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Concert Day

Concert Day

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Bow has met bass, performers have met conductor, the intrepid Dr. Joe Ceo, and in a few hours we will practice briefly, then take our turn on stage.

There are about 50 or 60 of us in the Reunion Orchestra, of wildly varying ages and abilities. Take the string bass section for starters. Our first chair is a professional bass player, a conservatory graduate and first chair of the Buffalo Philharmonic; he’s about 20 years out of high school. Next is a member of the Lexington Philharmonic and longtime teacher who was in the youth orchestra a couple of years before I was. Next to me is a 2017 high school graduate who was playing his final concert with the Central Kentucky Youth Orchestra this time last year.

Not that any of this matters. Playing music together banishes age and occupation. What’s important is being in tune, on time and willing to give our hearts to the task at hand.

And of that there is no question.  We traveled from New York and Texas and California and Virginia to do just that.

Have Bow, Will Travel

Have Bow, Will Travel

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I am usually an optimist, but not enough to pack my string bass bow in checked luggage on the flights from Little Rock to Lexington. The bow, and my concert black clothes, were stuffed into my smallish briefcase. Or, to be more precise, my computer, notebooks, journal, book and clothes were stuffed in the briefcase. The bow was resting on top of it as I roamed around the Charlotte Airport.

To back up a bit here … The Central Kentucky Youth Orchestra is providing a string bass but I’m providing the bow for this weekend’s musical activities. I’m so glad it’s not the other way around, but the bow has presented some logistical challenges. It’s too large to fit into a carry-on bag, which is why I was checking luggage to begin with. And it’s fairly delicate, too, so it has been well padded.

Now the bow and the bassist (seems presumptuous … but that would be me) are on their way to pick up the bass and take it to Bryan Station High School, where the rehearsal (and the fun begins).

Have bow, will travel.

View from the Brow

View from the Brow

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Yesterday, for the “retreat” part of this work week in Arkansas, we drove an hour and a half west to Petit Jean Mountain. It was where the organization I work for began —  and a place that holds special memories for me.

I spent most of the day at a conference room inside, but there were a few minutes at the beginning and end of the day when I could walk to the brow of the hill and savor the view —  the big puffy clouds casting shadows on the fields, the hawks soaring high above the pines, the two mountain ranges that draw the gaze ever westward.

It was a view that captivated me decades ago — and still does. I thought about why. It’s more than just the beauty, I think. It’s also the promise and perspective, metaphor for a nation that once stretched its legs across a continent and took its strength from people and from place.

Joy in D.C.!

Joy in D.C.!

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I’m not a big ice hockey fan — I don’t know a check from a puck — but I know jubilation when I see it. And jubilation is the story here in Washington, D.C., as the Capitals advance to the Stanley Cup finals for the first time in 20 years.

I found out from a text from Claire, my hockey-loving daughter, who used about half a dozen exclamation points at the end of her message.

It’s that kind of joy. As Washington Post sports columnist Dan Steinberg wrote,  D.C. reacted “about how you’d expect a city might react, if that city had been waiting for 7,000 or so days for a team to get to this particular spot, and if that city had seen this particular team come up short in this particular round against this particular opponent every particular spring.  There was relief. There was delirium. There was exaltation.”

It’s one of those wins that feels like more than what it really is, that feels like payback for living in a “swamp” where troubling political news combines with troubling Metro news (including the closure of four stations for 98 days next year) combines with killer traffic for a uniquely D.C. type of misery.

But today is different. It’s May. The azaleas are bursting with jewel-tone blossoms. Pollen is on the run. The Caps may not make it all the way. But right now it’s more than enough that they made it here.

(Photo: Washington Capitals)

Born in the Bluegrass

Born in the Bluegrass

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Yesterday, researching who I wanted to pull for in today’s Kentucky Derby, I ran across a fun statistic. Seventeen of the 20 mounts in the race were born in the Bluegrass. The Lexington newspaper had all the birthplaces, many of them clustered in the Pisgah Pike, Versailles area near where my parents used to live.

I didn’t know all of the farms (though I knew some, most notably Calumet, with its distinctive white and red trim). But I know all of the places, know the two-lane roads that wind to them, the way the Osage orange tree branches arch over their lanes. The roll and tilt of the land is familiar to me; it’s what I grew up with, too.

Reading those farm names, I could smell the tobacco scent that would waft through the air in the fall when I was a little girl, back when the big auction houses were still there. I could smell the aroma of Lexington’s own racetrack, Keeneland, an amalgam of spilled beer and turned soil.

Once these places were part of my external landscape, now they’re part of my internal one.

Seven Miles

Seven Miles

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Yesterday Suzanne and I went for a walk after work. It was a lovely spring afternoon, just begging to be strolled through.

We started at my office in Crystal City, and quickly angled onto the Mount Vernon Trail, dodging the high-speed through bikes on the narrower connector path. We had to talk a little louder when we got to Gravelly Point, where jets roared overhead from take-off at National Airport.

But by Memorial Bridge the air was soft and quiet. The fresh green weeping willow branches shimmered in the lowering sun.

Mostly, we talked. But sometimes we marveled, too. Washington has its monster traffic jams, but it has marvelous foot paths, too. And yesterday I felt like we were on all of them.

We walked for hours. So this morning, curious, I looked up the distance.

Seven miles. You could have fooled me. It didn’t feel an inch more than five.

As the Light Allows

As the Light Allows

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As the days lengthen I notice new landmarks on my evening walks through Arlington. Yesterday’s “find” was discovering the Virginia Square Metro Station. I looked to the left, and there it was. Not that I was ready to ride the rails. I pushed on to the Ballston Station. But it was nice to know it was there.

My first walk on this route was late last year. I barely made it to Court House before the street lights came on. And by Clarendon it was completely dark, so I hopped on a Metro there.

I got lost on my next two forays to the neighborhood. First I swung too far to the north, the next time too far to the south. I was looking for the middle way.

It took the brighter afternoons of early spring to reveal it. Fairfax Drive, the street I was looking for, looks like a parking lot when you enter from the east. It’s only when you stroll a few yards beyond the entry way that you see it blossom into a road. This is not something I could discern in darkness or even in dusk; full daylight was required.

I like discovering this neighborhood little by little, as the light allows.

Toys Aren’t Us

Toys Aren’t Us

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I was sad to learn that Toys R Us will be closing its stores. Not that I liked them much in their heyday. Then I was sad about the smaller closings, the independents and the Zany Brainys. But still, this marks the end of an era. Not just of toy stores but of the sort of children who frequented them.

My kids grew up with real, tangible playthings — blocks and puzzles and Legos — and of course the boxes they came in. Electronic toys were beginning to enter the market, but barely. Now they dominate the market, and, I’m afraid, childhood itself.

What becomes of children who touch screens instead of play dough, who swipe instead of stack? I guess they become the people suited for a digital universe. All I know is, I’m glad I raised my kids when there were Barbies and Bratz and My Pretty Ponies — and the big warehouse store that sold them.

Flowers, Real and Imagined

Flowers, Real and Imagined

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Here in Crystal City, folks are trying hard. Brightly patterned skins have gone over the gray stone buildings, blank walls have sprout faux gardens, while not far away a sheltered cherry tree breaks into early bloom.

A colleague thinks we’re trying to lure Amazon’s HQ2, and that may be the case.

But all the paint and netting in the world can’t camouflage the button-downed corporate soul of this place. The only thing that does that for me are the people. At lunchtime on a warm day, the place is full of life. Pale office workers play ping-pong or corn hole. Smokers linger longer in front of buildings. Bikers and runners mingle on the sidewalks.

So if paint and netting bring out the people, then bring them on!

Recipe for Improvement

Recipe for Improvement

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The strolls through Arlington are becoming commonplace. Some days I walk two Metro stops up the line, others four. Last night it was two, and when I descended into the tunnel I could see a train coming. I was “lucky.” There had been a switch problem earlier and trains had been single-tracking most of the evening. The next train was due in 16 minutes (a lengthy interval at rush hour even for this dysfunctional system).

Can I do justice to the inward groan that greets a packed-full subway car at the end of a long day? Inward howl is more like it. A clown car’s worth of people piled out at Clarendon, but still it was shoulder to shoulder. But what’s this? I spied a tiny space, enough for me to step in and find a pole to hang onto. At least I had only six stops left. Many riders had been sardined in there for double, triple that.

It was one of those days, major cuts proposed to the State Department and Department of Agriculture, cuts that will no doubt never be enacted but which underline the difficulties of living here. Remind me again … oh, yeah, I work here, we work here. And now the girls work here, too.

Only one thing to do: Get home as quickly as possible and change into comfy clothes … then do something to make the world go away:
make dinner
hang out in the kitchen
bounce on the trampoline
write in my journal
watch the Olympics
talk on the phone
read a good book
hug Copper

… And hope tomorrow (today) is a little bit better!