TUESDAY

Mike and I loaded a light lunch, plenty of water, and the dogs and went to the farm on Tuesday (May 29). We were a bit dismayed that the work crew wasn’t there, but Big Mike the Contractor came in during the noon hour accompanied by an environmental specialist, who took samples of air from several places in the house. Big Mike said that demolition will involve two more days. After that they will sand mold from boards. He said it would be three weeks before we would be ready for the plumber. Big Mike explained that he is “deluged” with work all over the region due to flooding, and naturally, since our place is so remote, they can’t just pop in to work an hour or two. With so much travel time involved, they have to be able to dedicate a whole day. He’s having to juggle crews right now. I just hope the house is finished by Christmas. The two men didn’t stay long, though the air quality specialist said he would like to spend the afternoon enjoying the cool breeze.

As they left, Mike and I ate our lunch on the front steps. Mike had already finished mowing, so he spent an hour trimming the yard while I continued puttering.

Hallie’s trees look good. The yarrow is there but has yet to take off. The zucchini I planted last week has sprouted, with the exception of one hill. Actually, I forgot to close the wire protecting that tire bed, so I suspect something ate that hill. Anyway, I replanted it. The strawberries have bloomed and the berries are forming. The honeysuckle is doing well. I watered everything and set up “plant nannies” in the zucchini bed.

I also cleaned out the gated raised bed, tossing old yard ornaments and attempting to cultivate. The soil is compacted, but I think there’s compost in the composter, so next trip I’ll apply it and plant something easy, like more summer squash, since we won’t be able to tend things closely this summer. It will be a different kind of year, and maybe the different focus will do some good. Before we left the farm, I pulled rhubarb, and last night I made a small crisp.

Black-eyed Susans are blooming now. I wonder if I could transplant them to my problematic bank. I wish they would just move themselves over there. It might be a good year for thimbleberries since they are blooming nicely on the grade. So is the honeysuckle, which I don’t remember noticing before.

The lilacs are past now except for the one late variety that I bought years ago, not realizing that it was a late variety. I cannot now remember the name of this late-bloomer, and it doesn’t matter. It’s okay, though. Kinda nice, in fact.

Once back in town, I convinced Mike he should reward himself for a day of hard work by attending another NAIA tournament game. Tuesday and Wednesday nights were cooler, and he came home with cold feet. Even so, we’re enjoying this spell of cooler weather, as are our transplants. KW

SPOKANE MUSIC FESTIVAL, PART 2

 (As explained in the previous post, the Greater Spokane Allied Arts and Music Festival was held the second week in May when the lilacs were in full bloom. The photos here were taken last week at our farm when the lilacs were at their peak.)

 

I’ll bet I participated in the Spokane Music Festival at least six times. Lest you think I was the only child struggling with adjudicated performance, let me tell you this anecdote.

It was my second year at the festival. We arrived early at the hall and were allowed to enter the room between performances of the class ahead of mine. A darling little girl in a pretty light blue dress finished playing and remained on the bench. “Thank you, that’s fine,” said the adjudicator, an old man. The little girl didn’t budge. After an awkward moment, the adjudicator said again, “That’s fine. You can get down now.” And with that, the little girl burst into tears. She had wet her pants.

And that, of course, was a problem in more ways than one. Someone took the little girl in hand, while one of the volunteers (probably ladies from some organization like the “Spokane Service League,” if there was such a thing, all dressed in lovely suits complete with heels, 1950’s style) tiptoed back and forth to the bench with a pan of water, trying to clean the bench and floor with as much dignity as she could muster in a tight skirt. The plastic protector on the borrowed piano bench was torn, so it was changed out for another. Good idea! That bench would need nothing short of reupholstering. And of course, there was a mass exit of little girls from the performance hall to the restroom in the basement, me among them. It just goes to show how much pressure was brought to bear on us. We were nervous.

In college, I took flute lessons, and my instructor assigned a certain piece that I should prepare for jury at the end of the semester. “Oh, so I’ll memorize this,” I said. To which he responded with some vehemence: “No! Only piano students are asked to memorize, which is totally stupid in my opinion.” He went on to say that in life, you will never be asked to play from memory, but you will be asked to sight read, accompany groups, play for church, etc. He also pointed out, which I believe, that memorizing actually detracts from performance.

You probably sense that my feelings regarding juried performance for young children runs deep. I think it has value for the prodigy and for the more mature and serious student looking for a career in music, but not for young children. I did an online search to see if others feel as I do, but the most I found was advice for music adjudicators. Comments were made while the goal is encourage the student, it can work to discourage. The point was also made that not all students see the festival as fun. (That’s an understatement.)

After refusing to participate, I gave no more thought to the Greater Spokane Music and Allied Arts Festival, and I heard no more about it. For me, it had ceased to exist. However, I found their website and discovered that it does indeed continue to this day. In 2001, the name was change to Musicfest Northwest, and it’s one of the largest festivals of its kind in the United States. KW

SPOKANE MUSIC FESTIVAL, PART 1

A view of Post Falls, Idaho (5-17-18)

Last Thursday (May 17), Mike and I set off for the VW dealership in Post Falls for warranty work on the GTI.  We arrived there about 10:30, and the service department took the GTI right into the shop to check it out. They confirmed that the car is fine, and we were on our way again at 11:00. Mike was reassured, and we were both relieved that we didn’t have to leave it and make another trip to pick it up. Naturally, Mike had looked forward to geocaching, but it was a rainy day. He found several anyway. 

Mike hunts for a cache near Post Falls

From Post Falls, we drove on into Spokane. The lilacs are mostly past in our valley, but in Spokane (as at our farm), they were in full bloom last week. Spokane calls itself “the Lilac City,” and celebrates its beautiful lilacs with a festival that runs several weeks in May. Thinking of that brought back memories of my participation in the Greater Spokane Music and Allied Arts Festival, a well-organized music competition held the second week in May. The festival appealed to my dad, a piano teacher, and he enrolled a half dozen of his students each year, beginning about 1958. Let me tell you about it.

Lilacs at the farm (5-20-18)

The Festival is an adjudicated classical music event for young musicians. (That word “adjudicate” means that someone is going to judge your performance.) Divisions were classified according to age and naturally, the assigned music became more difficult as the student advanced in age and ability. Sometime in the fall, I think, the program would arrive, specifying the assigned music the student was to play. In addition, he was to play a second number of his choice, also classical.

The Festival was a big deal in the regional music world. Piano students (other instruments, too) came from miles around to play before adjudicators, who were noted musicians. (One year, Van Cliburn’s mother was an adjudicator.) Each class consisted of eight or ten participants. The competitions were held in various Spokane churches. For instance, I remember playing at least once at Temple Beth Shalom. The grand pianos were on loan from local showroom(s).

The adjudicator sat at a table up front, not far from the piano. The order of play was predetermined, so eight or ten of us would line up in order and await our turn to perform. Each participant stayed in his seat until given the signal to approach the piano. When it was my turn, I followed the same format as the others. Doing my best to make eye-contact with the adjudicator, I said, “My name is Kathy Dobson. I will play ABC by XYZ. For my second number, I’ll play DEF by QRS.” Then I would sit down at the keyboard, adjust the bench, try to calm my shaking fingers, and begin to play, hoping for the best. (I was never a consistent performer.)

After finishing the required number, each student would sit quietly, while the adjudicator wrote. (Are we having fun yet?) When he gave the solemn nod, the student played his second number, and when finished, arose from the bench, acknowledged the polite applause of teachers and parents, and returned to his place in the row.

My dad was all over this as a fine opportunity for the student. Regardless of what my mother thought, she was supportive of my dad. She always made me a beautiful dress to wear. There I was – a kid from the sticks on display – looking good and playing miserably. I felt totally out of place. The atmosphere was competitive and unfriendly. You could cut it with a knife! I had difficulty memorizing music, and as the years went by and the music got harder, the experience became worse for me. It was useless to complain. I was the piano teacher’s daughter, and I had to go.   

Homestead lilacs

The fateful year was when Daddy enrolled me in a Bach class. (I was 15.) The music looked simple, which was deceptive. The important thing in this class was the interpretation, and mine was – well, off. I can’t blame my dad. He tried, but I was uninspired. At the end of the class, the adjudicator rose to address the participants. I remember his saying, "If this is your first Bach, I hope you won't give up." The better students were asked to stay for a workshop. The rest of us were dismissed. I was mortified -- near tears. Mother said, "Let's go shopping." This was my first inkling that maybe she had some sympathy for me.

That was the last time I played at the Spokane Music Festival. “I’m not going,” I said the next year, and to my surprise, my parents accepted that. By that time, my confidence was shot, and I had developed a real mental block against memorization and performance. KW