An aunt of mine once observed that she believed I used my website the way some peopled did scrap booking, collecting memories and artifacts and putting them together as a kind of diary of things personally enjoyed.
I didn't care much for the comparison. I felt that sharing music and information and ideas about that music was really not the same as the person who blogs about their favorite bands or their favorite food or says this movie or that movie is really cool you should go see it.
But there is a deep autobiographical connection to the things on this website. This is particularly true of the recordings. After all, these are all pieces that I've played, if only briefly, to record them. They represent a kind of musical places-I've-been. They aren't there to say, look at me, I can play these pieces, though I figure it can't hurt if somebody recognizes that I can play well and that leads to some kind of opportunity. But they do represent a musical journey. They are what I've been playing either professionally or for recreation over the last seven or eight years. And they are an invitation to journey with me.
I have a tendency toward completeness. A few years ago I recorded the complete Mendelssohn organ sonatas. I've attempted the complete organ works of Michael Praetorius, the entire Mass for the Parishes of Couperin. So far I've only recorded the first 15 piano sonatas of Haydn (there are 52). And at times, while exploring new corners of the literature, ever finding different composers and genres, I've had the urge to look back, and turn again to the familiar. And also to have my favorite pieces represented, pieces that are, or were, important to me for whatever reason.
There is one problem with that. The website didn't come along until 2002, and I wasn't able to really get recording until 2011 for various reasons. By then I already had finished graduate school and was in my thirties. The early parts of my life, and with it, some pretty huge hunks of piano literature, such as the complete Mozart piano sonatas, say, were over, and had, for the most part, not been recorded.
It's hard to go back and fill in those gaps, especially when you are busy documenting what is happening now, never mind being busy with other things entirely. But from time to time I manage to do it. Sometimes I don't even realize I'm doing it.
I'm going to be teaching a course on Beethoven next month. I haven't played much of his music these last several years and it is about time I traveled back this way. I spent the last two weeks of January in a panic, realizing that I was planning to play about a half-dozen sonatas in a period of five weeks, and had just over a month to prepare them all. At my advanced stage of learning and technical ability, one Beethoven sonata is not so difficult--I can learn it in a few days, most likely (though the difficulty level of the sonatas varies quite a lot). But to do 6--or 7.... As I've said before, successful people panic earlier than the others.
It's February, and already I've gotten reasonably familiar with most of the "curriculum." You'll be hearing about them as March approaches. And I'll be playing them for you.
Today I recorded a movement of the "Pathetique" Sonata. I wasn't even planning to play this one in class. It doesn't seem to represent one of the four aspects of Beethoven's musical personality that I'm going to focus on for the class, and I imagine that if there is one Sonata that half of my students will be able to play for themselves, this is it. But I had a spare moment the other day and decided the second movement could handle recording even if I hadn't looked at it in years. Then I thought I'd have some fun with the finale. It was. I was hooked again.
I played this piece in high school. In those days I was in the preparatory department at the Cleveland Institute of Music. I remember playing it in a class recital, the entire sonata.
I don't mind telling you, I am a quarter of a century removed from that occasion and I can play that young man clear under the table and then some.
Apparently there has been more to this Beethoven mania than I realized. I must have played three or four sonatas in high school, and a few in college, in addition to the concertos (most of which I learned on my own). Then, for many years, nothing. Beethoven vanished from my life.
But like an archaeologist removing a layer of sediment to discover something important in the strata beneath, something has been found. And what a wonderful reservoir was waiting in the deep caverns beneath the surface.
This course is about Beethoven, obviously. But it is always better when we are invested ourselves. I imagine I will be able to connect with the students on this account also. Some of them have already told stories of their encounters with the Bard from Bonn, and have probably played this very sonata. It is over 200 years old now, that piece. It has worked its magic on a lot of people.
Count me in.
----
Just a note: each week, pianonoise.com is new with recordings and articles. In a few weeks, the recording I made the other day but haven't had time to post will probably make its way to the listening archive, and/or become the week's featured recording. In any case, look for lots of Beethoven to start making its way to the site. New editions appear every Friday.
Showing posts with label autobiographical. Show all posts
Showing posts with label autobiographical. Show all posts
Monday, February 4, 2019
Friday, July 13, 2018
Running
Five kilometers? Are you crazy? I've jogged to the mailbox and back on a rainy day, but...
How far is that in miles, anyhow?
You might get the impression from the foregoing that I was not a world class runner. Heck, why did I just use the past tense?
I decided to give it a try, and spent the last week of March and the month of April trying to get into shape. This was my killer regimen the first week: I would go to the park, which was about a mile. Since I couldn't keep up a run for more than 45 seconds without running out of breath, I would slow to a walk until I thought I could handle another short spurt of running. Run a little, walk a lot, run a little...
Later I found out that can be an actual technique for getting through long races. I don't use it. I run the whole time. But this is now. Back then I had a limited capacity and I also didn't want to have a heart attack.
I was in my late thirties and hadn't done any running as an adult. I didn't do a lot as a child either, because I was asthmatic. I was a fast little kid in short spurts, but those 600 yard dashes they had in elementary field day games--I bombed out on the first turn, wheezing like mad.
The typical thing for a person resolving to hit the gym in the new year is to work out really hard the first time and be really sore for a few days. I didn't want to be that guy. I didn't push it very hard. It felt a little pathetic only going a short distance and breaking it into tiny little runs, but I reminded myself of an important lesson I'd learned in piano. You work a little every day, and eventually your capacity increases. You improve with time and continual effort. That's the secret: consistent work. It happened with the piano. Once I couldn't play chopsticks and several years later I was on stage with an orchestra playing a huge solo piece from memory. It didn't happen overnight.
By the third week I went to a different course. I had figured out that 5 kilometers was actually three miles, not two, which my vague concept of the metric system had led me to assume the first time (it's about half as many miles as kilometers, and go one direction or the other!). It was exactly one and a half miles from my house to the church where I worked. If I could run all the way there, touch the wall and come back in one straight run I'd have it.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
That was me thinking how ridiculous it was to imagine running all that way in one fell swoop. They'd have to come along with a spatula and scoop me off the sidewalk!
Nevertheless, I tried running to church. I ran and walked, and once I got there I stopped to practice for a couple of hours. I was the organist, so it made sense. Then I'd run back home. One day I actually managed, for the first time, to leave the church running, and not slow to a walk all the way home.
That was a pretty good day. And the start of something bigger.
Friday, March 9, 2018
If you're just joining us...
I seem to be making a number of new musical friends lately, who may be new to this blog, so I thought I'd give a little introduction.
First, the basics. I'm Michael Hammer. I'm a pianist and organist, composer, teacher, and blogger, and I live in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. This blog is attached to a rather involved website with hundreds of articles and recordings devoted to all kinds of things musical which I've been running since 2002.
When I started pianonoise, I was a graduate student in piano performance at the Peabody Institute of the Johns Hopkins University. Once I earned a Masters and Doctorate there, I started spending more time hanging out with the organ, which is why, as I write this, the banner picture at the top of the blog is a shot of me at the organ. It's kind of a running joke (inside my own head, anyway) that there is more organ-noise around here sometimes. I've been keeping a running tally of recordings in each category to find out.
When I started the website back in the Middle Ages, audio files on the internet were just beginning. For a few years I amused myself writing commentary about various things, and making about a hundred awful sounding recordings which I later repented of when I got a better micing system and regular access to a better piano. I spent about ten years in Illinois during this time. Eventually I started this blog (2012). It's mission is to engage regular folks in the experience of listening to and enjoying music--mostly for piano and organ. It also included blogs written for fellow musicians to sharpen their skills, and some blogs about being a church organist.
These days the challenge is to keep track of all of that.
The easiest way to experience Pianonoise is to check out the homepage every week. I update on Fridays with a batch of new articles and recordings. Some of the articles and recordings aren't really new--I recycle things from years past, but their currency isn't as important as it would be if I were writing about politics or the day's news. After all, Bach is still dead. And his music still lives.
The other thing to note is that while I lead a varied existence, at some point I'll shed light on all of the various sections of pianonoise, new and old, by linking to them on the homepage. Or, if you are intrepid, you can go exploring, by way of the site index, or the listening archive. I try to archive everything worth keeping. I can't promise you won't get lost, and as I happen to be in the middle of a major website renovation in 2018, you might not always find things in the same place.
The site is meant to be a digital extension of myself, and what I find valuable (which is often--but not always-- the thoughts and compositions of other people, and the study of our various traditions upon which I build). It can provide a useful counterpoint to a live concert, for example (i.e., you can often hear me play the music before, or after, the concert, right here).
Everything that you hear is something I have recorded myself, and some of it I've even written (or improvised). My thoughts are my responsibility, although, like everything else's, they are largely inherited. I do try to examine them before I give them back to the universe.
Keep an eye on the upcoming events at the top of the homepage when it is active. Or, you can get on my email list (send to michael@pianonoise: subject "email please") and I'll let you know when I'm giving a concert.
See you around the piano!
First, the basics. I'm Michael Hammer. I'm a pianist and organist, composer, teacher, and blogger, and I live in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. This blog is attached to a rather involved website with hundreds of articles and recordings devoted to all kinds of things musical which I've been running since 2002.
When I started pianonoise, I was a graduate student in piano performance at the Peabody Institute of the Johns Hopkins University. Once I earned a Masters and Doctorate there, I started spending more time hanging out with the organ, which is why, as I write this, the banner picture at the top of the blog is a shot of me at the organ. It's kind of a running joke (inside my own head, anyway) that there is more organ-noise around here sometimes. I've been keeping a running tally of recordings in each category to find out.
When I started the website back in the Middle Ages, audio files on the internet were just beginning. For a few years I amused myself writing commentary about various things, and making about a hundred awful sounding recordings which I later repented of when I got a better micing system and regular access to a better piano. I spent about ten years in Illinois during this time. Eventually I started this blog (2012). It's mission is to engage regular folks in the experience of listening to and enjoying music--mostly for piano and organ. It also included blogs written for fellow musicians to sharpen their skills, and some blogs about being a church organist.
These days the challenge is to keep track of all of that.
The easiest way to experience Pianonoise is to check out the homepage every week. I update on Fridays with a batch of new articles and recordings. Some of the articles and recordings aren't really new--I recycle things from years past, but their currency isn't as important as it would be if I were writing about politics or the day's news. After all, Bach is still dead. And his music still lives.
The other thing to note is that while I lead a varied existence, at some point I'll shed light on all of the various sections of pianonoise, new and old, by linking to them on the homepage. Or, if you are intrepid, you can go exploring, by way of the site index, or the listening archive. I try to archive everything worth keeping. I can't promise you won't get lost, and as I happen to be in the middle of a major website renovation in 2018, you might not always find things in the same place.
The site is meant to be a digital extension of myself, and what I find valuable (which is often--but not always-- the thoughts and compositions of other people, and the study of our various traditions upon which I build). It can provide a useful counterpoint to a live concert, for example (i.e., you can often hear me play the music before, or after, the concert, right here).
Everything that you hear is something I have recorded myself, and some of it I've even written (or improvised). My thoughts are my responsibility, although, like everything else's, they are largely inherited. I do try to examine them before I give them back to the universe.
Keep an eye on the upcoming events at the top of the homepage when it is active. Or, you can get on my email list (send to michael@pianonoise: subject "email please") and I'll let you know when I'm giving a concert.
See you around the piano!
Friday, February 2, 2018
Februaries I have known
You may have picked up on this, but I am not a fan of February.
The novelty of winter has worn off, and all we have left is the grinding cold, the ice, the snow--I can do snow when it's fluffy and not too deep, it's even charming, but let's not have to spend an hour in the bitter cold trying to dig out one's car, shall we? And have I mentioned the wind? People fight most bitterly when they know they've lost, and the elements take after them. As the cold season draws to a close the wind can sometimes take your face off. Politely, of course.
You would think I would spend the month hibernating, but, it turns out, quite a few Februaries have featured major events. And, even if those events were laden with stress, they gave me something to focus on beside my dreary, Siberian thoughts.
Some of these were concerts. I recall a February when I appeared with orchestra, playing Brahms's Second piano concerto in Bb. This is quite a large piece, and a challenge to the technique and the stamina. I'd won a concerto competition a couple of years earlier and they put me on a subscription concert. I don't know why they picked February, but there it is. I think this was on the 20th of the month, the year I was a senior in college. Six days and several years later, I was on stage at Carnegie Hall (the one in New York, not Pittsburgh!). I remember several pep talks I've given myself and this one was focused on one thing: the music was not so hard, I could play it well, it is only because I am nervous that I am nervous. Just go out and do your thing and it will be fine. It was.
Of course, February is audition month. Curiously, I've forgotten the date of my audition for the Cleveland Institute of Music--it was sometime in late February, I think. I remember the weather at Oberlin pretty well, though--bitterly cold and windy. I chose Cleveland. (No tropical paradise there, either)
My audition for graduate school was actually on the 1st of March. But that still made February the operative month. When I auditioned for my doctorate it was sometime in late February, but I can't remember the date for that, either.
I think that my cousin's wedding, all those many years ago, was in a February, in Florida. I was 13. It was probably my first wedding reception (that I played for). And to think that I lost my amateur status so young. Actually, I don't remember getting paid. Who knows? Doesn't matter.
In the church calendar, February is often the start of Lent. Having served as a church organist lo these many years I can remember several challenging Februaries which featured some ambitious programming. One year I played two of the three Choral Preludes by Cesar Frank on back-to-back weeks (while I was sick!). I also remember a 15 minute memorized delivery of a sketch by Mark Twain for the Ash Wednesday service (it fit the theme, honest). Lent was often a time for some hefty music, which is odd, because it is an old Catholic practice not to allow the organ to sound during Lent at all.
This year, February will be marked by a class I am teaching for the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute (OLLI). This program, run locally by the University of Pittsburgh, allows the 50+ crowd to sign up for classes as if they were in college. There are no degrees granted. My course is off campus at the church which features my new organ friend (see the last two weeks). It is about the history of the instrument, and includes musical performances of pieces representing the different schools and composers that make up the best of the organ literature. It also features an extended organ demonstration. In five weeks, we'll have time to talk about all the buttons, knobs, tabs, and toe studs. Which reminds me, I was going to count all of them to see just how many there were. I imagine my class would like to know.
I am writing this on Wednesday--tomorrow is the first class, and the weather is planning a nice respite from the snow and cold for just one day so I don't have to contemplate cancellation or a drop in attendance. Nice of it. We'll see how things progress--given a choice between two sessions, this nutcase chose February in order to be less busy at Easter.Thus it joins the parade of active Februaries, adding a bit of stress to the cold. At least it keeps the mind occupied, and the fingers limber. And when it is over, I'll have survived another one.
The novelty of winter has worn off, and all we have left is the grinding cold, the ice, the snow--I can do snow when it's fluffy and not too deep, it's even charming, but let's not have to spend an hour in the bitter cold trying to dig out one's car, shall we? And have I mentioned the wind? People fight most bitterly when they know they've lost, and the elements take after them. As the cold season draws to a close the wind can sometimes take your face off. Politely, of course.
You would think I would spend the month hibernating, but, it turns out, quite a few Februaries have featured major events. And, even if those events were laden with stress, they gave me something to focus on beside my dreary, Siberian thoughts.
Some of these were concerts. I recall a February when I appeared with orchestra, playing Brahms's Second piano concerto in Bb. This is quite a large piece, and a challenge to the technique and the stamina. I'd won a concerto competition a couple of years earlier and they put me on a subscription concert. I don't know why they picked February, but there it is. I think this was on the 20th of the month, the year I was a senior in college. Six days and several years later, I was on stage at Carnegie Hall (the one in New York, not Pittsburgh!). I remember several pep talks I've given myself and this one was focused on one thing: the music was not so hard, I could play it well, it is only because I am nervous that I am nervous. Just go out and do your thing and it will be fine. It was.
Of course, February is audition month. Curiously, I've forgotten the date of my audition for the Cleveland Institute of Music--it was sometime in late February, I think. I remember the weather at Oberlin pretty well, though--bitterly cold and windy. I chose Cleveland. (No tropical paradise there, either)
My audition for graduate school was actually on the 1st of March. But that still made February the operative month. When I auditioned for my doctorate it was sometime in late February, but I can't remember the date for that, either.
I think that my cousin's wedding, all those many years ago, was in a February, in Florida. I was 13. It was probably my first wedding reception (that I played for). And to think that I lost my amateur status so young. Actually, I don't remember getting paid. Who knows? Doesn't matter.
In the church calendar, February is often the start of Lent. Having served as a church organist lo these many years I can remember several challenging Februaries which featured some ambitious programming. One year I played two of the three Choral Preludes by Cesar Frank on back-to-back weeks (while I was sick!). I also remember a 15 minute memorized delivery of a sketch by Mark Twain for the Ash Wednesday service (it fit the theme, honest). Lent was often a time for some hefty music, which is odd, because it is an old Catholic practice not to allow the organ to sound during Lent at all.
This year, February will be marked by a class I am teaching for the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute (OLLI). This program, run locally by the University of Pittsburgh, allows the 50+ crowd to sign up for classes as if they were in college. There are no degrees granted. My course is off campus at the church which features my new organ friend (see the last two weeks). It is about the history of the instrument, and includes musical performances of pieces representing the different schools and composers that make up the best of the organ literature. It also features an extended organ demonstration. In five weeks, we'll have time to talk about all the buttons, knobs, tabs, and toe studs. Which reminds me, I was going to count all of them to see just how many there were. I imagine my class would like to know.
I am writing this on Wednesday--tomorrow is the first class, and the weather is planning a nice respite from the snow and cold for just one day so I don't have to contemplate cancellation or a drop in attendance. Nice of it. We'll see how things progress--given a choice between two sessions, this nutcase chose February in order to be less busy at Easter.Thus it joins the parade of active Februaries, adding a bit of stress to the cold. At least it keeps the mind occupied, and the fingers limber. And when it is over, I'll have survived another one.
Tuesday, January 9, 2018
Taking Down Christmas
Most years, despite any shortcomings of the actual event, I am sorry to see it go. But through patient application, I've managed to extend the holiday's end from the middle of Christmas morning until the weekend of or following Epiphany. That is just in case my wife decides we really ought to see whether our credit is good for 10 Lords a Leaping or whatever nonsense those lords have been up to since they got drummed out of parliament.
This year's edition was certainly an improvement on its predecessor. In 2016, so close to the Great Disruption that I was still numb from some of the side effects, it was hard not to feel in exile. This year there is a new community, and some friends we've known for over a year. It is hard to put down roots in new soil and have it feel deep and satisfying. But this Christmas did what it could. It is hard to imagine it sometimes, but the season can heal.
Viewing it as we can't help doing -- Dickens knew it to be true -- as a node connecting us with seasons past and, more uncertainly, future, we often feel Christmas time more intensely than other times of year, and loss more acutely. I've been trying to process the loss of an entire community, despite most of its citizens still being alive, and reachable on Facebook.
Many of us act as though we simply want the whole thing to be over as soon as possible. I suspect a significant fraction of this to be fashionable complaining (where, if you aren't complaining, you must not be carrying your load), but I have a certain horror of the numbers of people who seem to go through life just doing what they think they are supposed to do because they are supposed to do it and never considering why or getting anything extravagant from it. There seems to be an emotional deadness there to which I don't want to succumb. Maybe it is because I am an artist, and artists work with meaning and significance. We spend plenty of time just trying to survive, too, but pushing beyond that, we want to feel there is something good about being alive and a reason to share that.
I had a time -- maybe you did too -- when I felt the season hurrying by, and I felt like despite my best efforts, I wasn't going to be able to catch hold of it long enough for it to whisper something meaningful as it rushed past. That it would simply be a series of things done in the proper order but without imparting anything greater than a feeling that it had been done more or less correctly for another year, that 2017 might not have its own face, unique in the crowd of Christmases
It is gone, now. I think the season may have whispered something to me as it flew by, but I'm not sure what it is, yet. Adult Christmases are, of course, always more complicated, and perhaps that complexity increases as you get older, in which case I am finding this out. Old griefs can cause emotional retreat rather than a desire for confrontation, Blue Christmas services or no. But it occurs to me now that maybe this Christmas isn't finished. And maybe it shouldn't be. Old Ebenezer Scrooge may not be the only one who needs to live Christmas 365 days a year.
Given my sense these days of being at the beginning of a new time in life rather than the end of an old one, it is really not strange that I should feel this Christmas communicating with the future, that the gesture really won't be completed until next year, in which case my inner being may be in for a long holiday season after all. As Dickens would have preached, "may that be truly said of all of us.". The lights, the cheer, the music -- all good things, but the impulse, that inner enthusiasm that really makes it a time to rejoice, that is still with us if we search, and cultivate. And with patient striving, and depth of feeling, and a little luck, maybe it will even outlast the pine needles.
Friday, December 15, 2017
Weekend Concerts
Christmases have been behaving a bit strangely lately. In my years in Illinois the month of December was one blast of musical obligations, one massive joy-spreading enterprise guaranteed to leave you gasping for breath when it was over. Last year, after cancer and a move to Pittsburgh my phone barely rang, and the few gigs I almost got had already been taken by the time I knew about them.
This year, as I've been making friends and contacts, I have re-begun the tradition of the Christmas Rush, even if it is in one short, intense burst. For example, this past weekend I had two concerts in two days (with a church service in between):
The first of these was a concert at First United Methodist in Pittsburgh, about a mile from where I pull the stops regularly. Tim Coles, the music director, let me practice at his church back in February when I didn't have a musical home, and even offered me this gig which was the only one on the books for a while. This concert/worship service is an annual event, and this year it included a bell choir, a recorder ensemble, the chancel choir, and ensembles of strings and brass. I played the piano for a couple of selections with the strings and choir, and mostly the organ, with the strings for a movement of the Vivaldi Gloria, and with the brass for the evening's main course, the John Rutter Gloria. I also played a couple of organ solo pieces.
This concert was a bit of therapy, since I am not currently working with any choral organizations, and I have fond memories of the Craig Jessop festival extravaganzas with The Choral, frequently featuring works by John Rutter. I did not serve as the rehearsal pianist this time, so I missed the transition from vocal score to member of the ensemble and the chance to complain that all of my favorite notes got taken away. Although Mr. Rutter has written a nice organ part--the second movement is largely for choir and organ alone (and in some cases just organ) and there are a few bits where you can hear the organ during the outer movements. But the overall effect is what counts and it is a well written study in contrasts and climaxes.
One hallmark of those Illinois concerts was the terrible sight-lines between myself and the conductor. You should know that the choir was again between myself and the conductor such that it was completely impossible to even try to see him. I gave up and watched most of the concert on television.
Although closed-circuit Tim was only a couple of inches high and his baton was even smaller it was still visible and things worked out pretty well. Plus I could watch the Discovery channel during the parts I wasn't playing.
First Methodist is a lovely place. Here is a view from the organ bench of the high ceiling:
Here is the sanctuary itself as not seen from the organ bench (the organ console is actually under the wreath on the left:
I managed to sneak the picture below during the concert (when I wasn't watching Discovery Channel). If I am ever invited to give an organ concert in the great hall at Hogwarts, I think it will look something like this:
There are candles at the ends of the aisles which, from my vantage point, appear to be floating .
The second concert was on Sunday afternoon at a church in Tarentum (Central Presbyterian), which is about a half-hour away from Pittsburgh. It is a small town and the folks there seemed to really appreciate having a concert. The church has had one for a few years, and uses the radio station to promote their events, so one morning Lenny and Dave Rankin and I found ourselves in the basement of WQED talking into a DAT recorder with Jim Cunningham (the host of the morning show and Pittsburgh Symphony broadcasts) recording a podcast for the "voice of the arts" which is dedicated to promoting local events. It was pledge week so we all gave our best spiel about why YOU should SUPPORT THIS STATION! Apparently at some point last week I could be heard on the radio exhorting Pittsburghers to support classical radio. I hope I didn't drive too many of them away!
I don't have any pictures of this concert, which was given by my two colleagues at Third church and myself, Raquel Winnica Young, soprano, Lenny Young, oboe, and I on the 9-rank Wicks organ. It was a nice little instrument. Since I have been learning to tame the beast at Third all the organs I have visited lately have seemed a little smaller than they used to, but that doesn't mean they don't have their own challenges.
That's us when we gave a concert at Third church.
Our big knock down choral extravaganza at Third was in November so Lenny and I can relax a little bit as the holidays roll on. We have a children's pageant this Sunday in which we play minor roles, and then Christmas Eve is coming in a week with a guest ensemble and all of those carols we haven't been singing yet because we are liturgically aware. And also because I haven't been shopping yet.
Just a reminder, the holiday program is still up at pianonoise radio for the next 10 days. Enjoy the sounds of the season (for free!). See you next week.
This year, as I've been making friends and contacts, I have re-begun the tradition of the Christmas Rush, even if it is in one short, intense burst. For example, this past weekend I had two concerts in two days (with a church service in between):
The first of these was a concert at First United Methodist in Pittsburgh, about a mile from where I pull the stops regularly. Tim Coles, the music director, let me practice at his church back in February when I didn't have a musical home, and even offered me this gig which was the only one on the books for a while. This concert/worship service is an annual event, and this year it included a bell choir, a recorder ensemble, the chancel choir, and ensembles of strings and brass. I played the piano for a couple of selections with the strings and choir, and mostly the organ, with the strings for a movement of the Vivaldi Gloria, and with the brass for the evening's main course, the John Rutter Gloria. I also played a couple of organ solo pieces.
This concert was a bit of therapy, since I am not currently working with any choral organizations, and I have fond memories of the Craig Jessop festival extravaganzas with The Choral, frequently featuring works by John Rutter. I did not serve as the rehearsal pianist this time, so I missed the transition from vocal score to member of the ensemble and the chance to complain that all of my favorite notes got taken away. Although Mr. Rutter has written a nice organ part--the second movement is largely for choir and organ alone (and in some cases just organ) and there are a few bits where you can hear the organ during the outer movements. But the overall effect is what counts and it is a well written study in contrasts and climaxes.
One hallmark of those Illinois concerts was the terrible sight-lines between myself and the conductor. You should know that the choir was again between myself and the conductor such that it was completely impossible to even try to see him. I gave up and watched most of the concert on television.
Although closed-circuit Tim was only a couple of inches high and his baton was even smaller it was still visible and things worked out pretty well. Plus I could watch the Discovery channel during the parts I wasn't playing.
First Methodist is a lovely place. Here is a view from the organ bench of the high ceiling:
I managed to sneak the picture below during the concert (when I wasn't watching Discovery Channel). If I am ever invited to give an organ concert in the great hall at Hogwarts, I think it will look something like this:
There are candles at the ends of the aisles which, from my vantage point, appear to be floating .
The second concert was on Sunday afternoon at a church in Tarentum (Central Presbyterian), which is about a half-hour away from Pittsburgh. It is a small town and the folks there seemed to really appreciate having a concert. The church has had one for a few years, and uses the radio station to promote their events, so one morning Lenny and Dave Rankin and I found ourselves in the basement of WQED talking into a DAT recorder with Jim Cunningham (the host of the morning show and Pittsburgh Symphony broadcasts) recording a podcast for the "voice of the arts" which is dedicated to promoting local events. It was pledge week so we all gave our best spiel about why YOU should SUPPORT THIS STATION! Apparently at some point last week I could be heard on the radio exhorting Pittsburghers to support classical radio. I hope I didn't drive too many of them away!
I don't have any pictures of this concert, which was given by my two colleagues at Third church and myself, Raquel Winnica Young, soprano, Lenny Young, oboe, and I on the 9-rank Wicks organ. It was a nice little instrument. Since I have been learning to tame the beast at Third all the organs I have visited lately have seemed a little smaller than they used to, but that doesn't mean they don't have their own challenges.
Our big knock down choral extravaganza at Third was in November so Lenny and I can relax a little bit as the holidays roll on. We have a children's pageant this Sunday in which we play minor roles, and then Christmas Eve is coming in a week with a guest ensemble and all of those carols we haven't been singing yet because we are liturgically aware. And also because I haven't been shopping yet.
Just a reminder, the holiday program is still up at pianonoise radio for the next 10 days. Enjoy the sounds of the season (for free!). See you next week.
Friday, December 8, 2017
Ghosts of Christmas music past, part two (finale)
I've been sharing some personal memories of the music I've assembled for the holiday season that you can hear all this month on Pianonoise Radio. All of the recordings date from before our move to Pittsburgh, my cancer, and my job change. I have started to make recordings again, and some of them have begun finding their way to the web; however, it will probably be next year before I add any of them to the holiday program.
We left off right before the Liszt piece, "The Shepherds at the Manger" which is a little thing based on the tune "In Dulci Jubilo." I discovered its existence while reading a forum question posed by a piano teacher who was trying to find some "Christian" music for piano that he could stand, and while the efforts of the various (probably non-Christian) parties involved to find something classical and church-appropriate was fairly amusing, there were some suggestions that bordered on useful--at least this little guy could come in handy at Christmas. However, my efforts to record it were racked by even greater comedy, as you can read here. I think it may be one of my favorite blog posts.
The two books of Bartok carols were recorded the same year, the year that our church sanctuary got new carpet in the middle of Advent, which made things difficult, since in the busiest season of the year I didn't have access to the organ for nearly two weeks. Recording was also difficult since the better piano was also buried under a pile of debris for the duration. I managed to hack out this recording in such a hurry I think I might have only had one day to learn the piece, which accounts for a couple of mis-readings and one place where I left out a line of one of the carols! I still like the recording, though. Bartok gives me something very different to listen to during this most hackneyed of musical months, though I suppose the rest of the populace would rather listen to the same popular songs and occasional carols all the time. Oh well, it is my website, and you can skip it if you want. I like it, anyway, and since familiarity is nine tenths of the law in music, you probably will too if you listen to it a few times. Unfortunately I can't find the words to any of the carols.
Call it OCD if you will, or just rampant creativity, but the Tunder Canzona comes with special features, such as being able to hear it from different locations. I've explained it all in this blog.
Listening to the meditative beauty of Bach's next version of "Now Come, Savior of the Nations" it is hard to believe that I spent several minutes before the recording desperately trying to kill a grasshopper. It was hiding under one of the windows of the sanctuary and it would not shut up so that I could record in peace. Eventually it did, which is good; I never did find it. If the title seems a little familiar it is because it is based on an ancient advent hymn and Bach himself wrote four organ settings of the same hymn. This one is the most often played by a mile, being so peaceful. I'll be playing it next week in church for what I think is the third time. I try not to repeat selections very often which is why the last time I played it during a Christmas season was 2008. The present recording I think comes from 2011 and was made during the summer (hence the grasshopper). This is often the best time to record Christmas music as I am much too busy in December.
If we go back into the eons of time; that is, to my teenage years--I had a tradition of Christmas improvisations. I would take several carols, and make up my own arrangements of them in front of a tape recorder. They ranged from melancholy to ridiculous. I do less of that now, but one year, after continuing to struggle with the shrinkage of time during the holidays, I revived the practice, and several of the remaining pieces are improvisations. The good news is that after years of practice I can make up something on the spot that sounds reasonably close to a printed composition. The bad news is I was trying to sneak it in between rehearsals and concerts, and wasn't always at my best. I think five of these were made at once one morning just before a staff Christmas lunch. I've since written some of the them out for further use and even played one on Christmas eve from the (partially completed) score (not enough time!). Some of the meanderings and hesitations will disappear then. I also find improvisations can be a good starting point for an actual composition later--provided I can remember them, or happen to record them, which isn't likely except at Christmas. If you take delight in the "authenticity" that is the actual unfiltered moment of inspiration, then these last pieces are for you. I'll be bringing my recorded to church this year too, to capture the moment. I'll also be going back to some of the music I played during my college years, and graduate school, to remind myself of more Christmases past.
The funny, the bizarre, and the annoying, all are part of the history of these recordings, but while these words may give you a back stage glance into the messy reality that is a life in music, it is the music itself, evocative of peace, love, hope and joy, as well as melancholy, drama, and wonder--this is my Christmas present to you. This year and every year at this time as we examine ourselves we reckon with and see more clearly our passage through the portal of time. The music will be here next year too, I hope, but with some additions from this next chapter of my life, which is just beginning, in the building at the bottom of the page. Have a Merry Christmas, and if you don't celebrate Christmas (or even if you do), may you have peace, joy and love.
Michael Hammer
We left off right before the Liszt piece, "The Shepherds at the Manger" which is a little thing based on the tune "In Dulci Jubilo." I discovered its existence while reading a forum question posed by a piano teacher who was trying to find some "Christian" music for piano that he could stand, and while the efforts of the various (probably non-Christian) parties involved to find something classical and church-appropriate was fairly amusing, there were some suggestions that bordered on useful--at least this little guy could come in handy at Christmas. However, my efforts to record it were racked by even greater comedy, as you can read here. I think it may be one of my favorite blog posts.
The two books of Bartok carols were recorded the same year, the year that our church sanctuary got new carpet in the middle of Advent, which made things difficult, since in the busiest season of the year I didn't have access to the organ for nearly two weeks. Recording was also difficult since the better piano was also buried under a pile of debris for the duration. I managed to hack out this recording in such a hurry I think I might have only had one day to learn the piece, which accounts for a couple of mis-readings and one place where I left out a line of one of the carols! I still like the recording, though. Bartok gives me something very different to listen to during this most hackneyed of musical months, though I suppose the rest of the populace would rather listen to the same popular songs and occasional carols all the time. Oh well, it is my website, and you can skip it if you want. I like it, anyway, and since familiarity is nine tenths of the law in music, you probably will too if you listen to it a few times. Unfortunately I can't find the words to any of the carols.
Call it OCD if you will, or just rampant creativity, but the Tunder Canzona comes with special features, such as being able to hear it from different locations. I've explained it all in this blog.
Listening to the meditative beauty of Bach's next version of "Now Come, Savior of the Nations" it is hard to believe that I spent several minutes before the recording desperately trying to kill a grasshopper. It was hiding under one of the windows of the sanctuary and it would not shut up so that I could record in peace. Eventually it did, which is good; I never did find it. If the title seems a little familiar it is because it is based on an ancient advent hymn and Bach himself wrote four organ settings of the same hymn. This one is the most often played by a mile, being so peaceful. I'll be playing it next week in church for what I think is the third time. I try not to repeat selections very often which is why the last time I played it during a Christmas season was 2008. The present recording I think comes from 2011 and was made during the summer (hence the grasshopper). This is often the best time to record Christmas music as I am much too busy in December.
If we go back into the eons of time; that is, to my teenage years--I had a tradition of Christmas improvisations. I would take several carols, and make up my own arrangements of them in front of a tape recorder. They ranged from melancholy to ridiculous. I do less of that now, but one year, after continuing to struggle with the shrinkage of time during the holidays, I revived the practice, and several of the remaining pieces are improvisations. The good news is that after years of practice I can make up something on the spot that sounds reasonably close to a printed composition. The bad news is I was trying to sneak it in between rehearsals and concerts, and wasn't always at my best. I think five of these were made at once one morning just before a staff Christmas lunch. I've since written some of the them out for further use and even played one on Christmas eve from the (partially completed) score (not enough time!). Some of the meanderings and hesitations will disappear then. I also find improvisations can be a good starting point for an actual composition later--provided I can remember them, or happen to record them, which isn't likely except at Christmas. If you take delight in the "authenticity" that is the actual unfiltered moment of inspiration, then these last pieces are for you. I'll be bringing my recorded to church this year too, to capture the moment. I'll also be going back to some of the music I played during my college years, and graduate school, to remind myself of more Christmases past.
The funny, the bizarre, and the annoying, all are part of the history of these recordings, but while these words may give you a back stage glance into the messy reality that is a life in music, it is the music itself, evocative of peace, love, hope and joy, as well as melancholy, drama, and wonder--this is my Christmas present to you. This year and every year at this time as we examine ourselves we reckon with and see more clearly our passage through the portal of time. The music will be here next year too, I hope, but with some additions from this next chapter of my life, which is just beginning, in the building at the bottom of the page. Have a Merry Christmas, and if you don't celebrate Christmas (or even if you do), may you have peace, joy and love.
Michael Hammer
Friday, November 24, 2017
Talk about gratitude
I've come across a lot of different personality types in my journey across life, as I'm sure have you. Some are pretty negative about the way they see life, feeling continually shat upon and thinking that everybody else has it easy and they don't. This seems like a majority opinion. There are varieties of hall-full/half-empty combinations, and some folks who aren't so easy to categorize because they seem to change their ideas once in a while. And then there are a very few people who are not only quite positive about what they think life can be and what they can get out of it, but they spread that joy to everyone around them and cause improved performance and improved attitude from everyone with whom they come in contact; they are liked by virtually everybody. I've had to privilege to know a few of these people. When they are in the room everyone else seems to be able to ride on their encouragement like a wave or warm themselves in the rays of their sun.
Have you ever wondered how they got that way?
I'm not talking about Pollyannaesque denial of reality, either. These folks seem to be pretty grounded in gritty practicality, too--it's not that they don't know what stinkers we all are, it's that they know how to steer the other way and in the process get us all to go there as well, at least for a while.
While I was in chemo I experienced a pretty wild ride on waves of despair and exuberance. Every time I got intentionally poisoned for 5 days in a row things got really ugly for a week or so and then, right near the end of a cycle I'd slowly come out of it and feel my body roar back to life. I'd try to eat everything in sight to put back the several pounds I'd lost, and resume community with the people I couldn't see while I was under the waves. As we were in the middle of a move to another state, I was saying farewell to the people I'd know for the last decade and also leaving my jobs. Those days were full of major occasions like last concerts, church services, and a graduation. These were occasions that would have felt epic under normal circumstances but now they felt enormous. If you ever wanted to experience huge waves of gratitude for being alive this is one way to experience it. Not that I'd recommend it.
It occurred to me to wonder whether whether this sort of experience wasn't in the biography of every larger-than-life optimist; dark days that had given rise to a great victory; personal struggle with demons vanquished and a sense that everything afterward is a privilege that never lets up. I wondered if it would change me.
I don't think it has, really. After the chemicals wore off and life resumed some sort of normality the soaring movie music began to fade. However, as I explained to a friend who asked, there are two addendum to note here: one is that, well before cancer struck I had a sense that I wasn't going to live forever, that life is fleeting, time is precious, and if you have something to do you'd better do it and not dilly around because you never know. The other was that life is a gift and being able to do what I do is awesome. I would bound up the stairs to the sanctuary every morning looking forward to the practice ahead, know that it would eventually get difficult and onerous but that I'd emerge with a new swath of music in my head and heart and loving the process, or at least the results. So the two cliches were already in place: I wasn't taking life for granted anyhow, and I was motivated by both the joy and the scarcity. Thus, not only do I not detect a huge change in outlook, I'm not sure there was much room to go in the that direction. But I may have gotten even more focused and more gratitudinous (sorry, but how do you make that a noun?)*.
Still, it's possible that there has been some change. A larger-than-life friend I talked to after the treatments thought the experience might change my music. Only recently I've begun to noticed a compositional shift taking effect, and I don't know where all of its roots lie. Perhaps. I also seem to have registered as a friendly, positive person among my new associates in my new environment. It is somewhat of a surprise to be told that, but then I had been working at it.
Which is basically my point this morning. Outsiders to music tend to think--and share with those of us who are practitioners--that some of us were just 'born with it' and that it just 'comes naturally' as you shake the magic notes out of your fingers. Those of us on the inside know how much hard work is involved: thousands upon thousands of hours of practice, thing building upon thing until sometimes it actually is pretty easy, but you have to go a long way to get there. And sometimes it is still very very hard. Why should it be any different with attitudes?
The mysterious alchemy that goes into great achievement is not so easy to define. Surely there is some native talent for whatever we do. Then there is opportunity, which may be defined as the experiences we have that allow us to grow, some of which may be unpleasant. Then there is the daily work to take what we have and see what we can do with it. It is only the last of these that is under our control, and for that good reason is the one on which achievers tend to focus while others get caught up lauding the other two.
I can, of course, feel lucky to be in possession of the first two: grateful, if you like. And then spurred on to respond to those gifts by adding one of my own: saying yes to them in real time. And my readers can respond in at least two ways as well: as a feel good piece about the joy of life or having a positive attitude or something else we all knew already but enjoyed having affirmed, or...you can work to make these things (in the phraseology of Wallace Stevens) your "gradual possession." Not something you have to jealously guard or fear the loss of, but something you can joyfully give away.
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*Grateful. But that isn't as much fun.
Friday, November 17, 2017
In the Midst of Life...
"At the midpoint of life's journey, I found myself in a dark forest, for the clear path was lost"
---Dante, Inferno (prologue)
I like to plan ahead whenever possible, and since 90 seems like a good life span, I thought, when approaching 45, that I should plan for a concert which I planned to call the "halftime show." Some wags might point out that there is no guarantee that I would have gotten that right; perhaps I would be enjoying myself too much at 90 and decide to live longer, but in such a case I had a ready answer for them, borrowed from the world of sport: "sudden death overtime."
That would have gotten a mirthful response had I gotten to opine that into a microphone at the planned but ungiven concert, but, as it happens, I was a little busy trying to fend off an early end to the festivities. Cancer struck.
It was one of the better kinds, if you are planning on getting it. Rare, but no more a friend of chemotherapy than was its host. The thing did as promised, and melted away, which was good, because when we found it it was the size of a small football in my chest, trying its best to exercise eminent domain on my heart and lungs. I couldn't take a regular breath, and my exercise regimen was going from Marathon to Couch, which is backwards.
I spent the better part of March 2016 preparing for an early grave, and then, when the diagnosis came, trying to deal with a very aggressive program of chemotherapy, designed for getting rid of large tumors in no uncertain terms, for those with lots of life ahead of them if only they can survive being poisoned for a few months.
I have spent most of my life fearing chemotherapy out of the corner of my mind. I've heard nasty things about it; I hoped that some of those miraculous advances in cancer treatment that we keep hearing about would have taken hold if and when it got to me. But alas, no.
There are many side effects which I now know from experience. Every system in your body is turned upside down. You can't sleep because you have to evacuate fluid every hour; also because some of the pills to take care of the nausea make you very restless and others very sleepy so that you are generally both at once. You can't tell if you are hungry, so you just have to guess, force it down, and if it comes back up you were wrong. Then there is pain in your bones, your chest, your muscles, and, if you are as lucky as I was, you can't stand light and have to keep your eyes tightly shut for days at a time while you lie there, unable to pass the time with a screen of some sort.
The bulk of that turmoil ended over a year ago, and I've written about it on another blog. My rehashing it here is simply to serve as notice as to why it has been so long since my lastconfession blog and to further explain why, for the next month or so I plan to blog only on Fridays, and then in a largely autobiographical manner, as if I have some catching up to do before deciding when to attempt to return to what this blog was originally designed to do--share piano music on Mondays, help musicians on Wednesdays, and discuss organs and church music on Fridays. It still seems a bit daunting as I write this, but I'm feeling better now, and I've been fairly productive lately, so...perhaps. One of the surprises may have been how long it has taken me to fully recover, and how many times I thought I was back on my feet only to find a couple of months later that I was more recovered than the time before which retroactively meant I wasn't in as good shape as I thought I was. This time, I thought, I'm Really recovered!
In the middle of all the muddle we moved so my wife could take up new employment in another city, which meant I had to leave my jobs and community and start over. I'm still working on it. Next time I will probably talk about Pittsburgh.
Pianonoise the website has had a rebirth as well. I will update that on Fridays also. It has a calendar of events (I have just had two concerts and two more are coming up this semester), a weekly recording, which for now involves recycling of a lot of material (31 hours) generated in Illinois, with the promise of more to come from Pittsburgh in the new year, and links to various articles, new and old, and of course, this blog.
It will be good to share life and music with you again.
---Dante, Inferno (prologue)
I like to plan ahead whenever possible, and since 90 seems like a good life span, I thought, when approaching 45, that I should plan for a concert which I planned to call the "halftime show." Some wags might point out that there is no guarantee that I would have gotten that right; perhaps I would be enjoying myself too much at 90 and decide to live longer, but in such a case I had a ready answer for them, borrowed from the world of sport: "sudden death overtime."That would have gotten a mirthful response had I gotten to opine that into a microphone at the planned but ungiven concert, but, as it happens, I was a little busy trying to fend off an early end to the festivities. Cancer struck.
It was one of the better kinds, if you are planning on getting it. Rare, but no more a friend of chemotherapy than was its host. The thing did as promised, and melted away, which was good, because when we found it it was the size of a small football in my chest, trying its best to exercise eminent domain on my heart and lungs. I couldn't take a regular breath, and my exercise regimen was going from Marathon to Couch, which is backwards.
I spent the better part of March 2016 preparing for an early grave, and then, when the diagnosis came, trying to deal with a very aggressive program of chemotherapy, designed for getting rid of large tumors in no uncertain terms, for those with lots of life ahead of them if only they can survive being poisoned for a few months.
I have spent most of my life fearing chemotherapy out of the corner of my mind. I've heard nasty things about it; I hoped that some of those miraculous advances in cancer treatment that we keep hearing about would have taken hold if and when it got to me. But alas, no.
There are many side effects which I now know from experience. Every system in your body is turned upside down. You can't sleep because you have to evacuate fluid every hour; also because some of the pills to take care of the nausea make you very restless and others very sleepy so that you are generally both at once. You can't tell if you are hungry, so you just have to guess, force it down, and if it comes back up you were wrong. Then there is pain in your bones, your chest, your muscles, and, if you are as lucky as I was, you can't stand light and have to keep your eyes tightly shut for days at a time while you lie there, unable to pass the time with a screen of some sort.
The bulk of that turmoil ended over a year ago, and I've written about it on another blog. My rehashing it here is simply to serve as notice as to why it has been so long since my last
In the middle of all the muddle we moved so my wife could take up new employment in another city, which meant I had to leave my jobs and community and start over. I'm still working on it. Next time I will probably talk about Pittsburgh.
Pianonoise the website has had a rebirth as well. I will update that on Fridays also. It has a calendar of events (I have just had two concerts and two more are coming up this semester), a weekly recording, which for now involves recycling of a lot of material (31 hours) generated in Illinois, with the promise of more to come from Pittsburgh in the new year, and links to various articles, new and old, and of course, this blog.
It will be good to share life and music with you again.
Friday, April 8, 2016
The temerity of a tumor
It's called a mediastinal seminoma. The first word refers to the region of the chest directly behind the sternum--right in the upper middle--, and the second is a kind of germ tumor which typically grows there. Not too typically, understand. It is rare enough to be a bit off-the-beaten-path medically and not so rare that nobody knows how to treat it but at least there is a chance they'll name it after you. Call it medium rare.
I mention this because I am currently hosting one of my own. Like many tumors in this class, it has grown quite large because it sets up shop in one of the few parts of the body with a nice bit of real estate undeveloped by vital organs, and expands until it has run out of chest cavity, finally making its presence known by trying to bump your lungs and heart and whatever else it assumes is unnecessary out of the way so it can take over everything.
I have a problem with that.
Fortunately, so did my doctors, although the story of my first month spent with the knowledge of a large mass in my chest did not go as pleasantly as I had hoped. It was March 2nd on which, fed up with a cough that just would not go away all winter and into the spring (it started in November, but as several people in my environment also had coughs that weren't going away it blended nicely with its surroundings and I assumed if I just waited a while it would finally clear up)--my patience gone completely, and my ability to run without an unusual amount of effort and exhaustion particularly at short distances finally being the last straw, that I visited a clinic nearby and complained of a "chornic cough" (OK, they mis-typed it) and a "tightness of chest." When an exam with a stethoscope didn't turn any problems up I was sent for a chest x-ray, and that's when they found it. Something that shouldn't be there, was there.
What it actually was took a long time to find out. First a CT scan took a more three-dimensional image of my chest. But the biopsy was what took so long, and around that, not the test, but the paperwork, and the second opinion from a large and respected clinic up north (Mayo) and than some more dragging on paperwork, while I called periodically and tried to figure out which of the 8 doctors who appeared in my chain of care for various reasons (some of whom I had never actually met or received any care from) might have gotten the results of the test.
By this point we were pushing up against Palm Sunday and Easter, which puts a special pressure on a church organist. I thought my time might be very limited, even, given the size of the thing, my time on this earth, but especially, as soon was we had a name for it, we'd start treatment, and that surely meant disruption. Either chemotherapy, which would cause an uncertain amount of it, or surgery, which would put me completely out of the picture for a month or two. Flat on my back, recovering from being pulled open like a lobster. But the mass gone completely. Perhaps.
I had to tell the staff at the church, and my other employers, that we had to have someone on standby if I suddenly was unable to perform my duties. And at least secretly, I thought, I just somehow have to make it through Easter. I can't leave my church high and dry on Easter Sunday, of all things. Just though Easter! Please.
Which in some way made those foot-dragging doctors useful, because it wasn't until after Easter that I got my results. And then another week to correct an early mistake I'd made trying to save money--I was out of network, and had to get my records transferred from one oncologist to the other, which took another week's time.
So on Match Day, when Kristen finally found out, after most of a year, where she had been selected to do her medical residency, after a long period of uncertainly, knowing we were going to move away but not knowing yet where, we finally had answers. A destination, a goal, a place for me to start looking for jobs. Future less cloudy. On our way to with the path well marked. Oh, and I might have cancer....
But I got through Easter, and somehow played about as well as usual, three epic services in one morning and an evening choir practice on top of it, no time to nap in between because we have people to see (I may have squeezed in a few zzzs after that). Alleluia!
And then I had a Baron Richtoffen moment.* I told the staff at our next meeting how glad I was that I had made it through Easter. And that, so far, has been my last Sunday! Well, I'm still glad Easter came early, and I still think it is much better to miss a Sunday or two that is not a major holiday.
I had a virus last weekend with a fever which conveniently robbed me of my voice on Friday, and the rest of me on Saturday and Sunday. And this was the week that we had decided to tell the whole church of my condition. The pastors had to do it while I was not present and I asked them to please let the church know that my absence was not due to the advanced stages of the disease, but an unrelated virus that was causing a fever. I'm sure some folks panicked anyway. The next day they sent me the entirety of the altar flowers (they normally divide these up between shut-ins--so sorry, guys!) care of the office manager, Janelle, who said that the ladies would have brought them to my house themselves, but were afraid they'd cry!
(I'm not at death's door yet, guys)
Meanwhile, we were trying to figure out just how bad things were, or weren't. Once I got to see my oncologist, things changed very quickly. He's been championed as "aggressive." He wanted me in the hospital the next day to start chemotherapy while simultaneously being available for all of the tests to determined whether it had spread. To our relief, we found it had not. It was just a very large tumor in my chest. About the size of a nerf football.
A seminoma is a strange type of cancer. It grows quickly, which makes it easier to treat. Seminomas can be shrunk very well with chemotherapy. It may only take three months. I have been told my cancer is very treatable, and I'll probably be cured completely (though that's not guaranteed). In the meantime, I still have to go through at least four cycles of chemotherapy. I'll have some good days and some bad days. Which is where this gets relevant to my blog readers.
Some of you are pianists and organist who do not read this blog to find out about me personally. I also have many Facebook friends and family who sometimes read this blog only when it contains information about me. Usually I'm here to share music with anyone who will listen and hopefully find it fascinating. But on the theory that music and life are connected, and given the major transitions we are going through this year, I occasionally get autobiographical on you. This particular journey might entail some inconsistencies in this blog. For instance:
1) I may find it next to impossible to get myself out of bed some days and unable to think straight enough to put sentences together because of the effects of the drugs and therefore will not be publishing the blog regularly for the remainder of the semester.
2) I may find that blogging is about the only thing I CAN do with any consistency, or on good days I may write several, set them on auto-publish, and proceed marvelously uninterrupted.
I can't say yet. Today is my third day in the hospital and third day of chemotherapy. So far it has not had negative effects on me. The anti-nausea drugs they are giving me are working wonderfully, and my kidneys are doing their jobs wonderfully, too. I won't be running any marathons this year and I have even stopped practicing the piano and organ. But since I work ahead I can still share new recordings with you through the end of the semester so long as I can think straight and stay awake long enough. Which isn't the problem right now--I haven't been getting enough sleep!
Those of you who are friends and family members, or concerned blog readers, can go to a place called caringbridge.org and look for a fellow named michael andy hammer (the middle name is a good way to find the right me). I'll be putting all future cancer-related information there and not going on Facebook or this blog with it, so that we can continue to live our musically rich, intellectually curious lives as well as we can to share our passions with as many people as we can for as long as we can. All of us.
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*I read a children's book once about the "red baron." Despite his success, he was never happy--never thought he had enough kills. First he becomes an ace--you need 10 kills for that--and the kills keep piling up. 20, 30, 40---I think he get all the way to 80. And they have a banquet for him and he drinks the toast, and says, "80 kills. Now that is something" as if satisfied with himself for the first time. And the next time he goes up in a plane, he gets killed. Moral: don't get complacent!
I mention this because I am currently hosting one of my own. Like many tumors in this class, it has grown quite large because it sets up shop in one of the few parts of the body with a nice bit of real estate undeveloped by vital organs, and expands until it has run out of chest cavity, finally making its presence known by trying to bump your lungs and heart and whatever else it assumes is unnecessary out of the way so it can take over everything.
I have a problem with that.
Fortunately, so did my doctors, although the story of my first month spent with the knowledge of a large mass in my chest did not go as pleasantly as I had hoped. It was March 2nd on which, fed up with a cough that just would not go away all winter and into the spring (it started in November, but as several people in my environment also had coughs that weren't going away it blended nicely with its surroundings and I assumed if I just waited a while it would finally clear up)--my patience gone completely, and my ability to run without an unusual amount of effort and exhaustion particularly at short distances finally being the last straw, that I visited a clinic nearby and complained of a "chornic cough" (OK, they mis-typed it) and a "tightness of chest." When an exam with a stethoscope didn't turn any problems up I was sent for a chest x-ray, and that's when they found it. Something that shouldn't be there, was there.
What it actually was took a long time to find out. First a CT scan took a more three-dimensional image of my chest. But the biopsy was what took so long, and around that, not the test, but the paperwork, and the second opinion from a large and respected clinic up north (Mayo) and than some more dragging on paperwork, while I called periodically and tried to figure out which of the 8 doctors who appeared in my chain of care for various reasons (some of whom I had never actually met or received any care from) might have gotten the results of the test.
By this point we were pushing up against Palm Sunday and Easter, which puts a special pressure on a church organist. I thought my time might be very limited, even, given the size of the thing, my time on this earth, but especially, as soon was we had a name for it, we'd start treatment, and that surely meant disruption. Either chemotherapy, which would cause an uncertain amount of it, or surgery, which would put me completely out of the picture for a month or two. Flat on my back, recovering from being pulled open like a lobster. But the mass gone completely. Perhaps.
I had to tell the staff at the church, and my other employers, that we had to have someone on standby if I suddenly was unable to perform my duties. And at least secretly, I thought, I just somehow have to make it through Easter. I can't leave my church high and dry on Easter Sunday, of all things. Just though Easter! Please.
Which in some way made those foot-dragging doctors useful, because it wasn't until after Easter that I got my results. And then another week to correct an early mistake I'd made trying to save money--I was out of network, and had to get my records transferred from one oncologist to the other, which took another week's time.
So on Match Day, when Kristen finally found out, after most of a year, where she had been selected to do her medical residency, after a long period of uncertainly, knowing we were going to move away but not knowing yet where, we finally had answers. A destination, a goal, a place for me to start looking for jobs. Future less cloudy. On our way to with the path well marked. Oh, and I might have cancer....
But I got through Easter, and somehow played about as well as usual, three epic services in one morning and an evening choir practice on top of it, no time to nap in between because we have people to see (I may have squeezed in a few zzzs after that). Alleluia!
And then I had a Baron Richtoffen moment.* I told the staff at our next meeting how glad I was that I had made it through Easter. And that, so far, has been my last Sunday! Well, I'm still glad Easter came early, and I still think it is much better to miss a Sunday or two that is not a major holiday.
I had a virus last weekend with a fever which conveniently robbed me of my voice on Friday, and the rest of me on Saturday and Sunday. And this was the week that we had decided to tell the whole church of my condition. The pastors had to do it while I was not present and I asked them to please let the church know that my absence was not due to the advanced stages of the disease, but an unrelated virus that was causing a fever. I'm sure some folks panicked anyway. The next day they sent me the entirety of the altar flowers (they normally divide these up between shut-ins--so sorry, guys!) care of the office manager, Janelle, who said that the ladies would have brought them to my house themselves, but were afraid they'd cry!
(I'm not at death's door yet, guys)
Meanwhile, we were trying to figure out just how bad things were, or weren't. Once I got to see my oncologist, things changed very quickly. He's been championed as "aggressive." He wanted me in the hospital the next day to start chemotherapy while simultaneously being available for all of the tests to determined whether it had spread. To our relief, we found it had not. It was just a very large tumor in my chest. About the size of a nerf football.
A seminoma is a strange type of cancer. It grows quickly, which makes it easier to treat. Seminomas can be shrunk very well with chemotherapy. It may only take three months. I have been told my cancer is very treatable, and I'll probably be cured completely (though that's not guaranteed). In the meantime, I still have to go through at least four cycles of chemotherapy. I'll have some good days and some bad days. Which is where this gets relevant to my blog readers.
Some of you are pianists and organist who do not read this blog to find out about me personally. I also have many Facebook friends and family who sometimes read this blog only when it contains information about me. Usually I'm here to share music with anyone who will listen and hopefully find it fascinating. But on the theory that music and life are connected, and given the major transitions we are going through this year, I occasionally get autobiographical on you. This particular journey might entail some inconsistencies in this blog. For instance:
1) I may find it next to impossible to get myself out of bed some days and unable to think straight enough to put sentences together because of the effects of the drugs and therefore will not be publishing the blog regularly for the remainder of the semester.
2) I may find that blogging is about the only thing I CAN do with any consistency, or on good days I may write several, set them on auto-publish, and proceed marvelously uninterrupted.
I can't say yet. Today is my third day in the hospital and third day of chemotherapy. So far it has not had negative effects on me. The anti-nausea drugs they are giving me are working wonderfully, and my kidneys are doing their jobs wonderfully, too. I won't be running any marathons this year and I have even stopped practicing the piano and organ. But since I work ahead I can still share new recordings with you through the end of the semester so long as I can think straight and stay awake long enough. Which isn't the problem right now--I haven't been getting enough sleep!
Those of you who are friends and family members, or concerned blog readers, can go to a place called caringbridge.org and look for a fellow named michael andy hammer (the middle name is a good way to find the right me). I'll be putting all future cancer-related information there and not going on Facebook or this blog with it, so that we can continue to live our musically rich, intellectually curious lives as well as we can to share our passions with as many people as we can for as long as we can. All of us.
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*I read a children's book once about the "red baron." Despite his success, he was never happy--never thought he had enough kills. First he becomes an ace--you need 10 kills for that--and the kills keep piling up. 20, 30, 40---I think he get all the way to 80. And they have a banquet for him and he drinks the toast, and says, "80 kills. Now that is something" as if satisfied with himself for the first time. And the next time he goes up in a plane, he gets killed. Moral: don't get complacent!
Monday, March 21, 2016
Match Results
Friday I mentioned on my blog that I would be sharing with you in this space what happened as a result of the match. If you have no idea what this is or don't care, my apologies. The regularly scheduled blog will be back Wednesday.
In the meantime, my wife has learned that she will be doing her residency in Pittsburgh, PA, so we will be moving there in June.
This is not fun news for the people of Champaign, who have been telling us all year they are going to miss us, and we them, but we look forward to lots of interesting opportunities and happenings in Pittsburgh, and feel that somehow the folks in Illinois will manage to get by without us. Until then, we are busy with the various things that make up moving and preparing for this next step in our lives.
In the meantime, my wife has learned that she will be doing her residency in Pittsburgh, PA, so we will be moving there in June.
This is not fun news for the people of Champaign, who have been telling us all year they are going to miss us, and we them, but we look forward to lots of interesting opportunities and happenings in Pittsburgh, and feel that somehow the folks in Illinois will manage to get by without us. Until then, we are busy with the various things that make up moving and preparing for this next step in our lives.
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| One of the pictures I got from a river cruise during a conference in Pittsburgh a few years ago. |
Wednesday, March 2, 2016
ok, a little further back now....good.....keep going......
Historian Will Durant said he first set out to write a history of the 19th century. Then he decided that if he wanted to be able to understand what happened in the 19th century, he'd have to back up a bit and find out what led to the cultural and political situations he encountered then. At which point he realized that that too was caused by what had happened before and that he'd need to back up even more.
Which is how he got all the way back to the dawn of recorded history, and ended up writing The Story of Civilization in 11 volumes of 600-1000 pages, trying to tell the story of human history (Euro-centered, of course, but with an attempt to deal with every culture around the world to some degree and grapple with its entire recorded history at least in passing).
It took Durant and his wife, Ariel, most of their long lives to finish the task, and by finish, we mean they ended up in about 1815, which was still a good century and a half before their last book was published in 1975. Before that, they had planned the ultimate cliff-hanger and decided to finish with volume 10 on the eve of the French Revolution. (We weren't even going to get to find out how it ends!)
It's even a monumental task to read it all, and, having begun the series just after moving to Champaign 11 years ago, I'm about 150 pages from the end of the final volume with just a few months left until our move. I think I'll make it.
My connection to Durant may not be just as reader. In some ways, we are engaged in a similar task, what he would call the ridiculous and ultimately doomed effort to see things whole, to understand all of it. In the past five years, just in the area of sound recording, I've posted nearly 30 hours of organ and piano music stretching all the way back to the earliest surviving organ music from the late Middle Ages, including some piece based on chants that go back even further (often we have no better than a good guess as to when). It encompasses many countries, mostly in Europe and America, with some contributions from other places in the world, and includes improvisations and compositions of my own vintage and those of a few others who have written their pieces in the last few years, showing that the tradition is alive and continuing to forge ahead.
This survey of mine will hopefully grow to include every major school of musical thought and composition and every major voice who has spoken in a written musical dialect. But it cannot possibly be thorough. There simply is not enough time to get to everything that has been written, no matter how long or short life is. It will never be long enough. Rachmaninoff knew that. He said "music is enough for a lifetime, but a lifetime is not enough for music." Durant knew that about history, too.
And why should it be possible? Me vs. every important contribution from thousands of members, past and present, of my own species? How can I possibly represent all of that? And who says I have to?
One of the amazing things about human beings is their ability to fling their voices far across space and time. To continue being part of the conversation long after their physical voices have ceased; to influence people who could never know them personally. We will never even know who wrote those organ pieces from the Robertsbridge Codex, c. 1360. Maybe he died of the plague. Maybe he was not a nice person at all. Or perhaps I would have enjoyed having lunch with him. Or, just possibly, her.
Maybe I'm approaching his or her music all wrong. I try to do my best for these honored dead as well as make the music live and breathe for today, as well as the future which might still get to hear it. Frankly, as all-inclusive as the catalogue is I'd like to be able to play music from the future, too, but it's a little difficult.
It feels like skimming the surface. And it is. If I have more time perhaps I can get back to the days when I spent two years on Brahms. Perhaps. But in five years I've made a pretty good start. It's probably as much as most artists previously recorded in their entire artistic lives.
It still isn't a dent. And what difference has it made for me (and perhaps you?) It is the glorious inheritance of our species, the accumulated thought and wisdom of those who could speak and be heard. We cannot hear it all and not be changed. It is hard to imagine we could not be bettered for the experiences. How can we not share these gifts? "Let us," said Durant, "before we die, gather up our heritage, and offer it to our children."
Which is how he got all the way back to the dawn of recorded history, and ended up writing The Story of Civilization in 11 volumes of 600-1000 pages, trying to tell the story of human history (Euro-centered, of course, but with an attempt to deal with every culture around the world to some degree and grapple with its entire recorded history at least in passing).
It took Durant and his wife, Ariel, most of their long lives to finish the task, and by finish, we mean they ended up in about 1815, which was still a good century and a half before their last book was published in 1975. Before that, they had planned the ultimate cliff-hanger and decided to finish with volume 10 on the eve of the French Revolution. (We weren't even going to get to find out how it ends!)
It's even a monumental task to read it all, and, having begun the series just after moving to Champaign 11 years ago, I'm about 150 pages from the end of the final volume with just a few months left until our move. I think I'll make it.
My connection to Durant may not be just as reader. In some ways, we are engaged in a similar task, what he would call the ridiculous and ultimately doomed effort to see things whole, to understand all of it. In the past five years, just in the area of sound recording, I've posted nearly 30 hours of organ and piano music stretching all the way back to the earliest surviving organ music from the late Middle Ages, including some piece based on chants that go back even further (often we have no better than a good guess as to when). It encompasses many countries, mostly in Europe and America, with some contributions from other places in the world, and includes improvisations and compositions of my own vintage and those of a few others who have written their pieces in the last few years, showing that the tradition is alive and continuing to forge ahead.
This survey of mine will hopefully grow to include every major school of musical thought and composition and every major voice who has spoken in a written musical dialect. But it cannot possibly be thorough. There simply is not enough time to get to everything that has been written, no matter how long or short life is. It will never be long enough. Rachmaninoff knew that. He said "music is enough for a lifetime, but a lifetime is not enough for music." Durant knew that about history, too.
And why should it be possible? Me vs. every important contribution from thousands of members, past and present, of my own species? How can I possibly represent all of that? And who says I have to?
One of the amazing things about human beings is their ability to fling their voices far across space and time. To continue being part of the conversation long after their physical voices have ceased; to influence people who could never know them personally. We will never even know who wrote those organ pieces from the Robertsbridge Codex, c. 1360. Maybe he died of the plague. Maybe he was not a nice person at all. Or perhaps I would have enjoyed having lunch with him. Or, just possibly, her.
Maybe I'm approaching his or her music all wrong. I try to do my best for these honored dead as well as make the music live and breathe for today, as well as the future which might still get to hear it. Frankly, as all-inclusive as the catalogue is I'd like to be able to play music from the future, too, but it's a little difficult.
It feels like skimming the surface. And it is. If I have more time perhaps I can get back to the days when I spent two years on Brahms. Perhaps. But in five years I've made a pretty good start. It's probably as much as most artists previously recorded in their entire artistic lives.
It still isn't a dent. And what difference has it made for me (and perhaps you?) It is the glorious inheritance of our species, the accumulated thought and wisdom of those who could speak and be heard. We cannot hear it all and not be changed. It is hard to imagine we could not be bettered for the experiences. How can we not share these gifts? "Let us," said Durant, "before we die, gather up our heritage, and offer it to our children."
Monday, February 15, 2016
The Match
I hope you had an enjoyable Valentine's Day. It seems an appropriate time, somehow, to bring up the subject of The Match, which is a process Kristen and I are going through this year and will lead to some major changes in our lives. For my blog readers who do not know it, I am married to a double doctor--or will be. Kristen already has a PhD, and a shirt that reads "Trust me--I'm a doctor (of history)" which she thinks is hysterical. This spring she will graduate medical school and become what some people would call a "real" doctor. Meanwhile, given that I am a doctor of music, people have taken to calling us a "paradocs." We sure are.
Most people who are not medical doctors have never heard of The Match, which is why I will spend a few moments explaining it. Basically, it is a way for graduating medical students (who are now Doctors--academically, but as yet unlicensed by the state) to be matched with the Residency programs that will give them several years of training in their particular specialty. During that time they will also become licensed physicians who will be granted all the rights and privileges thereto, etc.
If you've not heard of it, you've got something in common with practically everyone. I hadn't heard of it either until a few years ago. It is a very strange process. It is also not very romantic, despite being known as The Match. For instance, you may have thought the application process consisted of notes like this being printed in medical journals:
MWFD seeks SATH [that's married white female doctor seeks state-of-the-art teaching hospital] for stimulating medical relationship. You: knowledgeable and patient, with the ability to make great coffee. Me: hard worker, able to stay awake for 24-hours at a stretch, can take patient histories and write notes like nobody's business. Are you ready to take the next STEP? I sure am. I enjoy reading (medical journals) and long walks (down hospital corridors), also cuddling with my husband by the fire once a year, if time permits.
Instead, The Match is more like a combination between applying to college and the NBA draft. First, the student applies to a number of programs in his or her intended specialty. Because there are now more students graduating each year than there are slots available in the country, the number of recommended applications is higher than it was. Fortunately, the system is nationalized, and the lengthy, complicated application can be uploaded to the national site and sent to everyone at once (except that the recommendation letters are different!).
Programs read applications from mid-September into November or December; then interview requests start pouring in. Well, if you are my brilliant wife they do. These are the programs that are willing to have a second look. If you don't get an interview, you will not be accepted into their program. If you do get an interview, you might be one of a hundred applicants vying for 2 spots. The odds depend greatly on the program, the specialty, and the monkeys playing pinochle in the back room. Actually, I am sure it is all on merit. Unless someone makes a clerical error.
My wife applied to a mere 23 programs, which is fewer than the 30 she was recommend by the dean. Of these, 16 programs (including some of the best in the country) asked for an interview. She spent the last week of October, and the months of November and December heavily engaged in interviews. Also January. At the end, it was as if she had gone on tour, which was the point of the shirt I got her for Christmas, designed to look like a tour shirt from a rock band, with a stethoscope and bolts of lightning on the front and a list of all the cities with their respective dates on the back:
After the interviewing comes decision time. We are then asked to rank programs in order of our preference. For me, this is largely driven by what city I would like to live in for the next four years. For her, it is mostly about the program, though the city matters, too. All of our choices are cities in the Northeastern United States, since all of our family, most of our friends, and much of what we know about human civilization is concentrated in that still very large part of the country. We decided it was time to get our ducks in a row:
Once our preferences have been determined, the list is certified, and then it becomes one important half of the equation. The other half consists of the rank orders from the programs themselves, who also rank each student they've interviewed in order of preference. Finally, a computer takes all of the programs in the country and all of the students participating in the process and matches them up, putting the highest ranked program with the highest ranked student in a complicated process that can apparently only be done (with any deliberate speed) by a computer. Once that process is completed, the student must attend that program and cannot reject the final decision by the computer on pain of death. At least that's what the contract made it sound like.
I assume they wait until the computer used to calculate the BCS poll (that's college football, if you were wondering) or help with the NCAA tournament selections is no longer busy, which is why Match Day is always in the middle of March, around St. Patrick's Day. This year it is on Friday, March 18. To give it a little more drama, on Monday the 14th the students are informed if they have matched anywhere or not. If yes, you then wait until Friday to find out where. If no, you can begin sobbing immediately, and also you have to Scramble, or SOAP, or something, which is another process I won't explain here, because we hope we won't have to resort to it.
Persons have been asking about Match Day for several months now, and many rumors about my leaving have been circulating for at least a year, so in another attempt to replace fact with fiction, here it is: We won't know where we are going until March 18th (and if you wouldn't mind, please don't keep asking). At that point, Kristen has until the middle of June to get there. I don't know yet what my departure date from the church I serve will be, and many of the decisions regarding precisely when I leave will depend on where we are going and how things work out regarding the move and the impending job search. We'll keep you posted. Watch this space.
Most people who are not medical doctors have never heard of The Match, which is why I will spend a few moments explaining it. Basically, it is a way for graduating medical students (who are now Doctors--academically, but as yet unlicensed by the state) to be matched with the Residency programs that will give them several years of training in their particular specialty. During that time they will also become licensed physicians who will be granted all the rights and privileges thereto, etc.
If you've not heard of it, you've got something in common with practically everyone. I hadn't heard of it either until a few years ago. It is a very strange process. It is also not very romantic, despite being known as The Match. For instance, you may have thought the application process consisted of notes like this being printed in medical journals:
MWFD seeks SATH [that's married white female doctor seeks state-of-the-art teaching hospital] for stimulating medical relationship. You: knowledgeable and patient, with the ability to make great coffee. Me: hard worker, able to stay awake for 24-hours at a stretch, can take patient histories and write notes like nobody's business. Are you ready to take the next STEP? I sure am. I enjoy reading (medical journals) and long walks (down hospital corridors), also cuddling with my husband by the fire once a year, if time permits.
Instead, The Match is more like a combination between applying to college and the NBA draft. First, the student applies to a number of programs in his or her intended specialty. Because there are now more students graduating each year than there are slots available in the country, the number of recommended applications is higher than it was. Fortunately, the system is nationalized, and the lengthy, complicated application can be uploaded to the national site and sent to everyone at once (except that the recommendation letters are different!).
Programs read applications from mid-September into November or December; then interview requests start pouring in. Well, if you are my brilliant wife they do. These are the programs that are willing to have a second look. If you don't get an interview, you will not be accepted into their program. If you do get an interview, you might be one of a hundred applicants vying for 2 spots. The odds depend greatly on the program, the specialty, and the monkeys playing pinochle in the back room. Actually, I am sure it is all on merit. Unless someone makes a clerical error.
My wife applied to a mere 23 programs, which is fewer than the 30 she was recommend by the dean. Of these, 16 programs (including some of the best in the country) asked for an interview. She spent the last week of October, and the months of November and December heavily engaged in interviews. Also January. At the end, it was as if she had gone on tour, which was the point of the shirt I got her for Christmas, designed to look like a tour shirt from a rock band, with a stethoscope and bolts of lightning on the front and a list of all the cities with their respective dates on the back:
After the interviewing comes decision time. We are then asked to rank programs in order of our preference. For me, this is largely driven by what city I would like to live in for the next four years. For her, it is mostly about the program, though the city matters, too. All of our choices are cities in the Northeastern United States, since all of our family, most of our friends, and much of what we know about human civilization is concentrated in that still very large part of the country. We decided it was time to get our ducks in a row:
note: Not necessarily the final order of the ducks.
Once our preferences have been determined, the list is certified, and then it becomes one important half of the equation. The other half consists of the rank orders from the programs themselves, who also rank each student they've interviewed in order of preference. Finally, a computer takes all of the programs in the country and all of the students participating in the process and matches them up, putting the highest ranked program with the highest ranked student in a complicated process that can apparently only be done (with any deliberate speed) by a computer. Once that process is completed, the student must attend that program and cannot reject the final decision by the computer on pain of death. At least that's what the contract made it sound like.
I assume they wait until the computer used to calculate the BCS poll (that's college football, if you were wondering) or help with the NCAA tournament selections is no longer busy, which is why Match Day is always in the middle of March, around St. Patrick's Day. This year it is on Friday, March 18. To give it a little more drama, on Monday the 14th the students are informed if they have matched anywhere or not. If yes, you then wait until Friday to find out where. If no, you can begin sobbing immediately, and also you have to Scramble, or SOAP, or something, which is another process I won't explain here, because we hope we won't have to resort to it.
Persons have been asking about Match Day for several months now, and many rumors about my leaving have been circulating for at least a year, so in another attempt to replace fact with fiction, here it is: We won't know where we are going until March 18th (and if you wouldn't mind, please don't keep asking). At that point, Kristen has until the middle of June to get there. I don't know yet what my departure date from the church I serve will be, and many of the decisions regarding precisely when I leave will depend on where we are going and how things work out regarding the move and the impending job search. We'll keep you posted. Watch this space.
Wednesday, January 6, 2016
Ghosts of Christmases past, 2015 edition
I was in the middle of wrapping my wife's Christmas present, A T-shirt.
Don't judge me until I show it to you. It was pretty cool. A custom made shirt designed to look like one of those shirts rock bands make to advertise their tours. She's been interviewing for a medical residency next year, visiting 16 programs this fall and winter, and she's not quite finished, but the dates are (hopefully) locked in. So I visited a place out in Urbana called Project Te and they gave it a whirl.
Actually, the woman I talked to sounded so "stoked" about the idea that when she called her boss to get permission to do a run of just one shirt (they usually supply whole groups of people with the shirts they make) that I heard her say on the phone "we've got to do this one!"
Anyhow, after the part where we discussed the coolness of T-shirt canons (with which she was unfamiliar), and I met their musical macaw (or whatever it was) that bopped to rock music--you had to see it--now where was I?
Oh, yes. Wrapping my wife's present. Stuff all over the floor. And I hear a car door slam in the drive way. I look out just long enough to see a blue car.
Crap! She's home! She said she was doing errands and wouldn't be back for two hours!!!!!
Flurry of activity, flinging things in drawers, hiding the paper, hiding the box--where to hide the box? No time! ARGGHH!
Ok. Got it. We're cool. Now out to meet Kristen at the door.
It turned out not to be her after all. Different make of car, even. Hadn't noticed in all my panic.
In fact, it was Steve's daughter and her husband. With a tree!
At this point in the nice feature article I'm obviously not writing, I would back up to tell you a bit about Steve, our retired pastor friend who was recently diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer. We had just paid him a visit a day earlier, and during the conversation mentioned that we weren't doing a Christmas tree this year because Kristen was off on the most complicated part of her "tour" in the first half of December; it had rained the one day we might have had time to get the tree before she left for two weeks, then I had gotten sick, and just didn't feel like trying to make the trip to the tree farm and do it all myself, being busy and sick at the same time, and, well, we were just going to do without this year. We must have sounded a little depressed about it, although I hope we didn't lay it on too thick, I mean, Christmas comes anyway....
This apparently bothered Steve, who happens to live right next to the tree farm (which his family previously owned), and he sent his daughter and son-in-law to pick a tree and deliver it all the way across town (25 minutes?) in their blue minivan. Which is where the story picks up.
I was shocked and surprised, and still getting over my rush of adrenaline at trying to hide my present when I met them. We put the tree up in the corner where seven of its predecessors had spent the month of December. They had even brought lights (I think we mentioned humorously that we couldn't even get ours to work anymore)! It was all I could do to stammer my thanks.
After the duo left I decided to make another try at wrapping the present. But I only got as far as the desire when another car pulled into the driveway. It was my wife this time, still home early. I met her at the door, ushered her into the living room, and had a good time smiling and snapping pictures while she kept wondering what was with me and failing to notice that we had a tree in the corner. (She did notice a note on the table from Steve and stopped to read it--this was what first broke the news.)
Christmas, of course, is not about the trees and the lights. We've all seen enough Christmas specials to know that. But somehow, with my wife finally home from her interviews, the traditional Christmas music skipping on the traditional Christmas CD player, and the lights and the ornaments coming out of their boxes--it did finally feel like Christmas. The concert craziness of the season had subsided for me, and, just days before Christmas (the 22nd, I think), we could both relax and enjoy a holiday ritual and a real Christmas moment.
And, since trees in our house usually last about a month before becoming a pile of needles, we can leave it up through much of January this year, which might help my mood going into the Narnian part of the year ("always winter and never Christmas!").
I recently wrote about the Christmas of 2010, which I think currently holds its place as my all-time favorite. There were several contributing reasons for that, but the main one had to do with a gift I was able to give my father, and his joy in receiving it. Christmas of 2015 is now a serious challenger for that crown, but for the opposite reason, for a gift I received. We are told that it is better to give than to receive, but I've been the blessed recipient of much appreciation and support over my years here in Champaign (including a recent Christmas bonus given to the choir director and I by members of our church choir) and I can tell that receiving can be a real joy as well, especially when you know the gift is an expression of love.
I hope that Steve also received joy knowing what a wonderful Christmas gift he gave us. As I write this the tree is still in the corner, grinning its Yuletide grin, one candy cane still affixed to its nether regions (apparently we didn't pass out ALL of them at the airport while traveling). I've done a lot of looking back at Christmases this year, but as more of them accumulate in the rear view mirror, it is good to know that the ones in the present still mean something, and will continue to mean something. And may your Christmases, too, dear reader, never stop coming.
Don't judge me until I show it to you. It was pretty cool. A custom made shirt designed to look like one of those shirts rock bands make to advertise their tours. She's been interviewing for a medical residency next year, visiting 16 programs this fall and winter, and she's not quite finished, but the dates are (hopefully) locked in. So I visited a place out in Urbana called Project Te and they gave it a whirl.
Actually, the woman I talked to sounded so "stoked" about the idea that when she called her boss to get permission to do a run of just one shirt (they usually supply whole groups of people with the shirts they make) that I heard her say on the phone "we've got to do this one!"
Oh, yes. Wrapping my wife's present. Stuff all over the floor. And I hear a car door slam in the drive way. I look out just long enough to see a blue car.
Crap! She's home! She said she was doing errands and wouldn't be back for two hours!!!!!
Flurry of activity, flinging things in drawers, hiding the paper, hiding the box--where to hide the box? No time! ARGGHH!Ok. Got it. We're cool. Now out to meet Kristen at the door.
It turned out not to be her after all. Different make of car, even. Hadn't noticed in all my panic.
In fact, it was Steve's daughter and her husband. With a tree!
At this point in the nice feature article I'm obviously not writing, I would back up to tell you a bit about Steve, our retired pastor friend who was recently diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer. We had just paid him a visit a day earlier, and during the conversation mentioned that we weren't doing a Christmas tree this year because Kristen was off on the most complicated part of her "tour" in the first half of December; it had rained the one day we might have had time to get the tree before she left for two weeks, then I had gotten sick, and just didn't feel like trying to make the trip to the tree farm and do it all myself, being busy and sick at the same time, and, well, we were just going to do without this year. We must have sounded a little depressed about it, although I hope we didn't lay it on too thick, I mean, Christmas comes anyway....
This apparently bothered Steve, who happens to live right next to the tree farm (which his family previously owned), and he sent his daughter and son-in-law to pick a tree and deliver it all the way across town (25 minutes?) in their blue minivan. Which is where the story picks up.
I was shocked and surprised, and still getting over my rush of adrenaline at trying to hide my present when I met them. We put the tree up in the corner where seven of its predecessors had spent the month of December. They had even brought lights (I think we mentioned humorously that we couldn't even get ours to work anymore)! It was all I could do to stammer my thanks.
After the duo left I decided to make another try at wrapping the present. But I only got as far as the desire when another car pulled into the driveway. It was my wife this time, still home early. I met her at the door, ushered her into the living room, and had a good time smiling and snapping pictures while she kept wondering what was with me and failing to notice that we had a tree in the corner. (She did notice a note on the table from Steve and stopped to read it--this was what first broke the news.)
(notice how many pictures I got off before she even saw the tree!)
(I wish I'd gotten the picture to take while she was doubled over laughing)
Christmas, of course, is not about the trees and the lights. We've all seen enough Christmas specials to know that. But somehow, with my wife finally home from her interviews, the traditional Christmas music skipping on the traditional Christmas CD player, and the lights and the ornaments coming out of their boxes--it did finally feel like Christmas. The concert craziness of the season had subsided for me, and, just days before Christmas (the 22nd, I think), we could both relax and enjoy a holiday ritual and a real Christmas moment.
And, since trees in our house usually last about a month before becoming a pile of needles, we can leave it up through much of January this year, which might help my mood going into the Narnian part of the year ("always winter and never Christmas!").
I recently wrote about the Christmas of 2010, which I think currently holds its place as my all-time favorite. There were several contributing reasons for that, but the main one had to do with a gift I was able to give my father, and his joy in receiving it. Christmas of 2015 is now a serious challenger for that crown, but for the opposite reason, for a gift I received. We are told that it is better to give than to receive, but I've been the blessed recipient of much appreciation and support over my years here in Champaign (including a recent Christmas bonus given to the choir director and I by members of our church choir) and I can tell that receiving can be a real joy as well, especially when you know the gift is an expression of love.
I hope that Steve also received joy knowing what a wonderful Christmas gift he gave us. As I write this the tree is still in the corner, grinning its Yuletide grin, one candy cane still affixed to its nether regions (apparently we didn't pass out ALL of them at the airport while traveling). I've done a lot of looking back at Christmases this year, but as more of them accumulate in the rear view mirror, it is good to know that the ones in the present still mean something, and will continue to mean something. And may your Christmases, too, dear reader, never stop coming.
Monday, January 4, 2016
2015 in pictures
Ringing in the new year at the Virginia Theater
See, I told you it was a death-defying drop from the lift into the pit!
Rocking out February at The Cowboy Monkey with "Timezone"
March came in like a Leviathon
Now we all know how the butterfly gets there every Easter, right pastor Brad?
This classical piano home recital in April featured an impromptu sing-along
In rehearsal for May's choral festival concert With Dr. Jessop
Once the bishop reassigned pastor Brad, I was left to wonder who was going to try to destroy my coats. Miss you, buddy.
June was also the month to say goodbye to my car (a '97).
And our cat, Erasmus
photobombed by a T-rex at the Field Museum in Chicago (July)
Conducting the Summer Ensemble after Norm got sick this year. I'll miss these guys, too.
celebrating our 10th wedding anniversary in August
Climbing the bell tower at Altgeld Hall. I survived, obviously.
The ghostly page turn at the end of October's "Scary Organ Recital"
Seriously. I don't know these guys. I do not know these people.
The Central Illinois Children's Chorus rehearsing for their annual December Concert with the Champaign-Urbana Symphony.
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