Picking Peas in November

I picked peas this morning, enough for one good serving or to flavor the soup Karen's planning to make for dinner. I think Barbara Kingsolver (Animal, Vegetable, Miracle) is firming Karen's localvore resolve. We produce a large portion of what we eat, but haven't eliminated our grocery bill. I like to think that's coming.

The more I read and hear about the food sold in stores, the more I wonder if that's the biggest reason why each of us is at high risk for cancers. Most of us think either too little about what we put in our mouths or too much about it for the wrong reason -- "I'm too fat."

I'm looking forward to tasting goat meat. At the same time, I'm a bit queasy about eating Chaps or Telly. Maybe the best way to go about this is to find another goatherd and trade butchered animals (without mentioning any names). When my college roommate called this morning, he mentioned that a goat resides in their freezer. He said nothing about its name or breed. He said the one dish they've made so far, a curry dish, was very good, not at all "gamey" and more like beef or chicken than lamb.

Speaking of chicken, I'm working up to wringing my first neck, maybe next Spring. So far, each of our 10 hens has been focused on laying eggs so as not to draw attention to itself. The rooster, Puck, has come the closest to roasting, having not prompted anyone to go broody, but we've promised him leniency through at least one Springtime.

Virginia is a localvore, without being radical about it. Mung, down the road from her place, is the rich radical.

Flood Watch-Listen

This morning, before settling into a piano practice session, I take a moment to listen to live entertainment. Opossum Run provides the pedal point, an oscillating low Russian bass D thundering against granite boulders that do not budge. The Hogs of the Washington Redskins' front line would be envious. A persistent, random staccato pings the alto line, as raindrops chime A off the cabin's metal roof. Gone or drowned out is the usual soprano descant of tweets and chirps midst the drones of man-made planes. Leaf crunches have diminuendoed into soggy slosh, pianissimo.

I find comfort here, as the repetitions change. Did the low D accelerate and ascend to an E-flat? Have the altos diminished with a ritardando?

Has this natural music been the inspiration for minimalist composers like Philip Glass (for example, Kundun), John Adams (Shaker Loops) and Steve Reich (Eight Lines)? Listening to the entertainment this morning, I think I understand them better. If copying is the highest form of applause, then perhaps as they composed, God smiled.

I recently heard a critic commend a piece by Philip Glass. He compared this kind of music to modern art (I forget whose, maybe that of Sol LeWitt or Richard Sera). He likened both to lying on the grass watching clouds in the sky slowly change patterns. I don't think I'll watch, or listen to, a tree grow or a rock erode, but I had never before so clearly sensed a connection between the visual and musical arts.

Virginia caught on to this much faster than I.

[If you're interested in hearing the music mentioned, try:

Glass: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x7ASCCO2rAE

Adams: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1aLwfDoaCsw

Reich: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CuJCp9wsaj8

Or the art:

LeWitt: http://images.google.com/images?q=Sol+LeWitt&oe=utf-8&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&client=firefox-a&um=1&ie=UTF-8&ei=t4P8So_MLsWhlAey0uXxBg&sa=X&oi=image_result_group&ct=title&resnum=1&ved=0CBMQsAQwAA

Sera: http://images.google.com/images?q=Richard+Sera&oe=utf-8&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&client=firefox-a&um=1&ie=UTF-8&ei=A4T8SrG9LobGlAec4pmBBw&sa=X&oi=image_result_group&ct=title&resnum=6&ved=0CC0QsAQwBQ]

The Joy of Learning

The Arrowhead Trio gathered yesterday for a coaching session with the premiere violinist and violin teacher in our area. Our clarinetist had warned us, "that may be more scary than playing a concert." Concertgoers usually don't know the music well, but here was an expert hovering over our scores as we played. We felt as if we were looking at pimples, wrinkles and hair follicles in a magnifying mirror.

Our coach focused us on something I didn't emphasize in my "Day of a Concert" posting -- preparedness in interpretation. His questions reminded us of conversations we'd had, then swept under the rug. Professionals know how the group will approach each decision point in performance. Amateurs may face the music with more randomness, failing even to recognize many of those decision points.

Music gets harder to play -- better, but more difficult -- the more you learn about it. My first violin teacher (I began taking lessons at the ripe young age of 51) used to laugh when I arrived at my lesson muttering, "I feel as if I'm starting over. I thought I was getting better and now I realize I'm still terrible." "You've passed another threshold," he'd say, "it happens to all of us." Let's call them levels of learning. Arriving at a new threshold, self-defined or induced by the way a series of method books is organized, we feel frustrated that so much remains to be learned, "I'm getting nowhere." If we keep plugging away, we settle into the new level and begin to feel comfortable again. Bam! We hit the next threshold -- "what was I thinking? I'm lousy at this." We keep at it or we quit.

A couple anecdotes come to mind, but please don't quote me because they may be pure fiction. Several singers told me stories about John Bullock (father of the actress, Sandra), a well-known teacher of singing. According to the lore, if Mr. Bullock accepted you as a student (far from a sure thing; you had to be good), you might go six months working on vocal production before singing a single song. I heard a similar story about Yo-Yo Ma -- that when he was a regional artist he asked Pablo Casals to teach him. At first, Mr. Casals refused. When the young Ma persisted, the elder master agreed on the condition that Ma not use his fingerboard for six months -- that is, he would exclusively work on bowing technique. The "sabbatical" supposedly helped Yo-Yo Ma break onto the international scene.

All of us draw different lines in our efforts to learn, for various reasons, including intelligence, natural talent, physical ability, discipline, time constraints, wealth, and cultural values. Some will look at Virginia and say, "What a shame! She could have been a star." Others will say, "What a gem! She's one star who has her head on straight."

Quitters

In his first autobiography, My Own Story, Luciano Pavarotti stressed the importance of practicing every day. Miss one day, he said, and "the voice" falters. I wonder, if it's true, would the reason be physiological or psychological, or both? I understand, from my resident former bodybuilder, that building muscles requires rest time. Most bodybuilders don't push the same muscles to the limit every single day. Instead, they alternate, giving muscle tissue time to repair and recover. Maybe this is hogwash. Even if true, it may have no relevance to singing.

Virginia brings this topic to mind. Fifteen years after completing a section hike with her father, she steps out of the New York State Theater in Manhattan and heads to Springer Mountain, Georgia, where she snaps on a backpack and begins the climb to places like Damascus and the James River Face Wilderness. Is she so burned out she stops singing altogether? Does she hum as she scales the heights and open her full voice into the overlooks?

Last Wednesday evening also prompted these thoughts as the Rockbridge Chamber Singers sightread the Liebeslieder Walzer (Lovesong Waltzes) by Johannes Brahms. I'm not a quitter, but I considered signing out as I struggled with the tenor tessitura (the vocal range most prevalent for tenors in the musical selections). My voice finished the practice exhausted, most likely because I haven't sung with any regularity for eight years. Too long. Not too late, I hope.

Car Fanatics, Take Note

Several people, including my oldest brother, have said, "Your driveway looks like a used car lot." My friends, it's not that we're trying to set an example. We view our cherished vehicles as pets and keep them until they die -- and then we cry. But I must confess: I itch every time I see a picture of a Tesla Roadster (traitor!).

Yesterday I added our dear 1988 Ford Ranger pickup to the collection of a neighbor, bringing our supply down from 5 to 4, from 870,000 miles to 645,000 miles. I hated to see 225,000 miles disappear. That truck moved the world for us.

"Say goodbye," I muttered as I drove away. When I returned, I think Karen said, "Were you embarrassed? I heard you the entire way and smelled the smoke." I guess I looked like Pigpen in a car. I was a tad concerned about the expired inspection sticker and the empty license plate holders, but embarrassed? No way. Would you be embarrassed going for a walk with your beloved spouse or grandmother if she threw a rod, sputtering flatulence, stinky cigar (to cover up) and all? I didn't think so. Love lifts one above petty embarrassments.

I'm waiting for an all-electric car I can recharge with a solar panel. If I surrendered these ancient vehicles, someone else would drive them. Buying a new car when we don't need one seems counterproductive and ecologically repulsive, but I'll be open-minded about it. I suppose we could spray-paint each one "clunker" and donate it to the pile of vehicles the U.S. government recently bought. Then they'd be torn apart, recycled and never driven again.

By the way, Virginia chose an old pickup when she realized she was going to do some hauling.

Nose Plugs

I got behind. I could say the behinds got ahead of me. I received word from our friends at the horse farm that the pile that supplies our gardens with manure was overflowing. I rushed off to remedy the situation and deposited two pickup loads in my investment account. I feel rich and getting richer each time I glance at the steaming mound in our field. It's our growth fund. Eventually, I hope to have enough composted crap to feed my gardens the rest of my life. (I want to live a very long time.)

Moving from one stink to another, I planted garlic in a single row around one of my nine 15' x 35' garden beds. By spring it will look like green candles on a birthday cake. If this little odor fence doesn't discourage the varmints, it will deserve at least an "8" for style. Some say you should wait until the longest day of the year to plant garlic. I vote for November, when the ground is soft and dry.

I'm conducting an experiment, inspired by Will Allen, an entrepreneurial genius who operates the last remaining farm within the city limits of Milwaukee and heats his greenhouses with compost. (Check him out at www.growingpower.org.) I deposited some of the manure in a long oak box Karen installed in our greenhouse. Will it help keep the greenhouse warm this winter?

I like to think my gardening efforts will leave messages for future grandchildren. Maybe I should bury a letter, too. Virginia's grandfather did.

Let Them Eat Soap

We have a visitor in our cabin. I'm beginning to think he or she has moved in for good.

I normally keep bars of handsoap in the mirrored cabinets above the bathroom sinks. When guests arrive I inevitably forget to tell them where the soap is. Our most recent company set a nice bar of hotel soap on the edge of a sink. After they left, I noticed it and left it alone.

Although I made a point of keeping the doors to that bathroom closed, yesterday morning I noticed the sweet little round bar had disappeared. Gourmet soap. Who ate it? Not Virginia, I'm sure. I'll have to remember this if I ever have a craving for cocoa butter, oils, lard or anything else that might give me some energy. But what about the lye? Or the glycerin?

As I looked around to see if glycerin is edible, I discovered it's in many food products, including some toothpastes. Glycerin can be derived from either vegetable or animal sources, so all you vegeterians and vegans, watch out!

Then I searched to see if lye is edible. It's safe to say eating lye is not generally recommended. Children do it sometimes without parental permission. Curiously, several sources have criticized Swedes for eating Swedish meatballs, a staple made of cat meat soaked for hours in lye. That sounds like trouble to me, but I'm not going to bet my life, or even a nickel, on the truth of it.

Rumors a/k/a Wishful Thinking

A friend recently gave me a draft of a poem about rumors. A rumor is the result of egos working, trying to lift up someone by pulling down someone else.

I've fortuitously found myself reading something else right on point, Kafka's "The Castle." The novel is a story of a village and a nearby castle that exists -- more than that, depends -- on rumors. Everything the reader knows about the castle comes from village gossip. At times, one wonders if the castle exists.

About three-fifths of the way through this book, Olga tells the main character of the novel, known only as K, why the village shuns her family. At first, we're led to believe Olga's sister, Amalia, is the reason. An official of the castle noticed Amalia at a village celebration and, as castle officials tended to do when they desired female attention, summoned Amalia by sending a letter via messenger. Amalia read the letter, not the least bit loving or considerate in nature, and tore it up in the face of the messenger. This was not how village girls were supposed to behave.

The villagers dropped by Amalia's home, in effect, to say goodbye. Each one retrieved any shoes left for repairs with Amalia's father, the cobbler, paid any debt owed to the father, and henceforth made no contact with the family.

Olga's (extended and aggravating) story suggests that her family perpetrated its continuing situation. According to Olga, the village would have "forgotten" the incident if the family had proceeded to act as if its supposed affront to the castle had been resolved. Instead, the father took as his mission a quest for Amalia's forgiveness, losing his health and sanity in the process. His pursuit of the castle's pardon hit a wall because the castle hadn't accused him or Amalia or his family of anything, so there was nothing to pardon. His co-dependent family sold almost everything they owned to support his hopeless, worthless quest.

Here we are, a hundred years later, continuing the tradition of Amalia's family. Think of the time we waste guessing what others are thinking. Marriages often fall apart -- Virginia's may have -- because spouses assume they know what the other one thinks. I'd bet many marriages are founded on a betrothed's fear of what x, y and z would think if the wedding were canceled. Family feuds thrive for years based on an incident interpreted differently by one another. Friends and acquaintances lose contact because someone thought this and that and no one bothered to check the facts.

Why do we do this to ourselves and each other? Because "I" am the most important. We like to think others think about us. We like to imagine what they think about us. In a long-winded way, Eckhart Tolle focuses on this in his book, "A New Earth." We'd be much better off if each of us recognized when the "ego" is talking and laughed it away.

Day of a Concert

I wonder how professional musicians feel on concert days. Michael Jackson told Oprah he never got nervous. I'm quite sure that's unusual. Some argue that a bit of nervousness adds a needed edge. The true mark of a professional (in any field) may be an ideal combination of technique, intelligence, understanding, appreciation, preparedness, concentration, self-esteem, humility, and attitude. We amateurs lack one or more of those talents.

I'd guess the most common shortcomings are technique and preparedness. We want to play repertoire we aren't quite ready to handle. On the other hand, like the old saying, if you want to become better at tennis (or x), you need to play with someone better than you.

I'm often amazed by an artist's performance, as well as a composer's presentation, of the "simple." It's easy to be misled by something "simple." As I try to memorize the Schumann piano concerto, one of my stumbling blocks has been the first four measures of the cadenza near the end of the first movement, learning when each finger moves quietly, slowly, like a slo-mo Bach invention.

I sat down this morning of an Arrowhead Trio concert, Virginia neatly tucked away, and worked through our selections for this evening. In a sense, I did triage, which I don't suppose a professional would do unless lazy or overbooked. Focusing on the most difficult measures, I fought a struggling morale and prayed that tonight the odds would favor me (that is, if I can play a passage to my satisfaction six times out of ten, tonight each time will be one of those six). Perhaps I should have focused on the "easy" notes.

I imagine a professional is more astute at reducing the distractions. "Practice makes perfect" refers to more than technique, extending to things like being accustomed to performance situations (unfamiliar pianos and halls, different temperatures), instrument failures (faulty pedals, sticky keys), extraneous sounds (coughs, cellphones), accidental blunders, and the presence of critics. I find I can construct a bubble of sorts, but I'm not certain I've set the right balances. I don't want to be like the fellow who takes a prescription drug and loses his sympathy and passion.

What was it that derailed Virginia's career? She had everything, except maybe attitude.

Death, and Life

Jack Frost paid us a killing visit last night, our first this season. Yesterday I should have gathered the warm green tomatoes that are now shiny, soon-to-be-slimy.

A couple weeks ago I transplanted a tomato vine into the greenhouse we constructed from a kit earlier this Fall. The vine's been doing fine, with red fruit ripening. Neighboring spinach sprouts thrive and potted artichokes show new color.

I think I'm in love with this year's beets, carrots, parsnips, salsify and greens, which rest outside in their beds of mulch. I wish I'd planted more, although I recall that in August when I started these guys the rest of the gardens were packed with thriving crops. To me, rare is the candy that beats the taste of a freshly dug carrot.

A long list of garden tasks awaits me. I should dig potatoes or mulch them to bed for the winter. It's November, so I must get garlic growing. The entire garden needs to be tidied, composted, manured and mulched so it's ready to be scratched open when the first seeds of next year take their turns. No-till gardening works well so long as I plan ahead.

Brrr. That was not my computer whirring this morning. It reminded me of another chore -- collecting and splitting firewood. I've marked dead standing trees with gold spray paint. If I were a year or two ahead, as I should be, our woodstove would be roasting, our home fire burning.

Virginia in more than one sense got a second chance to burn the home fires.

Making Notes

The god of bad notes guards my piano. A friend gave me a carved African statue, saying it would swallow the missed notes I threw from the keyboard so other listeners wouldn't hear them.

Virginia grew yesterday. I've finally learned to jot down ideas when they come to me. Otherwise they may be lost forever. I keep bound journals everywhere I frequent so when the muse speaks I write. Handy little books, I found several at K-Mart long ago. When they were filled with good and bad notes, I couldn't find the same kind anywhere until I went online and ordered a couple dozen.

Speaking of bad notes, yesterday I filled the air with them. I lay the blame on worn out contacts, which I replaced this morning, an unfamiliar piano, a noisy room, and a lack of concentration. We, the Arrowhead Trio -- consisting of a violinist, clarinetist and me -- did a run-through of a concert scheduled for Thursday evening at DuPont Hall, Washington and Lee University. We played in the Commons of the university, where students and faculty dine and socialize. As we played, they hovered or passed by, quietly studying, noisily yelling greetings to friends, checking email, singing, humming, and mostly ignoring us in the corner. Kind of like playing at a charity fundraiser or wedding reception, it was a good way to expose the music of Hovhaness, Arutiunian, Milhaud and Shostakovich, all twentieth century composers, to a captive crowd. One by one, we goofed up, leaving no one person to criticize.

In the evening, when I arrived at the weekly practice of our community chorus, the men warmed up while the women completed a sectional rehearsal. One of the basses, who has opera experience, led us in five-note scales of "enns." Taking advantage of the opportunity to offer five-cents' worth of advice, he commented on how difficult singing is because it depends on human body parts that can't be controlled like a man-made instrument. Disregarding for the moment the fact that human body parts must behave in specialized ways to play any instrument and machines have a tendency to break down, I think of the many "untrained" singers who perform seemingly effortlessly. As the bass pointed out, while singing can be difficult, it can, at times, also seem remarkably and smoothly simple. Those are the moments singers live for.

I see, floating on the fringes, an image of a teacher who begins discussion of a new topic with the words, "I know this is difficult, but...." I recently read about a study finding that if a doctor tells a patient a procedure is going to hurt, it hurts more than when the doctor doesn't mention it. I think I'll vote for the banning of predictions of difficulty. Let's try to make things look easy.

Subconscious Intrusions

Have I mentioned that the first thing we do each morning is milk our goats? It takes about 30 minutes. I usually play “stable boy” while my partner in this earthly journey, Karen, squeezes teats. Now and then she calls me to hobble a cranky doe. It would be a waste if a goat hoof contaminated the milk pail.

At the first creative writing workshop I attended, our instructor began her introductions by warning us that no one makes a living as an author. I knew what she meant, but when my turn came to say what I did, I said, “I make a living as an author.”

It’s true and has been for 12 years, but I’d give up every book (make that “reference work”) I’ve written and a seat on the U.S. Supreme Court for a $5,000 advance and a National Book Award. Would I really?....Yes. I think. Maybe. (It’s good Faust isn’t listening.)

A law professor’s wife once asked me, “Do you miss the law?” I chewed on my tongue, wondering how to respond. I often spend 8 hours or more in a day thinking, analyzing and attempting to explain “the law” and she wonders if I miss it? I patiently explained that not every person who no longer practices law is a law professor.

She raised a good point. If I didn’t fiddle with “the law,” would I miss it? That’s one of the challenges I face in rewriting my novel. As I turn to the task, my subconscious, if not my conscious, mind continues to toy with the topic of my latest work, the book or update I’m quite certain will bring me a royalty check. Transitioning to music or creative writing can be like swimming the English Channel.

For example, today as I reached for the black-and-whites, my mind wandered to a letter a group of trade associations recently sent to HUD (the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development). The letter detailed issues the group has with regulatory changes scheduled to take effect on January 1, and asked for a delay. The letter made some good points and some not-so-good points, and whined too much at a federal agency that, like the Federal Reserve Board, has failed to live up to its potential for some time and now finds itself on the hot seat with Congress. Both agencies share blame, along with many other causes, for the financial crisis we’re in. Having come late to action, they’re struggling like drowning victims.

I wonder if the authors of the letter realize it might serve as a lightning rod for the plaintiffs’ lawyers who are, or should be, salivating over January 1. Even if HUD chooses to be lenient for a few months after January 1, state statutes present attractive opportunities for plaintiffs’ lawsuits.

All of this is good for my business, but frankly, I’d rather not have to think about it.

Virginia, I can assure you, has no interest whatsoever in this aspect of “the law,” although she has on occasion needed the services of a good lawyer.

Ayn Rand and Schumann

Persistent showers this morning cooled my weekly long run. By mile 10 I felt like a dishrag and decided to throw in the towel. Running shoes lose 40 percent of their bounce when soggy and so, it seemed, did the balls of my feet. I wasn't complaining, being grateful for the rain's coaxing of winter wheat sprouts, next year's bread. Then the rain stopped and, feeling much warmer, I kept on to mile 17.

Meanwhile I remembered Atlas Shrugged. Perhaps I owe an apology to Ayn Rand. When I named this blog I had forgotten her refrain, "Who is John Galt?"

I read Ayn Rand's novels 35 years ago while attending a Mennonite college. Her "me-first" capitalism appealed to me not because I believed in it but rather because it contrasted so sharply with the service-to-others philosophy of the Mennonites. Here was another viewpoint, a writer who boldly laid out what many of us realize but may be embarrassed to admit -- that "I" am the most important person. Nice and altruistic you may be, but get sick and try to think of others when your throat hurts and you can't keep dinner down. Consider the announcement that someone else got the promotion you expected. Was that the day you ran to volunteer at the hospital? Even Mother Teresa, in her posthumously published diaries, "Come Be My Light," appears to have been upset at times because Jesus did not reappear to her. Miserable probably begins with "mi" for good reason.

My long run finished, I drove 4 miles to our cabin to practice piano. I've put myself on a daily 3-hour practice schedule. Yes, I could be writing, but a month ago the conductor of our community orchestra invited me to play the first movement of Schumann's Piano Concerto in A Minor on February 20. Fortunately, he didn't ask me to play the other two movements.

I couldn't say no. I don't often get a chance to play with an orchestra. Have you ever wondered about the truth of program bios? If Placido Domingo listed everything he has done, it would have to be on microfiche (I know, it's an ancient term). My music bio could barely complete a sentence (think "Jesus wept").

By the way, Virginia was an opera singer. More about her later.

Welcome to "Who is Virginia?"

I'm not Virginia. I'm James. Sometime soon I'll tell you about Virginia.

Kind of like Walter in the excellent movie, "The Visitor," who fairly late in life learns to play an African drum, I'm learning to blog.

Here's my plan. I'm shooting to rewrite my novel by October 12, 2010, about a year from now. Until then, I'll blog about the obstacles in my way.

This reminds me of an old kitchen stove someone threw over a cliff along a path in the woods I frequent. It's way down there. I usually don't think about it until the leaves fall, then once in a while I consider climbing down, or borrowing a truck with a winch and a long cable. On the other hand, I'm sort of fond of that stove. When our son was seven, we hiked beside a creek that didn't go where we thought it did. After a couple hours, we had almost decided to retrace our steps when we saw that stove. It carried a message -- that a road ran above us. We climbed straight up and within 30 minutes were snacking in our cabin.

I have no illusion that I can rewrite my novel in 30 minutes or simply drag it out of the woods, or that it will lead me to pleasant pastures. So here's the deal. I'm turning on the burners and on October 12, 2010 I'll either have a finished novel or I'm going to carry that old stove to the nearest dumpster.