Open your eyes, look up to the skies and see...

So I was passing by Brigham Circle today, where a bunch of people were standing outside the building that houses Stop & Shop, J.P. Licks and T.G.I Friday's, among other businesses. One fire truck was already there and another was pulling up. Apparently, nothing was actually on fire, but the alarm was going off for quite some time.

As I watched, three people who were not with each other tried to get in to the Bank of America ATM vestibule. Two stopped when they noticed the flashing lights and BEHHHP BEHHHP BEHHHP of the fire alarm. The third used her card to get the door open and had to be gently dissuaded from entering by a man standing near the door.

All three of them walked past the plaza, and apparently not one of them thought it odd that there were about a hundred people standing in small clusters all over the place in considerably chilly weather or noticed two fire trucks, an alarm sounding and that all the lights in the building were off.

Maybe they should have been allowed to withdraw their money and give it to me.

Algorithm fail

From the preface to the sixth edition of A History of Western Music by Donald Jay Grout and Claude V. Palisca:

"To be sure, the scope of what we teach and study under the heading of music history has broadened since Professor Grout wrote the first version of this book. The limits of Western music were generally agreed upon then, and hardly anyone doubted the value of studying its history. As populations everywhere become more diverse, the relevance of the Western art tradition to the music that is practiced and heard daily has understandably been questioned. Western Music in our title, which motivated an Internet retailer to award it the distinction of "best seller" in the category Country and Western Music, really acknowledges that the musical culture of Europe and the Americas is but one of several cultures whose distinguished histories deserve study."

Not quite the same definition of Western music there.

Of course, let's not forget the experience of Jake and Elwood.

Sounds like a personal problem to me...

5th grade student: Is it just me, or does my hand always sweat while I'm playing?
Me: Well, it would be just you either way...
Student: Oh. Right.

Probably unnecessary anxiety

After reading about roof collapses caused by accumulated snow, I find myself a bit nervous about standing under the snow-laden glass ceiling at Forest Hills.

Non-automated Red Line announcements also better

While pulling into Park Street: "Please take your newspapers, coffee cups, coats, hats, gloves, cats, dogs, kids, sofas, chairs AND tables."

Small person dialogue

The following exchange occurred between my six-year-old student and her three-year-old brother:

Brother, who had just been explaining their cat to me: You have to pay 'tention!
Student: Who, me?
Brother: No, Kitty*!
Student: Pay attention to what?
Brother: To Kitty!
Student: So...Kitty has to pay attention to Kitty? That doesn't even make sense.
Brother: ...oh.

*Not Cat's Real Name

Thanks, but...

Dear well-intentioned sir:

Although I appreciate your concern in pulling up next to me and asking me to roll down my window so you could say, "That's dangerous, you'll want to clear the rest of the snow from your brake lights," I can't help but feel oddly snubbed by such advice coming from a middle-aged man driving a clean and shiny Lexus which has probably never spent a night outside in its life.

Also, the brake lights were only slightly obscured, and the top one was totally clear.

On the other hand:

Dear youngish chick who drives a car of the same make, model and uncommon color as ours,

Thanks for the peace sign! I tried to return it, but it doesn't really work with mittens.

Yours,

TAF

Dearest Boston Weather

1) I know how to dress for warmth, but I don't think I own enough clothing, even if I wore everything at once, to be warm enough to busk when the high is 11. Farenheit.

2) More snow Wednesday? Srsly? I have recitals on Saturday, you know, and I'd really like to see my students before then.

Last Wednesday, my 20-minute-in-traffic bus ride to Brookline Village took 45 minutes. This should still have been OK; I allowed extra time. But then I waited for 30 minutes for a D Line train. First one that went by ran express. Second and third, too full to get on. I gave up, called and made my apologies to my student's family and headed to the little convenience store in Brookline Village.

In the time taken by the phone call, the walk to the store and purchase of a 2-liter of Diet Coke, four...FOUR...more trains went by.

This made a total of seven trolleys in ten minutes, after 30 minutes of nuthin'. WTF, D Line. The T owes me payment for a 45-minute lesson. (Because that will TOTALLY HAPPEN.)

All that said, however, I have great faith in my students' abilities to prepare for this recital.

Again??

The Orange Line. The Orange Line. The Orange Line is on fire.

(Three times in as many days, I think.)

Seen at Brookline Village

Aren't small long-haired dogs supposed to be wearing hooded parkas with matching boots if they're out in crap like this?

with apologies to Messrs. Bernard and Smith

So I occasionally dabble in parody, and as I am the Chief Groundskeeper of Fiddlerheim, and as snow shoveling takes much time and not much mental effort, the following happened.

Over the ground lies a mantle of slush
Once gleaming white, now it's grey and brown mush
Our hearts are sinking each time we start thinking of clearing.
Now Old Man Winter has become our foe
Blizzard, Nor'easter or just plain old snow
Each time we clean up, we hear there's another storm nearing.

Cell phones ding, are you listening?
Text alerts, school we're missing,
No end is in sight, we're cranky tonight
Shov'ling in a Boston wonderland.

Gone away is our good mood
Here we're saying some words rude
We dropped the F-bomb in front of our moms
Shov'ling in a Boston wonderland.

In the alley we can build a snowman
And pretend that he is Mayor Tom
He'll say there's an emergency of snow, man
And through the town the parking ban is on.

Later on, we will all boast
That we make the best French toast
With milk, bread and eggs and a dash of nutmeg
Shov'ling in a Boston wonderland.

In the roadway we can build a snowman
And use him to save our parking spot
We'll be mighty proud of Mister Snowman
Whether we shoveled out that space or not.

Later on, we will all boast
That we make the best French toast
With milk, bread and eggs and a dash of nutmeg
Shov'ling in a Boston wonderland.

Not via the Orange Line

I'm fairly certain that a diminutive Pakistani gentleman just asked me how to get to Mel Bay.

Adult conversations

I have a couple adult students right now, and I very much enjoy working with them, not least because of conversations like these:

Me: We discovered a ridiculous amount of dust on the shelves above the bed.
V (in a French accent, on account of she's French): Oh, I think the dust can be pretty. When the sunlight hits it just so, you can pretend it's silver.


I like the way she thinks.

*****

The next conversation was in the context of how chocolate is toxic to dogs and cats.

Me: When I was in college, I had a roommate who had a dog who ate an entire pan of brownies. He was sick for a day, but he was fine. I don't think I could even eat an entire pan of brownies.
K: Oh, I could. If I had to.
Me: If you had to...
K: You know, if someone came up and said, "You have to eat this pan of brownies or you'll never see your family again." Although that's probably not very likely to happen, is it?


If you don't eat the brownies, the terrorists will win.

Less than reassuring

Overheard between two elevator guys at Porter:

Guy #1: Is this how this is supposed to look, all spliced together like this?
Guy #2: Hm. I dunno. I've never seen anything like that before.
Guy #1: Me neither.
Guy #2: I guess it's supposed to look like that.
Guy #1: Yeah, OK.

At least it was one of the shorter elevators? Hm.

Not an auspicious start to the day

First, I got on a Red Line car on which somebody had vomited all over one end of it. I managed to sit far enough away to avoid most of the smell.

Then, at Davis, there was a man next to the busking bench who smelled so strongly of urine that I gagged. I understand that he must have troubles that I can't even imagine. I wish I could call someone to take in of such people...he wasn't being disruptive or threatening or doing anything but standing there, but he and his four plastic bags of what appeared to be trash must need help.

Both of these things happened before 9AM. Never mind the warm beverages; send my friend Jim Beam.*

*While the Fiddler is fond of her dram, she does not actually endorse whiskey before breakfast. Usually. Today may be an exception.

Overheard on the T

"Boots are not pants. Tights are not pants. Leggings are not pants. Pants are pants. Wear some."

Frozen Fiddler

The high today is supposed to be 18 degrees. Farenheit. Send warm beverages.

Nearly more interesting of a day than I wanted

So I was in South Station, busking merrily away, and a fellow busker I know asked when I'd be done and if I'd watch his stuff. I agreed to do so.

Fast forward a couple hours, I'm packing up and listening to a scammer work the crowd, same guy who's been recently released from jail, had beds in rehab units in Springfield and Fall River and needed to buy a pair of pants for a job interview, but he'd managed to steal the shirt, all within the past couple of months. When I turn around, scammer guy and a Transit Police Officer are standing right there. Scam Man asks how to get a permit to busk, so I tell him and he goes away.

Officer starts asking me about the stuff in the corner; I tell him I know it's there, and I'm watching it for another busker, who had told me he'd be on one of the benches on the platform. I watch officer go looking for the guy, who then appears in front of me with a cup of coffee.

Officer comes back; we ascertain the proper ownership of the mound of gear in the corner, and then the officer tells the other busker that he needs to stay with his stuff or take it with him, because people had been calling in about an abandoned pile of things, and busker was lucky that the bomb-sniffing dog hadn't gotten down there and they hadn't cut open all his bags.

Officer actually came across as politely as he could given what he was saying; busker agreed not to leave his gear seemingly unattended.

I can't decide where the problem lies, though. I think it's some with the busker for leaving his stuff, some with the public for freaking the heck out, some with the Powers That Be for encouraging the public to freak the heck out, some with me for agreeing to watch his gear.

If the dog and more cops had gotten there, I would have spoken up, of course, but I'm not sure how much good I could have done...I don't know the guy's name. I know who he is; I've seen him around for years, and I know he's introduced himself to me, but I can't remember his name. Oy.

He is, however, not the only busker who leaves their gear unattended, especially at South Station. I never understand why people do that. Of course, they take their money with them, but I've seen instruments left alone for more than a couple minutes, and that just seems like a bad plan.

Not that I'm really one to talk. More on that later.

Does this happen to other people?

My main teaching gig is at a private music school. Every so often, I hear someone else's student in a lesson play something that makes me want to burst in to correct them.

The most recent occurrence involves a teacher whom I know to be excellent, so I'm sure she was focusing on something else at the time, but it took some effort for me not to yell through the wall "For the love of God, play a G-natural!"

But then, I'm sure many of my colleagues feel the same way when they overhear one of my lessons.

Let it snow

12-year-old student, on Tuesday: All our teachers said, for a snow day, to sleep with our pajamas inside out and with a spoon to protect us from the Sumerian sky god Enlil. Also to pray.

*****

I'm a bit curious what school he attends in which all his teachers told them this, but it seems to have worked.

In which the Fiddler is sleep-deprived

So I haven't been sleeping all that well lately, and when the Orange Line pulled into Downtown Crossing, my brain did something different with the usual announcement.

What the conductor said was the usual "Downtown Crossing, change here for Red, Green and Silver Lines."

What I momentarily expected was to get off the train and see this:




I don't know either. But it's never boring being me.

And in other sad news

Debbie Friedman, Jewish singer-songwriter, responsible for quite a lot of the music used in Reform synagogues these days, has died of pneumonia. She was in her mid-50s, and it seems she's been taken too soon.

Everyone else is posting her Mi Sheberach, the healing prayer. I'm posting something else.

Miriam's Song

Rough weekend

May the memories of Christina Greene, Dorothy Murray, John Roll, Phyllis Schneck, Dorwin Stoddard and Gabriel Zimmerman be a blessing, and may healing come to their families and loved ones, as well as to Congresswoman Giffords, of course.

A note received

Earlier in the year, when I was still busking outside, I received the following note in my case:

"I became homeless a month ago when I ran away from my partner and don't have any money to give you. I just wanted you to know that your music gave me so much enjoyment this morning, at a time I needed it so much."

He did sign his name and his e-mail address; I never wrote to him. But I'm glad to have helped, even a little.

Why I hope the Orange Line never automates announcements

"Next stop, Forest Hills...what am I talking about, 'Forest Hills'. Next stop, Back Bay station."

Close enough for jazz...wait

Me (pointing to treble clef): What's this called?
12-year-old student: A clef.
Me: Right, what kind of clef?
Student: Um...the big fancy clef?

I'd so much rather have students come up with this kind of answer than stare blankly for what seems like hours.

Why is it that...

...every time I see one of my colleagues/families/someone who can get me gigs, I'm invariably a) playing something I'm not entirely secure with, b) having mechanical difficulties, c) attacked by a sudden onset of nerves, or d) all of the above?

C'est la guerre, I suppose.

Quotable

From a fourth-grade student, whom I am forever hassling to play louder: I'm gonna play it so loud, my butt will go crazy!

(No, I don't know exactly what she meant, nor do I want to.)

Same student, different lesson, re: Gossec Gavotte: They should call it the Gothic Gavotte and I could wear all black except then I'd have to go out and buy black nail polish and black lipstick.

Where DOES the time go?

How is it almost Thanksgiving? I'm not done with August...or 2009...yet.

I regularly play a fiddle tune called Red Wing, which is also the tune of Union Maid. I think Davis Square may be the only station at which two separate people would burst into the song when they heard it.

QotD

Well, it's two quotes from different days, but the same student.

1) (A low-flying plane passes overhead, loudly) "It wasn't me!"

2) *while staring at tip of bow moving in circles* "I'm hypnotizing myself so I can eat candy."

I'll take it!

I have one family in which I'm teaching a nine-year-old violist, a five-year-old violinist and Mom. Mom's learning some bluegrass fiddle. I suggested that she get a certain book so she and the violist could play together, and she said, "I'd like that, but he insists on only playing classical music. I suppose there are worse things he could be a stickler about."

Ah, how well I remember being a classical-only snob and missing out on a whole lot of music from the '80s. And my parents were more into folk music and light rock. Now I have to listen to classic rock stations to supplement my education.

Teaching fun

(N.B. "Amy" is not this student's real name.)

Me: Did you loosen your bow?...Did you loosen your bow? Amy? Amy? AMY?
Amy, startled: What?
Me: What did I just say twice?
Amy: Um...my name?
Me and her mom: *hysterical laughter*

Yes, dear, but...

The power of thought

I was just thinking the other day how long it had been since I'd been hit on while busking by someone totally unsuited to me.

Yesterday at Park Street, a guy asked how long I'd been playing violin.

"Since fourth grade, so quite a while."

"Do you chase the men, or do men chase you?"

"...(oh). I'm married."

"Aw. I was totally about to ask you out."

"Heh, sorry."

"Do you know anyone who's single? Seeing a beautiful woman with a stringed instrument just does something to me."

"(I don't want to know what.) No, sorry. Don't miss your train."

"Huh? Oh, oh yeah."

"Bye! (Oy.)"

Seasonal difficulties

A student of mine was complaining about having to go to religious school in the fall. Her mother calmly explained that attending religious school is part of being Jewish.

Later, on the way out...

Mom, to me: Happy New Year!
Student: What do you mean, Happy New Year? It's nowhere near January.
Me, to student: That is why you have to go to religious school.

I'm not sure what you're king of, sir...

OK, I don't care how well-phrased and polite your "I need a dollar for public transportation" speech is, you lose all credibility the second you're a grown man wearing a Burger King crown, especially when you're alone and nowhere near a Burger King. And if you really need to catch the #1 bus, you're not going to have much luck at Roxbury Crossing. I realize that walking to Dudley in the rain would have made your crown soggy, sir, but that still won't make the #1 bus stop at Roxbury Crossing.

Should I be offended?

So yesterday, a youngish guy came up to me and handed me his business card and told me he teaches musicians about nutrition because his mother died of cancer. (That's a summary; he was slightly more coherent than that.) Seems to have something to do with wheatgrass juice.

I mean, I know I'm fat, but do I really look that bad? (That's rhetorical, son.)

Reminder to self...

...do not greet the news from a parent that their child has been practicing by breaking into a rousing chorus of "Miracle of Miracles".

Cuteness and quackery

Two children, a boy around 8 and a girl around 4 came up to watch me play. When I paused, the little girl asked me my name. I told her, asked her hers, got an answer, after which she buried her face in her brother's shoulder (in a cute-shy way, not a scared-shy way). Brother said, "She wants to know if she can pet the duck."

I should probably introduce y'all to the duck at some point.

Anyway, I said yes, and she patted its little stuffed head and scampered off, happy as could be.

Under where?

I'm contemplating how to institute a no-underpants policy in my in-home teaching.

No, no, it's not like that. Good Lord, what do you people think???

What I mean is:

1) I do not want to see anybody's underpants on the floor, even if it is their own room.

2) I would vastly prefer it if every member of the household over diaper age wore pants or some other underwear-covering garment while I'm there.

3) I do not ever want to hear an adult member of the household calling down the stairs about how he needs to get himself more underwear. (Note: This was funny, not creepy, but still.)

Thank you.

Almost, but not quite, I think

I had a conversation the other day with a saxophonist in the Public Garden. Well, in honesty, it was less of a conversation and more of a monologue on his part, but that's OK. He has a lot of opinions about music, which is well and good, except I'm of the mindset that when a topic is introduced with which you are unfamiliar, it's really just fine to admit your unfamiliarity and move on.

To wit: Bluegrass, while certainly influenced by jazz and blues, is not "just white people trying to play the blues"; there's a bunch of other stuff in there. In the words of Bill Monroe, bluegrass is "Scottish bagpipes and ole-time fiddlin'. It's Methodist and Holiness and Baptist. It's blues and jazz, and it has a high lonesome sound. It's plain music that tells a good story. It's played from my heart to your heart, and it will touch you. Bluegrass is music that matters."

Also, yes, the musical Oliver! is based on a novel by Charles Dickens, but Dickens was long gone by the time of the musical. Oliver! premiered in London in 1960, was written by Lionel Bart, and had little to do with Rogers and Hammerstein and even less to do with Currier and Ives.

(As a side note, I just learned that Nathaniel Currier was born in Roxbury. That's pretty cool.)

I mean, the saxophonist might have been drawing some kind of parallel between Dickensian culture and modern theatre, but if he was, it got lost somewhere along the way.

He was also trying to explain jazz progressions to me, which is fine, but as deeply steeped in classical training as I am, I think I would need to start with My First Jazz Chart by Kenner.

Freude!

A girl, probably around eight years old, came up and said, "You know what would be a good song for you to play? Beethoven."

I asked if there was anything in particular by Beethoven she wanted.

"Oh, I don't know the names of anything. Just, you know, Beethoven."

So I played Ode to Joy, and she seemed happy.

The sun may come out...

So I'm playing for a show soon, let's say it's Annie. Just so happens one of my students has a younger sibling by that name. Said sibling was having a rough time being quiet and listening to mom at a recent lesson. When they left, this exchange occurred:

Mom, to me: Good luck with Annie!
Me: Thanks! *looks at sibling* You too!
Mom: *sighs* Yeah.

Maybe ask someone else...

No, I don't mind that you interrupt my playing to ask a question. Yes, I live here. Um...hm. No, I don't know where to eat around here, especially if you don't want to eat at Cheers. There's a place across the Garden, about halfway down the block, with good sandwiches, but I don't remember what it's called. I eat at Starbucks, mostly. Sometimes at the ice cream truck. Sorry. Enjoy your stay in Boston!

Sentence unlikely to be heard outside a violin lesson...

"Mom, can you fix my Kun* while I tighten my frog?"

*pronounced "koon"

From out and about

I was walking past a preschool in my neighborhood. An older woman was walking behind me. A young man who works at the preschool had two toddlers in hand.

Relevant information: The toddlers were very dark skinned. The woman behind me was somewhat lighter than they were. I am as white as white can be...I do have a tan from being outside, but still.

Toddler 1, upon seeing me: That's my mommy!
Toddler 2: No, that's MY mommy!
1: NO, that's MY mommy!
2: NOOOO, that's MY mommy!

They pass me. From behind me, I hear:

1: That's not my mommy.
2: No, that's not MY mommy!

Then they see the woman behind me....

1: That's my mommy!
2: No, that's MY mommy!

Neither she nor I were, in fact, either of these children's mommies. But they were oh so very cute.

Again not musical

I was on the bus the other day, and a boy who appeared to be around eight or nine had clutched in his fist a sheaf of papers, on the top of which was written in eight- or nine-year-old boy writing:

"AVETAR: The Last Ear Bender"

Close enough for me.

Nowt to do with music...

...summat to do with Boston.

I was sitting at the bus stop, engrossed in Sudoku, when a woman came up and asked if she could ask me a question.

I won't do a verbatim transcription, but I will say: Asking me for money is one thing. When I say I don't have any cash, asking if we can't go to the bank is quite another.

Also, don't touch me.

Awwww

From a four-year-old student: "I have a really good remembory."

I love kids' brains sometimes...

The following conversation took place with one of my students who is disturbingly smart, but occasionally lacks a bit in the common sense department. (Note: I'm the same way, only she's smarter than I've ever been.)

Student: The music's hard to read.
Fiddler: Yes, I think there's a reason for that.
S: I don't know what that reason is.
F: Well...think about it.
S: Hm...the music's kind of curved, so it's at a weird angle.
F: True, but that's not the current problem.
S: I don't know.
F: What are some reasons that people sometimes can't see things?
S: Sometimes things are too far away, but I'm really close to the music.
F: Right. What else?
S: Some people have poor eyesight, but my vision is perfect, so it's not that.
F: Also right. What else?
S: *ponders extensively* I just don't know.
F: What time of day is it?
S: OH! It's DARK in here! Maybe I should turn on the light!
F: Maybe you should.

*cue blinking as eyes try to adjust to sudden flood of light*

Too Darn Hot...

I've hardly been busking at all, what with the ridiculous temperatures (whaddya think this is, summer or something?) and the failure of whatever rain we do get to ameliorate said temperatures or humidity.

Exhibit A: Melted cats (note: we do have an air conditioned room. They do not generally choose to stay in it. I occasionally open the door and yell, "You're all stupid!" at them.)
















However, I think this is relevant, since I do much of my summer busking near the Make Way for Ducklings statue. (found via Universal Hub)

That was different

So I'd intended to write a post about how I'm busking again, and how lovely, if hot, the Public Garden was the other day, and how I'd actually missed it, but then...

I was waiting for the T at an above-ground Green Line stop, reading a book, when a largeish middle-aged Russian man came up and started talking to me.

"You play wiolin?"
"Yes..."
"I have kvestchun for you."

He asked why it is that violinists don't sing and play at the same time, like guitarists and pianists do. He hypothesized that it's because the violin presses on the vocal cords, so we can't. He suggested maybe if we held the violin differently, like putting it on a table, then we could.

I suggested that it might also be because it's much more difficult to play chords on the violin than on either guitar or piano, both of which are designed for such things. (In my case, it's because I'm not that coordinated, but that's a personal problem.) He blinked at me and then continued, at which point I realized this was not destined to be a conversation per se. So I kept nodding and smiling.

Eventually, he went away, and I watched him wander across the parking lot.

Five minutes later, he came back and informed me that I needed to be careful, because so many famous violinists had died young of throat cancer because of the violin pressing against their necks. He specifically cited Paganini and David Oistrakh as examples. Then he went away again.

Blessedly, the train appeared at that point. Of course, I needed to know what he was talking about, so I pulled out my trusty iPhone to check somewhat-less-trusty-but-generally-reasonably-accurate-about-such-matters-Wikipedia.

Niccolo Paganini lived from 1782-1840 and died at the age of 57 from general poor health, now thought to have been correlated with Marfan syndrome. OK, The Google, blessed be it, shows that Paganini's Facebook page does say he died of throat cancer, as do a few other hits, but I never think Yahoo! Answers is the place to go for reliability. Entertainment, sure.

David Oistrakh lived from 1908-1974 and died at the age of 66 from a heart attack.

Regardless of the facts, it was rather surreal to be warned that I might get throat cancer from my violin.

*sigh*

Dear Parents of My Students,

I always feel just terrible when I give my students a lecture or "that look" for not having practiced/acquired/learned something, and then I find out it's because the adult didn't write down the assignment/get the book/reviewed the material. Especially when the parent isn't in the room. Granted, especially with kids who can read, I don't accept much of the "my mom didn't tell me to" when I know the assignment was written down...particularly when I'm the one who wrote it*...but it makes my job easier and less guilt-inducing if you can follow through.

Or if you don't, let me know. I'm fairly forgiving, because I can barely keep track of my own stuff and I don't have kids, but when I've been assigning preview listening for three months, the student has no idea what I'm talking about, I lecture kid, and THEN I find out the CD was never gotten, and it's at the point where we really need it now...I don't really enjoy making children cry.**

Love,

The Violin Teacher

*My handwriting is admittedly atrocious, but everyone has my e-mail address for clarification.

**Much.

That was a little disturbing

Oft of an evening, by the time I get myself to Brookline Village, I decide I'm too tired to walk or bus the rest of the way home, and I catch a cab.

Usually, everything's fine, but last time...

I headed over to the cab stand and got in the first cab I saw*, told the driver where I was headed and then noticed that there had been a cab in front of the one I entered, but all its lights were off, so I didn't see it. I am aware of cab etiquette as far as choosing the frontmost cab at a cab stand, but that cab was mostly invisible at the time.

So "my" cabbie started driving, and suddenly the frontmost cab started honking and swerved in front of him cutting him off. That cabbie was yelling in a language I don't understand, but my cabbie did. My cabbie first told me to go to the other cab, but as I was reaching for the door handle, the other cabbie kept yelling louder and bringing his cab closer, and then my cabbie told me to stay in the cab and he'd take me anyway.

I'm glad he did; even if I had gotten out of the cab, I wasn't about to get in the other one, with that driver so angry. I made an honest mistake, and my cabbie did tell me to get into his cab, and I was afraid of the other driver. What I found most interesting is that both cabs were from Town Taxi. (Ah, a quick search of The Google, blessed be it, shows that Town Taxi is an independent dispatcher.)

Lately, I only like getting cabs from Veteran's Taxi in Newton; with one exception of a cabbie listening to conservative talk radio in which Jay Severin claimed that nobody's ever died from not having health insurance (no really, WHAT?), I've never felt uncomfortable in a Veteran's cab; they're clean, and their credit card machines always work. This doesn't help me get home at night, however.

Now that the weather's improving, I'm more fine with walking through Mission Hill than getting a Brookline cab. Although, I am quite fond of the Scion xB Hello Taxis, although I've never taken one. They're just so cute.

*Incidentally, I'm not originally from a Major City, and I still don't understand if a cab's light on the roof being on means it's available or not. Anyone?

Oh, happy day

One major benefit of teaching young'uns is that some of them are Girl Scouts, so I can get my Thin Mint fix without having to check all the train stations and grocery stores in the Greater Boston Metro Area.

I mean, sure, there's a web site for booth locations, but I have to remember to 1) look, 2) go there and 3) have money with me. One of my students yesterday just happened to have boxes on hand at her house, so even though SOME members of this household don't understand why one might need emergency backup Thin Mints, I have two boxes in the freezer.

It's a long time from one Girl Scout Cookie time to the next, and if I'm careful, I can hoard oh, eleven or sixty-eight boxes in the freezer without being detected.

Except that said household member reads this. Hm.

Wait, what?

Me: So it seems like you're counting to five fine, but try to get to eight.
4-year-old student: I'll count to five your HEAD.
Me: That...didn't even make sense.
Student: Oh.

Lack of safety in numbers...

...for me, anyway.

I had my younger violin group the other day, who are all in the seven-ish age range. One of their favorite activities at the moment is to play pieces while lying down. Last group, the conversation went something like this (and it doesn't really matter who's speaking, just picture a swarm of four seven-year-olds. Oh my, can they swarm):

"Next time, can we play standing on our heads?"
Me: That doesn't sound particularly safe...
"Someone could do that though if they were a really good acrobat."
"A really good acrobat could play violin on a tightrope!"
"On a bicycle on a tightrope!"
"There could be a horse under the tightrope and they could jump off the bicycle and land on the horse and keep playing the violin!"


I hereby disavow any and all responsibility for any violin-tightrope-bicycle-horse-related incidents. Ever.

Student memory

This happened when one of my now-eight-year-old students was five or six. (I can't believe I've had some kids that long...this is the longest I've been in one place to teach.)

During his lesson, he started chatting away in an almost Joyceian stream-of-consciousness.

Me: OK, can we get back to violin now?
Him: I'm just telling you things I know!
Me: Yes, but you're telling me everything you know.

Whadaya know about that?

Turns out they actually do sweep the train cars out during the day, at least occasionally. I had no idea.

Not mine, but still

One of my colleagues told me that, during a four-year-old's lesson, he looked at her and said, "You have the biggest teeth ever!"

She just sighed and continued the lesson.

Observed on the T

I freely admit to being far too Midwestern and white to get the extremely-low-pants thing, but...

When you're sitting down, and your belt is horizontal across your thighs? Your pants might be a little too low.

Silent type

After a 12-year-old's lesson, I was talking to his mother before he finished packing up and came out of the room, and I was praising his newly found attention to detail (12-year-old boys + detail work usually = something that doesn't happen).

He came out, and I told him I was saying nice things. His mother said, "She says you're doing really well with detail work, is that right?"

Student: *grins and blushes and shrugs*
Mom: A man of few words.
Student: Mmhmm.

Out of the mouths of...adults?

I have a couple adult students, one of whom has a five-year-old daughter who is also my student.

That adult was giving me a ride to the T the other day, and she said, "I think it's good for [daughter] to see that, even though I stink at violin...and I don't mean that in a bad way...that I keep playing anyway."

(Note: She doesn't "stink" at violin; she's doing very well...she just has slightly ridiculously high standards for herself.)

Observed behavior

A couple friends and I sight-read some chamber music for fun yesterday. One of them is taking a class for which she had to make a chart of observed behavior. She chose to observe the number of times each of us swore during the hour or so we played. She and I tied for the highest number; our pianist friend is far more polite (but still had her moments).

Let nobody fool you into thinking classical musicians are genteel and refined; we can swear like sailors at unexpected key changes and the like.

So close...

One of my 9-year-old students was reading the front of a tuner her dad uses for his guitar.

Student: "Korg Guitar And Bass Tuner..."
Me: That's bass [base]. A bass is a fish.
Student: Oh, of course.

Later:

Student: We didn't do our final bow (boe)!
Me: I think you mean bow (bough).
Student: Right.

Nice to hear

As I was busking outside last summer, an older woman came up to me and said, "I'm taking violin lessons myself. I started as an adult, and it's so nice to hear someone just playing melodies simply and well. It gives people like me hope."

Quote I liked

Alan Lomax and colleagues did a comparative analysis of thousands of songs across the world's cultures. I'm not going to go into detail...or really explanation...but I liked this quotation about the project:

"And Lomax's overall conclusion, supported by very many correlations of this kind, is that 'song style symbolizes and reinforces certain important aspects of social structure in all cultures' (p. vii). If this seems at first sign a rather far-fetched and extravagant idea, then it is worth thinking a little more about what 'style' actually means in this context. Style is not the way someone chooses to sing but the way in which they sing without making any conscious choice; as Lomax puts it, 'if a culture member sings at all, he has to sing in the style of his people because it is the only style he knows. It is in fact almost impossible for anyone really to change his singing style. It takes years for a non-European to learn opera; it has required half a centruy for Europeans to learn to perform American jazz' (p. 28). At the same time style is something to which anybody who belongs to a given culture responds with precision: 'any culture member can immediately sense that something is stylisitcally wrong about a greeting, a cooking pot, a song, or a dance, without being able to explain why this is so (p. 12)." --A Guide to Musical Analysis, Nicholas Cook, pp. 200-201

So that's why I play everything like it's an Irish fiddle tune.

Porter Square announcement

One of the speakers at Porter fades in and out and has been doing so for a long time.

One of the regular announcements goes something like "Fare evasion on the MBTA is against the law"etc. The speaker faded in just such a way that it once said, "Fare evasion...is the law".

And here I thought that was only the law on the Green Line.

Then there are the younger siblings...

I teach at some students' homes, so families are around. One of my students has a two-and-a-quarter (so he informed me)-year-old little brother. I got to their house, and:

Brother: How you get in here?
Me: Through the door.
Brother: The door? That door?
Me: Yes, that one.
Brother: Why you not come in through door in there? (gestures towards kitchen)
Me: Well, the only door in there is the refrigerator, and I can't come in that way.
Brother: Yeah, you too big to fit through 'frigerator.

Never mind that in most houses, the refrigerator doesn't have outdoor access. And yes, I am smaller than a refrigerator, but he's probably never seen one without all the shelves intact.

Ah, 10-year-olds

10-year-old student, halfway through lesson: Oh my God, I have a huge scab on my finger!...wait, maybe that's a tomato. I don't know. I had a tomato skin stuck on my teeth earlier, and when I tried to get it off, it got stuck halfway down my throat.

I still don't know if it was a scab or a tomato. Nor was I inclined to pursue the issue.

Back to it

I've been working at my occasional-desk-job quite a bit lately, so I haven't been busking. Next week is school vacation week, though, which means that I will be minimally teaching and hopefully maximally busking.

Sometimes I think that I should get a morning job, but then I remember that I really enjoy the flexibility of my current schedule...it's the self-discipline that trips me up.

Personal Space and the T Do Not Mix

So if you're going to get all huffy about my accidentally sitting on your coat, perhaps it would be best to make sure that you and your coat are, in fact, occupying the same seat.

Just sayin'.

Cute Student Moment

I start and end every lesson with a bow, as is the Suzuki teacher way. One of my students, during his bow, was surprised by his pants. "I thought I was wearing my black pants, because they're so hot, but it turns out it was these pants!"

I love my students.

A different thought

From a rehearsal last night:

Conductor: OK, let's start at rehearsal letter F as in...Frank...
Me (to stand partner): There's a different word starting with F that I've been wanting to say*...
Stand partner: *cracks up*

*Not because of the group or the conductor in any way, but because I was making so freakin' many mistakes and couldn't play in tune to save my soul.

Oops

One of my students threw her violin into the wall last night.

It was absolutely an accident; I was doing something to her bow and wasn't watching, and she was swinging the violin around, as children are wont to do, and it slipped out of her hand and crashed into the wall.

I think more damage was done to the wall than to the violin, but I used my "Quietly Scary Teacher Voice" to tell her that that's why we don't swing our violins. Big eyes, lots of nodding that she understood. I think the next couple of weeks are going to see a lot more diligence from me in terms of making sure my students are holding their instruments appropriately. And calmly.

Who are you to judge me???

(Title a la Dorothy Zbornak)

I was busking at Porter, playing "Sunrise, Sunset", when a guy came up and told me...not asked me, told me...to play something happier. So I switched to "To Life", which wasn't happy enough for him. I think I then switched to "Devil's Dream", at which point he said something like, "See? People like HAPPY music!"

If all I played was fast fiddle tunes, both I and my audience would probably get bored. Interest lies in contrast. And I like Fiddler on the Roof, even if it's not "happy" enough for this guy. Hmph.

Summer Memory #3

Busking in the Public Garden, a young man walked by, stopped, pulled out a penny whistle and accompanied me on the Kesh Jig.

He was quite good, and it was far preferable to people who try to sing along while I'm playing, bless their hearts.

"Not fair"

Sir, I'm sorry that life has you so beaten down; I can tell you're having hard times. But I promise that, when I refuse to give you money from my case while I'm working, standing in front of me mumbling about how it's "not fair", repeatedly, will not make me give you money.

Catch me when I'm not working, and odds are I'll find a dollar for you, but not while I'm actively trying to get people to give ME money.

And I'm sorry that you don't have a place to shower (I truly am; that has to be awful), but if I have to hold my breath because you won't go away, you're affecting my quality of life. And won't get a dollar.

Summer Memory #2

I don't mind dogs. I don't mind that people let their dogs frolic in the fountain I'm playing near. I do mind a bit when they let their dogs shake their wet coats all over other people and their violins. It's just not good for the instrument. Or my serenity.

A summer memory

Walking through the Boston Common on the way to the Public Garden, there's an area that's often the subject of chalk art. This time, there was poetry.

Haikus are silly
They often don't make much sense
Refrigerator

Reminder: I'm the adult

Since many of my students are quite young, many of them don't have total control over their phonemes yet. When this takes the form of a lisp, I have to laugh on the inside only when they tell me they're going to play "May Thong" or "Thong of the Wind". They're. So. Cute.

T Cop Tip

I was busking at Porter, and an MBTA Transit Police Officer was on the platform with a clipboard, apparently just tracking numbers of how many people were using the station during that time period.

(I assume that's what they're doing. I figure if it were anything important, like an unauthorized LED, there would be at least five police officers and three police cars using all kinds of cop equipment that they had hanging around the police officer's station. I don't know why other T employees can't do this type of work, but I know little of the ways of the T.)

Anyway, when the officer was done, she walked over and tipped me a couple bucks. I always like when T employees tip me. Makes me feel like I probably won't get kicked out of that station that day.

Hygiene on the T

I rode the Red Line after I finished busking at Davis, and next to me was a young woman who filed her nails all the way from Porter to Central.

Granted, I keep my nails short to the quick most of the time, so can someone tell me, how long does it take to file one's nails to satisfaction, and is there any reason it needs to be done in public? I mean, I can understand having a ragged edge one needs to deal with immediately, but I'm pretty sure that should only take a few seconds. I didn't know until then that the sound of someone else using an emery board grates on my nerves like it does.

Now don't get me wrong, I generally wish more people would practice hygiene before getting on the T, such as showering and wearing deodorant, and then controlling certain bodily functions when in a small space with dozens of other people and little, if any, fresh air. But I think nail filing can wait.

Also...

15 degrees is not enough degrees for me to busk, even in the subways. Porter and South Station might be warm enough that I don't get frostbite, but still.

Mad problem-solving skillz

A student gave me and one of her other teachers each a cookie-ornament-thing with our respective names on them in icing. It's a thin, crispy (delicious-smelling) cookie, and I ride the T, so I was concerned about getting it home intact.

I went to the kitchen at the school to see what I could find to protect it and encountered the other teacher there.

Me: I'm trying to figure out how to get this home safely.
Her: Oh, I already ate mine.

Problem solved!

(I ended up using a lot of paper towels and a Ziploc baggie with air in it. Worked fine.)

Cute

I have two students who are sisters, seven and five years old. I ask that my students with long hair pull it back for their lessons, just so it's out of their face. The seven-year-old was trying to put the five-year-old's hair in a ponytail.

Seven: Did you brush your hair today?
Five: Daddy brushed it.
Seven: *put-upon Daddy-doesn't-know-anything-about-hair sigh*

So not a sports type

Re: My last Green Line-related post:

Turns out the Bruins were in Ottawa that night (I didn't read the schedule that closely), so now I really have no idea why so many trains were heading to Riverside in such a short amount of time.

MBTA, thy ways are not to be comprehended by mere mortals.

How cheesy

Me: OK, so the next Twinkle variation is "Beautiful Butterfly".
Student (age 7): *thinks* I'm gonna change that to..."Very Strange Cheesy Guy".
Student's Mom: His favorite word right now is cheese. Which is kind of funny, because he doesn't actually like cheese.
Student: *giggles*

That may have been a new record

While waiting for a D Line train last night around 6:30, no fewer than eight...eight!...Riverside-bound trains went by before the first Government-Center-bound train showed up. Eight trains in 12 minutes was rather amazing.

I see there was a Bruins game at 7:30 last night, so they were probably sending a bunch of trains to Riverside for Bruins traffic, but still. EIGHT.

To the gentleman with the cane

Dear Sir:

I know that the T is very difficult to navigate when one has a mobility problem, especially at Porter Square. I also know that sometimes it's important to chat with the newspaper vendor about recent sports news, and that's all well and good. But is it entirely necessary to have this discussion with you planted blocking access to the up escalator?

Granted, it was the shorter escalator from the mezzanine to outside, but still, I didn't want to walk up the stairs, and I felt churlish shoving past you. I did say "excuse me", and I don't think I actually made physical contact (I hope), and I completely understand if you needed to hold onto something to steady yourself, but I would think that something more stationary than a moving escalator rail might be more useful for that purpose.

Thank you,

The Fiddler

And slightly belatedly...

A Happy New Year to all.

I took this whole past week off from doing anything musical (or productive); tomorrow, I begin anew. May we all have the chance to pursue our passion this year, whatever that may be.

Merry Christmas

It may not be my own faith tradition, but this is a lovely poem and there's a lovely setting by Gustav Holst.

In the Bleak Midwinter
Christina Rosetti

In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter, long ago.

Our God, heaven cannot hold him, nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth shall flee away when he comes to reign.
In the bleak midwinter a stable place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ.

Angels and archangels may have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim thronged the air;
But his mother only, in her maiden bliss,
Worshiped the beloved with a kiss.

What can I give him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb;
If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part;
Yet what I can I give him: give my heart.

Holiday Gift Guide

So there's really no way for me to let my families know what I'm about to write without looking like I'm asking for gifts, and I'm absolutely not. Also, it's probably far too late to be considering this now, since Chanukah is over, and Christmas is a week away, but I'm writing this now for future reference.

So.

Should you or your child have a music/art/reading/whatever tutor, and should you wish to give him or her a holiday gift 'round about now, here's one teacher's opinion.

1) You really honestly don't have to get me anything. The best gift of all is a student who practices and is attentive and respectful in lessons. Although, should you be the parent a non-attentive, only-occasionally-respectful, rarely-practicing student, I am still fond of your child, else he or she wouldn't be in my studio anymore.

2) The things teachers will keep forever are handwritten notes/letters/cards/drawings from your child. I have a box dedicated to such things. Photos of the student are also a plus.

3) Gift cards/certificates are also highly appreciated. I have one family who generally gives me a gift certificate to a local music store and a couple others who give me gift certificates to a local bookstore, and really, you can't go wrong giving any teacher a bookstore certificate.

Although if this trend keeps up, I'm going to need a gift certificate to IKEA for more bookshelves.

4) Food is also welcome, although I'm picky about certain candies and such, but if I happen to get something I don't care for, it will go in the break room and many other starving musician teachers will be equally grateful.

5) Knickknacks/jewelry/clothing accessories: I'm grateful for any token of esteem, but these are risky. Examples will not be forthcoming, because I would hate to hurt anyone's feelings.

Now, all this said, should you happen to be aware that the teacher in question...enjoys the occasional glass of wine/brandy/rum/grain alcohol (I was going to say just "drinks", but that has connotations I think I'd prefer to avoid), a bottle of cheer is very highly appreciated, if that's within your comfort zone.

Merry Giftmas to all, and to all a good night!

The snow lay on the ground...

The snow was rather lovely, really, and I took yesterday as a snow day, but I had to dig out the car this morning, and now I don't want to do anything...except I didn't see my Monday students last week, and I won't see them next week, and I really do make an effort to be a responsible teacher. Mostly. I'm sure I'll feel better once I get going.

Fit to burst

I'm so proud of my students who just had their first solo recital today. They ranged in age from 4 to 8, and with one exception who just was too nervous and shy to play (and that was totally OK), they all got up and played their pieces with confidence and seemed completely comfortable on stage. And they all made friends with each other in the process, which was my secondary goal.

Also, there were cookies.

more student entertainment

Different 8-year-0ld student: When I was little, I went skiing, and I fell down. And someone who was learning how to snowboard ran over me. Then someone else ran over me. Then one of my skis came off. Then my other ski went down the hill by itself.

His mom: And yet, he still likes to ski.

(I love any story that starts with "when I was little" when the kid's age is still in the single digits.)

I love my students

So the mom of one of my students was telling me that the recorder teacher at his school yelled at someone in the class the other day.

My eight-year-old student told his mother this and said, "Yelling is the opposite of music."

I'm keeping that thought close.

Those crazy...crazies...

So Westboro Baptist, Fred Phelps' group...you know, the God Hates Everybody But Us And We'll Make Sure You Know About It people (to whom I refuse to provide a link)...is in town again, and since picketing gay people and soldiers isn't getting them attention anymore, they've turned their attention to the Jewish community.

I will link to Chris Mason's Phelps-A-Thon site, because his idea of turning the pickets into fundraisers for whatever they're picketing is brilliant.

So yesterday, they picketed several places in Boston; the only one I could get to was their picket of the Jewish Advocate office downtown. There were about 10 of them to start, which went down to four, two of whom were young boys.* So I rosined up my bow and played my fiddle hard, 'cause hell's broke loose in Boston and the devil carries placards.

I played all the Jewish music I could think of, including Chanukah music and selections from Fiddler on the Roof; they were out there long enough that I had to repeat myself a few times, and I was shivering and couldn't feel my fingers by the end, and I doubt I disrupted them in any way, but it was worth it. I took Chris's idea and put a sign in my case stating that proceeds would go to Mazon: A Jewish Response to Hunger. I think I made about $20 for Mazon. I should send WBC a thank-you note, like Chris does for the Phelps-A-Thons.

They'll be picketing the Cathedral of the Holy Cross starting in about 10 minutes. I thought about going out there too, except it's colder now than it was at 1:30 yesterday afternoon, and if I just go and listen to their rants, I'll get unnecessarily angry and won't be able to do anything productive with it. Also, I'm still in my pajamas.

*A note here: I think Fred Phelps is seriously mentally ill, and I think his daughter who's taken the role of leader is also mentally ill...even if she didn't start out that way, being raised in such an environment would warp anybody. I have compassion for them in the sense that living a life filled with so much pain must be so very difficult. I have no compassion, however, when it comes to their use of their children in these pickets.

Dude.

So I thought this guy had tipped me a very crumpled $5, which was appreciated. (I mean, all tips are appreciated, but some tips are more appreciated than others.)

When I got home and uncrumpled it, I discovered it was a $50.

THANK YOU, KIND PATRON OF THE ARTS!

Heaven help us all

I'm about to get dressed and head out for some Black Friday busking.

It's almost 6:30 AM. The Dunkin' Donuts at the Cambridgeside Galleria has already been open for 3 hours.

Carrying the sentiments of yesterday forward, I'm thankful I don't work retail anymore.

Jamming for the Dead

I saw a guitarist busking next to the Granary Burying Ground today.

I don't know; for me, that crosses a line. I know that people aren't currently being buried there, but it still seems a bit disrespectful.