Time in Perspective

This year's Monster Concert Holiday Singalong (at 7:30 pm, 12/12/12, in case you're interested -- 4 pianos playing at once with a hundred extraordinary people, you could be one of them, emptying their lungs), then Christmas, then New Year's, will quickly pass, along with too many tomorrows. Part of me wants to wait in a long line, shell enough corn to fill a silo, or watch a pig grow, anything to slow time. I once asked my mother, "Does time go faster as you age?" Her answer: "Yes."

I used to say, "I can't wait until ___." No more. I want to dance on the pins and needles.

At the same time, I ache for people the pins prick, who need pills or needles to make tomorrows. Life isn't fair.

Barn Restaurant

Shake a speare, the ground moves. Some people think we live in the boonies of rural Virginia, not knowing that music plays every corner, with living actors, dancers, authors, poets and artists galore. Drive an hour north and you’ll find a timberframe barn in the midst of historic Staunton where words written in the early seventeenth century echo fifty-two weeks of the year. I vote for Olympiads of art, literature and drama. Let the winners rule the world. Forget wasting it with firepower or raping it with derivatives no one understands.

Attend to top-notch actors in the American Shakespeare Center in Staunton, then dream…of barns of beauty, where folks gather to share the bounty of the land on which they stand. Of evenings of entertainment, simple sophisticated songs by familiar friends. Forsake flawless digital diction for parlor piano, raunchy rambunctious joy.

This morning, Karen introduced the idea of inviting guests to tour the farm and select their dinners. May I suggest…a bursting broccoli head, lean New Zealand rabbit, curly spinach, English peas (go ahead, shell them), a young barred-rock rooster, new potatoes, deep red tomatoes, sweet Silver Queen corn (Serendipity or Kandy Korn if you prefer). For a starter, here’s a spinner, fill it with richly colored lettuces if you please.

No, you won’t have to prepare them. While you wait in the air-conditioned barn, visit a string quartet or listen to a fiddle, banjo, guitar, sitar, balalaika, some other instruments you find hard to name, maybe a singer who sounds strange but familiar. Browse displays for homemade cheeses, produce, and local goodies of the crafty or artsy sort. Or stroll along the creek and river, paddle upstream in a kayak or innertube. Look under rocks for hellgrammites, pet a goat or two. Hop on a donkey, take a spin in a donkey cart.

Then back to the barn for suppertime.

“It sounds idyllic,” says Virginia.

And a lot of work.

Pomp and Circumstance

On March 5, 2011, I commented on the weekly reports we had to provide when I worked at Citicorp. The baton has passed. Our son recently mentioned that during his internship this summer, the last requirement for his Bachelor of Science degree, he must provide a weekly report to his supervising professor at Radford University.

We didn't mind standing in the rain for hours last Saturday while he sweltered in a black gown. As 2000 graduates processed, I contemplated that we have two choices: (1) play Pomp and Circumstance over and over again, double bar to double bar; or (2) work at it each time trying to get better and better.

Gardening is like that, everything is like that. Some people do the same thing the same way over and over again, and insist theirs is the only way. Some of them feel threatened when someone else does it differently and succeeds. Let's not.

Back to Pomp and Circumstance. We know this tiny segment of Sir Edward Elgar's larger piece entitled Pomp and Circumstance March No. 1 (for a performance, visit http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=moL4MkJ-aLk -- no, you haven't gone to the wrong URL, keep listening!). On Saturday, I thought I heard someone singing.

Virginia says, as if she doesn't know, "Are there words?"

Yes:

     Land of Hope and Glory, Mother of the Free,
     How shall we extol thee, who are born of thee?
     Wider still and wider shall thy bounds be set;
     God, who made thee mighty, make thee mightier yet,
     God, who made thee mighty, make thee mightier yet.

Procrastination

Today I was accused of not knowing what procrastination is. I guess that's a compliment, although undeserved. Among other examples, I procrastinated until tonight to follow the score for "L'Histoire du Soldat" (Stravinsky) while listening carefully and making notes. Tonight was my last chance before "music camp," which begins tomorrow evening.

Actually, I'd given up because my only recording was hidden away on my Mac PowerBook, which "white-screened" a week ago Monday. As I worked on an important project, my screen suddenly went blue, then white, and from then on, if I could get my computer to turn on, I could work no more than a few seconds before it blanked out again. Fortunately, I had saved my files in off-site virtual storage ("cloud computing," I guess), so I was able to continue working on my old non-Mac.

I procrastinated, wondering who to call. Fortunately, we found a very quick repair service, Lynchburg Computers. We took it on Friday, they called to say it was ready yesterday, and I retrieved it this morning. So I no longer had any excuse. Stravinsky was waiting.

"What's this about music camp?" asks Virginia.

Garth Newel Music Center, near Warm Springs, Virginia, hosts an adult chamber music weekend every Spring. Chamber ensembles get a few days of careful coaching by members of the Garth Newel Piano Quartet (pianist, violinist, violist, cellist). When the Arrowhead Trio went a few years ago I enjoyed getting very personal attention from the pianist because other than him I was the only piano player in town. This year I won't be so lucky.

We end the weekend with a concert on late Sunday morning, followed by a gourmet brunch. You're welcome to attend, although it's a long haul for most of you -- and you might find L'Histoire du Soldat, well, shall we say, an earful.

Monster Concert Christmas Singalong Reprise

I keep forgetting to mention that 4 pianists on 4 pianos are reprising the monster concert holiday singalong we held last year. If you haven't heard 4 pianos played at once, come and discover why it's called a "monster concert." If you have heard them, well then, you've probably already made reservations. With that much sound, you'll feel free, as the crowd did last year, to belt out favorites such as "Jingle Bells," "White Christmas," "Blue Christmas," "Joy to the World," "Frosty the Snow Man," "Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire," and many more. Tim Gaylard, Bill McCorkle, Betty Bond Nichols, and this blogger will be at the pianos. We'll be joined by singers, trumpeters and maybe a tuba player, on numbers like "The Christmas Shoes" (cry, cry, cry), "Pie Jesu" (Andrew Lloyd Webber), and "Santa Baby."

For reservations (they're necessary because space is limited), email ldkrantz@gmail.com. The event, on Wed., Dec. 14, at 7:30 p.m., benefits the Rockbridge Symphony, so $20 admission contributions are suggested. Children are welcome and often gather in the basement of the Krantz home (Possum Hollow Road, Lexington, Virginia) to play ping pong, shake old-fashioned pinball machines, and watch movies on a huge TV screen.

Member FDIC. Equal housing lender. [Just kidding].

Perceptions

I've been reading the fascinating book, Musicophilia, by Oliver Sacks, a neurologist. He writes about musical maladies and phenomena, such as those of folks who get struck by lightning or are injured in an accident and suddenly discover a new interest in playing piano, composing or listening to classical music. He includes a chapter on "idiot savants," who typically are male and have one amazing ability -- such as total recall of music they've only heard once with the talent to play it on the piano and transpose it to any other key. Another chapter addresses people who lose hearing in one ear and then compensate for not being able to hear in stereo by moving their heads slightly while listening and/or compensating by developing additional brain skills.

A chapter on absolute or perfect pitch suggests that most of us might have been born with absolute pitch but failed to recognize and develop it, and therefore lost it, when we learned language skills. This is supported by the high percentage of people who speak a tonal language, such as Chinese, who have perfect pitch, compared to persons who speak non-tonal languages such as English.

The general concept that struck me most is that listening to music requires the coordination of a multitude of skills. Of course, we hear the basic elements of pitch and rhythm, but we also hear tone, timbre, loudness, tempo, contour (rise and fall), spatial location, and reverberation. People with absolute pitch notice another element, which some call "chroma" -- such as the personality of an F# or Ab. Hairs in our ears, the shapes of our inner and outer ears, and other aspects of our ear physiology receive these elements and our brains combine our receptions into a listening experience. Some ears and brains lack certain capabilities, bringing a different experience to their humans, which at times can be irritating or disappointing, especially in the event of a change caused by an injury or illness. Similar differences happen with sight and, I suppose, the other senses.

"So what I see and hear may be different from what you see and hear," says Virginia.

Exactly. I recently discussed this with an artist friend, who recalled that once upon a time when she was lying in bed with one eye closed, she noticed that the wall was -- I forget what she said -- let's say pink. She happened to close that eye and open the other and saw that the same wall was another color, let's say orange.

I had a similar experience about 25 years ago, but mine was auditory. I was on a telephone call. When I was put on hold I noticed that the music being played to entertain me while I waited moved up a half-step. I thought, "now, why would they do that?" A little later, it moved back down a half-step. Then it moved up again. Eventually I realized the pitch changed whenever I got tired of holding the phone with one hand and switched it to my other ear. This hasn't bothered me. My brain normally takes what I'm hearing through two ears and interprets it as one pitch, which happens to be the "correct" one. At least, people who hear me sing say I'm in tune. I suppose they could be humoring me.

I recently heard a singer performing flat, on every song. I had enough bad taste to ask a couple other people if they agreed with me. They did. Having read Musicophilia, next time I'll be more considerate.

Summer Soiree

Happy Summer!

Johnny Mac, former big band leader who played with Herbie Hancock, welcomed summer to Lynchburg (make that Madison Heights), Virginia, at a "Summer Soiree" held at Winridge Manor (http://www.winridgemanor.com/).  I went along for the munchies.

"Pretty hot, huh?" says Virginia.

Yes, even after a giant gray cloud descended and we moved under cover.  We alternated short classical numbers with jazz standards.

Would you believe this fellow crashed the party?

"What brand is he smoking?" asks Virginia, as if she cares.  Click on the photo to enlarge it and, if your eyes are better than mine, you might know the answer.

Concert Talk

I didn't run into anyone during my run in a sprinkle yesterday afternoon.  Au contraire later, at the intermission and reception for the Marlborough Quartet's concert at Wilson Hall.  You know those columns in local newspapers that mention people for the sake of mentioning people, such as:  "Natural Bridge.  Mr. and Mrs. George Leicester enjoyed a three-day visit by their son and his wife, Jack and Jody Leicester of Wilmington, North Carolina.  Ruby Redd received first prize for the first mature Wando pea of the season at the NB Garden Club meeting on Tuesday."  Well, here's the latest concert report.

T, who's been on sabbatical, recently returned from four months in New York City working on Liszt, practicing on two grand pianos in his mother-in-law's home.  She used to have three.  He'll be performing guess who -- Liszt -- in September.  Liszt is hard, with big bulky chords swiftly changing.

Bob -- the physician who warns his 50-year old male patients that their libidos are about to wane; his clients blame him and their wives thank him -- says he works seven days a week but is a big fan of chamber music.  He played baritone horn (and was it trombone?), in high school.  When he arrived at VMI, the talent he thought he had abandoned was coaxed into commission.  That was the end of that, except I urged him it wasn't/isn't and told him about my other Bob friend who picked up his saxophone after 50 years and hasn't let go of it since.

"What's Karen up to?" asked an octogenarian.   "Milking."  "You have cows?"  "No, goats."  "What do you do with the milk?"  "Drink it, make yogurt, cheese, etc."  Then the inevitable, "I don't like the smell or taste of goat milk."  "Taste ours and if you're like everyone else who tastes it for the first time, you'll say, 'it tastes like milk.'"  "No," said she, "I've had it; I don't like the taste." Back and forth, persistent, until she wore down, "I guess my son must have done something wrong."

"We missed you this spring," says E, referring to Garth Newel's adult chamber music weekend.  "Yeah, the application deadline came too fast."  "Are you going to Lexington Play Week?"  "No, I have trouble being cooped up a whole week in the summer."  "I understand," she says, "that's why I feel claustrophobic in the summer."

C says, "You're always wearing that big smile."  It's the monkey on my shoulder.  "How's your flute?"  "It's there; that's about it."  "Are you playing it?"  "Well, our flute group gets together now and then, sounds terrible and goes home.  Can't get around to practicing."

On to Jim, who like us used to live in North Carolina.  "How's your garden?"  One year he got behind and needed help thinning his parsnips.  His daughters didn't want to help, but they did.  Soon they developed a rash and he took them to a dermatologist.  The doctor couldn't figure it out and consulted with another, who went through a list of plants that cause similar rashes.  Parsnips.  "That's it, they were pulling parsnips."  So be careful.  When you harvest parsnips, wear long sleeves, long gloves, or be careful, just in case.  "My peas have blossomed," I said.  He shook his head, "Mine are pitiful, about this tall."  He opened his thumb and forefinger to one inch.  "Must be missing nitrogen," he said.  I said, "In North Carolina, I always planted my peas February 2.  This year I heard February 22 is the magic date around here, like March 17 for potatoes."  "I planted them in March," he said, "when we lived in North Carolina we planted by the signs; summer garden on Good Friday."

D wo-manned the drink table.  She seems to have settled into her husband's retirement from piloting tugboats in Alaska.  For years he'd been gone two months, home two months, gone two months; now he's home all the time.  D was accompanied by F, plant purveyor and D's former part-time summer boss.  "How's the greenhouse?"  "Great, almost full of tomatoes and other seedlings.  Do you use sterile media?  It seems to me that wouldn't be good for the good stuff in the soil."  F laughs, "No, except for seed starting."  "There's no reason except to cut down on weeds, so you know that what's coming up is what you planted?"  "That's right."

"That's it for this week's concert report?" says Virginia.

That's it.

Barnyard Suite

Picture, if you will, a peaceful farm.  Goats and donkeys graze the pasture.  Chickens cluck and wander.  Far above, a few red-tailed hawks gracefully glide.  They're magnificent, aren't they?

"No," says Virginia, "not to a farmer with chickens and baby animals."

Witness their drama -- "The Hawk's Visit," from The Barnyard Suite, by yours truly:

Fun/Work

In 1978 or 1979, my piano instructor at the University of North Carolina, where I attended law school the rest of the day, said, "I envy you.  Whenever you play piano, it's fun.  Whenever I play piano, it's work."

A few weeks ago, I enjoyed digging a few post holes, not all 51.  Last year, after practicing Schumann for 4 months, I looked forward to an hour of sight-reading. A month ago, 2 hours cutting up a hog became the "same old same old."  When we bought Elk Cliff Farm, spading a new garden begged me to buy a tractor.

"Attention deficit disorder," says Virginia.  "Get a life."

I used to like her, or maybe she's kidding.

"You're spoiled," she laughs, "not nearly hungry enough."

That's partly true.  In younger days, punching a time clock was standard operating procedure.  It made no sense to dwell on other ways of using time.  Besides, the life ahead seemed endless.  Unless Kurzweil is right, endless now has an endpoint.

I think it's important to keep trying to number the points in between as almost infinite, so at night one sentence cannot describe the entire day (unless maybe you're a master of long sentences, like Faulkner or Joyce).

The Real

Back at 10-12 hour days explaining gobbledygook, a few things pull me back to the real.

1. Goat babies.  This is birthing time at the homestead.  Poppy delivered a boy and a girl yesterday, and today Luti dropped 2 boys and a girl.  Fresca's probably next.  Luti's the boss of the barnyard.  If she wants something, she gets it or takes it. The way she has babies says it all.  She stands quietly and nibbles hay between pushes, without a single holler. She could have been Dr. Lamaze's inspiration.  Like all of our goats, Luti's boys will be named and much-loved every day of their lives, even though they're destined for a freezer.  Luti will charge on, no matter what.

2. Running and walking.  Today was a zero running day.  Instead, I walked with Karen, Lex and Rosie,  around and around our field.  The dogs love the .69 mile square and so do I.  If I carried a camera, I could always find something worth shooting on each side of that square -- for a start, pointed peaks, crisp creek, rolling river, pretty plants, and pleasing plantation. Ferry Field, a name given the ground underneath our feet, is the site of an encampment during that War of the Rebellion or War for Southern Independence, depending on point of view.  Each year, someone shows up with a metal detector to dig for relics.

3.  Gardening.  If I don't move dirt, I inspect it, checking to see if any new friends have appeared or changed.  Tomato and onion seeds continue to hide in starting trays in the greenhouse, while the early bird brassicas -- cauliflower, cabbage and broccoli --  seem pleased in their pots.  Ten varieties of lettuce are on the verge of salad dressing, maybe for our guests next week.  Outside, spinach seeds have sprouted.  Peas and onion sets play hard to get.  Last year's parsnips are greening up.  Maybe they're grateful for more time.  I've cracked open the coldframe for its baby lettuces.  The fruit trees and grapevines wait patiently for grooming; do they know the best time to prune is when there's time to prune?

4. Dining.  Yes, I like to dine.  Rarely -- today was one of those days, my gourmet chef wasn't in the mood -- I stir things up in the kitchen, this evening a well-balanced diet of cornbread and brownies.  We tossed the cornbread with our home-made maple syrup.  It's standard practice to use food we find on the homestead, but certain things, such as maple syrup, are especially extra special.  We still have a couple buckets hanging on the maples.  The goats drink those buckets bare.

5.  Music.  Even if it doesn't play, music's there, milling my mind.  On my way home from Ohio last week, a CD found in my parents' collection introduced me to Yma Sumac, a Peruvian singer born the year of my parents, 1922, who could sing -- she died in 2008 -- like a man or higher than a coloratura.  Some of her songs filled my head as I pieced Regulation Z changes into an update due next week.

"You worry me," says Virginia, "spending so much time on unimportant things."

Waiting for the Kids

We're waiting for 8 does to deliver babies.  What's the excitement?  Well, first off, it's great fun to be present when a tiny kid breaks out of its bubble and within minutes begins to walk.  Human parents are lucky their kids aren't as athletic.  It's usually enough of a challenge for mom to feel like walking around the block.

To be selfish for the moment, which I suppose is most of the time, not just a moment, I look forward to 2 weeks or so after the first birth, when our refrigerator resumes storing a bountiful supply of fresh milk.  No more skimping on cereal, or mixing what grocery stores call "milk" with the small amount of real milk Karen brings in from Polly, the doe we save as dessert for Witty, our premier buck.  No more drinking water after a run instead of mixing a healthy dose of chocolate syrup into a glass of raw milk.  No more restraining myself from stepping into TeePee's (a/k/a The Trading Post) for a pint-sized half-gallon of Hershey's ice cream, when we can churn our own.  No more retrieving a wheel of aged cheese from the basement without replacing it with a new block.  And no more frozen mozarella when Karen can whip up a new batch in less than an hour, followed by ricotta to boot.

This time of year bodes well for the table in other ways.  Soon the asparagus will be sprouting.  The lettuces in the greenhouse are getting closer to harvest every day, and we now have more lettuces sprouting in a cold frame.  I planted spinach yesterday in the outdoor garden, and earlier, peas and onions.  As we finished putting wire on the new garden fence today, we couldn't help trampling a few tender garlic shoots.  Tomorrow I'll transplant broccoli, cauliflower and cabbages into larger pots, and soon after, into the garden.

"So you finally finished the fence?" asks Virginia.

Finally?  It was beginning to seem like forever, but we only started the fence a week ago.  Our Spring-like weather gave me the itch to plant, so the fence had to be scooted along.  It's actually not finished yet; 3 gates remain.  If I'm lucky, Karen will build them while I convalesce for a few days in Ohio.  Sort of like when a toilet won't stop running or a faucet dripping -- I can disappear for a few hours and come home to fixed fixtures.

I almost forgot to mention that another "kid" was born today.  The Arrowhead Trio dedicated over an hour to practicing the first movement of the violin, clarinet and piano trio I've been working on.  Tentatively titled "The Barnyard Trio," we got to hear "The Hawk's Visit."  As Winston, our violinist, put it this morning, "Getting to hear live instruments play a new composition you've written is like pouring your own freshly-made maple syrup on a pile of pancakes."

Doing What You Want

Don't procrastinate!  As I check off writing deadlines one by one, doing the work that brings in the bacon, I think of the poems, stories, music and other stuff that doesn't get written or done.  How many of us postpone doing what we say we want to do while slogging away at something else?

"Who are you to talk?" says Virginia.  "You don't need to hustle off to an 8-to-6 job, risk getting fired if you don't, or struggle making ends meet payday to payday."

She doesn't really know, but I'd have to admit, like many if not most people my age in this country, my situation isn't the same as the majority of twenty- or thirty-somethings.  It's tough for the strugglers to find time to do what they really want, although I think they can.

The first step might be to convince yourself that you really want to do what you want to do.  Frankly, if you're not finding time to do it, you probably don't want to do it enough.  Think of what you find time to do.  Sketch out your day.  Sleep as late as possible? Clean house?  Mow the lawn?  Sit and talk to strangers while your laundry spins?  Email, "talk" on Facebook, watch television, play golf?  All those things are perfectly fine activities, but if they're not that thing you really want to do, then what's up?

Next, focus on what you're missing.  A writer, artist or composer knows he or she forfeits product each day that passes without practicing the medium.  Ideas disappear or fail to appear in the first place, and then they're gone for good.  If a writer writes, he or she has something to show for it.  If the writer doesn't write, there's zip.  Some day, looking back, he or she may say, gosh, if only I'd....  The same is true whatever you want to do -- knitting, learning automobile mechanics, singing, walking, exercising, starting a business, growing a garden.

That's enough.  I'm going to work on that trio.

Thrills of a Geek Week

I kind of like the shorter workweek someone proposed to create jobs for more people. Would that mean I need to hire someone to help reduce the workload around here? Karen's the only one who knows how many hours I put in. Many acquaintances think I'm retired. Perhaps they don't know you can wander around listless quite a bit if you throw in a few hours after dinner.

This week I neglected the homestead, focusing on two things -- the Arrowhead Trio concert Wednesday night and a major book update -- although I did visit the greenhouse first thing every morning and ran at least 4 miles each day (usually around our field, accompanied by Lex and Rosie, who dashed circles when they thought I was heading out the door). I tumbled down the stairs, fixed my apple cider vinegar tea (with the "mother"), and wandered out to see how the 10 varieties of lettuce were doing. Two more breeds haven't sprouted yet. Each day I microwaved oatmeal, squeezed an orange and grapefruit and filled the rest of the glass with grape juice, read my breakfast, then headed back upstairs to research and write about the Real Estate Settlement Procedures Act. Or maybe I went to Arrowhead Lodge to practice piano for a couple hours first, not that it did much good for Hans Gal. Poor fellow, I'd bet he turned over in his grave, especially on the night of the concert.

I tried to prepare the audience for his trio, calling him a twentieth century Bach who wove melodies back and forth among the instruments. One of our responsibilities as musicians is always to know who in our group is "on first" and to convey that to the audience, sort of like a game of musical chairs, lacrosse or soccer. I warned them that, if they were like me watching hockey, they might have trouble keeping their eyes on the puck. Maybe it's my fault I saw quite a few heads nodding. I think it's safe to say we've put that trio to bed.

Likewise, tonight I sent the book update to my co-author for his review. He'll probably invest his free time tomorrow (Sunday) looking for the jokes I've hidden among its 70 pages.

"I bet they're hilarious," says Virginia.

Definitely hard to find, definitely.

Oh, a couple days ago I set about building a couple coldframes, but we're out of screws even though quite a few are loose around here.

Arrowhead Trio January Concert -- Gal, Moszkowski, Schickele

I'm looking forward to seeing the musical "Billy Elliot" this weekend. Karen's dusted off her ballet shoes and I've been limbering up, in case we go somewhere after. I imagine what will impress me most is the kid's ability to sing and dance at the same time. I've seen how out of breath the contestants are on "So You Think You Can Dance?"

Lately I've been thankful I'm more of a pianist than a singer. It can be tough keeping a voice in shape through the throes of winter and seasonal allergies. Often when I'm sick I still can play piano, at least until the sneezed-on keys get sticky.

"Get to the point," says Virginia, "you're building up to something."

She's beginning to sound like a broken record. Check out yesterday's blog entry if you don't know what I mean. All right, I was just thinking how self-centered blog entries and Facebook status entries can be, especially when artists post their own accolades. Then I reconsidered, it's a tough world out there, if they don't promote themselves, their friends might not even know.

Here goes. Any nearby readers, if you've got next Wednesday night free -- we realized too late we're competing with Andrew Young speaking at Washington & Lee U -- you might check out Kendal Hall, Kendal at Lexington, for The Arrowhead Trio's next concert, see below.

The Arrowhead Trio will offer selections of twentieth century music at Kendal Hall, Kendal at Lexington, 160 Kendal Drive, 7:15 p.m., Wednesday, January 19, 2011. The group will play Hans Gal’s “Trio,” Maurice Moszkowski’s “Suite in G minor,” and Peter Schickele’s “Serenade for Three.” The members of the trio are Winston Davis, violin, John McClenon, clarinet, and James Pannabecker, piano.

Hans Gal, born in 1890 near Vienna, was appointed Director of the Mainz Conservatory in 1929 but was dismissed in 1933 when Hitler came to power. His work was banned from publication or performance in Germany. He eventually became a lecturer for the Department of Music at the University of Edinburgh, Scotland and a British citizen. His clarinet trio is polyphonically complex, with moments of lyrical beauty.

By 1908, Moszkowski reportedly was a hermit of sorts, refusing to teach composition because "they wanted to write like artistic madmen such as Scriabin, Schoenberg, Debussy, Satie…” and perhaps Hans Gal. The Suite the Arrowhead Trio will perform was scored for two violins and a piano. The second violin part has been transcribed for Mr. McClenon’s clarinet. Perhaps the following story is true. Hans von Bulow filed this entry in an autograph book, “The three greatest composers are Bach, Beethoven and Brahms. All the rest are cretins.” When Moszkowski saw it, he inscribed underneath, “The three greatest composers are Mendelssohn, Meyerbeer and Moszkowski. All the others are Christians!”

The third composer, Peter Schickele, born in 1935, may be better known for his association with P.D.Q Bach, the “last and by far the least” offspring of J.S. Bach who has been called a “pimple on the face of music” and “the worst musician ever to have trod organ pedals.” Schickele’s “Serenade for Three” includes variations on a theme from P.D.Q. Bach’s “Oedipus Tex” and a rousing barn dance. A recent coup was Shickele’s creation of the musical score for the film version of Maurice Sendak’s “Where the Wild Things Are.”

Year in Review

Karen and I often sit down this time of year and list the year in review, as if we were editors of a newspaper or magazine.  I never really thought about where this tradition came from, perhaps our experiences with Citicorp back when we had to prepare weekly and monthly reports.  Some day maybe I'll tell you about those weeklies and sitting down with Carl Levinson and his other direct reports to review them on Monday morning, afternoon, sometimes into evening.  No, I don't think I will.  I understand he's retired, so maybe he deserves to be let alone.  In case you're wondering, that was 17 years ago, before what's now called Citigroup got into its current mess (and after it had worked its way out of the last one -- it had almost failed before, more than once or twice, did you know?).

Anyway, this year's list would include adding on to the goat barn for turkeys, which joined our herd for a while until we put the "tur" in the freezer and replaced them with "don".  Which reminds me Adam lost a "key" to our Volvo wagon.  He thinks it may be hiding in the bottom of our famous local swimming hole, the "Straw Pond."  We haven't bought eggs in a year and a half.  Yesterday, Karen bought milk for the first time in almost a year.  That skim milk tasted almost like water on my oatmeal this morning.  Come on girls, have your babies!  "Maybe that's why you got sick," Karen suggested this morning.

Yes, I need the healing, anti-bacterial life force of goat mammary emissions, which brings me to Hellgate, an important lesson for me this year.  That "race" helped destroy my running regimen for December.  Having rested the week before, which basically eliminated any mileage at the beginning of the month, the 46 miles I finished battered me down and probably yielded my immune systems to this cough/cold I've been fighting for a week and a half when I haven't been running because a little exertion sets me into a coughing spree and we've pert near run out of goat milk.  So, after 11 months of fantastic running that put me on track to complete my first 2000-mile year in years, I'm ending up shy with 1940.  Shy, did I say Chy?  That's our jenny (a new word for me in 2010).  Or "chi," pain-free running, which I did experience all year until my falls during Hellgate.

"What's the lesson?" says Virginia. 

Relax, run for the joy of it, and don't complicate it with visions of heroics, award jackets or age division trophies.

Gosh, I only barely got started on the list, didn't I?  My musical highlight had to have been playing the first movement of Schumann's Piano Concerto in A minor with the local orchestra in early March.  Thanks, folks, for that opportunity.  People who play like me don't often get to do something like that.  The monster concert holiday singalong wasn't too shabby either, plain clean fun (not counting "Santa Baby," unless we agree it was sung by Mrs. Santa and not that other girl).  Meanwhile, banks have been buying the "Practical Guide to the Wall Street Reform & Consumer Protection Act," released during the summer after a mad dash.  Thank you, readers.

More later, maybe -- greenhouse, court appearance, visits with friends and family, just read through old blog entries.  The next step for Karen and me, according to custom, is to try to predict 2011.

Time Machine

When I was a kid, we referred to "old folks,'" "nursing" or "rest" homes.  Now sixty-, seventy- and eighty-somethings often settle into "retirement communities." I kind of like the term "autumn" care.  Too soon my name will be eligible for waiting lists.  I find myself visiting these places more and more often.

Kendal at Lexington, with its very nice little concert hall, repeatedly invites the Arrowhead Trio to test our repertoire of music composed in the past 100 years.  My own mother, about a year ago, questioned whether "anyone really wants to hear that kind of music." They seem to enjoy our explanations of what we're about to play.  On the other hand, I must admit I've been known to smile and nod while struggling to hear someone in the middle of a crowd.

Speaking of Mother, she frightened her children -- we will always be her children -- two weeks ago when she entered St. Rita's after fracturing a few vertebrae.  While at the hospital, her heart rate slowed perilously and persuaded her to accept a doctor's recommendation that she abandon independent living, at least for a while.  After a few days in a skilled nursing facility (SNF), tomorrow she's scheduled to claim an assisted living unit.  So we children have been exploring retirement living with new interest.  Reality therapy, I guess.

As I walked with her through the floors of the SNF, I found myself stepping back in time.  Name plates on doors returned me to 4th grade and junior high math (Mrs. Steiner), City Savings and Loan (Mr. Bauman), typing class (not mine, Miss Duffield), music history and choir (Mr. Lehman), and other venues.  When I accompanied her to the home's beauty salon, my brain frantically searched and finally connected the wet head under a hair dryer to the mother of a childhood friend (Mrs. Vercler).  If all these good people have made this place home, it can't be too bad.

"It's hard getting old," says Virginia.

Several other people have recently told me that.  My mother, now approaching 89, said, "I guess this must be what it feels like to get old."

I couldn't say.  I don't know.  I imagine I may entertain that thought before I'm 88.

"Let It Snow"

"Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow" found its way onto our set list for last night's "Monster Concert Holiday Singalong" and became a reality show today.  I wore a GPS watch as I shoveled our driveway twice, a little over 2 miles in 3 hours.  To be honest, I "swept" the driveway with a wide janitor's broom, finding it more convenient than a shovel for pushing away 2-3 inches of light snow at a time.

"How'd it go?" asks Virginia.

If the Singalong -- 4 pianists playing 4 pianos, with perhaps 90 people singing -- were on my bucket list, I'd circle it in red and refuse to cross it off.  Based on the number of people asking for it to become the "First Annual," I may not be alone in rating it as more fun than any other musical event I've attended. To say people sang is an understatement.  According to Linda Krantz, hostess and co-impresario, something about four pianos going at once ran shyness out of style even better than too many drinks.  Too much alcohol would have broken the silence at the "Silent Night" conclusion, and that didn't happen.

This picture shows the quartet warming up beforehand, with Susanne Fitzgerald (on the left) getting ready to practice "Santa Baby."  Perhaps you can picture the seats full of warbling revelers.

From right to left:  Tim Gaylard, Betty Bond Nichols, Kirk Luder, and Santa.

Farm Music

Do you hear what I hear? Loud snorting, like a giant pig.  Maybe soon it will develop into a foghorn.  Chy, our jenny, just like me, gets very excited when Karen comes near.  Maybe she's bringing something special, some arugula (for Chy) or some freshly baked chocolate chip cookies (for me).

If you think roosters only crow early in the morning, come for a visit and you'll learn the truth.  Which reminds me -- since the rooster born last Spring spent a few hours at a slow bake, the barnyard has sounded different.  I sort of miss the crowing duets, back and forth, back and forth, usually in the afternoon.  Lately, too, the change in seasons has caused most of our hens to abandon their egg-laying squawks, taking us down to two eggs per day.

Each time either of us slams the back door on our way out, a chorus of baas calls from the goat paddocks.  I must admit it's great to feel loved.  Don't tell me they only want me for food because even after they know I'm carrying none, at least one of them crowds me and massages my glutes.

Today and yesterday, underneath everything, inside or outside, is a low rushing sound.  Not like the random rumblings of motor vehicles or aircraft passing, it's constant, continually up and over and down.  Sometimes when I step outside, my first thought is it's raining, then I remember it's not, it's Elk Creek after rain.  I'm reminded of Opossum Run, up by Arrowhead Lodge, which happens to feed into Elk Creek -- we moved downstream -- after a hurricane, rushing so fast we heard it rolling huge boulders.

Even seeds talk to me, as you already know if you read my blog posting two days ago.  Thanks to Susan, I no longer feel self-conscious talking back to the plants that schedule much of my life.  More accurately, perhaps, it's not the plants scheduling me, it's the result of me tracking my holodynes.  Lord knows, I do not, what this is all about, but sometimes I think there may be something to it.

"Listen," says Virginia.  "Do you hear what I hear?"

I hear her, too, but probably not what she hears.  I always hear.  Pillows pressed against my ears, I cannot escape chirping, sizzling, humming and pulsing.  Just now I heard a mouse trying to slip unnoticed through our heating ducts.

Oh, how could I forget?  The chattery quacks of our rambling ducks rarely fail to draw a chuckle.  

I loved the movie, "August Rush," always music everywhere.

Plastic Fence Protection; Monster Concert Holiday Singalong

Our winter wheat and garlic are now resting comfortably under sun-drenched November soil, preparing to spread their roots in a head-start on Spring.  This slow-learner took no chance that free-range chickens or ducks would attack new wheat seedlings.  I constructed an 18-inch high yellow plastic fence, made of STO mesh left over from Karen's outdoor kitchen stucco job. 

"You're over-stating your case," says Virginia.

She's right.  I didn't take no chance.  But I think the chance is slim, based on my trial with my latest planting of green beans.  The birds didn't pester them.  I managed to land a first picking last week, just before our first hard killing frost.  I would have liked the beans to ripen sooner and yield a bountiful harvest, but I knew the risk I was taking.  It's great having a few fresh tender green beans in November, and no fault of the birds that we won't have any more until next year.

By the way, for nearby readers, or anyone who wants to risk a cold stay in Arrowhead Lodge, I'm pretty excited about an event scheduled for Wednesday, December 15.  The news release follows:

Monster Concert Holiday Singalong

Four pianos and four pianists invite the Rockbridge community to join them in holiday singing for the benefit of the Rockbridge Symphony, Wednesday, December 15, at 7:30 p.m., at the David and Linda Krantz residence.  Tim Gaylard, Kirk Luder, Betty Bond Nichols, and James Pannabecker will tickle the ivories while encouraging the audience to sing familiar tunes such as Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire, Blue Christmas, Frosty the Snow Man, (There’s No Place Like) Home for the Holidays, Jingle-Bell Rock, Let It Snow, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, and many more.

The idea of bringing together an “orchestra” of keyboards is centuries’ old. J.S. Bach gathered friends in the 1730s for midweek concerts of the Collegium Musicum at Zimmermann's coffeehouse in Leipzig. These were casual events, where the players and audience relaxed while playing and hearing the latest music. More recently, multiple pianos and pianists on stage became known as "monster concerts." The December 15 get-together at the Krantzes will be a relaxed affair, encouraging singing for fun by everyone. Light refreshments will be available and participants are invited to add their favorite holiday treats to the tables.

Reservations are required; email lkrantz@cfw.com or call 463-3333. A minimum $15 contribution per participant is requested, to be collected at the event. The Rockbridge Symphony is supported by Fine Arts in Rockbridge (FAIR).