Double Bell Euphonium

Double Bell Euphonium

Comments 0 Comment


Last night we sat on the floor of the Kennedy Center lobby and heard 300 tubas, sousaphones and other lower brass play “Deck the Halls,” “Angels We Have Heard on High” and “Jingle Bells.” But the tune I can’t get out of my head this morning is “76 Trombones.”

That’s because we were introduced to some unusual members of the lower brass family, including a Russian bassoon (a gawky looking mix of wood and metal) and the double bell euphonium (pictured above), as in these lyrics from “The Music Man”‘s signature tune : “Double bell euphoniums and big bassoons/each bassoon having his big fat say.”

TubaChristmas concerts, the international phenomenon which began in New York City’s Rockefeller Plaza in 1974, were created by the late Harvey Phillips as a tribute to his teacher William J. Bell. The appropriately named Bell was born on Christmas Day 1902, and among other highlights of his illustrious career, played with John Philip Sousa. So Christmas and the 4th of July come together in the heritage of this fine musician — just as holiday carols and summer music came together in my head this morning. And why not? It’s the season to seek joy in unexpected places.

24-Hour House

24-Hour House

Comments 0 Comment


I can remember a time when sleep lasted eight hours, when nighttime was a clear barrier between one day and the next. But for many years now I can count on patchwork sleep at least a couple nights a week.

Sometimes I pop up, ready for the day — only the day is still night. I take full responsibility for this restiveness and have all sorts of strategies (occasionally successful) to counteract it.

But other times I wake up due to — ahem — environmental factors — the primary of which is having a teenager in the house. This teenager may not go to bed until 2 a.m. if she has a lot of homework. And sometimes she gets hungry after midnight so she cooks. During the summer, when we have two or three daughters at home the shower is as likely to be running at midnight as it is at noon.

In other words, for the last few years our house has come to resemble a 24-hour hotel, a full-service establishment with round-the-clock service. I love our house, I love our kids. But I’m exhausted.

A Walker in the Wind

A Walker in the Wind

Comments 0 Comment


Head bowed, hands stuffed in sleeves, I pushed my way yesterday through the strong west wind. After the balmy strolls of a lingering autumn, the power of this “arctic air” (as the weather people like to call it) took my breath away.

I’ve never minded exercising in still cold. You start off shivering but heat yourself up quickly. The body is a furnace.

But cold windy days are another matter entirely. Every bit of exertion-stoked warmth flies away in the breeze. You are at the mercy of the elements. A part of the landscape, bent but not broken.

The Appeal of Advent

The Appeal of Advent

Comments 0 Comment


More than a week into Advent and I am finally slowing to the measured pace of this liturgical season. It is my favorite. A time of reflection, hope and anticipation.

Perhaps it is the carol “O come, o come Emmanuel,” its plaintive chant, and early memories of singing it in my parochial school hallway, the waxy smell of the Advent candles. But for some reason Advent always makes me think of old stones and heavy draperies, the silence of the cloister. Because it is less trumpeted than Christmas, Advent has kept its ancient, monastic overtones. It is as barren as the earth scoured clean by winter winds. It is a preparation for the celebrations to come.

Good Boy

Good Boy

Comments 0 Comment


This morning our dog, Copper, was especially rambunctious. We don’t know what got into him exactly, but he came inside after his morning romp and skittered all over the living room and kitchen. He chased his tail. He ran loops in our house. He looked for all the world like a canine comedian, milking us for every laugh he could.

I let him back into the yard where he ran big loops with a red ball in his mouth. More laughs. It’s impossible to watch that little guy rocket across a space, his long, low body (one of our friends says he seems to be put together out of spare, mismatched dog parts) blurred by motion. He’s the life force itself. The very essence of joy.

When he’s done he runs up to us with a funny grin on his face, as if to say, aren’t you proud of me.

And at that moment I forget about the loud barking, the accidents on the carpet, the ruined back door, the times he’s run away and left us with our heart in our throats. I reach down and pat the little guy.

“Good boy,” I say. “Good boy, Copper.”

Behind the Times

Behind the Times

Comments 0 Comment


While most people watched the HBO miniseries “John Adams” four years ago — or read the book by David McCullough on which it is based — I’m just now catching the show. While I marvel at Paul Giamatti’s portrayal of Adams, “the forgotten founder,” and at the philosophical conversations between Adams, Jefferson and Franklin, what strikes me most about the series is how difficult life was 200-plus years ago.

Fire, pestilence, perilous travel — these people were not coddled. To what extent did the circumstances of our ancestors’ lives forge in them the character and ardor to build a nation? Life then was shorter, harder, more intense. I feel fat and shallow in comparison.

First Frost

First Frost

Comments 0 Comment


When I was a child longing for snow, I would pretend that frost was a thin dusting of the white stuff. Now I see frost for what it is — a frozen exhalation, a definitive end to fall. But I am still amazed by the transformation of water into ice, still dazzled by its ordinary beauty.

Staying Warm

Staying Warm

Comments 0 Comment


It may be December, but November weather is upon us. Not too late to think about these lines from Maurice Sendak’s charming poem “Chicken Soup with Rice”:

“In November’s gusty gale, I will flop my flippy tale.
I’ll spout hot soup, I’ll be a whale.
Spouting once, spouting twice, spouting chicken soup with rice.”

Today I hear the wind chimes clattering; they are the treble notes above the bass roar that is the wind. There is such commotion outside that it’s hard to think about leaving the house.

I would rather think about reading “Chicken Soup with Rice” to the girls when they were young, their scent warm from the bath, their footed p.j.s on, each of them clamoring for “their month.”

That’s what will keep me warm when I head outside.

Happy Birthday, Celia

Happy Birthday, Celia

Comments 0 Comment

Our youngest daughter, Celia, was born 16 years ago today, and by preschool she was already exhibiting a sense of style, a certain flair. She did not inherit these traits; they are her own through and through.

Celia loves to shop — and I shop as little as possible. In the last year we have reached a tentative truce. She shops with friends and easily doubles or triples the amount of time I spend in stores. But sometimes we shop together. And then the fun begins.

“Oh no, Mom,” she says when she sees me eying something for myself. “Why do you always pick out the most shapeless dress?” Sometimes her only comment is a single arched eyebrow. I am relearning through Celia to put the fun back in fashion.

A youngest daughter is a link to the future, a push to the present. She is a sweet reminder of youth.

Happy birthday, Celia!

Table for Five

Table for Five

Comments 0 Comment


A holiday is like a wave; it races up from afar, engulfs and buoys us, then retreats. When family is scattered, traveling is the best way to stay close. So we traveled, and we celebrated, together. Now the wave has receded. We are all home.

But we have the memories of being together. The yellow building on the right is where we went for lunch on Saturday, just the five of us, sitting at a tiny table meant for four in a cramped place that accommodates 30 at the very most. It reminded me of our dinner table on a good night: the inside jokes, the rolling of eyes, the togetherness. I miss it already.