My Daughter, the Jazz Musician: The Sequel

Lest you thought my last entry was in jest, gentle reader, I give you . . .

Anya Stephenson . . . in the tradition of Glenn Miller, Tommy Dorsey, Slide Hampton, Tyrone Jefferson, and J. J. Johnson.

Little stinker was actually able to force enough air through that horn to produce sound. Of course, her little arms will only reach to 3rd position . . .

My Daughter, the Jazz Musician

There is a technique used by wind and brass musicians called circle breathing that enables the musician to sustain continuous airflow through her instrument, important in holding a note or playing a series without interruption or audible break in sound.

Today's evidence suggests that my daughter, age 4, has successfully mastered circle breathing. What evidence, you ask? Consider,

hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmMMMMMMMMMMMM . . .

The long, sustained, high-pitched whine---going on, oh, about 4 hours now---with variable tone and occasional stylistic breaks to interject a 'real' word or phrase like "I waaaaaaaaant youuuuuuuuu," a staccato utterance such as "meh," or a variation on the whining theme--such as "GiiiIiid!"---when yelling at her little bro.

Maybe I should hand her my old trombone and let her jam.

Food for Thought

From Christina Hoff Sommers' piece Feminism and Freedom as featured on the American Enterprise Institute for Public Policy Research Website.

"Women's liberation" has little to do with liberty. It aims not to free women to pursue their own interests and inclinations, but rather to reeducate them to attitudes often profoundly contrary to their natures. Read more . . .

This nuanced but significant distinction between feminism and 'Big-F Feminism' seems particularly interesting to me now following Palin's nomination as the Republican VP candidate and the criticism she has since received, particularly from the left. I am FURIOUS that some have questioned her character because she "returned to work only four days after giving birth to a special-needs child"(NPR) or have suggested that she is somehow less of a mother (citing her daughter's pregnancy) for taking on such demanding, high-profile positions.

I have always felt that some, not all, definitions of Feminism are oppressive to women, and the criticism that Palin faces as a mother-running-for-office supports my suspicions. Hoff Sommers' piece articulates what I have only begun to formulate for myself; while I am not certain that I agree with everything in the piece (I need to give it another read), I must say I am amenable to her position.

The Quest

Summer wanes.

I have been busying myself with all those projects that I put off unil the summer, the annual to-do list that accumulates during the course of the academic year: install a kitty door in the mudroom so the cats have access but the dog stays out of the cookie jar, er, litter box; build shelves for the den an actually use them to organize the chaos so it looks a little less like my mind exploded all over the room; hang the bulletin board that has been stowed in the basement for the last two years to the same end; sort out all the clothes that the kids no longer fit into, et al., et al.).

Then there are the little prepatory tasks: buying, organizing, and labeling all the kids' supplies and gear for preschool; writing and revising my syllabus for the upcoming semester; getting my IRB paperwork in order so I can begin my research . . . all the usual shifting toward Fall.

Then, of course, the harvest. Our garden overfloweth. It overfloweth all over my kitchen. So begins my quest. I seek

THE ULTIMATE ZUCCHINI BREAD RECIPE

I have tried so many, and I have my Aunt Tweety's recipe which always tastes wonderful, but I'm ready to take it to the next level. Zucchini bread nirvana. Squash ascension. Spicy-sweet bliss.

Or maybe I ask too much from a quick-bread.

A Tribute

When my daughter was just old enough to support herself well while sitting in a high chair, I remember sitting at the kitchen table at my husband’s grandmother’s house on Sunnybrook---the home she and her first husband created; the home in which they entertained, raised their children, and where they welcomed their first grandchild, my husband; the home where she was first widowed, then went on to expand the family twice more into a full, chaotic, united family, a palimpsest, with two more loving husbands, welcoming more grandchildren and great-grandchildren along the way. I remember sitting with her at that table, just the three of us---my husband’s grandma, my daughter, and me---when she began to tell me about her first husband, who died rather unexpectedly when my husband was almost a toddler.

As she spoke---of their youth and courtship, their circle of friends (which, I was amused to learn, included her current husband), their first date and his picking her up in taxi cab---she was a woman transformed. Beautifully fierce but frail, she spoke with the soft, excited voice of a very young woman very much in love.

I let her talk, and felt such intimacy, such kinship with this petite, porcelain woman, as if in that moment I was her trusted girlfriend to whom she was divulging the secrets of her affections. Aside from welcoming me to her family, it was likely the best gift she could have ever given me. There are few times in my life when I have felt so privileged.

She described her first husband, who he was and the things he said and did. He was a writer. He smoked, drank coffee as he worked. He composed at his typewriter. By her description, he was creative and smart and funny and . . .

“He would have liked you, dear. Very much.”

Her narrative concluded, she was Grandma again, not the peach-cheeked youth who had been rhapsodizing about her first love, but the kind, sweet, feisty yet frail woman to whom I was already devoted.

Today, on her 87th birthday, we lost her.

She has left us a legacy unparalleled, and in the next several days and weeks those who love her will no doubt recall their own ‘kitchen table’ moments---she was very generous with her kindness of spirit.

Though the next several days, especially, will be difficult, I can’t help but imagine a vibrant, petite, peach-cheeked girl being met by a smitten, smiling young man, holding open the door to a taxi cab.

Coming soon . . .

Read my blurb over there to the right, and you'll see why even setting up this this blog is a work in progress . . .

See you soon!



Note: These cute aprons are Jessie Steele and can be found at Satinbox.