent most weekends at a home in New Jersey, where my parents assumed they had a large community of Estonian friends and relatives. I learned Villy was a traffic engineer for the City of Philadelphia and Aily was a pharmacist. I didn’t know what a “traffic” engineer was, but any sort of engineer sounded impressive to me. I assumed Villy designed bridges or roads; I assumed his household projects indicated a person of incredible technical know-how.

My childhood fear that Villy might have had something to do with concentration camps disappeared. By the time I went to college, Villy was an important, positive part of our lives. After my father retired in his late-70’s, he waited for Villy to come home from work like a pet waiting for his owner, so that he had a companion to share a drink and conversation. When I came home on school breaks, Villy and I played spirited ping-pong matches in our basement.
Villy offered advice and assistance on home-repair projects, like replacing toilet innards or repairing leaky faucets. Even though these tasks were basic, they were easily beyond the ability of my father or myself. Villy’s early burst of energy on his own house gave way to several curious attributes, namely: he never actually finished a project. Patio paving stones remained stacked up near the barbecue for decades, though the job could probably have been finished in a day; a porch he commenced screening-in within weeks of arrival remained mostly unscreened twenty years later; the garage that Villy had roofed and painted upon arrival became filled not with a car but with stacks of newspapers and boxes, from floor to ceiling. Villy, it turned out, was a hoarder.
We accepted Villy’s quirks in a friendly way because he was otherwise so decent and sympathetic. We learned that a traffic engineer was actually someone who did not construct things, but counted how many cars went past an intersection. Sometimes, Villy sat alone in his city-owned car for eight hours and monitored traffic flow at a stop sign, to determine if the sign needed to be moved a few feet in one direction or another. Still, the lack of professional status we’d assumed for Villy was no impediment to our affection for him.
The problem: when I came home from college or, later, visited my parents from the town where I worked, Villy’s frequent presence puttering in his yard presented a dilemma. Talking with him was torture. He rarely completed a sentence without an “aaaaaaahhh” and any effort to provide the missing word was counter-productive. For instance, if he said: “I’m going to get gas in the aaaaaaahhhh…” and you offered “car” he would begin again as though you hadn’t spoken: “I’m going, aaaaaaahhhh, to get gas in the aaaaaaaahhhh, car.”
I learned not to “assist” him, but there was still a significant disincentive to speak with Villy. He simply couldn’t converse “normally” and, if I had to be somewhere quickly, or just wanted to get inside the house, it was impossible to hasten the conversation. Every time I snuck into my house without saying hello and/or formulated the thought that I had to avoid Villy, I felt like a horrible person.
“How do you talk with Villy?” I asked my father once, when I was in my twenties.
“I’m used to it,” he said. “Plus, I’m never in a hurry.”
That was true. Since his retirement, my father viewed his leisurely conversations with Villy to be enjoyable, the longer the better. Little did my father suspect he was about to have more time with Villy. Late one evening, when I was visiting my parents, our doorbell rang, an extraordinary event. I was upstairs, and heard my mother rush to the door and greet Aily, who was crying hysterically. I couldn’t hear distinctly what they were saying but eventually understood that Villy, in his mid-fifties, had suffered a heart attack. The ambulance had just taken him to the hospital and Aily feared he wouldn’t survive. My mother comforted her at the kitchen table for an hour that seemed endless.

The next morning, my parents visited the hospital with Aily. Villy was stable despite a massive attack, but my parents returned home saddened not just by his physical condition. The vast Estonian community they assumed for the Leudig’s simply did not exist. They learned that Villy’s house in New Jersey was just a small cottage in the woods and, in fact, they knew almost no one there. Without suspecting it, my parents had become the Leudigs’ closest friends.
When Villy was discharged from a rehabilitation center after several weeks, he retired from his job on disability. He was home all day long, which was perfectly okay with my father. Villy, too, seemed satisfied to be finished with the traffic department and, other than his pledge, finally, to quit smoking, he seemed unaffected by his near-calamity.
I asked my father once: “Did you ever find out what Villy did during the war?”
“No,” he said. “I’ve never asked. And he’s never told me.”
Though hard to fathom, this sort of non-communication is not unheard of among men. In any event, I was pleased to know Villy was around. As my father approached eighty, his old friends from the clothing business dwindled due to deteriorating health, their inability to drive or, in many cases, death. Villy was available to talk or walk slowly around the block, or go out to get a sandwich.

When I married, at thirty, Villy and Aily were among the few non-relatives on my parents’ guest list. They drove two hours to the rehearsal dinner and I was happy to see them, though careful not to be cornered one-on-one by Villy. There were simply too many people to greet and details to attend to.
During the course of the meal, various of the sixty or so guests stood to offer toasts. Some were funny, some were sweet, and a couple were a little edgy. But the evening flowed without anxiety for me until, to my amazement, Villy rose from his seat across the room and tapped his glass.
“Oh, my,” I thought. I tapped Katie’s arm beside me and pointed: “Uh-oh,” I said.
For a long moment, after he had the attention of the entire room, Villy was silent. I feared he was frozen in some way that would become more memorable than any other aspect of the delightful event. The room fell completely silent. Another moment passed. Someone dropped a spoon. I heard a cough. Everyone waited expectantly. Only a few knew of his impediment. Several guests shifted in their seats. My heart pounded. Finally, Villy began to speak.
“I’m thrilled to be here this weekend to celebrate the wedding of two wonderful people,” he said, sounding like a professional public speaker. He held up his glass to us. “I’ve known Stuart and his family for over twenty years and consider them to be dear friends. I’ve battled Stuart in ping-pong and suffered with him over the Phillies. I’ve seen him grow up and go to college and become a lawyer and a man and I have just this to say: when Stuart and Katie slide down the bannister of life, may all the splinters be pointed in the right direction.”
With that, Villy concluded his toast amidst boisterous laughter and waved to us with a broad smile. All my fears were for naught. My negative assumption was wrong. I’m not sure who was more relieved and appreciative, me or him, but Villy had absolutely NAILED his toast.

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Categories Coming of Age, Neighbors, perspective

WAITING FOR FATHERHOOD

June 12, 2014 //
3

WAITING FOR FATHERHOOD

Nine months is a long time to wait for a child; good thing we weren’t elephants, whose pregnancies last two years. Nearly twenty-five Father’s Days ago, I was soon to become a father, and I still had plenty of time to think about it.
I did not “hate kids,” as some intimates maintained when I was in my twenties. They based that opinion on my frequent use of the term “piss-pots” to refer to small children. However, I’d simply adopted that expression after hearing George Burns use it in the movie “Going in Style.” No, what I really felt was not distaste, but the absence of clear-cut thoughts concerning children. I’d simply never contemplated what it would be like to interact with them or raise them.
How did this happen? My three siblings were significantly older so, in many ways, I was raised as an only child. During my childhood, our neighborhood had no other young children, let alone babies. A demographic shift had occurred, and I was left marooned in an all-adult world.
When I approached twenty years of age, my now-married and geographically distant brothers begat my six nieces and nephews like a tag-team, in alternating years. I uttered the appropriate “oohs” and “aahs” over photographs and stories about their babies from afar, as though they were great athletes or movie stars. When our family convened for holidays, and I actually encountered the babies, my main impression was of bodily discharges, crying and fussing.
In short, while I was pleased my brothers appeared pleased, I was mystified, and certainly did not envy them or see myself in their positions. Fatherhood was not something I craved.
I married at thirty. While I was a willing participant in the conception process, I didn’t ponder what having a child would mean until my wife, Katie, revealed she was pregnant. My reaction was fear. I thought: “What if I don’t feel anything special, only a sense of duty?” I was confident I could “hang in there” and “perform” the role of a father, but I feared my time, finances and relationship with my new wife would suffer.
During the early stages of Katie’s pregnancy, lacking a positive emotional surge, I assured Katie I “would do what I have to do.” She was not sufficiently comforted and, with the benefit of hindsight, I understand why.
“I need more support,” she said.
I looked at her without comprehension.
“And I want you to show more anticipation.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“It would be nice if you rubbed my belly, or talked to it,” she said.
I nodded, skeptically, and attempted a few awkward strokes. I was determined to avoid discussing the subject, lest I reveal too many of my doubts.
Pregnancy is a challenging process, to say the least, for a woman. (Can’t Mother Nature come up with something better?) It’s not so great for a husband, either, if he struggles to summon empathy from a seemingly empty supply.
Each morning, I ran to the kitchen hoping to deliver dry cereal to Katie before she might begin to retch over a toilet. We were both stressed out. While she was not a complainer, she was always exhausted, her back was sore, and her appetite was bizarre. She craved sweet potatoes or yams on a regular basis. Meals often featured crackers and plain pasta.
My doubts were constantly in the back of my mind. How could a child who I spawned come into the world without a father’s wholehearted love and affection? But I was prone to denial and good at compartmentalizing. I focused on work and such things as gardening, tennis and reading; anything to avoid considering the imminent change; I was soon to be a FATHER.
Three months in, Katie had an ultrasound exam. For the first time, I saw a tiny heart beating and learned my child would be a daughter. I tried to picture pink clothing, ribbons and the like. That wasn’t too bad. Then I pictured boyfriends. Not good. I realized I hadn’t formulated a preference for a son or a daughter. At least I wasn’t an old-style chauvinist who preferred a boy. The photo image they printed and handed me showed a stark reality: I was not prepared.
At five months, Katie signed us up for a Bradley birthing class. She explained it was a progressive sort of Lamaze, which I believed vaguely to be a sort of breathing exercise program, not that that meant anything to me. We paid to visit a woman’s dismal little apartment, where we sat on the floor with four other couples, and performed exercises and stretches with cushions that were somehow meant to assist childbirth. My thoughts were mostly consumed with not dirtying my clothes on the filthy carpet. I struggled not to laugh or detectably roll my eyes at the New Age pronouncements of the leader, such as: “You are vessels of creation. Life springs eternal from within, etc.” Such celebrations of pregnancy are designed, I imagine, to bring joy and anticipation to the birth event. But, for me, with my lack of enthusiasm so clear, it only made waiting worse.
After the sixth month, Katie’s morning sickness began to subside but her appearance continued to transform. “Who is this woman?” I asked myself. Formerly trim and athletic, a small bump in her mid-section had progressed from the size of a softball to that of a volleyball, and was heading to a basketball. I struggled to not resent the pregnancy every day. Katie’s energy was less, her back was worse, and I was becoming increasingly nervous. No longer in the back of my mind, I was worrying all the time, “What if I feel nothing for this child?”
“Are you excited?” people would ask.
“Yes, sort of, pretty much” I would say, trying to muster a smile.
Katie knew better than to ask. She didn’t want to hear my mantra about “Doing what I have to do” anymore. The waiting and uncertainty were agonizing for her, too.
When the eighth month arrived, and we chose wallpaper and a crib for the baby’s room, the wait was almost over. On a trip to buy curtains for the baby’s room, we discussed possible names.
“Valerie?” I said. “No,” said Katie. “What about an ’S’ name?”
“Susie?” I said. “Sharon?”
Katie shook her head.
“Definitely not Sandy,” I said.
I felt uncomfortable shifting the concept of “the baby” to a specific individual. I feared my ambivalence was a betrayal. In my anxiety, I offered a joke with regard to my last name, Sanders: “How about Orbital?” I suggested. Katie was not particularly amused.
I’d once told Katie that, according to family lore, I was supposed to have been named after my grandmother, Sarah, but I’d ruined the plan by being male. Desperately trying to foster a connection, Katie suggested we name our daughter “Sarah.”
I liked the sound of “Sarah Sanders” and appreciated the gracious nod to my family. Yet, waiting for this newly-named member of the human race, my progeny, was now even more nerve-wracking. “If I don’t feel anything special,” I thought, “it’ll be horrible. How will I live with myself, an emotional stranger to someone named after my own grandmother?”

The waiting was nearly over when the ninth month dawned, and we planned the trip to the hospital. I knew who to call at the midwife’s office and what route to take. I made sure the car always had plenty of gas. In short, I was doing all the things “I had to do,” but was still waiting with nagging discomfort.
The due date of October 23 came and went, prolonging the marathon. By the seventh day, we were discussing the process of inducing birth or, worse, the possibility of a Caesarian section. In efforts to start labor naturally, we took long hikes, ate spicy food, and even had Katie ingest castor oil. Something worked, and labor began the evening of October 30. We arrived at the hospital after midnight, and Katie spent a torturous night pushing and sweating and, generally, suffering. I sat beside the bed in the birthing center, held her hand, avoided saying anything stupid or insensitive when progress slowed, and finally suggested to the preoccupied midwife: “Why doesn’t Katie get up and take a shower?” That was a trick I’d heard about, ironically, at the long-ago Bradley class.
“That’s a good idea,” said the professional.
The shower seemed to work. After standing under the water for just a few minutes, Katie returned to the bed, grabbed my hand for a climactic squeeze, and pushed out the final product, at 8:12 a.m. on Halloween. Having never actually seen a live birth (I’d averted my eyes even when my cat gave birth), I was stunned to see a fully-black-haired head emerge from the birth canal and slide into the mid-wife’s hands. I cut the umbilical cord as instructed, and beheld my daughter, Sarah, for the first time.
The wait was over. What did I feel? How did this end? With extraordinary and spectacular relief, I found the welling up of love and affection for that little black-haired baby to be instantaneous and complete. It was love at first sight. Yes, I thought my daughter was beautiful, but that wasn’t why I loved her. My stomach flipped with excitement, my veins pulsed with continuous shots of adrenaline, my heart pounded like a jackhammer, my hands sweated and I couldn’t stop beaming. Katie, too, was elated. She was done with labor. She had a healthy daughter. And she could see, finally, I was delighted.
I hope to never experience that sort of long-term, high-stakes uncertainty and dread again, but it was worth the wait.

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Categories family relationships, Parenting

GOING ORGANIC

June 2, 2014 //
4

GOING ORGANIC

As both a new arrival to North Carolina and a recent refugee from a law career, I was seeking a new and interesting experience. An organic farming class offered at Central Carolina Community College fit the bill. Not only would I learn new gardening techniques and pest control measures, but for three hours a week I could sample the life of a working farmer.
Little did I suspect that organic farming consists of only one part gardening to nine parts chemistry and soil analysis. For a former literature major like myself, there were intolerably massive doses of incomprehensible terms like “Ph”.
The first class, held at a real farm in Pittsboro, began with the customary introduction of the participants. Several were already professional farmers in search of knowledge in the “organic” realm. Several others were considering career changes into full-time farming, though they had degrees or experience in such related fields as botany or forestry. One classmate had just inherited twenty-seven acres and craved direction and inspiration — organic farm or housing development? A contingent were women intent upon establishing a lesbian commune. And then there was me, in over my head, a retired lawyer who grows a backyard vegetable garden.
The farmer/professor was Doug Jones, whose past was intriguing. Doug graduated from Harvard circa 1975 and somehow missed the memo about investment banking. His was the stringy body of a man who has done backbreaking, painstaking physical labor for nearly forty years. Just as stringy was the grey ponytail down the middle of his back.
Certainly, Doug’s jeans, boots and flannel shirts started out clean each day; however, by the five p.m. start of our weekly class, they were always caked in strata of North Carolina soil that Doug could analyze in intense, fascinated detail, for several hours. To me, they looked muddy.
And THAT summarizes the course for me. Yes, I learned to place a tomato plant sideways in its hole. I learned to squeeze a seedling with proper tenderness when transplanting. I learned to construct a raised bed and to make a temporary greenhouse. I learned one should not refer to the class as “orgasmic” gardening in front of classmates who do not consider it a laughing matter.
But I also learned being a farmer is extraordinarily hard work. There are challenges wrought by bugs and bacteria made exponentially harder by the organic element. And, organic or not, there are battles with heat, drought, floods and hail. Yes, hail in North Carolina! And there are vagaries of produce prices and supply shortages, etc.
Farming is a seven-day-a-week, 365-day-a-year pursuit, and if the farmer is LUCKY, there is a small profit in the end. While I am happy to apply the lessons I learned to my humble garden at home, there is no new career in it for me. Ultimately, what I learned is not to complain about the price of organic produce at the market.

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Categories Adult Education, Modern Society, Organic Gardening

INSTRUMENT OF TORTURE

May 22, 2014 //
2

INSTRUMENT OF TORTURE

That Sam would play the oboe seemed inevitable. Someone had to.  He was the youngest of three children, after all, and his two older sisters had both failed at the piano and refused to play the oboe, respectively. With my wife, Katie’s professional-quality, hand-crafted instrument consigned to the back of a closet for decades, he represented the last chance one of our children would carry on her legacy as the one-time second chair of the Connecticut State Youth Orchestra.
“You can take piano lessons, if you prefer,” we offered, knowing he had long-refused to consider the beautiful instrument anchoring our living room, by then reduced to a silent piece of furniture.
“Why do I have to take anything?” Sam protested.
“Because musical training is important, your sisters suffered through it, and it will be good for you,” we answered, more or less. We probably also suggested: “it will enhance your college applications, provide an extracurricular activity in high school, and develop whichever side of the brain might otherwise be neglected.” We figured if we threw enough half-baked rationales against the wall, one might stick.
Sam was in fifth grade when this ambush took place. He had just entered middle school where there was an extensive music program. Each participant received a weekly lesson from the band director. Some students took private lessons, too, but the instrumental program at the school was renowned for developing beginners. Eventually, the talented and/or devoted would feed the award-winning high school band, an institution in our town whose fervent following rivaled that of the sports program. In fact, at Ramsey High School, the home football crowd was known to swell just before halftime and diminish precipitously after the band finished performing.
Nearly all the boys who began lessons in fifth grade chose to play the drums or something brass. We’d bought Sam a drum, at his insistence, when he was five. But he abandoned it after just a few days of sporadic pounding. Nearly all the girls chose the flute or clarinet. Not since the eighteenth century, perhaps, had a ten-year-old clamored to play the oboe. When the band director learned that our household held a prospective oboist, she nearly leapt with excitement.
“Does he already play?” asked Ms. Latronica (“rhymes with harmonica,” she always told the students on the first day of school).
“No,” we explained, “but Katie can teach him the basics, and he’s agreed to practice at least fifteen minutes a day.” We didn’t think it necessary to reveal the arguments and bribes involved in gaining the latter assurance. Suffice it to say, Sam’s ice cream and video games were secure for the balance of fifth grade.
“This is so exciting!” enthused the twenty-something Ms. Latronica. “We’ve never had an oboe before. Sousa wrote some great oboe parts!”
We nodded and smiled, but thought back to our daughters’ failed musical careers.
“I fear,” I whispered to Katie afterwards, “that she is headed for some disappointment.”

*****

Fortunately for me, I was at work when Sam commenced his initial oboe practices after school. One day, I arrived home earlier than usual and heard a braying sound emanating from the living room piano bench, where he sat.
“Do we have geese?” I asked.
“That’s Sam practicing,” said Katie.
“Wow,” I said. “Does it always sound like that?”
“Sometimes worse,” she said. “But he’ll get better, eventually.”
“What if he doesn’t?” I asked.
“He’s already made a lot of progress,” Katie assured me. “He can play a scale.”
“In three weeks, that’s all he’s learned?” I said.
“If he took the French horn, he might not be able to hit a note for a year,” she pointed out.
I nodded in agreement, recalling the unfortunate French horn player in my high school orchestra.
“But, at least a French horn sounds mellow. This sound is irritating; it’s hard to take,” I said quietly, cringing, as several additional honks bounced off the walls.

Over the next several months, Sam did make progress. “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” for instance, became recognizable. But he clearly lacked a gift. Since Katie had been an excellent oboist decades earlier and I’m one of those people blessed/plagued with music running through my head at all times, I couldn’t understand our progeny’s lack of musicality.
“They’re all good students,” I said. “And they’re great at soccer. Why do they lack musical talent? We’ve provided nature AND nurture, and received nothing in return,” I continued sourly.
Katie shrugged. “Let’s hope he’ll be happy he tried, someday. There won’t be much pressure. He’s playing third-oboe in the holiday concert.”
I didn’t know whether to be relieved or insulted. “How can he play ‘third’ when there’s no first or second?” I asked.
“Actually,” said Katie, “the third part is what Ms. Latronica thinks Sam can handle. Remember, he’s just a beginner.”
“Fair enough,” I said, apprehensive.
On the night of the concert, we were stunned and impressed to see the middle school band file into the gymnasium before us. Over eighty players made it larger than all but the most august of professional orchestras. Several of the hundreds of parents and grandparents rushed forward to hand flowers to their children. Others stood brandishing video cameras. We remained quietly in our seats, heeding Sam’s request that we “not do anything embarrassing.” Still, we were proud to see Sam amidst the ensemble, though his sheepish posture revealed his desire to be somewhere, anywhere else.
Ms. Latronica, glowing with excitement, took the podium in a form-fitting outfit guaranteed to command the attention of students and audience alike. The band performed a selection of Christmas carols with a Thanksgiving-themed song and a Hannukkah piece mixed in. The skill level was impressive; many of the students played with enthusiasm.
“I can’t hear the oboe at all,” I whispered at one point, though Sam appeared to be blowing.
“That’s probably a good thing,” whispered Katie. “The third part shouldn’t stand out.”
After the concert, while waiting in a long line at Baskin-Robbins (we weren’t the only bribers in town, apparently) we congratulated Sam for his efforts.
“I didn’t play a single wrong note,” he said, smiling suspiciously broadly.
“That’s wonderful,” I said, warily.
“I was just blowing,” he said, “but not hard enough to make sound.”
“Sam,” said Katie. “Why would you do that?”
“I didn’t want to mess up,” he said.
I considered expressing anger or, at least, canceling ice cream. But the latter was difficult because I wanted ice cream, too, and the former would have been hypocritical because I’d done the same thing decades earlier at a high school holiday concert. In fact, what I’d done was worse, since I was the first trumpet, and responsible to carry the melody!

We didn’t let Sam quit the oboe mid-year, despite his requests, but we did move his practice location to the basement. Several closed doors would insulate the rest of the house from the noise.
“He’ll probably be watching television while he practices,” I said.
“Probably,” said Katie.
“Do we care?” I asked.
“Probably not,” she said.
I pondered the situation for a moment. “What kind of parents practically invite their son to goof off when he practices?”
“Realistic,” said Katie. “He’s not gifted and he’s not excited to play. We can’t force it.”
The school year ended with a spring concert. We attended and applauded and didn’t even ask Sam if his instrument was contributing to the sound. And he didn’t volunteer the information. When we arrived home, the oboe reassumed its place in the closet.
As the years proceeded, Sam developed a healthy enjoyment of music. Now that he is in graduate school, on the rare occasions the subject of playing musical instruments arises, I note that my son expertly plays the I-pod and Pandora, and he’s perfectly satisfied with that. Therefore, I suppose, so am I.

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Categories Coming of Age, family relationships, Music, Parenting

SNAKE IN THE GRASS

May 12, 2014 //
4

SNAKE IN THE GRASS

Considering the title, readers familiar with my work will expect this story to take a turn for the metaphorical, to skewer or, at least, examine a lawyer or business or school-related character who shocked me or taught me to be wary. But, no, this is really about a snake in the grass.
I was mowing the lawn this morning, thinking a variety of virtuous thoughts, as I always do. See, the only way I convince myself that mowing the lawn is a reasonable activity for me to undertake, when it would be so easy to just hire someone to do it, other than the crass motivation of “saving money,” is that it is a form of exercise; it’s as valid as going to the gym. In addition, since I use a reel mower not seen in these parts since the 1950’s, I am helping the earth by rejecting fossil fuels. Also, my mower is quiet. Yes, that is the self-congratulatory mindset I usually wallow in while doing a passable, if mediocre, job on my lawn.
When I finished the front yard and proceeded to the rear yard this morning, I noted in my peripheral vision what initially struck me as an odd-colored and odd-shaped black-and-white stick, about five feet in length, ahead of me.
I did not need Jane Goodall’s level of naturalist expertise to conclude, after the initial shock: “That’s not a stick.” A very-much-alive, slithering object was slowly wending its way across my lawn twenty feet ahead. And, unlike several other snakes I have encountered, this one did not startle and race away in the opposite direction. Rather, he/she simply appeared to consider my presence and my now-regrettably quiet and non-threatening mower, to be part of the local environment.
“Whoa, that’s a big one,” I said to myself. This conclusion was in contrast to the not-uncommon sight of baby or juvenile snakes that we see somewhat regularly in a deceased and flattened state on our community’s concrete roads. We have often noted, my wife and I, that there are a lot of traffic-naive baby snakes around, yet one rarely sees the grown-ups. Obviously, they must be around somewhere; this morning, one was in my yard.
Let the record reflect I did not yelp or run. I merely blanched and hurriedly turned my mower around and headed towards the front of the house. There, with my front lawn mown but my back lawn still long, I considered my options. I could tell Katie the mower broke, and we needed to hire someone to finish the job. Lame. I could grab a shovel and return to the backyard to kill the serpent. No way. I recalled the time, several years ago, when we needed our seventy-five year-old neighbor to come to our driveway with his shovel to dispense with a live, baby copperhead. As humiliating as it should have been for me to stand by while he defended my house and family from the ten-inch menace, I was perfectly satisfied with my choice.
“I know what to do,” I said to myself. “I’ll look up black-and-white striped snakes on the internet and figure out what kind of snake this is. THEN, I can decide if we need to hire someone to mow the back or if I need to innocently ask our neighbor to take a stroll in the yard to, ostensibly, look at my vegetable garden. If he is away, I can suggest to Katie we let the backyard grow into a natural space and never step foot in it again.”
Meanwhile, when I went inside and looked out at the back yard, what I really hoped was that the snake had forsaken our yard forever. I was craving a triumph of “Wu-Wei,” the Chinese concept of “action through inaction,” that has guided so much of my life. Initially, I couldn’t locate the snake. My heart rate slowed. Calmly, confident the snake had disappeared, I entered “Black and White snakes in North Carolina.” Immediately, a whole page of pictures popped up. “My” snake, it turns out, is common and harmless. In spite of his passivity, he/she is grandly named a “King Snake,” with unmistakable black and white stripes. He is not poisonous or aggressive around people and is actually described as a boon to a garden because he is so effective at killing rodents.
“Okay,” I said to myself, “he’s (I decided to consider him a ‘he’ due to his name) not bad to have in the vicinity, so long as he isn’t too close.” I continued to read a comment from someone who witnessed a king snake actually attack and kill a larger, poisonous copperhead. “Wow,” I thought, “not only is he harmless, he’s also heroic. So long as I don’t have to see him, I can live with a king snake in the neighborhood.”
It was at that moment my heart sank; I looked outside just in time to see my slithering neighbor, my serpentine savior slide into a hole leading beneath my patio. “Great, just great. He’s the other resident in what is now a duplex.”
So, now what do I do? Only an ogre would poison a snake so regal (no pun intended). But I really don’t want to think about him every time I venture to the back yard. And I definitely don’t want to see him on a regular basis. And there are several family members who don’t want to know the nuances of “good snake versus bad snake,” to whom “a snake is a snake.”
Back to the internet again: there are non-lethal, organic sprays and powders that are designed to encourage a snake to depart. I suppose I’ll try them. To paraphrase an adage from movies and literature to describe everything from “men” to “women” to “internet passwords”: “A beneficial snake. Can’t live with him; can’t kill him.”

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Categories Animal -- snake, Organic Gardening

COLLATERAL DAMAGE

May 4, 2014 //
6

COLLATERAL DAMAGE

It has been said that “surgery is minor so long as it happens to someone else.” But if that “someone else” is your spouse, on the major-minor continuum, even if the physical slicing of flesh is happening to a different individual, it’s major. Believe me.
This past week saw my wife, Katie, operated on for repair of her rotator cuff. Because her pain level was manageable when she initially visited the orthopedist last month, she expected he would detect a minor irritation in need of treatment, followed by a week of physical therapy. She was shocked when an MRI revealed a major tear. Apparently, years of tennis had separated three crucial ligaments from the bone. Without repair, explained the doctor to our astonishment, her arm would be ruined. He was so convincing I didn’t express my habitual suspicion that he simply desired a new Lexus.
One month later, when we finally arrived for surgery at the ACC (Ambulatory Care Center, though everyone at UNC thinks of the Atlantic Coast Conference) the receptionist said: “We don’t have you on the list. Are you sure you’re scheduled for today?”
Since Katie had had innumerable confirmations from the surgeon’s office, the question barely merited a quickening of our heartbeats. After a few minutes of panic by the receptionist and her assistants, (the ACC is fully staffed, to say the least) the appointment was confirmed, and we proceeded to “intake.” There, an assortment of doctors, interns, nurses, anesthesiologists, ombudsmen, and their respective assistants and adjuncts, proceeded to introduce themselves while we sat dazed.
“They may kill you with kindness,” I whispered.
“Shhhh,” said Katie.
After fifteen minutes of meet-and-greet, I was ushered to the waiting area while the surgery took place. I returned to the recovery unit three hours later to find an understandably bedraggled and bedrugged wife, babbling cheerfully thanks to pharmaceutically-induced relief. It would be twenty-four hours before she had sensation in her left arm. By the time of discharge, the next morning, major doses of Tylenol and oxycodone, accompanied by a “pain ball” filled with narcotics, were keeping the pain in check.
“This is going so well,” said Katie, in a rare moment of naiveté.
“Wait’ll that pain ball is empty in two days,” I said, in a customary moment of doom-and-gloom.
Unfortunately, I would prove correct in that regard. Still, the recovery was going well, and we were sent home. Upon arrival, Katie took control of the living room like Russia took control of Crimea. Her domination became absolute from the staging area of the lounge chair. An ice machine squealed 24-7 while she sat/laid/lounged (not in the fun way) the days away. A huge sling, like a medieval contraption of war, immobilized her left side. Somewhere, beneath its straps, pads and levers, was her newly excavated shoulder, healing.
There was a surge of pain on the third day when the “ball” was empty, but the next two days showed marked progress. Now, the oxycodone has been almost eliminated from the routine and Tylenol is lessening. The stronger, morphine-like back-ups were unnecessary. After visiting the doctor yesterday, to celebrate the progress, we treated ourselves to a quick biscuit breakfast at Hardees.
More disposed by temperament to Nurse Ratched than to Florence Nightengale, I am doing my best to provide water, food, fresh ice, blankets, encouragement, foot-rubs, reading materials, television and music. So far, my efforts have proved satisfactory, if I say so myself. But it’s only been five days; the sling is on for five weeks, so “mission accomplished” cannot yet be declared.
One of the nicest aspects of this experience has been the kindness of our neighbors. They have provided an abundance of meals, snacks, flowers and visits. I’ve had to manage traffic at the front door.
“Perhaps, we should periodically fake a surgery,” I suggested, “just to find out who really loves us.”
Needless to say, Katie did not indulge me with a response. She has been admirably stoic throughout this experience. While I would be wallowing in self-pity in her position, her complaints have been largely confined to imbecilic responses received from service providers, like the resident who, when asked about colace-resistant constipation, suggested a name-brand product that drew a belly-laugh from the pharmacist, since it consisted of the exact ingredients as colace. In the same vein, three nurses at the ACC warned Katie of likely reactions from doses of the pain-killer neurontin, though Katie’s records indicated in block letters she is allergic to it. Each time, Katie patiently, but incredulously, directed them to the drug-allergies section on the chart.
Surgery has allowed us to ponder the likely-related subject of aging. Is this a one-time event for this decade, as were my back and knee surgeries in my thirties and forties, respectively, or is this a harbinger of frequent procedures as we travel the back-nine of life? I sure hope it’s the former because, while we enjoy spending time together, this is NOT the way to do it.

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Categories family relationships, medical issues

AN UNLIKELY BROMANCE

April 26, 2014 //
6

AN UNLIKELY BROMANCE

Frank Rizzo was mayor of Philadelphia from 1972-1980. During that time, he distinguished himself for brutish bravado. Describing how mercilessly he intended to disembowel opponents, he declared, on several occasions: “By comparison, I’ll make Attila the Hun look like a fag.” For reasons I could not initially understand, my non-threatening, mild-mannered father was enamored of this man.
Before he was mayor, Frank Rizzo had served as police commissioner. Not surprisingly, his reign was dominated by charges of police brutality. Admittedly, the late 1960’s and early 1970’s were challenging times for a big-city police commissioner. There were potentially violent protests from radical students as well as from such organizations as the Black Panthers. To be fair, many credited Rizzo’s aggressive tactics with holding a lid on potentially riotous situations that could have spiraled into deadly chaos. Even his opponents admitted as much, though they were grudging in expressing admiration, understandable from their perspectives on the receiving end of the nightsticks.
Considering my father’s clothing store was in a neighborhood conducive to trouble, I eventually comprehended why Frank Rizzo’s “law and order” platform appealed. But his manner and expressions were so repugnant! Opponents, including my siblings, referred to him as “Ratzo.” Yet, my father, in the face this scathing skepticism and derision, remained a supporter.
My father was an active member of the Marshall Street Store Owners Association. This was a meaningful organization in the 1940’s and 1950’s, when the street was a bustling shopping area with over one hundred stores, but a sad joke by the late 1960’s. In a misguided effort to revitalize the old shopping area and its deteriorating neighborhood, Philadelphia bought out and razed half the stores with the stated intention of rebuilding them. Half the remaining stores were left empty. Unfortunately, the city’s “Redevelopment Authority” ran out of money before the “redevelopment” part occurred, leaving a scene reminiscent of a depression-era movie. By then, my father was the only store owner willing to act as “president” and, accordingly, his name landed on the new mayor’s mailing list. Each year, commencing in 1972, he received a Christmas card at the store signed “Mayor Frank Rizzo.”
“Look what I have here,” proclaimed my father, proudly brandishing the card when he strode into the house after work. “It’s from Frank Rizzo himself.”
“He didn’t really sign it,” said my mother.
“I don’t think he knows how to write,” said my sister.
A teenager at the time, I found my father’s worshipful attitude oddly touching. I’d rarely seen him express affection for a public figure, even an entertainer, aside from Ed Sullivan. And I’d NEVER seen him express affection for a politician. Yet, here he was, wielding a Christmas card as though it were the sweetest thing he’d ever seen. I wanted him to be right. I wanted to believe the card was truly “personalized” but, after looking at the machine-like tone of the ink, I, too, concluded someone had stamped “Mayor Frank Rizzo” onto a standard, green card. I remained silent.
Certainly, I thought, my father, a noted skeptic in his own right, would look at the card again and agree he was mistaken. He had to know the new mayor had more to do than individually sign hundreds of Christmas cards that were doubtless sent to every club, organization and entity in the city. Shockingly, instead, my father doubled down on his faith.
“I’m sure he signed this himself,” he said, “and I want to send him a card back. Do we have any Christmas cards here?”
“We have Hannukkah cards,” said my mother.
“Can we get a Christmas card?” he asked. By “we,” he clearly meant my mother.
“I’ll get you one tomorrow,” said my mother. Not generally given to blind obedience, she, too, seemed taken aback by his fervor, and, perhaps, a little moved.
The annual receipt of the holiday card from Mayor Rizzo became something of a family joke. My mother, sister and I looked forward to making fun of it, but each year, we were a little more private about our scoffing, a little less likely to do it in earshot of my father. His earnestness was simply too sincere to mock — openly. So proud of his personal connection to Philadelphia’s most powerful man, my father would bring the card home and place it prominently on our fireplace mantle, front and center of any other cards we had received. After the first year, my mother automatically presented my father with a card to send in response, without discussion. For the next seven years, as long as Frank Rizzo was mayor, she’d even address and stamp the envelopes, a task my father somehow was perfectly capable of handling at the store, but seemingly unable to do at home.
“Should I sign ‘Lou’ or ‘Louis Sanders?’” he would ask, each year.
We would stifle the roll-of-the-eyes reaction and urge to say: “It won’t make any difference. He won’t read it anyway.”
“Either way will be fine,” my mother would respond.
As the 1970’s proceeded, Marshall Street, which was barely surviving, became increasingly forlorn. Additional store closings and robberies sapped my father’s determination to stay open. After he was pistol-whipped by a thug in 1979, my father reluctantly agreed to give up his business of over fifty years. But what could he do with the building? My father listed it with a realtor for $50,000, but no one would buy it. It was in a worthless location.
“Someone offered $2,000 today,” he reported one day, dejectedly, as we sat down to lunch, “for the bricks.”
“Why don’t you call the mayor?” said my mother. “His term is ending in a week. It’s now or never for him to reward your loyal friendship.”
It was clear to me that her tone was ironic, but my father’s expression brightened.
“Do you have the number?” he asked.
Home for the holiday break from law school at the time, it occurred to me I’d never seen my father dial the telephone at home. My mother retrieved the number for the Mayor’s office from the directory and wrote it down for him. My father went into the kitchen where there was a phone and, before he shut the door behind him, I heard him prounounce:
“This is Lou Sanders of the Marshall Street Store Owners Association. Is the mayor in?”
My father’s discussion continued for several minutes.
“Who could he be talking to?” I asked.
“Who knows?” said my mother. “I guess the mayor’s office has employees.”
“Dad’s probably interrupted their card game,” I said.
“Good thing the Eagles aren’t playing now — they’d never have answered the phone,” said my mother.
I heard the kitchen door open, and my father returned to the dining room.
“Well?” said my mother.
“Who were you talking to?” I asked.
“The mayor’s assistant,” said my father, casually. “Is the coffee hot?”
“And what did he say?” asked my mother.
“We’ll see,” said my father. “I told him to thank Mayor Rizzo for the Christmas card, and to wish him well in his retirement next week.”
“That’s all you discussed, for ten minutes?” I asked.
“We’ll see,” he repeated.
Coyness was not a personality trait I’d ever seen in my father. Clearly, he was not going to share any other details of his conversation. When he left the room several minutes later. I said to my mother: “It’s kind of sad he’s willing to humiliate himself like that. I bet the mayor’s office had a good laugh.”
She nodded in agreement.
Imagine our surprise on December 31 when my father received a check in the amount of $48,000 from the Philadelphia Redevelopment Authority. A short cover letter advised that the City had chosen to purchase my father’s building “in its ongoing campaign to accumulate valuable commercial properties.” The letter was signed by an unknown official. But a handwritten postscript was added at the bottom, in blue ink: “Warmest regards, your friend, Frank.”

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Categories family relationships, politics, Retirement

FEAR OF FLYING FRONTIER

April 17, 2014 //
3

FEAR OF FLYING FRONTIER

Friends and family scoffed when I booked a recent flight to Philadelphia via the Frontier Airlines “hub” at the Trenton-Mercer County Airport in New Jersey.
“What kind of an airport is that?” asked one.
“I’ve never heard of that airline,” said another. “Do you need to flap your arms?”
“I hope Chris Christie doesn’t come over to shut the runway,” said a third.
“Well, I might get a story out of it,” I said, truthfully. “If nothing else, I’ll be $200 ahead.”
Yes, this was one of the few times I have chosen an activity in anticipation of a story. It didn’t hurt that the famous Frontier trip from Raleigh to Trenton costs only $39 versus the holiday-season-inflated $239 being charged by “real” airlines to fly to Philadelphia’s “real” airport.
“I guess it’ll be a little prop plane,” said my wife, Katie. She could not join me due to work obligations, but she supported my choice of airline; in fact, she’s the one who found it on-line.
“You haven’t taken out a life insurance policy on me lately, have you?” I asked, at the time.
“No,” she replied, smiling. “But maybe I should.”
Trying to ignore the image in my mind of a World-War II-era propeller plane, I moved on to additional logistical concerns: “How will I get from Trenton to my mother’s?” I said. “It wouldn’t be fair to have someone drive all the way to Trenton to pick me up.”
Instant research revealed the existence of a taxi that runs from the airport to a commuter train station in West Trenton, from which I could take a local train to downtown Philadelphia. From there, I could take another commuter line to Overbrook, a short walk from my mother’s condominium in the western suburbs. My personal version of Planes, Trains and Automobiles was set.
A number of prejudices had to be overcome in order for me to fly Frontier. There are certain aspects of life in which I accept generic or store-brand products, such as: aspirin, pasta, tee-shirts and copy paper. There are also areas in life that simply cannot be compromised, in my opinion, and require “name brands.” Principle among these are raisins, ketchup, tuna fish and tennis balls.
The above lists are neither comprehensive nor, necessarily, rational, but have developed over the years, and I am devoted to them. Airlines are a realm that have never been definitively on one side or the other; I’ve had tolerably tedious, as well as miserable experiences, on a variety of “major” airlines. Few non-“major” choices have arisen and, frankly, I’ve been comfortable with that. Thinking about Frontier, after all, sparked an anxiety-provoking recollection of a long-ago flight from Detroit to Muskegon on a six-seater that resembled a seventy-five minute roller coaster ride.
Still, for a story and $200, I was game.
The first thing I noticed about Frontier’s presence at Raleigh was that it was almost non-existent. The airport designated a skinny wooden lectern, nearly invisible between a newsstand and a restroom, as their “gate.” In numerous visits to Raleigh’s airport, I had never noticed it. Expecting only ten or twelve fellow travelers, I was shocked to see a crush of humanity wedged into the area around the lectern like sardines.
When I looked out the airport window, I was relieved to see a “real” airplane waiting, festooned with pictures of grizzly bears on the tail. “Before their last bankruptcy, they were based in Montana,” a man behind me explained to his friend.
Right on time, a young Frontier employee behind the lectern attempted to announce the boarding process. After several tries, it was apparent her microphone wouldn’t work. So she cheerfully displayed her North Carolina roots by shouting: “Y’all can start gettin’ on the plane.”
“Everyone at once?” asked the man beside me.
“Yep,” she said. “Ain’t no first class on Frontier.”
“Okay,” I thought. “We’ll ALL be second class passengers.”
And so it went. One hundred and fifty people piled onto the Airbus 318 and took their assigned seats in twenty-five six-seat rows. Surprising to me, every seat was taken. Boarding was random and chaotic, and we took off twenty minutes late, but so much extra time was built into the schedule that we arrived in Trenton ten minutes “early” after an uneventful fifty-nine minute flight.
The only anomaly was that a passenger across the aisle had a small dog in her lap. The flight attendant said: “The dog has to stay in its box.” But when the owner/parent replied: “She gets nervous in there,” the attendant thought for a moment, shrugged, and said: “I guess it doesn’t really matter.” Thus, the puppy remained out and eventually found its way to every lap in our row amidst much laughter. It yipped occasionally, but made less noise than numerous humans I’ve flown beside. Somehow, I can’t see that happening on United.

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Categories discount airline, Modern Society

CONCERT-GOING

April 7, 2014 //
0

CONCERT-GOING

I found myself at Memorial Hall on the UNC campus last night for a concert by the Israel Philharmonic. They are touring the United States this spring and fit in a date at our local university on their way from NY to Miami. What a thrill it turned out to be!
First, the people. Though I was born when Eisenhower was president, a symphony concert is still a place where I am, relatively-speaking, in the flush of youth. Much of the crowd appeared to have been bused in from retirement and assisted living facilities. Only a tiny contingent, perhaps three percent, were college students. And, judging by the amount of time they spent furtively playing video games and checking e-mail and Facebook during the concert, I suspect most of them were in attendance in order to score bonus points from their Music 101 professors.
My first glance at the program was concerning. There was a piece by Faure, followed by two by Ravel, and finally, Berlioz. While I like classical music, I admit to being somewhat of a meat and potatoes fan, with large doses of the big guys, Beethoven, Brahms and Bach. I prefer discernible melodies and rhythms. I know Ravel, in particular, to be full of atmospherics; his is the sort of music where you aren’t sure when to applaud.
My concern was somewhat confirmed when I noted the orchestra to contain not one, but two harps. More than one harp is rarely a good sign for fans of un-subtle symphonic music.
This being the Israel Philharmonic, in order to access the hall, I had to walk through a gauntlet of demonstrators. These misguided souls are under the impression, apparently, that violinists have a role in setting government policy. They are aggrieved that cultural exchanges are occurring between our country and Israel and feel that Muslim culture is short-changed.
Two things came to mind. First, a troupe of Muslim performers were at UNC last fall, called the Manganyar Seduction. I found their performance to be fabulous and interesting and none of the demonstrators outside were even aware that performance had taken place, much less attended it. Second, as I assured them, if Palestine or Iraq or even Abu Dhabi sent over a world class orchestra, I would be delighted to hear them. In fact, if the Gazans could manage a first-rate string quartet, I’d be willing to listen. In my opinion, to demonstrate against the appearance of the IPO was simply lunatic.
Back to the music: The Faure piece, Pelleas et Melisande, turned out to be familiar. The performance was splendid, subtle but beautiful. It was not dynamic enough to turn the students away from their mobile devices, however. The Ravel selections proved as atmospheric as feared, but still had lovely moments and some surprising risings and swellings of sound. Unfortunately, both pieces were divided into six or seven portions. After each section there was a pause. And during each pause, the audience felt compelled to let loose with a spasm of coughing, sneezing and throat-clearing that made me think I was at a nineteenth-century tuberculosis sanitarium, or in my usual situation on an airplane.
Listening to Ravel afforded me the chance to contemplate. I thought about the experience of attending a concert in Chapel Hill versus my previous home in the suburbs of New York. There, world class performances were always available. Unfortunately, accessing Lincoln Center from Ramsey, NJ sometimes required the logistics of the Normandy invasion, particularly if it was on a weeknight evening. Also, the cost was astronomical, and the crowd seemed jaded and unimpressed.
In Chapel Hill, we attend concerts for twenty percent of the cost, five percent of the hassle, and everyone is excited to be there, except for some of the students. When we go to hear the sixty-piece North Carolina Symphony we never fail to conclude: “Wow, they are really, really good. They are only 90-95 percent as polished as the New York Philharmonic, but for the price and convenience, it’s a worthwhile trade-off.”
But “really, really good” is not the same as phenomenal. Once in a while, it is necessary to be reminded of true greatness, of a full-throated ensemble of 105 off-the-charts-amazing musicians, working together as one to deliver a timeless performance. The second half of last night’s concert, featuring Berlioz’s “Symphonie Fantastique” was such an event.
From the first notes, the performance held the hall in rapt attention. The coughers were suddenly cured, the few students who had not escaped at intermission looked up from their smartphones. The music rolled, like waves, from section to section of the orchestra. Bells tolled, drums boomed, strings flowed in unison.
The familiar piece, so well-known as to seem dull to me on the radio, was thrilling to see in person. Who knew there was a timpani quartet in the middle of the final movement or that an improbably bearded, yalmulke-wearing orthodox percussionist could play a snare drum with such aplomb? When the last blasts from the brass section sounded like cannons it was as though we were transported to another dimension, where sound-waves vibrated every wall, every seat, right through to the bones.
When the final chords subsided, there was a pause before the audience realized they were still on this earth, at a concert, and it was time to applaud. The sound welled up quickly, with people shouting “bravo” and rising as one to provide the deserved standing ovation. The crowd refused to stop cheering until the conductor returned and led an encore.
“Wow, these people are starved for culture,” I imagine some of the musicians were thinking. But, no, Chapel Hill has a laudable amount of culture. We have many very, very good performances to enjoy. We just don’t often have a world class orchestra in front of us. And we didn’t want to let them go.

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Categories Modern Society, Music, Reflections

MUSING ON LOSING

April 1, 2014 //
0

MUSING ON LOSING

A business theory called the Peter Principle holds that workers rise in a hierarchy until they reach their level of incompetence. Beyond that, they no longer rise, thus, a mature organization is filled with employees who are incompetent. I fear this principle applies to my current tennis team.
Over the last several years, I played on teams at the USTA 4.0 level and enjoyed significant success. I have been part of two state championship winners and five league championship winners. My teams have only narrowly missed an additional state championship and a regional championship. Yes, to win is not supposed to be the most important thing but, I cannot deny I find it significantly preferable than to lose. All of this success created a problem — along with half of my teammates from last season’s 4.0 state championship team, I was moved up to the USTA 4.5 level. Only one step removed from the classification of club professionals and current or recent D-1 players, the dudes on the other side of the net are now pretty uniformly awesome. Oy vey.
Last week, in our team’s fourth consecutive loss, I found myself assigned to the premier court to play “First Singles.” While such an assignment should have been deemed an honor to my well-past-fifty self, I found it hard to enthuse about playing the anticipated twenty-five to thirty-year-old stud. I figured he would be so recently out of college he would arrive with his still-intact university-issued equipment. I assumed he would hit serves I could not return consistently and that he could run with ease to retrieve my assortment of chips and slices.
I was overly optimistic. My opponent, all six-foot-six of him, was STILL in college. He doesn’t graduate for another month and plays for the Club team at UNC. My failure to return his serves can only be called “inconsistent” in my happiest dreams; I could barely see the ball before it bounded repeatedly, barely touched, over my backhand side. It was also unnerving to have the young assassin constantly calling me “sir.”
Adjusting to losing requires mental gymnastics. One has to revive all the cliches about defeat one once told one’s children without necessarily always (ever?) believing them: “lessons in humility are valuable;” “setbacks are opportunities for growth;” “so long as you try hard, that’s what really matters.” Unfortunately, such palaver falls flat for me. I’m inclined towards Martina Navratilova’s cynical but concise conclusion: “Whoever said ‘It’s not whether you win or lose that counts,’ probably lost.”
There are still six weeks left in the season and I will have opportunities to “right the sinking ship.” I hope I can, because, as much as I hate losing, I have no desire to return to the 4.0 level. My reach may have exceeded my grasp and deposited me in rarified atmosphere. But, now that I am there, I want to stay there. Is this what they call cognitive dissonance?

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Categories Sports-tennis
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