Piano lessons

Did you have to take Piano lessons when you were a kid? I did, but I made sure they didn't last long. I think I got to four fingers simultaneously going in opposite directions on the keyboard, and that was it. Oh, I learned to read music fairly well, but when notes on the treble cleft were on or between different lines of the staff on the bass cleft, I lost it. I guess that's why my parents got me a clarinet.

Like any beginning clarinetist, I spent months squeaking and squawking as I butchered the most basic of songs. But, I eventually got it, and managed to stick with it through most of high school. I remember our Mr. Wetlaugher, our band director, switched me over to bassoon for a few months to expand my music skills, but that took me right back to the bass cleft, and I was always two notes plus one octave lower than the rest of the band. It took me a while to understand why he kept putting his hand in his shirt. He was turning off his hearing aid. He could still keep time; he just couldn't bear to listen.

I did take up classical guitar for a bunch of years after that, but what I miss the most is piano. I wish I had fifty years of practice behind me so I could now play more than my CD player. Maybe I'll take up the iPod, instead.

The Touch Of The Master's Hand

'Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer
Thought it scarcely worth his while
To waste much time on the old violin,
But held it up with a smile.

"What am I bidden, good folks," he cried,
"Who'll start the bidding for me?
A dollar, a dollar, then, two! Only two?
Two dollars, and who'll make it three?
Three dollars, once; three dollars, twice;
Going for three . . ."

But no,
From the room, far back, a grey-haired man
Came forward and picked up the bow;
Then, wiping the dust from the old violin,
And tightening the loose strings,
He played a melody pure and sweet
As a caroling angel sings.

The music ceased, and the auctioneer,
With a voice that was quiet and low, said:
"What am I bid for the old violin?"
And he held it up with the bow.

"A thousand dollars, and who'll make it two?
"Two thousand! And who'll make it three?
"Three thousand, once; three thousand, twice;
And going and gone."said he.

The people cheered, but some of them cried,
"We do not quite understand, what changed its worth?"
Swift came the reply:
"The Touch Of The Master's Hand."

And many a man with life out of tune,
And battered and scarred with sin,
Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd,
Much like the old violin.

A 'mess of potage,' a glass of wine;
A game - and he travels on.
He is 'going' once, and 'going' twice,
He's 'going' and almost 'gone'.

But the Master comes and the foolish crowd
Never can quite understand
The worth of a soul and the change that's wrought
By the touch of the Master's Hand.
                                                       by Myra B. Welch



Is it work or is it play?

Is it work or is it play? So often what is work for one person is play for someone else, and sometimes our play becomes our work, or our vocation. For example, a child seeing a block or toy car for the first time works to understand it and make it move, yet for an older child, or an adult, it’s play.

How many people do you know whose hobby eventually became their profession? I’m not talking about the child who excelled in music and became a concertmaster by the time they were 25. No, it’s those who studied and pursued one career path while perfecting a skill or developing a product in their garages during the evening. How many artisans developed their skills at home before “going public?” The “play” of many jewelers, artists, cabinetmakers, and of course, writers and photographers eventually became their work. Just think how different our lives would be today without the entrepreneurial efforts of Steve Jobs, Steve Wozniak, and Ronald Wayne who developed the Apple computer in their garage. Don't forget Bill Gates and Microsoft, or most recently, Facebook's Mark Zuckerburg.

Photography was my “play” in the Navy, and later, I honed my skills in the darkroom of a master photographer while in college. But I spent more than twenty five years in the corporate world before I turned my "play" into my "work." It's one of the most satisfying things that I have ever done. How about you?

Laughter shared

There’s nothing like spontaneous laughter among friends to relieve tension and stress. We often get dragged down emotionally because we aren’t as successful as someone else or have as much money as someone else. We live in a performance based culture that so often focuses on staying ahead of everyone else without counting the consequences.

I spent this past weekend with more than 500 men at the Homestead Resort in Hot Springs, Va. They came from all over the U.S. and as far away as New Zealand. They came from all walks of life. There were doctors, lawyers, authors, performers, investment bankers, pastors, veterans, academy cadets. Some were millionaires and seemed to have it all while others had been millionaires and had lost it all. Many had beautiful homes and families and others had lost them, too. But one thing we all shared was our love for God.

Yes, this past weekend was the New Canaan Society’s annual retreat. It was a once-a-year opportunity for men to let go and be real. It was a time to laugh, cry, have fun and fellowship, reconnect, smoke hand-rolled onsite Christian Cuban cigars, if that’s your thing. It’s basically an opportunity to rip off those masks that we wear every day and get real. It’s a once-a-year opportunity to go to the mountaintop.

Thank you, Jim.

Spring is in the air . . .

. . . right after "snirt" and "sprunk." Let me explain..

Traditionally, one of the first signs of spring are fresh new daffodils that pop up through the fall leaves that we never raked out of the garden before the snow hit. But we aren’t there yet. First, we have to get rid of the “snirt” and second, get through “sprunk.”

There’s nothing more beautiful on a cold winter day than freshly fallen snow, but as we move into the final weeks of winter, snow piles turn into "snirt," the lava-like combination snow, salt, sand and road dirt. No matter how warm it gets in February and March, snirt never seems to go away. Yes, we may get an inch or two of fresh snow to cover it up for a few hours, but it’s still there.

"Sprunk" is more selective. It doesn’t hit everyone. It’s that annoying neighborhood skunk that awakens from its winter torpor on a warm day to empty its overloaded scent glands. Sunday night one apparently decided to emerge in the storage area under our bedroom to empty its winter buildup. Yikes, it was really bad.

We lit candles, went through a case of Lysol spray, opened all the windows, sprayed water and vinegar in the whole area, and spread Critter Ridder around the base of the house. I even ran a huge fan on high for most of the day until the skunkologist at our local hardware store told me that the odor is activated by coming into contact with moving air. I wish I had known that before I turned on the fan.

Everything seems to be working, so far. Hopefully, sprunk will be gone tomorrow and we can look forward to the end of snirt. Then, we will experience the real aroma and beauty of spring.