Author Archives: Autumn

In My Arms Again

I have my cello back again!

I met Ceri for dinner and sangria, and then we took the metro up to Mont-Royal and walked down St Denis (mistake, mistake, mistake – look, there’s Valet de Coeur, let’s look at miniatures. Look, there’s Excalibor, and the new Fall line is out, ooh, microsuede… no! No! Must pick up cello!)

We got there, and I gave the young man my name and claim sheet (different anxious young man – this one was Anglophone); he brought it in from the back, and I experienced the expected “Yay!” feeling, but something else, too. I saw my cello almost as if it were the first time… and it was, well, beautiful. Aesthetically attractive, I mean. I’ve always slightly regretted the fact that the varnish is orangey, instead of more brown or red. Not that the colour matters, of course; it’s the sound that you’re focused on, after all. When he carried it out, though, I knew it was mine right away (I’ve always been slightly afraid that if someone had a score of cellos, I wouldn’t be able to pick mine out by sight alone). Then, of course, I was swamped by the “Mine! Mine!” feeling, and he gave it to me, and all I wanted to do was hug it.

“It’s so small!” said Ceri.

“Well, that would be because I don’t have the endpin out,” I said. The endpin adds a good foot to the length of the instrument.

“And you’re not sitting down,” Ceri said with a grin, “That makes a big difference too. Usually it looks huge next to you.”

There was a gentleman there with a bike helmet who had been asking about violin rental while we’d waited, and he was still there as I put my cello away in the case. “That’s a cello?” he asked, partly to me, partly to the young man. “My middle son wants to play the cello, but we can’t seem to find a teacher.”

Now, I just so happened to have a slip of paper in my back pocket with the name and number of a cello teacher on it, which I had picked up in another music store a couple of hours earlier. I pulled it out and gave it to him; he needed it more than I did. I don’t remember what I said to him, really, only that if a child of ten is asking for lessons on a string instrument, for God’s sake, give him lessons. Music can only enrich, and the whole process of learning to read and play music trains a different part of the brain than does regular reading. What I didn’t say aloud was that it was refreshing to find a child who wanted music lessons, instead of feeling like s/he’d been forced into it. Cultivate that, says I.

So I got home and opened the case and oooh, the new bridge is twice as thick and arched higher and my strings rest on it beautifully, and it’s shaped, they actually sanded parts away in places for the more delicate strings to resonate better, and the sound is fantastic. If I seem a over-excited, you should have seen my last bridge – it was half this thick, only slightly rounded, and certainly not shaped so attentively or with consideration for the individual instrument. But then, this only confirms my general not-impressed-ness with Jules St-Michel, and increases my admiration for Wilder & Davis.

The luthier made a note on the work report that my A string is beginning to unravel as well, but I knew that already. It needs to be replaced before orchestra begins. Actually, all the strings are two years old (possibly three, goodness) and they saw more playing last year than I usually do, so they technically should all be replaced. My poor husband last night nearly choked when he asked how much an A string would cost, and I told him in the neighbourhood of thirty dollars. Good thing I didn’t tell him that C strings go for about fifty or sixty. A full set will cost between one hundred and one hundred and seventy. Guess I know what I’m doing with my next EI cheque…

Where You Least Expect it

Found in the middle of a page on making bath bombs (fizzy bath salts, guys, not – never mind. It’s a girl thing, okay?):

Ummm.. what else? Don’t store the bombs in metal because the of the corrosive properties of the salt, avoid storing them in plastic zip-loc type bags or cellophane, I have heard reports that the plastic eats the scents, and a few mysterious reports of lavender essential oil going bad when stored in cellophane, and try to store them either sealed or in a dry area. Don’t use them if they look or smell funny, don’t run with scissors, call your mother.

Destinations

So, how about that letter from Captain James Cook that’s been found in the back of someone’s picture frame?

1777 is the year in which they believe it to be written, at the end of his three-year journey to chart Australia and its environs. Of course, there being no such thing as air mail or any kind of international postal service in existence at the time, the only way for a letter to get back from a seagoing vessel was for it to be handed to a fishing boat or a passing merchant ship headed in the other direction, and to pray that it eventually reache England’s shores. Which, when you think about it, is pretty much throwing your trust into the hands and words of a stranger.

It actually worked. The letter got to England.

Now, the thing that blows me away is the fact that we couldn’t do this today. Okay, if a stranger handed me a letter and said, “Please, could you post this?”, I’d probably say, “Sure,” and drop it in the nearest box and forget about it (I know, I know, anthrax scares and fingerprints to the contrary). But if a stranger in a foreign country came up to me and said, “Please, can you carry this back to England for me?”, chances are good I’d say, “Er, no, sorry.” Chances are good, in fact, that most people would say the same thing.

The other thing which amuses me about this is that the BBC quotes someones as comparing Cook’s return to James T Kirk’s return from his five-year mission with the Enterprise. Even Tom Allen, the host of CBC Radio Two’s Music & Company, compared the miracle of the letter reaching England to an Earth-bound letter from Kirk passed to some independent starship while on a far-flung planetary mission. Star Trek is all about idealism in the future. So our views of this letter from Cook are caught between nostalgia for the past on one side, and idealism about the future on the other.

Ain’t historical (and pop cultural) parallax grand?

I’m sure future generations will use similes like, “It’s about as amazing as someone three feet high carrying a Ring of Power through the entire lands of Middle-Earth and surviving the trilogy.” Ooh, look at that; I’m twitching.

Too Easy

I sat down between kitten-nursing yesterday and whipped off three pages of the Great Canadian Novel.

The ease with which I do this is beginning to worry me. (I know, I know – remove major sources of stress and I’ll instinctively create something new to obsess me.) How can I be writing something meaningful if I’m not trying?

Oh, wait – this is connected to the work-ethic thing that says, “If it doesn’t hurt, you’re not growing”, isn’t it? Always reminds me of that wonderful Calvin & Hobbes strip where Calvin’s pretending to be his dad and says, “Go to your room! Being miserable builds character!”

I do honestly worry sometimes, though, that because I don’t seem to be putting a lot of work into my writing, it’s useless. And yet, I’ll take this ease over the seven or so years of writer’s block I had, thanks very much. I’m not complaining that things are flowing, I’m just… concerned. Okay, yes, it’s a first draft (“This is your first draft?” Ceri says, looking up from my weekly sheets with big round eyes), and I can always “work” on it later, where I will no doubt cry and moan and tear my hair. (Y’know, just as an irritating aside, I used to get A minuses on the papers I used to write and hand in without rewriting. When I finally caught on to the idea of rewriting and improving a first draft, I still got A minuses.)

Today

I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating: I love hearing music I’ve played in concert on the radio. Particularly the fourth movement to Beethoven’s second symphony. I get all excited. Small things amuse, I know.

I also became strangely excited when I realised that it was so darned cold in the office this morning that I had to go put socks on. After a summer of bare feet, it Meant Something.

The computer finally defragged, on the fourth go-round. I can’t see that it’s any quicker, but it sure moved stuff around. This morning I installed a pop-up ad blocker, which works beautifully – so well, in fact, that I couldn’t get the YACCS comments boxes to come up on a blog this morning. Oh, right – they’re pop-up windows. Duh. Must hold Ctrl down while clicking on link. Small price to pay, though.

I was looking out the window this morning, waiting for my tea to steep, and I saw a man walk casually into the depanneur across from us. He had a ball cap on and a messenger-style bag over his shoulder, and wore a denim button-down shirt. It was around seven-fifteen, and all of a sudden I got hit by a wave of back-to-schoolness. For a moment, I, too, wished I had somewhere to be, to dress up and pack my bag and leave the house for, walking down the street early in the morning, when the light is still clear and cool, and on your way to the bus stop, you can swing by the dep for an orange juice and maybe a granola bar.

Only for a moment, though. Then I came back into the office with my tea, sat down, and looked at my list of work things I had drafted for today, with CBC Radio Two on behind me, with cats chasing one another around the apartment, and torn jeans and a summer sweater on.