Sax Appeal — Not Yet Ready for Carnegie Hall

I had my second sax lesson last Monday and I was pleased with the progress I had made. I don’t expect to be able to make the same report about my next lesson. The past six days have made me realize that scheduling ones activities in retirement is not any easier than scheduling them when working full time. Who would have thought?

We made a four-day trip to Vermont this week to spend time with my sister. This was decided on months ago. A one-day shift in the timing due to some change of plans on my sister’s end enabled me to keep my Monday lesson. I brought my saxophone with me to Vermont, but I practiced there only once, and briefly. The four days away were bracketed by two days of unanticipated family visits by in-laws. I got no practicing in on those days.

As I write this, it’s Saturday night and I’ve run out of steam. For those of you who have been able to follow this week's saga (and were interested enough to try), that means I’ve practiced about one half hour in the five days and six nights since my last lesson. That leaves me just a day and a half to catch up. The odds are not in my favor.

What’s worse is that my last lesson was on chromatics. Even the most popular sharps and flats use many of those side keys that challenge my stubby, arthritic hands. They’re also the notes for which I’ve completely forgotten the fingering. It’s like starting anew each time I pick up the instrument.

My inner niggler is telling me that I should be practicing right now. Another niggler is reminding me that this week’s blog will be at least a day late again even if I finish the draft now. Then there’s the iCal on my desktop Mac (on which I’m working). It has reminded me three times that my monthly newspaper column is due in two days, along with the bi-monthly news article for the Class Notes section in the Brown Alumni Magazine. I’m the Communications Chair for my class, so that task falls to me.

You can see where this is headed. I’m spending my Saturday night triaging the demands on my time. I want to ensure that no “patients” die on me if I give my sax extra hours before my Monday lesson. All the while my mind is replaying the old joke: “How do you get to Carnegie Hall? Practice, practice, practice.” I know I need to practice more even to get to a community band. But I’ll need to improve enough to be able to play better pieces before I’ll enjoy putting in the time needed to get there. Remember Catch 22?

Speaking of bands, I have one other tidbit to share on my Sax Appeal journey. It happened a week ago tonight, when we were attending the Boston Pops concert at Tanglewood. One of the men in our entourage introduced himself, after he confirmed my name. “You’re the sax player, right?” “Not exactly,” said I. “I used to be, and I’m working on it again.” I asked how he’d heard about my attempts to reboot my horn skills. Apparently grapevines grow wild in condo communities.

Turns out he’s the recently installed band director for Wesleyan University, which is just 20 minutes away. This follows a career in directing and several attempts at retiring, which have all resulted in his going back to the podium again. He’s trying to get me to join his group. Apparently, though it carries the University’s name, it’s more of a community band. Some players are in high school and many are community members, as I would be.

This new director is trying to raise the level of his assemblage and has somehow concluded that I can help do that. (From his mouth to God’s ear.) I’m nowhere near ready to play on a team that carries the word “university” in its name. But it’s comforting to know that someone feels I might be an asset at some point. He knows of at least five groups in the area that I could probably join.

This has prompted me to revise that old joke. Now it’s: “How do you get to Wesleyan University? Practice, practice, practice.” But first I need to improve upon my schedule planning. And deal with that maddening Catch 22. Stay tuned.

Sax Appeal — 1st Lesson

On Monday I had my first sax lesson. It began with meeting the instrument I’ll be renting. It’s a Berkeley, not a brand I’ve heard of. If you read last week’s post, you’ll know that doesn’t matter much, since it’s not a rent-to-buy. But getting comfortable with it will be a key step in any successful re-introduction to the skill. With some research I learned that the company is headquartered about fifteen minutes from where I lived in New Jersey before joining my husband in Providence. It’s made in China, as are most saxes these days.

Here are some things I noticed during my first lesson. As many times as I adjusted the neck strap, it was still too long for me. Turns out I wasn’t doing it correctly, because I was pulling on just one of the double ribbons. It looks a lot like a lanyard, but you have to pull both pieces up or down to adjust it. Not an auspicious start.

That finally accomplished, I moved on to feeling out the octave key. On the sax, the left hand curves around the top portion of the horn to reach the upper keys. The left thumb rests on a spot near the octave key. You rock your thumb onto the lever to engage the octave. That key is one thing that differs across various makes. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I’m not wild about the action of this octave compared to my old sax (appropriately an Olds brand). No, seriously. I can’t quite rock my finger on it correctly.

On the left side of the top portion of the horn are some secondary keys (for sharps and flats, as I recall; I haven’t gotten that far yet). It’s a struggle for me to avoid those side keys when I use the octave one. This wasn’t a problem when I was in high school. Apparently my height is not the only thing shrinking with age. It seems that my fingers have gotten shorter as well. My childhood instrument was more comfortable in my hands, finger shrinkage not withstanding.

An important part of the saxophone is the mouthpiece and reed. These felt quite familiar in my mouth right out of the case. My instructor talked to me about embouchure, the position of your lips on the mouthpiece. There are three standard ways to get sound out. I tried (or tried to try) each one. We decided that the one where you curl your lower lip over your bottom teeth and tongue the middle of the mouthpiece seemed to work best for me, at least for now.

I have no recollection of having this explained to me when I started playing in seventh grade. Perhaps the band teacher figured most of us would quit in a year anyway, so why bother. By the time I reached high school, I had apparently developed a style of blowing that got the job done effectively. (No wise cracks, thank you.)

Let’s jump ahead to when I arrived home and set things up to practice. My piano (with it’s built-in music stand) is in the basement, but I decided to practice in our dining area at least initially. That meant finding a way to prop up the study books I’d purchased. It occurred to me that my Lucite cookbook holder would be perfect for this. I knew exactly where it got stored when we moved into our condo last September. Some of you are rightly thinking: “What a miracle!” since you know how seldom I cook.

I dusted it off and made a commitment to myself to practice at least a half hour almost every day. The day after my first session, my lower lip was worn raw from rubbing against my lower teeth. (I took that day off.) I’m trying to remember if I might have used a different embouchure in high school. Sometimes, I make it a point to not think too much about mouth technique and to focus instead on the fingering with my crab-like, stunted hands. More sacrifices for my “art.”

One thing missing from this new round of playing is our childhood Beagle, Cindy. She’d howl when I practiced. We all thought it was hysterical, but we had only one nearby neighbor except in summer. As I prepared to practice here one afternoon, I noticed a neighbor walking his dog across the way. I popped out the door to warn him that the dog might howl once I got going. Turns out, he played alto in high school, too. He still has the instrument in his basement. I think I hear a duet in the wind…

Sax Appeal — The Journey Begins

On Monday I have my first saxophone lesson after a 52-year hiatus. Kudos to my college friend, Lynn Mooney Hickey, for inspiring me to take up sax again. Lynn began playing clarinet at age forty-nine and she’s added tenor and alto sax. She plays in community concert and dance bands, as well as Dixieland and swing groups. Her music has become her passion and that’s reminded me that music was a big part of my high school life.

I sat second chair alto sax in my high school concert and advanced bands and was a squad leader in the marching band. The classmates I stayed in touch with for over 50 years were all band members. (And men. Analyze that.) The joy Lynn found by being involved with bands later in life got me thinking about relearning my instrument. This has turned out to be a bigger challenge than I anticipated.

My first step was to procure a saxophone. Within the obvious overall question of rent vs. purchase there were subsets. If rent, should I look for rent-to-buy? If so, I’d need to research the brand I’d be renting. If purchase, would a student model serve me well or should I look for a better one? How about used, since on my retiree’s income, “better” would certainly mean used? If this is getting confusing, thank you for paying attention, and I’ve diagrammed it for you.

I decided my best option was to rent until I know if this Fascination has legs. The Internet turned up a local business that does rent-to-buy, plus they offer lessons. “It’s So Easy; piece of cake,” said I. As if. That studio insists on getting your social security number before they’ll rent to you. It’s the policy of the national firm they use. No matter that requiring an SSN is illegal. Frustrated and annoyed, I left with Nothing but A Heartache. A follow up call to the rental headquarters just made me Crazy.

Despite (or perhaps because of) my fond recollections of the boys in the band, there’s no way I’m giving out my social to a shop full of musicians. A friend of Jagdish (my husband) knows a lot about musical instruments of every shape and tone. He was sure I could buy a sax inexpensively through Craig’s list. That suggestion turned up two affordable ones at brick-and-mortar stores. Only one was open on Saturdays in the summer, so I started there.

Turns out it’s a pawn shop, and no one there could help me assess the sax’s quality. The only sound I was able to make with it was that of air escaping from somewhere. Since I couldn’t be sure if the problem was with me, and perhaps therefore not one that will disappear with lessons, I left that shop empty handed, too.

The next week I visited the other store from Craig’s list. It’s much like the very first place I’d gone, that meaning they also rent inexpensively and offer lessons. They use a different source for their rentals, so they didn’t insist on getting my SSN. All I had to do was leave Jagdish as collateral. (Just kidding, but I would have seriously considered it at that point.) Unfortunately, this studio is about three times the drive as the first one. I’m beginning to remember the sacrifices one makes for ones art. I signed a rental contract.

I have no idea what brand of horn I’ll be getting when I show up on Monday. But if you can follow my chart, you’ll know it doesn’t matter, because this shop doesn’t do rent-to-own. As it turns out, this is just as well, because the box on my chart that reads “Pray for windfall” turns out to be not so far fetched after all.

After posting about this plan on my Facebook page, I received a message from one of my high school band friends who now lives in Spokane, Washington. I had convinced him to come back to New Jersey last year for our belated 50^th reunion, which I helped run. He and his wife had a wonderful time with all the other band alums and spouses, and they were glad I talked them into making the trip. They sent me a beautiful bouquet after the event.

That alone was an unexpected and thoughtful gesture. His FB message was extraordinarily generous. He'd played clarinet in high school, but he ventured into alto saxophone later in life. He has since decided it’s not for him and he offered to send me his sax as a gift if I decide to continue on this journey. That’s a powerful incentive for me to “stay tuned” to the process. Beware: dreadful puns and musical jokes ahead.

More Tidbits for Women

Several current media items caught my attention because they focused on women’s issues. Or at least issues that are hot buttons for women. Actually, one of them is more of a cold button. But I’ll get to that in a minute.

The report that seemed utter nonsense is that those little plastic discs that are attached to the backs of many pierced earrings on posts are supposed to be removed and thrown away. They’re only there to keep the earrings in place on the little card that displays them. Hogwash! They also keep the back of the earring from slipping off your earlobe, especially if you have chubby protuberances. Plus, if your piercing is on a slight angle, it helps the earring lie flat.

If you’re wondering how that angle would occur, picture a teenager who wants pierced ears and decides to do it herself. Someone told her you just put an ice cube behind the fleshy knob, get a thick sewing needle and go at it. Half way through, the ice cube is melting and her ear is no longer cold but her feet are (idiomatically speaking). So her neighbor’s mom, an RN, gets out a hypodermic needle to finish things off. Appropriating the teen’s own mother’s pique, the RN rushes the job. That’s the story in a nutshell.

Another far more useful tidbit is that cinnamon helps you de-bloat. I’m so excited to learn this that I’m adding the spice to everything I can think of. It’s going on my cereal, in my tea, in yoghurt, on steamed or broiled vegetables. You name it; I’m sprinkling on it. I’ve also laded in a pile of cinnamon sticks that I suck on like tobacco chews. I’m so into this that I sometimes do it two-fisted. Since the news item didn’t specify how long it takes to see results, I’m still in a wait-and-see mode. Stay tuned.

My favorite news item is a study published in Nature Climate Change reporting that office thermostats are set to keep men comfortable, based on a study from the 1960’s. There was no consideration of the different (often less-layered and more leg-baring) wardrobes of women. Nor did they factor in the difference in metabolic rates. Men (in theory with more muscle) can produce heat more easily than women (supposedly with more fat). Hence the temperatures that have females freezing their doorbells off.

While the media focused on how reducing the AC in summer could save companies money, it reminded me of a cutback on heat one winter when there was a severe oil crisis. At the time, I worked at Colgate-Palmolive in Manhattan. Our offices were so cold that some of us had blankets molded into the backs of our chairs and fuzzy slippers under our desks. In January 1980, we received a memo from our office manager with the subject: “Office Climate.” (Yes, I still have a copy.)

It listed eight rules for maintaining one’s “perimeter space,” addressing windows, blinds, airflow and thermostats. There were only three “interior space” rules, which mostly covered how to negotiate with colleagues in nearby window offices if your cubicle temperature was wacko because they weren’t following the perimeter space guidelines.

The memo’s final paragraph ended thusly: “We would again emphasize the need to adjust dress habits to warmer clothing—sweaters, vests, thermal underclothes, heavier socks, etc.—in order to minimize the discomfort.” This sentence begged to be illustrated. Since I was known for my quirky cartoons, I sent colleagues a drawing of appropriate attire for our office environment. Herewith, a stroll down memory lane. Reminder: it was 1980…

Senior Uses for Drones

Earlier this year, the New York Times reported that prisoners are using drones to bring packages to them in jail. The flying delivery service is carrying more than letters; it’s smuggling cell phones, drugs and other contraband. Exactly how these airborne critters get past prison surveillance wasn’t disclosed, but considering what happened on the grounds of the nation’s Capitol, it can’t be very difficult.

More recently, hobbyists have hampered wildfire fighters in California by flying UAVs (Unmanned Aerial Vehicles) overhead to get dramatic photos. This presents a danger to the pilots who dump chemicals on those flames. A more controlled use of drones can be an asset in fighting those fires. They’re able to fly closer than planes and can use infrared technology to identify the worst hot spots—the priority places to unload the chemicals.

Let’s face it; UAVs will become far more common tools in our future. The costs are coming down and they’re becoming more user-friendly. It stands to reason that seniors should give some thought to how this equipment can be used on a daily basis. Before we know it, they’ll be a must-have status symbol even for folks our age, so I’ve started making a list of things drones can do for us.

Marry them with the afore-mentioned infrared technology and you have an invaluable tool to tell you where your spouse is. He might be asleep somewhere or he just can’t hear you. But what if he’s lost (in thought?) An aerial search can save you from having to go up and down all the stairs and around the yard. Ours has a sloping back lawn with treacherous footing. It’s not likely my husband would be out there, but others of you might have more agile spouses who tend to wander off.

Staying with the outdoors, how about some help with hard-to-reach and repetitive yard work? There are always areas on the tops and backs of bushes and small trees that are difficult to trim. Plus my forearms start to shake from the strain of all that opening and closing (for the fine pruning) or the lifting of the electric hedge clipper.

Most of that work is now handled by our condo association, but there are other tedious chores that an airborne friend could help with. Like watering all the plants on the deck and around the perimeter of the house. The deck gets so much direct sun that I sometimes have to water the herb garden twice a day, making multiple trips per watering. One time I foolishly did this barefoot and burned the bottoms of my feet.

Another helpful drone use is chasing the cat or dog out from under the bed. Most family pets are savvy about approaching medication or nail clippers. Ours always managed to get into that “sweet” spot right in the middle of the floor under our king size bed. That meant getting a broom or other long-handled item to force them out. It also required the other spouse to be crouched on the opposite side of the bed to catch them when they ran. With a UAV, this could become a single-person job, and a lot more fun.

I recently bought a special device to change the bulbs in those recessed lights that are popular in condominiums. Its handle is long enough to chase a cat out from under a bed, but I still need a step stool to reach most of the lights. A flying assistant would be a safer way to accomplish this.

For similar reasons of safety (and outright laziness), the blades on our ceiling fans have so much dust that some of it floats off when the fan is on high speed. If I had a remote gizmo that could hold one of those microfiber dust wands, our condo would be a lot cleaner. And I could cut back on allergy meds.

Continuing with being out of reach, let’s talk about dying my gray roots. No matter how much I work at it, I always have some spots at the back of my head that didn’t get covered with enough goop. Occasionally, I’ll have my husband check my coverage, but that’s not always an option. If I had an aerial helper to hold a mirror behind me, I’d wind up with less gray. Better yet, I could outfit Buzzy (I decided to name him) with latex gloves and train him to dye the back. Hallelujah!

I’m just scratching the surface of what Buzzy will be able to do for me. I’m sure you’ll find other uses for his services. Isn’t technology grand?