Note to self: get oboe out of dusty old case

Well, this is getting serious.  Have a rehearsal tomorrow night and have only opened the case a couple of times this week to do noodling.  Can I help it if there are countless other things that are obviously higher on the priority list trying to get out of my brain?

So, as soon as I get home this afternoon, I will make sure I have reeds that work, try the usual excerpts, and actually do some serious practice to be sure the chops still work fine.  A year or so ago, I did a Bach concert as part of a freelance orchestra with a local church choir, doing several obligati on both oboe and English horn – one at a time.  The guy who fixes the orchestra told me that Ellie Duste would be playing next to me.  I thought, “Oh, must be the daughter or granddaughter of the famed Ray Duste who had played English horn in San Francisco for eons, eons ago.  No biggie deal (quote from the wife of my Korean auto mechanic).  So I get set up at the rehearsal, look up, and there’s Ray Duste walking into the church.  To say I totally freaked out would be putting it mildly.  Not often does a legend walk through the door — followed by his WIFE who was going to be sitting next to me, playing second oboe to me!

Well, I tell you.  This was a real fight or flight moment, honey… All I could think was that Ray Duste was sitting out there in full view of me and I of him.  I would rather have been thrown into a cauldron of eye of newt right then.  So I choked back the tears of fright and trepidation, smiled at her as she introduced herself to me and the other oboe player, and found out that she is one of the nicest, most respectful people I have ever met.  No apparent malicious bones in her body, non-judgmental, encouraging, and a competent musician.  Truly a pleasure to behold.  But there was still the issue of her hubby out there in the church. Evidently, they had arrived the night before for the morning rehearsal — performance was the same evening as the rehearsal — and stayed somewhere near Roseville so they could play golf in the afternoon of the performance day.  Anyway . . . as I blundered my way through all 5 solos, I saw him sit up part way through one of them.  Hmmm.  What did that mean?  Was he falling asleep and needed to change positions to wake himself up?  Had he heard that wacky tonguing that I was using.  None of the above.  

I found out after the performance in the evening that he had especially liked that solo at the rehearsal and again at the performance.  Bear in mind, that I have known of this man since I first started playing oboe back in the 60s.  And now, after the concert I see him approaching the stage.  Thinking he was coming to fetch his wife, I continued to put away my instruments and prepare for flight.  A moment later, I looked up, saw him towering above me offering me a handshake and when I heard his deep voice addressing me as he complimented my playing, with special mention of the solo that had made him sit up in his seat at the rehearsal.

Well, roll me over and stamp me out.  Ray Duste just talked to me, the lowliest of the low — from what I hear recently, even lowlier than a viola player.  So, my friend, there you have it.  My brush with greatness.  I’ll save my Leon Goossens stories for another time.  Probably will have to channel him and other dear departed oboe players on Friday night for the performance.  Is that a cop out?

New friend, old friend

So at my third annual art show two weeks ago, someone walks back into my life after 35+ years. I sent invitations to about five people I had neither seen nor heard from in forever. When this person walked through the door, he seemed familiar. At first I thought it was my son’s friend, Ben. Then I realized that this guy was too old, but could possibly be my old oboe teacher from college — close, but no cigar. Then, as he approached and came face-to-face, I heard him utter his name in a really low tone. I was flabbergasted! Like someone you thought you might like to see, but when they actually arrive you feel like running the other way. I can remember when I was in college during the war in Vietnam, we were all given names of soldiers who weren’t getting any mail from anyone. I wrote to this guy for months. Have no idea what was exchanged in those letters. When he got discharged from the service, his first destination was me. Talk about panic. I cut off any communication and ran as fast as I could. Too young, I said. I was only a kid. What would a Vietnam vet want with me? I still feel really crappy every time I think of abandoning that chap. Now, I can’t even remember his name. But I did remember Mister E. (name changed to protect the innocent and the not so innocent) who came to the show. Wanted to cut and run, but it was my show.

So I rooted myself into the wooden floor of the hall, accepted a cursory hug, and tried to remember where he fit in my life . . . when and where I had known him, and what we had “done.” He asked me to show him around, but my attention was diverted by another show-goer, so he left my side to have a look by himself. He took photos of my stuff, did Mr. E. Oh yeah- he handed me a cd when he first arrived and said, “Here’s some music I like to listen to.”

We sat and talked for a while, then he left. Long story short – listened to cd the next day, contacted him by email to say thanks and a couple of other things. The rest I’ll keep to myself ’cause I’m still processing the experience. So far it’s all positive.

Greetings!

Ok, ready, set, fire, aim. Oh geez. What the heck have I gotten myself into. I’m learning as I write. Friends, lovers, and strangers (could be one and the same) are encouraging me to share the thoughts and experiences of my life process. This includes making music, urging art items made of fabric and clay out of my brain, knitting, and more.

The music takes me to the performance stage playing oboe and English horn, singing acapella doo wop, and even going to concerts periodically.

The fabric includes my latest creations — things that cover bits of the wall (some people call them wall hangings – I reserve the right to refuse to call them that), the process of getting them from inside my brain onto the silks and cottons I covet, and from there add beads, other fabrics, stitches and more.

The clay means that I am still coil-building pots. In the past year, the pots have been the largest ever as round a buddha’s belly and some as high as a basenji’s eye. Perhaps you will be there when I select my kiln, finally get it installed, and use it for the first time.

Knitting? We have a weekly knitting/crocheting group at work. I send the reminder to many who all look forward to receiving the notice each week. We have people who just come for the social aspect — bring their lunch and watch us needling. Last Friday, only one person out of six who turned up was actually knitting. Random people stop by with questions, make inane comments, and one regular used pass through the area with his lunch each week and say he forgot his knitting. Funny what rituals people have — especially the ones they don’t even realize are happening — and how we come to expect them.

The More is just that. I’ve promised to share some of the things I usually save for friends and family.

Stopping to munch on some Trader Joe’s roasted and salted pecans. Usually I would rather have raw pecans, but didn’t have my glasses when I was at the store the other day.