C'mon, who got the Monty Python reference? (Tracy . . .?)
Friday late afternoon I had my first steel drum class! Yay! I've wanted to learn to play steel drums for years. Okay, maybe not as long as the lady in class who said she first wanted to learn steel drums after watching an episode of Sesame Street in the 70's. But a long time. I walked in the orchestra room, saw the drums set up, and thought, "Yes! Time to live the dream!"
There are 8 students: me, a mom and her son and daughter (who look to be ten and twelve or so), a high school viola player, a woman who's maybe in her 50's, a woman who's in her 60's, and a boy who's 8 or so. The teacher (I've already forgotten his name-- whoops) explained the different kinds of drums and then assigned us to what we'd play for the evening.
Steel drums are set up kind of like an orchestra. The lead drums are the little ones that people think of most when they hear steel drums played, and they play the melody. They're like the violins. Doubles are, well, double the size of leads, and one person plays two drums (as opposed to one person playing only one drum). The viola player and I played doubles. Our job was to play chords to go with the melody the lead drums played. Next biggest are the triples, which are 3/4 the size of a full drum (oil drum, that is, which is what steel drums are). They're kind of like the cellos in an orchestra. The mom and her son played the triples (they each played two drums at once). The woman in her 60's got to play the bass drums-- all six of them. She got the biggest mallets and the coolest rhythms. I hope we get to trade off once in a while so we get to play all the drum types.
Problem: The bass drums are almost the same height as me. I may never get to play them. Boo!
The teacher said he's never going to give us actual written out music to play. He clearly knows music, but he said the point of this class is to have fun, not to focus on learning to read music (several class members don't have much musical background). He taught us to play a scale and a couple of arpeggios, and then he taught us a song based on a C-scale progression and some rhythms.
Good thing the drums have the notes labeled so you hit the right note at the right time.
Good thing we played slowly.
Good thing I can memorize patterns quickly.
See, the way you get notes on a steel drum is that there are little dings hammered out in different spots. There are two octaves (almost three) on each drum or set of drums. The notes aren't next to each other, though, like on a piano keyboard. They're kind of all over the place. Octaves are near each other, but I can't figure out the rest of the pattern. I'm just memorizing where to hit the drum to get the notes I want.
Other things I learned:
Don't hit the drum too hard or you get a "bark" rather than a ringing tone.
You have to figure out the best spot (the teacher called it "finding the sweet spot") to hit to get the note you want.
Keep your thumbs on top of the mallets and your wrists loose.
Keep your elbows in (kind of sounds like using a portkey).
If you miss a note, just come back in at the right spot and nobody will know you messed up (except the teacher).
Not everybody has a sense of rhythm.
I like how the teacher would sort of chant out the rhythm he wanted us to play. He had a cowbell that he would hit with a mallet to give us the general rhythm, but he would also say it to try to get us to feel it. Several people had a hard time pushing the beat (does no one sing or play jazz anymore?). Our teacher is very patient and he laughs a lot.
Friday afternoons are going to be FUN!!
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Remembrance of things past
Yesterday when I was checking Facebook updates of friends, one friend had suggested that everyone post a little blurb of what they were doing on September 11, 2001 when the planes hit the World Trade Center. I posted a little blurb, but I thought my blog would be a better space to say more.
We were maybe three weeks into my first semester of grad. school at The University of Iowa. I had just finished teaching a 7:30 AM freshman rhetoric class. I was sitting in the grad. student lab in the basement of the English Philosophy Building, finishing up a peer response sheet for the next day's peer review session on the first paper of the semester.
In walked a fellow graduate student. She looked terrible, and I asked what was wrong.
"Do you have any idea what just happened?"
Everything just sort of stopped. No more clicking of computer keys or anything. All of us in the room had been in class for the past hour, so no, we had no idea what just happened. When the newly arrived graduate student told us, we rushed into the reading center down the hall, where there was a television, to find out more. About 15 people, clustered around a TV screen, watched the second tower fall.
Good thing I was done teaching for the day and could go home. Everything felt surreal. I remember taking a walk through my Coralville neighborhood and wondering if the world was turning crazy. I didn't really know many people yet, although I did call my sister-in-law, who traveled a lot, to make sure she was okay and not stranded in an airport. I thought about all the missionaries who were in airports all over the country, trying to get to their mission fields (or come home).
That night I went to the Institute building for a choir practice. I was almost out of gas, so I stopped by the station near my house to fill up. What was with the big line of cars?
I woke up the morning of September 12th at 5:30 AM and thought, "Man, I hate getting up this early!" Then I remembered how many people would never be getting up for work or school again. Note to self: don't complain about daily schedule ever again. In my evening graduate class, we didn't talk about whatever was scheduled on the syllabus. One of my fellow grad. students had a cousin who was missing somewhere in Manhattan. We sat around a conference table and talked through possible explanations and tried to give her hope. (The cousin was eventually found in a hospital, knocked into a coma after being trampled on. I'm not sure if she ever came out of the coma.)
Friday afternoon, September 14th, I drove to Ames to visit a friend. We were still in shock. She turned on Duran Duran's greatest hits and we had a dance party with her kids in the living room. We needed to know we could still laugh.
I had to speak in Sacrament Meeting the Sunday after September 11th. I'd hoped I'd get out of it. I was sure the bishop would want to speak instead of me. When the second counselor in the bishopric called, I thought, "Yes! Here's my out!" Instead, he said, "We still want you to speak Sunday. Please make sure it's especially inspirational for the congregation." Gulp. So much for "Hi, I'm new in the ward and here's where I'm from and why I'm here." Somehow that didn't fit this setting. I don't remember what I talked about, but I remember it was hard to do.
Today, eight years and one day later, I spent the day at the Washington DC temple. I can't think of a safer place on earth. Lots has happened in the world in eight years, and our world still isn't a safe place. But WE can be safe individually and in our families. We can make sure our homes are holy places, places where the Spirit resides and keeps us safe. We can serve in the temple. We can live so that we always have the Spirit guiding us so that we're where we need to be at any given time. The Gospel of Jesus Christ is our only true peace.
We were maybe three weeks into my first semester of grad. school at The University of Iowa. I had just finished teaching a 7:30 AM freshman rhetoric class. I was sitting in the grad. student lab in the basement of the English Philosophy Building, finishing up a peer response sheet for the next day's peer review session on the first paper of the semester.
In walked a fellow graduate student. She looked terrible, and I asked what was wrong.
"Do you have any idea what just happened?"
Everything just sort of stopped. No more clicking of computer keys or anything. All of us in the room had been in class for the past hour, so no, we had no idea what just happened. When the newly arrived graduate student told us, we rushed into the reading center down the hall, where there was a television, to find out more. About 15 people, clustered around a TV screen, watched the second tower fall.
Good thing I was done teaching for the day and could go home. Everything felt surreal. I remember taking a walk through my Coralville neighborhood and wondering if the world was turning crazy. I didn't really know many people yet, although I did call my sister-in-law, who traveled a lot, to make sure she was okay and not stranded in an airport. I thought about all the missionaries who were in airports all over the country, trying to get to their mission fields (or come home).
That night I went to the Institute building for a choir practice. I was almost out of gas, so I stopped by the station near my house to fill up. What was with the big line of cars?
I woke up the morning of September 12th at 5:30 AM and thought, "Man, I hate getting up this early!" Then I remembered how many people would never be getting up for work or school again. Note to self: don't complain about daily schedule ever again. In my evening graduate class, we didn't talk about whatever was scheduled on the syllabus. One of my fellow grad. students had a cousin who was missing somewhere in Manhattan. We sat around a conference table and talked through possible explanations and tried to give her hope. (The cousin was eventually found in a hospital, knocked into a coma after being trampled on. I'm not sure if she ever came out of the coma.)
Friday afternoon, September 14th, I drove to Ames to visit a friend. We were still in shock. She turned on Duran Duran's greatest hits and we had a dance party with her kids in the living room. We needed to know we could still laugh.
I had to speak in Sacrament Meeting the Sunday after September 11th. I'd hoped I'd get out of it. I was sure the bishop would want to speak instead of me. When the second counselor in the bishopric called, I thought, "Yes! Here's my out!" Instead, he said, "We still want you to speak Sunday. Please make sure it's especially inspirational for the congregation." Gulp. So much for "Hi, I'm new in the ward and here's where I'm from and why I'm here." Somehow that didn't fit this setting. I don't remember what I talked about, but I remember it was hard to do.
Today, eight years and one day later, I spent the day at the Washington DC temple. I can't think of a safer place on earth. Lots has happened in the world in eight years, and our world still isn't a safe place. But WE can be safe individually and in our families. We can make sure our homes are holy places, places where the Spirit resides and keeps us safe. We can serve in the temple. We can live so that we always have the Spirit guiding us so that we're where we need to be at any given time. The Gospel of Jesus Christ is our only true peace.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Lobster Killer . . . Qu'est-ce que c'est . . .
Date of Incident: Saturday, September 5, 2009
Time of Incident: 6 PM
Location of Incident: A West Virginia kitchen
Victim: See photo below
Investigator's note: Victim was still living when the above photo was taken. He (or she-- gender was hard to verify) was waking up from being stored in the cooler for several hours. Confined to the box and getting warm, the victim was getting restless. Something smelled fishy (sorry, couldn't resist).
Victim just before his (her?) untimely demise. Valiant escape efforts were made but were ultimately useless. Note that this was only the first of five lobsters who were part of the bloodbath. Perhaps there is a serial lobster killer on the loose.
Three of the victims after they were fished out of a pot of boiling water. Oh, the carnage. Gotta have a tough stomach in this business.
Lobster bodies were no longer locatable once they left the kitchen, although there was a distinctive aroma throughout the house for several hours. Empty shells were found in the garbage can, along with a few, well, green internal tissue, but the damage had already been done. Here we see what was in the back yard of said house. Could the lobsters have met their final fate here? I'm thinking yes.
Three local felines were questioned about the lobsters' fate. Here's what they shared:
Sable: I don't know. I was hiding in the basement. There were CHILDREN in my house!
Jesse: Mom promised me I'd get to eat a lobster liver if I kept my mouth shut. She didn't keep her end of the deal, so I'm squealing now. I watched it all, cleverly pretending to be dozing in the sunshine. Absolute carnage, I tell you! Lobster shells flying, water being poured out of empty claws, what a mess! Rumor has it there was a trifle served for dessert, but I didn't see that happen. Excuse me. I need to groom myself now.
Salamanca: I went into spy mode and pretended to be a lawn ornament the whole evening. Five lobsters were killed and disposed of in the back yard, along with copious amounts of lemon risotto, spinach and strawberry salad with goat cheese (which nobody let me sample, I might add), two kinds of artisan bread, corn on the cob, grilled chicken, tomato salad, and grilled zucchini and potatoes. No wonder humans weigh so much. Disgusting. And why were there children in my house and yard? Good thing they were allergic to me.
This case is still pending. I'm sure the lobster killer will strike again. Maybe this time I'll catch my criminal.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
