Lift Up Your Hearts!

There's nothing like a small-town Independence Day parade, and when we're not attending weddings or births or other such out-of-town occasions, the Geneva (Florida) parade is where we like to be.  That's because we're privileged to march with the Greater Geneva Grande Award Marching Band, the parade's star attraction.  (Well, we think so.  Some of the other participants may disagree.)

I've written about the band and the parade before; this year we actually had a whole article about us in a real newspaper, albeit one i'd never heard of until the photographer introduced himself to ask my name.  No, the paper did not choose to run the photo of me, no matter how crazed I must have looked crashing the cymbals.  Instead they very appropriately featured Geneva's own Richard Simonton:  good man, good friend, and the one who makes the band happen (and gets us our free hot dogs). (More)

If you can't say something nice about someone, don't say anything at all.

At no time was that old advice more pertinent than in this age of instant communication.

Not once, but twice in the past couple of months I have inadvertently sent an e-mail to the wrong person.  I rely too much on the auto-complete function of my mail program, and certain keyboard shortcuts, and don't always double-check.

In both cases, the unintended recipient was our daughter's mother-in-law; as near as I can figure out, some common typo for one of my other correspondents must auto-complete to her address.  The first e-mail would simply have confused her, but the second could have been a disaster, as I had written quite a bit about her and her family in an e-mail that was supposed to go to my sister.

Fortunately, I only said good things -- she's the kind of person about whom it's hard to find something bad to say.  But I can think of contexts in which I could have gotten myself in very hot water indeed.

When our kids were little, we had a record of children's songs (yes, vinyl -- I'm that old), one of which had verses that began, "Be careful, little eyes, what you see," "Be careful, little ears, what you hear," and "Be careful, little hands, what you do." 

Be careful, little fingers, what you type.

Just after midnight today, Steven Perezluha reached Annapolis, Maryland as the ninth bicyclist in his division to complete the Race Across AMerica.  With the 41-minute credit he received for a tornado-caused delay in Kansas, his official finish was at 11:34 last night.  Steven raced from the Pacific to the Atlantic in an even ten days and eight hours.

Congratulations to Steven!

And because no one, least of all a major athlete, succeeds without a great deal of help:

Congratulations to his sponsors, his incredible support crew, and his parents!

The Race Across AMerica may be the craziest bike race ever.  From the Pacific to the Atlantic, from Oceanside, California to Annapolis, Maryland (this year's route).  The record for the solo men's division is a little over eight days.

Steven Perezluha, the friend of whom I've written before (biking to Alaska, and racing up Pittsburgh's Cathedral of Learning), is making his RAAM debut, his substantial crew led by his uncle, Danny Chew, himself a two-time RAAM winner.  From today's VeloNews article:

The youngest rider in the field is 20-year-old Steven Perezluha, nephew of 2-time RAAM winner Danny Chew. “My goal is to finish, hopefully in ten days as the top American finisher,” the youngster declared in Oceanside, “I’m going to try to be conservative at the beginning and not blow up,” he added. Yet it was Perezluha who was first to Time Station 1, 50 miles into the race at Lake Henshaw. In the next 20 miles he was passed by Strasser before reaching the “Glass Elevator,” a fast and winding descent down to the desert floor where temperatures approaching 100 degrees awaited the riders. While it is unknown whether Perezluha did indeed “blow up,” what is certain is that he’s slowed considerably, dropping from being the early leader down to 19th overnight.

Taking it easy, if somewhat oxymoronic to say about such a race, will be the smart thing for Steven to do:  there's no percentage in abusing his still-developing body when he has so many more years to hit his peak.  But he's such a competitor ... who knows what he might accomplish?

Here are some links if you want to follow his progress:

Steven's profile

Steven's progress

(added 6/17) Very cool page with animated map and stats, great for following the athletes' progress

Leaderboard

Live stream (I include this because it has the potential to be interesting, at least for us, although at the time of writing the stops and starts of video and audio make it too painful to listen to for long.)

Steven's website (hosted by Lime Daley!)

Go, Steven!  Finish the race!  Do well, but don't overdo it!

No, this is not the next installment in the tale of our Hawaiian vacation, although it will help explain why that wasn't published yesterday.

Our refrigerator was well over 10 years old.  It was bought used in 2001, and I have no idea of its history.  It wasn’t in very great shape then, though somehow it worked quite well for us.  For years Porter would periodically grumble that it was an energy hog, reminding me that it couldn’t last forever, and wouldn’t it be better not to have to replace it on an emergency basis? 

During the Memorial Day Weekend sales, we finally took the plunge.

Actually, we had tried to do so once before, several years ago, picking out an exciting model with French doors, a bottom freezer, water filter, ice maker, and other attractive features.  The feature we didn’t expect was its inability to fit through the largest door in our house.  Since when did they start making appliances that don’t fit through standard-sized doors?  Crushed, we put off the purchase for another few years, although we did indulge in occasional peeks at what was available when we happened to be in a store that sold appliances.

Porter, as usual, was the one who made it happen.  He researched the models, and narrowed the possibilities down to a handful.  Then together we made the final decision:  a rather ordinary, Energy Star-compliant, General Electric refrigerator with a capacity of 21 cubic feet.  I’m happy with ordinary!  It’s about the same size as the one it replaced, and not as large as the refrigerator we had when the kids were living at home, but it certainly ought to do well for the two of us.  Complaints about size won’t go over well here, anyway, as Janet is sure to point out that it’s 5 to 7 times larger than the refrigerators she’s had in her last three homes.

Click this link to see what it looks like.  No, we didn’t pay the MSRP, but got a much better deal at Lowe’s.

On Monday, Lowe’s called to say that the refrigerator was in, and we arranged for delivery Tuesday between noon and 5 p.m.  Our neighbor came over and helped Porter move the existing fridge into the garage, where we had planned to keep it until July, when our church would take it for their rummage sale.  After all, it still worked, and really was a fine fridge, even if you did have to kick the door to make it close properly.  That quick kick was so much a habit that I often had to explain at other people’s homes why I was abusing their appliances.

All went well, until Porter went out the next morning to get his breakfast drink.  There was a small puddle of water underneath the fridge.  At some point during the night, the compressor had stopped working, and melting ice was dripping from the freezer.  (Glad I was that I had transferred most of the contents of the freezer to our chest freezer, to lighten the fridge for the move.)  The refrigerator compartment was still cool enough that I felt comfortable that the food was safe, so I filled it with jugs of ice, as if it were a giant picnic cooler.  You don’t have half a dozen frozen jugs of water available at a moment’s notice?  Then either you don’t have a handy chest freezer, or you don’t care that June 1 marks the beginning of hurricane season.

At about 8 a.m. the next day, the delivery men called:  Could they deliver the refrigerator in about half an hour?  The thought of grumbling, “What part of ‘between noon and five’ didn’t you understand?” was immediately quashed by the pleasant thought of having  a working refrigerator sooner rather than later.

It was sad to see the old refrigerator taken unceremoniously off for recycling, but if it was going to break, I’m glad it did so before sending it to the rummage sale, and not after.  Perhaps its time had just come, and Porter was better than he knew to insist on getting a new one now.  Perhaps the move, short and gentle as it was, merely jarred something loose.  Whatever the cause, we decided it wasn’t worth attempting a repair, given its age and condition.

Many mammal mothers lick their newborns clean after birth.  I’ve never done that myself, but the instinct must be there:  I can’t use a new appliance until I’ve cleaned it inside and out.  With one thing and another, it took me the rest of the day to get the refrigerator “on board.”  Porter would have cleaned the outside and the ice cube bin and had the food back in in under half an hour.

We’re still working on the best way to use the space.  I love all the extra room in the door shelves—they can hold gallon milk jugs!—and don’t mind that the main shelves are consequently shorter, since it’s hard to get at things in the back of the fridge, anyway.  But some reconsideration of our old habits of arrangement is in order.  But that will be a joyful chore, rather than an urgent one.

And guess what?  We’re heading into summer with an ice maker!

I know you're all—one or two of you, anyway—waiting with bated breath for the next installment of the Hawaiian Adventure.  I'm working on it.  But it's not going to happen tonight, so instead you get a quick story of today's enjoyable shopping trip.

Yes.  I did just use "enjoyable" and "shopping" in the same sentence.

Thirty-plus years ago we visited Brazil.  One of the delights of foreign travel is the opportunity to expand one's taste in food, and that trip introduced us to, among other treasures, jabuticaba jelly, Antarctica Guaraná, and suco de maracujá sem açúcar.  The last is passion fruit juice, without sugar, and was my staple breakfast drink every day I could get it.

It is hard to find passion fruit juice here, and when I do, it's always sweetened.  Our local Albertsons did start stocking plain, frozen passion fruit purée a few years ago, so when, in my new-found enthusiasm for smoothies, I decided that passion fruit flavor was just what I needed, I turned to them.

Alas, they no longer carry it.  But the willing-to-be-helpful clerk suggested we try a Bravo Supermarket.  We have several nearby food stores, but Bravo is not one of them.  Research, however, revealed one not far from our church, so this morning we ventured in.

Success!  We came home with not one but three different brands of passion fruit purée:  one from Colombia, one from Ecuador, and one from the Dominican Republic. Mmmm—smoothies tomorrow!

Finding a long-lost love is enough in itself to take the sting out of shopping, but Bravo did us one better by being such an interesting store.  Even if it were closer, it wouldn't do for everyday use, because it's a small store with not much general selection.  But it abounds in what I'd call, for lack of better information. Hispanic foods.  The produce section was amazing, with half a dozen different kinds of bananas, and dozens of fruits and vegetables I know not of.

I look forward to other after-church excursions in the future.

It had been a few years since our last visit to a concert of the Florida Symphony Youth Orchestra, and I couldn't help thinking throughout that I wish this had been the orchestra of Janet's experience.  Orchestras, as well as people, can develop much in fifteen years!

After very creditable performances by the Overture Strings and Prelude Orchestras, the Philharmonia took the stage.  Back in Janet's day, students looked forward to graduating from the Phil to the top orchestra, the Symphonic, in order to play the "real" version of major orchestral works rather than reduced arrangements; now the Philharmonic plays the full versions, also.  They did a great job with Tchaikovsky's March Slave, Shostakovich's Festive Overture, and—my personal favorite of this concert—Carried Up in the Fields, by John Dupuis.  John is now the conductor of the Phil, but in our day he was one of the FSYO's best flute players, and played with Janet in their wind quintet, Quintessence.  (We knew him when....)

Best of all, though, John is a composer.  I knew that when he was still a teenager, and the FSYO premièred his Atlantis.  Universal Studios acknowledged the same by featuring an excerpt from Atlantis at the grand opening of their Islands of Adventure theme park.  Here's a link so that you can hear Atlantis for yourself.  The oboe solo always makes me tear up; you can guess who played it at the première.  If you like that, check out more of John's works on his site.

Shostakovich was featured heavily on this program.  After intermission, the Symphonic Orchestra took the stage, beginning with Concerto Competition winner Giancarlo Licitra, playing the first movement of the Shostakovich Cello Concerto No. 1.  Their final piece was the fourth movement of Shostakovich's Symphony No. 5.  In between they played another new work, LocoMotion by Stella Sung.  I 've almost always liked Dr. Sung's music, and this was no exception.

Both the Philharmonic and Symphonic orchestras played excellently, and Giancarlo Licitra superbly.

But back to John Dupuis.  After conducting, Carried Up in the Fields, John commented that even when he tries not to write movie music, it comes out sounding like movie music.  I don't know how true that really is, but I say,

Go for it, John!  Movie music is your destiny. 

Back in 1999, after hearing Atlantis for the first time, I wrote in my journal, "Move over, John Williams and James Horner.  (I don’t say Patrick Doyle yet, though!)"

Feel free to make me change my mind about Patrick Doyle.

I dislike shopping.  (Those who know me, also know how understated that is, but "loathe" seems too strong a word to use about something so trivial.)  On top of that, I have an aversion to adding "stuff" to our home.  Until proven otherwise, if it takes up space, it's as welcome as an undocumented worker in Arizona.

It only took me a couple of years of waffling before opening the door to this immigrant, but it immediately proved itself a trustworthy and productive citizen:  a Cuisenart hand blender.

Why buy a hand blender when you have a perfectly good regular blender already?  That nagging question also postoned this purchase, but the answer soon became obvious:  despite the similarity of their names, the two appliances serve different purposes, and the hand blender is far superior for making sauces, soups, and—our favorite—smoothies.

The blender itself takes up little space.  (The accessories take up a bit more, and I actually haven't used them yet.)  No more laborious transfer of hot sauce bit by bit from the pan to the blender:  in a few seconds the hand blender delivers a smooth sauce right in the cooking pot.  Throw some frozen berries, yoghurt, milk, orange juice concentrate, and almond flavoring (for example) into a quart measuring cup, whirl it around with the blender, and—voilá!—an easy, healthy smoothie.  Best of all, the hand blender is an absolute snap to clean.

Okay, so I'm lazy.  Is it that much trouble to use the regular blender for these things?  Maybe it shouldn't be, but with the hand blender I actually do them.  These days, I'm very much into arranging my life for success.  Glenn Doman's philosophy, "We arrange for the child to win," works for adults, too.  Our new hand blender has turned out to be an effective addition to that toolbox.

Daniel May: The Tall and the Small
Sibelius: Symphony No. 1
Tchaikovsky: Violin Concerto

Christopher Wilkins, conductor
Joshua Bell, violin

The first work on the program was a tribute to Jonathan May, onetime director of the Florida Symphony Youth Orchestra, who died unexpectedly last year.  The Tall and the Small was composed by May's brother, and his wife, Maureen, played the solo cello parts.  I was impressed that she was able to perform this without breaking down.  The most exciting aspect of the piece, however, was that it was composed for double string orchestra, the "Tall" orchestra being the OPO, and the "Small" orchestra made up of student musicians.  I'm sure that performing with the OPO was quite a thrill for them—not to mention sharing the program with Joshua Bell.  At the risk of making some of my readers feel old, I'll mention that they had auditioned for the job via YouTube!

I like Sibelius, so perhaps if I were more familiar with his first symphony I would have enjoyed it more.  As it was, I confess I found both pre-intermission works rather soporific.  Looking around, it was apparent I was not the only one.

But only a terminal narcoleptic could have slept during the second half.

I've spoken before of my concern about the superstar phenomenon that destroys the "middle class" in music, sports, and many other fields.  Yet there is no doubt that Bell's superstardom is deserved.  As is that of the Stradivarius he plays.  Never have I heard so many textures come from a single instrument.  And what high notes!  What harmonics!  Years ago, when I asked one of Janet's violin teachers how he knew where to place his finger when leaping to the far reaches of the fingerboard, he replied, "You stab and hope."  Bell stabs and knows.  What's more, despite his appearing to have put in his 10,000 hours on this concerto alone, the performance conveyed an almost playful delight.

As an encore, he began with what sounded like a reprise of the magical cadenza from the first movement, but which quickly turned into a fiery cadenza for Yankee Doodle.

The full-house audience was appreciative and enthusiastic, with many unable to restrain themselves from a premature standing ovation after the first movement of the Tchaikovsky.  I confess:  I applauded, too.  You just had to; it was that transcendent.  Joshua Bell made the news four years ago for being decidedly under appreciated when he played the part of a street musician in a Washington, D.C. Metro station.  As unobservant as I can be when focussed on the goal at hand, I like to think I could not have passed such music by without standing, transfixed and open-mouthed.  Then again, I've always had a soft spot for street musicians.

Whatever it cost the OPO to bring Bell to Orlando, I'm glad they did.  His performance of the Tchaikovsky was like a meal at the Cheval Blanc in Basel.

Piazzolla: Tangazo
Mozart: Sinfonia concertante in E-flat major, K. 297b
Tchaikovsky: Symphony No. 4 in F minor, op.36

Alondra de la Parra, conductor
Nikolay Blagov, clarinet
Jamie Strefeler, oboe
Diane Bishop, bassoon
Mark Fischer, French horn

Alondra de la Parra.  Thirty years old, and already an exciting conductor.  Watch out for her.  Seek out her performances.

As OPO supporters, we are invited to attend one of the open Friday night rehearsals before a concert, and we chose this one for the compelling reason that it was the only one scheduled for when Porter was able to attend.  What a fortunate Hobson's choice!

Back when Janet was in the Florida Symphony Youth Orchestra, we enjoyed listening to rehearsals because the orchestra would play, the conductor would make some suggestions, and then the orchestra would play again—with obvious improvement.  Orlando Phil rehearsals are not usually fun in that way, because, of course, they are better players.

And then Alondra de la Parra came as guest conductor.  I don’t know how the musicians felt, being treated like youth orchestra students—for Maestra De la Parra stopped them, and worked them, and even at one point had them play to the accompaniment of a loud and disconcerting rim-tap metronome sound from the percussion section.  She made them play chords again and again, until she heard the right balance:  “I need more of the C!”  She ran late, much to the annoyance of the union rep, who checked his watch every minute and a half.

But what a difference the work made!  The before and after contrast was as discernable as it had been with the students, and the next day's performance was even more brilliant.  I have always loved the OPO, but I had no idea they could play like that.  I loathe the “grade inflation” that has led to standing ovations at nearly every concert, but this time I was one of the first on my feet.

De la Parra is fun to watch, too.  With the baton she is as commanding as a four-star general, and yet she dances her directions, playing the orchestra like a beloved instrument, coaxing out the sound.

She gave most of her rehearsal attention to the Tchaikovsky, and it was consequently the most stunning.  But the Mozart was delightful because of the players:  Jamie Strefeler handled the oboe part with skill, Mark Fischer is always good on horn, Nikolay Blagov would make even Heather like the clarinet, and Diane Bishop’s bassoon playing amazes me every time.  (To be completely honest, my favorite part of the Tchaikovsky was some exquisite solo bassoon notes.)

The Piazolla was fun, all the more so because we recognized both the name and the style from a concert in Japan a few years ago.  There we had heard his Libertango played by a talented cellist, who, like other notables such as Diane Bishop and Janet Stücklin-Wightman, graduated from the Eastman School of Music.  She is now teaching at an arts school in Africa.  This completes your It’s a Large World trivia diversion for today.

We capped the evening by enjoying some drinks (okay, it was water) and cookies (oatmeal) at a table by a fountain, while the rest of the crowd struggled to get out of the parking lot.  Twenty minutes later the way was clear; we packed up our belongings and drove home in peace.

The Olde Cup & Saucer, Jamestown Place, Altamonte Springs, Florida

This is for our friend, Nancy:  I'm taking you to tea at The Olde Cup & Saucer.  All you have to do is figure out how to get here from North Carolina.

It's a pity the Olde Cup & Saucer is in a storefront rather than a garden setting, but if you sit with your back to the window and ignore the fact that you can read the menu, you can at least imagine you're sitting in a European café.  Better, because no one's smoking.

The restaurant serves lunch and afternoon tea; we went for the former, and will be back to check out the latter.  There's a good assortment of teas available, though we chose the specials of the day for the cheaper price and free refills.  True, even $1.25 is a lot to pay when we have a store of many excellent teas at home, but hey, I once spent four Swiss francs for a cup of tea in Bern.  (As that cup came with shelter from a storm, as well as a cookie, the price was not too high.)

It was a good Irish Breakfast, served in a lovely cup that brought instantly to mind the above-mentioned friend.  (Porter enjoyed the Arctic Raspberry, iced.)  From the lunch menu, I chose the Classic, with a cup of the soup of the day and two tea sandwiches.  The cheddar cheese and bacon soup was served as hot as I like it, which is rare in restaurants, and I could have happily eaten a large bowl.  For the sandwiches I chose curry chicken salad, and spinach.  They were out of the spinach, so I substituted cucumber.  Both were delicious and creatively presented.  Porter couldn't resist the dish named for our mutual ancestor, Henry II:  shrimp salad, and a side of hearts of palm with Vidalia dressing.  Again, the food was creative and delicious: the shrimp salad included, among other, less-identifiable treats, walnuts and olives.  Quantities were decidedly un-American, a "tea sandwich" being the size of half of what I'd call a sandwich, and thus even smaller than normal restaurant fare.  But it was enough, just right.  Smaller portions lend themselves better to savoring.

The Olde Cup & Saucer also sells a modest selection of loose teas; my only disappointment was discovering that what they call Russian Caravan is noticeably smoky, unlike the other teas I've had under that name.  Ah, well—we know people who pass through the Basel train station now and then....

Although I generally prefer to have people come to our house to share meals, sometimes folks would rather meet at a restaurant.  I'm confident enough in my cooking not to let this bother me (much), but heretofore I've not had a suggestion to make when asked, "Where would you like to meet?"  Now I can't wait for the next opportunity.

Not long after we moved to here, we planted a couple of blueberry bushes in the backyard.  As with many of our Florida gardening ventures, this one could not have been called a rousing success.  Or perhaps it could, in a relative sense, simply on the grounds that the bushes are still alive.  But they never seemed to bear more than a handful of berries each year, and the birds always got to most of those before we did.

This year, however, was different.  I have no idea why; but look at all the berries on this branch!  (Click on the picture for a larger view.)

So Porter decided it was about time we stopped ceding the crop to the birds, and built this:

Was he more clever than the birds?  We'll let you know when the berries ripen.

Too many short nights.  'Way too many long days.  I'm currently babysitting the printer as it struggles with the second edition of Phoebe's Quilt, which I plan to take to Office Max tomorrow later today to have covered and bound.  Then I'll pack it off to my sister-in-law so she'll have a few copies when she shows the real thing at the Haddam Neck Congregational Church's Annual Quilt Show this coming Saturday.  Hopefully that will generate interest among local folks who might be able to shed light on Haddam 160 years ago and the families I've come to know through this Friendship Quilt.

The printer is silent.  Four copies printed.  I won't bore you with why it took so long to get four measly copies done, but it almost makes Office Max's charge of 50 cents per (color) copy look reasonable.  Almost.  Anyway, they're done.  Tomorrow I'll change out the exhausted black ink cartridge and hope the (already replaced once) color lasts through one more printing.

Then bind ... ship ... and I'll be FREE!  Um, not exactly.  There's still some work to do on the pdf version, and of course more research I want to do—eventually.  But I'm looking forward to scaling back, a lot, and tackling all the stuff that's been ignored for the last several weeks, including the very lovely Florida spring days that will soon pass into not-so-lovely summer.

Anyway, that's why you haven't heard much from me lately.

We had salmon last night for dinner.  It was good:  rubbed with olive oil and Old Bay, then grilled, served with marinated grilled zucchini slices and homemade French fries spiced with Penzey's Chili 9000 and cayenne pepper.  Porter chose a good wine to accompany the meal.

The other accompaniment was a little less haute cuisine.  I've written before about the mp3 player in my head that grabs onto a theme and won't let go.  This time it wasn't a tune, but something equally repetetive (and, after a while, annoying): The best fish, and the freshest fish, is Finney's fish, French-fried!  Not an exact quote from Oh, Say Can You Say?, but there's no doubt of the source.

I love Dr. Seuss books, especially when reading to grandchildren.  But as romantic dinner music, they could be improved upon.

It hit me suddenly, while reading about refugees housed in Japanes school gymnasiums, that this is the time of year we attended a school-wide program for Janet's school, held in their gym.  We were healthy, happy, dry, and well-clothed—with personal hand- and foot-warmers to boot—and were nonetheless deeply chilled before the program ended.  And that was further south than the troubled area of Japan.  That also made me realize that when you hear reports that make the refugees' need for fuel seem nearly as important as their need for water, it's not so they can tool around town in their Toyotas.  Fuel for transport is vital, of course, but kerosene heaters are a common source of heat for Japanese homes.  I can't imagine what Janet's apartment would have been like at this time of year without kerosene—or rather, I can imagine it all too well.

Here's an update from the team Stephan's friend is working with in Japan.  It will give you a good idea of their plans for the work.