Jumbled Up

Photo by Heidi Kaden on Unsplash

It’s not even October, and I’m already sick of pumpkin spice. There, I said it.

Before you assemble a lynch mob and head on over to my place, let me clarify: I am NOT forbidding you, or even discouraging you, from enjoying the plethora of pumpkin spice flavored or scented items all around us. Go ahead and gobble that muffin, slurp down that latte, light that candle! (One has to wonder: is “Pumpkin” one of the Spice Girls? But I digress.)

 

I don’t care if you paint your house orange and dress up as a cinnamon stick for Halloween. Just please don’t assume I’m on the same autumnal bandwagon. I’m still baking with blueberries and steaming asparagus, and scenting my home office with a “Seaside Solstice” votive. 

Yes, I know I should adhere to the sacred cycle of the seasons, eschew produce that has been imported here from different climes and so on. I do realize that farm-fresh tomatoes and juicy peaches are at their peak of flavor during July and August. However, I am easily bored, and my palate demands constant variety. I know of people who eat corn on the cob every single day in mid-summer, but as of the fifth or six cob-full, all I’m craving is a nice candy cane. I like to squirrel away Trader Joe’s maple leaf cookies to consume on the beach, and the ONLY time Thanksgiving dinner has any appeal to me is in the late spring. 

 

Contrary? Definitely. But life is short, so I figure I’d better eat some strawberry shortcake in February, just in case. As I write this, I am thawing a tub of lump crabmeat I bought months ago down in Lewes, and look forward to a summery supper on a cool fall night. For years, I have been hunting vainly for lemon custard ice cream, which I hadn’t tasted since childhood at Normandy Beach, NJ. Finally, three weeks ago, I unearthed a half-gallon of the stuff in Shop N Bag! Hooray! But when I returned for another carton, lemon custard was gone. In its place? You guessed it: pumpkin spice. 

 

I used to look longingly at magazine photo spreads for cruise wear and island vacations, that would appear on the newsstands in January. How heavenly, I thought, to be able to escape the frosty chill of the Northeast US, and steal away to a sun-kissed tropical paradise! Yet if I were to live full time in a REAL tropical paradise (like my sister C, who resides in Honolulu), I know I’d be pining away for snowflakes and crackling fires within hours. My short attention span makes it impossible for me to hunker down and truly experience one season at a time. Bring ‘em all on at once, I say!

 

My veteran retired friends cautioned that I’d lose track of the time once I was no longer working at church, and that has certainly been true. But guess what? It doesn’t matter! Tuesday? Sunday? Winter? Spring? 

 

Yes, please.

Leaders of the Band

  

Teenage pianist Evan, taking a bow at a local jazz festival

Conductors used to puzzle me. How necessary were they? The instrumentalists or singers knew their parts. The music was right in front of them. Did they need a musical traffic cop too? After all, you never see a play's director on stage cueing the actors during a performance. At that point their work is done! Conductors often seemed to be merely grandstanding, perched at podiums, waving batons in the air, doing their best Leonard Bernstein impersonations. 

 

I did feel for the poor conductor of the elementary school beginner’s orchestra, which was usually a muddled mess. We dutifully attended every concert, stifling chuckles at the onstage mishaps. There was the time a very small cellist, sawing earnestly away, let go of his bow, sending it flying into the wings. Often the sheet music for “Be-Bop Parade” or “Halloween in Scarytown” was knocked off stands and fluttered to the ground, leaving the players unsure of whether to retrieve the papers immediately, or just sit there and wait until the break between numbers (kinda like timing an entrance in jump rope). 

 

But later, as the bands and orchestras increased in quality, I must admit that having a good conductor made a difference. Just that commanding, unifying presence improved the results--as long as the young musicians chose to glance up once in a while. My children had several memorable music directors (they must be memorable, because I—who cannot recall last night’s dinner--can remember them.)

 

Sean Kennedy at Sandy Run Middle School, a busy professional drummer himself, often invited his accomplished musician friends to come talk with, and perform for, the kids (even sit in with them sometimes). When Evan reached high school, he traded his trumpet for jazz piano, and felt very confident playing solos—and we knew many other young people who'd gained similar self-assurance. Being in Mr. Kennedy’s jazz band was VERY cool, and a great chance for some middle schoolers who might have struggled to find their place, to shine. 

 

By the time Sheridan was playing with the Philadelphia Youth Orchestra, Joseph Primavera had been leading PYO for nearly 50 years. The maestro was known for being demanding, brusque and intimidating. He would stand outside the downtown rehearsal hall on Saturday mornings as the kids hustled in. Lord help you if you were still running down 15th Street at 9:01 AM! Primavera was a yeller, and didn’t suffer wrong notes gladly; several times his outbursts brought a hapless violist or clarinetist to tears. Decades later, Sheridan speaks of him with admiration for his musicianship (if not his manner).

 

Rose sang for several years with the Temple University Children’s Choir, and their conductor, Holly Phares, was terrific. Their concerts were excellent. Rose learned a lot, and still thinks of Holly very fondly.

 

Now that both Sheridan and Ya-Jhu conduct choirs and other ensembles, I’m truly appreciating the magic the conductor creates, weaving a stage full of individuals into a seamless musical unit.

 

Bravo, music leaders. Long may your batons wave!

Sher in 8th grade, conducting a group at church

The Best Time

Anything but THIS!

I never used to give much thought about when I should do things, send things and go places. Oh sure, I knew that driving down to the shore on the Friday afternoon of Fourth of July weekend might not be the wisest decision, but even then, the traffic was rarely too extreme. There was one Fabulous Fourth years ago, though, when I was stuck for several hours in a major jam on Highway One headed to Rehoboth Beach with my mother, plus those of my children who still needed diaper changes and frequent nursing (Steve got the older ones for his car, lucky dog). Note: my mom was by far the most difficult passenger of the group. Joanie was a non-driver, and wondered—aloud, with increasing volume, and every five minutes--why it was taking SO DARNED LONG to get there. Gee, Mom, I don’t know. What say I drive on the shoulder at 125 MPH? Better?

Mostly, I carried on with life, blissfully ignorant of the desired time windows within which I had the best chance of success. Recently, however, it seems there is a magic moment for just about every endeavor. Grocery shopping? Avoid lunchtime! Going on a trip? You’d do MUCH better booking your airline ticket on Wednesday morning (lowest prices, best selection)! And don’t EVER go to Europe in August! Or Vermont at peak foliage time in the fall! Or New Orleans for Mardi Gras! If you’re really into travel bargains, you’ll have an app on your phone which sends you regular updates about your desired itinerary. One morning I got the notification, “Hey Elise! Don’t book that Munich trip yet! Prices will be going down soon!” So I waited, checked again a few days later and got, “Uh oh! Prices did go down, but are now sky high again. You missed your deal!” I felt like a clueless stock market investor, and was reminded again of why I am not involved in the stock market.

 

As a freelance writer, I’m learning those rules too. Sometimes the reasoning is obvious; other times, I just have to have faith in the source of advice. Submitting a pitch to an editor and want it to actually be read? You’ll want to send that email Tuesday mid-morning (once they’ve had their coffee), unless Monday is a holiday, in which case you want to wait until Wednesday (of course). Got an essay about Christmas? Don’t send it as late as November! Or as early as September! The sweet spot is October 15^th at 2:10 PM. By 2:11, the magazine has naturally moved on to Valentine’s Day stories. 

 

One of these days I’m going to schedule a Disney World vacation for spring break, saunter into the supermarket with the lunchtime crowd, and just send my pieces out to editors willy-nilly. Will the end result be bitter disappointment? Undoubtedly, yes. But at least I will have asserted my independence from the terrible tyranny of timing! 

 

And, really, what’s more important than that?

Feedback

Feedback: more than just static on a mic!

I’m lousy at giving feedback (not so super at receiving feedback either). In my desire to never, under any circumstances, make someone else feel badly, I often avoid saying anything whatsoever (remember that old saw: “If you can’t say anything nice…etc.”?) Even though I know constructive criticism is a thing (a good thing), I infinitely prefer coming up with multiple superlatives to describe whatever I’m looking at/hearing/reading. 

My hubby and some of our kids are in jobs where giving feedback in terms of hiring/firing/performance reviews is an important part of the position. Steve needs, from time to time, to tell an actor that they are missing the mark. Chef Patrick needs to let cooks know that walking out mid-shift is actually unacceptable behavior. Rose and Julie frequently need to advise support staff when they aren’t pulling their weight at work. My feedback-giving family members all seem able to handle it without a lot of torturous soul-searching, quite unlike their wife/mother.

 

So naturally I have just joined an online comedy writing sprint group, where feedback is the main point. Oh, that and speed: the six of us are supposed to share five pitches and one completed draft of a humor piece every week. And offer detailed feedback on everyone else’s pieces. 

The most prolific among us (NOT me) posted a draft of a very funny parody of a Sondheim song she’d tossed off and asked for help finding a title and other feedback. While I have four other significant writing assignments to work on today, including prep for the two classes I’m teaching beginning next week, I spent a good 20 minutes thinking of possible titles for someone else’s piece. As soon as I sit “send” another group member wrote “I don’t know the song.” The writer immediately responded, “That’s what I was afraid of. I won’t continue with the piece.” It was the perfect example of someone identifying a core issue, and someone else wasting her time (I’ll let you guess which one I was).

 

I struggle as well with things like posting reviews of books, restaurants, plumbers and the like. If I’m satisfied, then I see no reason to repeat the same raves thousands of others have shared. If I’m unhappy, I tend to blame myself (how can I expect a real page-turner, excellent service, an unclogged drain, when I would be so inept doing any of those things? Plus they were no doubt just having a bad day!) and not post anything at all. 

 

I just got a message from one of my former students at church, asking if I could be a job reference. I said “Of course!” as I always do, ready to blab about what an amazing neurosurgeon/youth ministry worker/bartender they would make. It dawned on me that perhaps some feedback might be really valuable, and possibly save this young person from launching into the wrong career. 

 

Yes! I’ll do that! Right after I come up with many more titles for that discarded humor piece! 

Whatever this person is reading is FABULOUS!