Gather in the kitchen
A sure sign that summer is over: when our seasonal neighbours retreat south. Snow fear? Anyhow, a minimum of two different sets will be gone by next week, and this evening we had an invite to a kitchen party. A real one, in a kitchen, with music and musical royalty. If this is my only musical memory from the summer of ’19, at least it is a quality one.
Around here, the fiddle is king, and when you put four (or more) different performers in the room, picking out the various skill sets becomes part of my duty. Unofficial, to be sure. Fiddlers, despite the instruments, are not created as equals. Those that rise above the sonic torture level are to be appreciated; adored from afar. I only wish I was more motivated to practice, but seeing how good the good can be doesn’t push me to advance in the same way it once did.
I can find consolation in my unique ability to play the tuba. And since there is never a tuba available on short notice, I don’t have to keep my chops up. For the uninitiated, “chops” equals embouchure, rather than dazzling ability to finger and change octave at the same time.
I had a strange request from son #2: would I be willing to serve as a bidding proxy in some online auction. Forget the articles (which I have absolutely no notion of fair value in their case). He intends to be absent during the actual process. Winging south to a historic hilltop retreat in the Andes. I’m looking forward to his travelogue, and if he wins his auction, so much the better.
