A Tale of Two Earbuds

Our office-sharing arrangement led me to buy a set of alternative earbuds to hook up to to my desktop computer at work. (The rubber band ball has nothing to do with this essay--it's merely a prop for the earbuds--but how cool is that? And I won it! At an Office Max demonstration! A truly memorable life moment.)

Anyway, when I saw an internet deal-of-the-day featuring earbuds for $1 (shipped) I took the plunge and bought some to use at work. They are much more businesslike than the pair I use with my MP3 player, which are girly and lavender and were advertised as having marshmallow tips. (I was sadly disappointed that the tips were not made of actual marshmallows, but I suppose that would be sticky.) These earbuds give a quality of sound I hadn't experienced before.

The black set is better  than the lavender set for my work listening in that the black cord is significantly shorter. If I'm tempted to lean back and enjoy the spring that is springing right outside my window, they will have none of that, yanking my lolling head back into place with an unspoken "Back to work, missy!"

 

So if the lavender earbuds are more comfortable, sound better, and would facilitate my workday goofing off, why don't I simply switch the two sets? 

Two reasons. First, I paid an entire dollar for the black earbuds and I don't want to waste that investment. And second, 

Bling!

Wisdom Gained

The wall of happiness and heartbreak

I'm trying to remember how many of my springs have been marked by music contests. At least half a dozen when I was in junior high and high school, then another dozen or so while my kids were of that age. Saturday I was on the school van heading toward contest at 6:30 a.m., and didn't pull back into the home parking lot until 7:30 p.m. This year I wasn't carrying a Boy's sheet music and emotional baggage; I am now the elderly accompanist with the bedazzled t-shirt and piano glasses on a chain around my neck. (Not really on the glasses part, because I wear tri-focals, but I saw that future me many times during the day.)

This year, in my supportive but non-related role behind the piano, I didn't take the triumph or trauma home with me.

Contest is Christmas for musicians, the day they reap the benefits of being naughty or nice. For those who have been nice, who have at least modicum of talent and have put in the practice time (more or less depending on the size of the talent) the reward is a I rating. A judge decides that on that day, during that three- to seven-minute slice of time, the performance merits another performance at state contest. This is triumph.

For those who have been naughty, who have not practiced or whose practice-to-talent ratio was not high enough or who simply have a bad few minutes, the final rating will be a II or a III, or even a IV. This is trauma.

I have seen both of these outcomes dozens of times over the years, and here are the things I've learned:

1. The II rating cuts a wide swath. The highly difficult solo by a senior that isn't quite perfected gets the same rating as the simple melody lisped by a beginning student, and both are the right rating. It doesn't feel fair, though.

2. Although judges are expert, conscientious, and well-intentioned, these Santa Clauses are not omniscient. They only see a tiny slice of this child, and there is no label of explanation attached. I have seen solos over-rewarded and under-rewarded (Husband is right when he points out that I only remember Boys' solos in this category), but in the end, the judge's decision is final.

3. (And this is the most important) No matter what it is, the rating is not a measure of the performer's potential as a human being, but the skills developed from contest participation very well may be.

That final point is wisdom hard-earned. Music is important in my life, and I wanted the Boys to love it as well. One of my regrets in my parenting style is that I placed too much importance on their performances at contest. I knew that the discipline they would gain from really working on a piece, and stretching to master something difficult, and learning to submit their accomplishments to both praise and criticism, would be life skills that would transfer to other areas of their lives. Learning to win and lose is important, and the knowledge that life isn't always fair is an essential morsel of wisdom for my children to possess.

But I didn't emphasize often enough that not a single person has ever asked me what ratings I got in high school music contests, and frankly, I don't remember. I'm so grateful that my parents encouraged (and subsidized) music lessons--of all of my childhood activities, this may be the one that gives me the most joy as an adult. Contest is important as a milepost, but is certainly not the end of the journey.

And that, more than the ratings, is why I still love contest.

High school musicians have the most lovely shoes I've ever seen but the lovely shoes never are on their feet.

Eclectic Tastes

Since we moved into our temporarily communal office space we've learned to make our own privacy. This involves a determination to pretend we're not listening to other people's conversations, even when those conversations are only a few feet from our ears.

It's kind of like camping, when I manage to convince myself that fellow campers walking by our pop-up trailer while I change clothes are inexplicably and temporarily blind: I know I'm lying to myself, but the truth would keep me from ever camping again.

In much the same way, the four of us now sharing a single room feign deafness as our colleagues meet with clients or chat with co-workers who stop by. The alternative is to throw in the towel and never get anything done at all.

Indispensable to this self-deception are a good set of earphones and some tunes. I've discovered I can keep my eyes on my editing as long as my ears belong to Pandora.

You've listened to this wonderful new invention, right? Pandora is a free internet service that lets the listener "build" a radio station based on personal tastes. I like a cappella jazz, Texas swing, old Spanish romantic music, and light indie music so my Quick Mix station draws on artists similar to Manhattan Transfer, Hot Club of Cowtown, Mocedades, and Jason Mraz, with Sweet Honey in the Rock thrown in for some variety.

The last six tunes I heard this morning are:
1. Propuesta, by Robert Carlos
2. Wordplay, by Jason Mraz
3. Doodlin', by Manhattan Transfer
4. Rivers of Babylon, by Jeff and Sheri Easter
5. Brown-Eyed Girl, by Van Morrison
6. I'm Gonna Sit Right Down and Write Myself a Letter, by Fats Waller.

That playlist shows signs of serious musical attention deficit disorder, but I've been amazingly productive in spite of a full house in our little space.

Selective deafness for the win.

Restoration

I was glad I pulled over to the side of the road Sunday afternoon. If I hadn't, I would have missed hearing the meadowlark barely visible on this fencepost. On a normal day I would have flown by at 50 miles per hour, windows closed and NPR filling my ears. Instead, I stood for a rapt moment, listening to the bird's simple, extravagant outburst.

This is perhaps the most beautiful spot in the world. It's just off the highway, and two miles farther down this gravel road is Shady Oaks. If you had my eyes, you'd see the grain elevator way out there on the horizon, and the trees lining the creek where a century ago an early settler hid in a cave to escape an Indian raid.

Oh, the stories I could tell about this stretch of road--about the man who drove off the road right here and spent the night in sub-zero temperatures then walked to our house, and how my mother wrapped his frozen hands in towels to protect them for the trip to the hospital. About Hamer's Pond, the huge indentation just beyond the next cross-road that always leaked itself dry before summer ended.

Last weekend I was back on the farm recharging my batteries and checking on Mom's tulips while Husband battled tax season. True spring is a few weeks off in that end of the state, but the morning was warm enough for a walk to the creek, a slow stroll that let me search for fossils along the way.

You'll find them everywhere, these fan-shaped indentations made of sediments and seashells and time.The rocks preserve the shape of the inland sea creature that lived thousands of years earlier, all of its soft parts long ago stripped away and only the essence preserved.

And it occurred to me that a few days on the farm have the opposite effect on me. My day-to-day routine pauses as I soak in the sights and sounds from my childhood that formed the outline of the person I would become.

There, my essence is restored.

And It's Not Even April 1

Spring, glorious spring!

The redbuds are budding. The birds are singing.

The sap is rising. The grass is greening.

God's in His heaven, all's right with the world. 

Also, apparently, the world is ending.

He's a Keeper

(Transcript of a call from me to Husband, as I made my way back from the farm to Small Town.)

Me: You'll never guess what I have in the back of the pick-up.

Husband (warily): I'm not sure I want to guess.

Me: Sheep compost! Two hundred pounds of it!

Husband: (silence)

Me: And a rusty old wheelbarrow! I love it!

Husband: (silence)

Me: I'm going to put pots of begonias in the wheelbarrow, and it will look great under the redbud tree. Woo!

Husband: Huh.

Me: Sheep compost! Wheelbarrow!

Husband: You know, I don't know why I'm still surprised when we have these kind of conversations. But I'm sure whatever you have in mind will turn out fine because it always does.

And then he left a towering stack of tax returns to unload 200 pounds of sheep compost and a wheelbarrow from the back of the pick-up. In the rain.

He's a keeper.

Quick! Look Outside!

When I was growing up on the farm, our closest neighbor was the maiden lady who lived on the farm a mile south. Elma had adopted us from the moment my young parents moved to Shady Oaks when I was 18 months old. She showed up regularly to sit at the kitchen table and drink coffee and talk while Mom went about her business.

By the time my older sister and I were old enough to walk the gravel road to Elma's house by ourselves we had three younger siblings so when Mom needed a break to care for the babies, she sent J and me to visit Elma. It was like having a play date with a friend--but that friend was old enough to drive and buy pop and candy! Woo! Elma  drove us all over the county, plying us with ice-cold Pepsi's in swirled bottles. She had an attic filled with antique toys, pet sheep (we "helped" her take them to the vet in the front seat of her car), an old barn where we looked for nests of eggs, and the wonderful misconception that these two little girls were perfect in every way.

Elma was the best playmate in the world, but in retrospect I realize she was not beautiful. She was a little wider than she was tall, had a mole on her chin that tended to sprout hairs, and avoided new-fangled inventions like underwear.

That's why, when Dad woke us up one spring morning by yelling, "Quick! Girls! Look outside! Here comes Elma in her bathing suit!" we set the land speed record for running down the stairs to look out the front door. And there was Dad with a grin on his face.

"April Fools!"

I woke up this morning knowing I would immediately text my sister: Quick! Look outside! Here comes Elma in her bathing suit!

And then I smiled.