Our “Piano Bar”

Have you ever felt like Rip Van Winkle, suddenly waking up and realizing that changes have taken place while you were sleeping or simply not focusing on a particular thing—perhaps a thing that you grew up with, something ineffably lovely—and now that “something” has vanished?

Although my husband and I are certainly not “bar flies”, we recall an era of poignantly sweet piano music emanating from the bar areas of fine restaurants—or, in the case of a Supper Club—in the dining room itself.  How elegant dining out used to be!  We lingered over the treat of a restaurant meal—eating slowly (like the French reportedly do), and relaxing over many cups of after dinner coffee while enjoying the melodies from the piano bar.

Dining out is not the experience it once was.  The cell phone sometimes provides the only “music” at a restaurant these days, but more often there is music—or rather noise—loud, thumping, blaring, and totally inconducive to gentle, cultured conversation.  It has become virtually impossible to go out to dinner and relax over coffee in most public places.  And no one seems to care—no one, that is, except for my husband and me!

Whatever happened to the piano bar?  Whatever happened to the glorious experience of dining out, with its built in ambience?  There is a charming restaurant two minutes from our home which still does provide quiet elegance, and the environment is beautiful—like an old English inn.  But at from $20 to $36 per entree, Joe and I don’t choose to go there very often.  And, the elegant fine dining place in our neighborhood does not have a piano bar! 

So waking up to the reality of a piano bar-less pop culture, Joe and I have done a fun thing.  We’ve created one at home.  In recent years I’ve focused on learning some favorite classics (easier versions of Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, etc.).  I am working George Winston’s arrangement of Pachebel’s Canon up to tempo (how I love that piece of work!), and homing in big time on Scott Joplin’s rags. 

But recently, in a mode of nostalgia, I dug out my old sheet music and unearthed decades of treasures like Deep Purple, As Time Goes By, Moon River, Born Free, Lara’s Theme, and many more—a couple of which are pictured above.  Joe copied the pages individually and taped them together.  Now loads of lovely ballads are strung out on the piano.  I no longer have to go through the frustration of pausing to turn a page, or continuing to play with one hand while frantically turning pages with the other.  Paper clips keep the whole shebang from flying away and piling up on the floor between sessions.  When I finish one piece I simply remove it and lay it across the back of the couch which is close behind my piano—and procede to the next number.

We serve iced tea, Crystal Light®, or Sierra Mist® at our piano bar.  The player sometimes goes on for an hour or two—until it’s necessary to quit and fix dinner.  And then, dinner does not cost from $20 to $36! 

Margaret L. Been, ©2012

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December 7th . . . remember Pearl Harbor, but move on!

Every year at this time, since I began blogging, I’ve commemorated Pearl Harbor with a photo of the disaster.  This year, I can’t bring myself to feature the photo.  Recently, whenever I think of Japan I think of the devastation of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.  Necessary from a military standpoint?  Yes!  Unthinkably tragic from a human standpoint?  YES! 

We need to remember history, mainly because we could benefit from learning.  History could provide foresight and wisdom.  But it’s been shown again and again that people do not learn from history.  We may remember history, but we simply play it again.

As Christians, we are commanded to forgive.  Forgiveness is the very core of our faith, and the reason why we are standing here rather than decimated and plowed under by God’s wrath.  Yet there are historical characters whom I cannot forgive in my fallen humanity:  especially Hitler, for his atrocities to God’s people the Jews.  And Stalin. 

And, going way back—Oliver Cromwell.  I read a lot of documentaries on Irish history.  I’m currently experiencing a formidable challenge knowing that I have to forgive the British Empire, not only for its mindless brutality in Ireland but for centuries of power lust and domination in India and Africa.  My husband, always the wit, suggests that I gather up all my English tea and dump it in the harbor a mile from our home.

However when I think England I want to think tea and English country gardens—along with Shakespeare, Jane Austin, Keats, the Brontës, Thomas Hardy, John Galsworthy and other authors too numerous to name.  I want to think our precious English language, and English theatre which (in my opinion) is second to none. 

When I think Russia I want to remember ballet and Tchaikowsky who, tortured as he was in his personal life, left the world a legacy of hauntingly beautiful music.  When I think Germany I want to recall Bach and Beethoven—and the tradition of gemütlichkeit reflected by German Americans in the cultural history of Wisconsin.  When I think Japan I want to focus on centuries of exquisite art traditions:  painting, poetry, gardening.

Every nation on earth has its shame as well as its pride.  Individuals are born sinners.  National shame is sin multiplied.  America is not exempt from national sin.  Just ask the decendants of the Cherokee and other Native Nations who walked the Trail of Tears from the deep South to Oklahoma and points West.  Or ask the descendants of slaves.

There is only One Remedy for sin, and that was accomplished for us at Calvary.  God’s Remedy for sin came to us as a baby, born in a crude and humble manger some 2000 plus years ago.  He is coming again!  “And He shall reign forever and ever!”

Meanwhile I will remember December 7th, 1941.  Remember, but move on!

Margaret L. Been, ©2011

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That occasional “off” day . . .

I think most of us have them—days when we feel lackluster and out of sync.  Thankfully, I have never had anything remotely close to textbook or clinical depression.  But once in awhile I just feel “off”!  Today is kind of like that.  My 2nd cataract surgery is scheduled for this afternoon, so I’m experiencing a day without beverages.  Coffee, tea, ice water, juice, Sierra Mist®, etc. are off limits for me until post-op.  Never mind that I can’t eat as well.  Going without food for a day is no hardship.  But how I do love those beverages!

After morning prayer and Scripture reading, what do I do with an off day?  I have some good remedies.  Although my music emphasis and training over the years have focused on classical, I have one passion of a different sort:  RAGTIME!  A book of 18 Scott Joplin rags is a joy to me most any day.  On an off day, The Entertainer is a lifeline—sure to make me smile as I play it.  The other rags in the collection are a bit more challenging,  but I’m working on some of them.  Nothing like a little syncopation to get a person back in sync!

When I think ragtime, I recall a long ago friend named Wayne.  Wayne had huge hands, and he played the double bass in our Wauwatosa High School orchestra, where I played the violin.  He also played a great piano.  Frequently, when Wayne was in our neighborhood he would stop and perform The Twelfth Street Rag for my mom and me.  Mother was a classical pianist, but she also enjoyed a good rag—and she loved the young friends who came to call.  We would drop whatever we were doing, and listen raptly to Wayne shaking the room with The Twelfth Street Rag.

My other off day ruse is not as much fun as ragtime, and I’m about to embark on it.  I’ll clean up my household business office, file receipts and paid bills, etc.  My first paid job was that of file clerk for the Wisconsin Electric Power Company, in the Workman’s Comp Division.  I realized early in life that as humdrum as filing may be, it’s necessary. 

Once the filing is done, it will be nearly time to go for the surgery.  After that, another “new eye” and all the beverages I want!  That will be the end of my off day. 

Margaret L. Been, ©2011

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Bittersweet Reflections!

I named the above rendering “Autumn Creeps In”.  There is a subtly to September, even considering that this year the air is prematurely snappy.  We’ll will undoubtedly have some warmish, golden Indian summer days in October.  Yet autumn is creeping in at a consistent pace. 

Beauty!  Color!  Invigorating Days!  Bittersweet Reflections!  All of these characterize the season at hand.  Recently I’ve been wrapped in bittersweet reflections—recalling the riches of the short summer from which we are emerging.  June remained chilly, and I kept a handspun, hand knitted hat in the car until early July.  Then summer began in earnest.  How languid, how lovely—except for about 5 unbearably hot, sticky days when we had to turn on air conditioning which we absolutely hate to do!

Summer guests, summer afternoons on the patio, summer evenings with frog serenades ringing from the gardens beneath our windows, summer rains (not enough of them, however), summer ice cream outings, summer, summer, summer!  We grab hold of summer in our souls, stash it in our cupboard of poignant memories, and dream of it in January when it’s 10 below zero in Wisconsin (or 30 below zero up north where we lived for 8 years).  Summer!

This week I’ve been thinking seriously about autumn creeping in, and I’ve responded accordingly.  House plants have been moved from our patio to a spare table in Joe’s den.  Most of our house plants never went out for the summer, as we have doors and windows open nearly around the clock and it’s like a garden indoors.  African violets stay inside all year, relishing their eastern exposure and the shelter of our living room.  Most of my jades, Christmas cacti, orchid cacti, and aloe plants stay indoors in our southern windows.  But a few jades and cacti have been hanging out on the patio for the last 2 months, adding to the decor.  Now all have been garnered in.  Soon the Christmas cacti will be stashed away in a dark closet, resting and preparing to bloom.

Today I dismantled our sweet little patio fountain, as those inevitable early frosts are advancing from the north.  Any night now, icy fingers could move in—snipping here, blanching there, and freezing the water in fountains.  Our fountain (with a hidden electric pump) consists of 3 levels of pretend rocks (actually fiberglass, but very realistic and rocklike) over which the water tumbles—plus a small girl and a family of ducks.  Carefully I dismantled the 3 sections, wiped the pieces dry, and transported them to our garage on the seat of my 4 wheel walker.

Now the little girl and her ducks have been re-assembled (but not in the operating mode) in a far corner of the garage, where I keep treasures:  seasonal wreaths, decorative odds and ends, junk from rummage sales, etc.  It’s fun to wander and browse among stuff in our garage.  And even during winter’s bleakest period there are sunny days when Joe and I can bundle and sit inside our garage on comfy chairs, while pretending we’re staring into a New Mexico sky.

We have a large fountain in our community pond.  Soon it will be shut off for the season.  I’ll mourn the loss of moving water, while knowing the fountain will resume it’s refreshing showers next April.  I’m thankful for the small indoor fountain which graces our living room table of African violets.  The sound of water tumbling from this diminutive ceramic “friend” will cheer many winter days.

Along with bittersweet reflections, comes the anticipation of additional hours for indoor pleasures—including extra time to knit, and spin gorgeous wool on my spinning wheels.  During the colder months, I keep a spinning wheel in front of our surrogate (electric) fireplace.  What a cozy place to sit and spin. 

Stacked in my corner studio are many paintings and collages in progress.  And for every piece waiting to be completed, more paintings and collages are lined up in my head—just waiting to be born on paper or gallery wrapped canvas.  Even when the autumn color fades, indoor color will prevail!

A new piano book of easy-version Scott Joplin rag tunes has arrived in the mail, and I’m getting a handle on “The Entertainer”.  “Maple Leaf Rag” is a bit more challenging with 4 flats, but (God willing) I’ll learn to play that as well in the coming weeks.  There are 18 rags in the book—enjoyment forever.  I have music for each day and every mood.  I love Mozart Beethoven, and Chopin.  And I also love ragtime, especially Joplin’s works!

Soapmaking is ongoing in my kitchen, as I supply many family members and friends with my beautiful facial (and body) soap.  The thrill of a creating a new batch of soap never grows old.  Our home is redolent with rose, wisteria, sandalwood, patchouli, and (for occasional novelty) soaps scented with of coffee and chocolate fragrance oils. 

(When we moved to a condo 2 years ago, a friend was shocked to hear that I was still making soap.  “You make soap in a condo?” my friend asked.  I answered something to the effect that I will always want to go on living, no matter where!  Maybe this friend thought that I should just zone out and twiddle my thumbs, since I was advancing in age and now living in a condo!)

And then there are books, books, books, books, and more books!  Within a few minutes of our door are 2 libraries, in different directions.  Although we don’t fancy many of the newer books due to their inferior writing quality and mediocre content, we love the used book sales which are frequent at the libraries.  These sales never let us down.  As we come home with bags of “new to us” used books, we add to the leaning towers of books against the walls of our home.  A KINDLE® or NOOK® would never be welcome at this treasure trove of tattered covers, coffee stained pages, and people who are passionate about real books!

So you see, as autumn creeps in my bittersweet reflections give way to downright enthusiasm.  Spring and summer will return.  In the meantime, what a wealth of joy!  Each day is an adventure to be embraced and celebrated—regardless of the season!

Margaret L. Been, ©2011

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Don’t wait for the loft!

Recently I heard a woman of retirement age say that she was selling her large Victorian era home, and hoping to move into a smaller place.  Someone had told her of condos in our neighborhood—with two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a living room, kitchen, and “loft” over the garage.  The woman replied, “Oh good!  If I bought a place with a loft I could take up painting!”

Perhaps the woman was kidding.  But I shuddered at her comment—sincerely hoping that she hadn’t spent her lifetime denying herself of a dream simply because she didn’t have a loft in which to paint!  Certainly a huge Victorian era home could have supplied a spare corner where she could have pursued her dream. 

The compact four room condo in which Joe and I live is not too small for me to have a corner in which to paint and create collages.  I have appropriated one end of our bedroom by an expansive window.  If we didn’t have a large bedroom, I’d find a corner somewhere else—in the living room, kitchen, or our seldom used front hall.  The old adage, “Where there’s a will there’s a way” applies!

I made the foolish mistake of putting off painting until I turned 73.  I used the excuse of “no talent”.  Finally I realized that talent is not (and never has been) necessary in order to have fun.

Actually, I’ve always disliked excuses made for anything.  As a mother of six children and partner in our family construction company, I had many decades that some would have deemed “busy”.  But I hated the word “busy”.  The “busier” I was, the more creative activities I pursued—my music, writing, knitting, spinning, weaving, gardening, soap making, raising critters, etc. 

Frequently young mothers (or women with outside careers) say they would like to knit, take piano lessons, learn to quilt, or whatever—but they are “too busy”.  I can hardly resist getting on my soapbox when I hear the dreaded “too busy” words.  “Too busy” is hogwash!  These young women might be too busy to leap into five or six restorative hobbies, but a few minutes a week can always be spared for at least one desired activity! 

A hobby is far more than fun and games.  Creative pastimes are God’s tangible, material manifestations of His innovative life.  Perhaps they seem like just fun, or even “fluff” to begin with.  But when life really sinks in, when the storm clouds fall like lead bricks, when adversity strikes big time (and it probably will!) our hobbies help us to get up in the morning, and motivate us to keep on despite the most discouraging of circumstances. 

We need to cultivate the hobby habit before life gets terribly difficult, so we are ready for the disasters that lie ahead!

Some individuals say that people are “their hobby”.  These energetic types seem to need to be constantly talking, and all their spare time is spent with people—either in social activities or good works.  But for one’s own personal deep-level soul survival, much more than people contact is needed.  We cannot even begin to benefit others, if we’ve neglected our own soul need for solitude, silence, and creative expression.

We desperately need our intrinsically quiet private time, in prayer and Scripture, to keep our hearts and minds balanced and refreshed at all times.  Then we need that outward manifestation of God’s imprint on our lives.  We can live serenely in all circumstances when we do some little thing for ourselves—not because it needs doing, but simply because we love to do it.

We need to make music, poetry, and/or art.  We need to plant gardens, and/or nurture house plants.  We need to apply our hands to something, not necessarily useful but hopefully beautiful—or at least whimsical and entertaining.  Making music, writing poems, gardening, and crafting are living proof that we are made in the image of a creative God.  Hobbies may be simply fun at first, but ultimately they are soul sustaining in the larger scene as our life challenges increase with every passing year.

Don’t wait for the loft, before pursuing your heart’s desire.  Just a few feet in a corner of most any room will do. 

Margaret L. Been, ©2011

 

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A Rhapsody . . . .

Time of wild asters, Queen Anne’s lace, and roadsides abounding in blue and blowing chicory.  Time for the premiere of that shining Autumn star :  goldenrod.

Time to pause and reflect on the beauty of gardens gone to seed, gardens tangled with herbs and perennials imbibing the sun in gradually diminishing daylight.  Time to realize that we were primarily created as human “beings” *, not human “doings”.  Time to inhale the aroma of cucumbers steeped in brine and tomatoes ripening in our hands.  Time to savor every frosty glass of tea and melting mouthful of ice cream. 

August is a time for all of the above.  I have 12 “favorite” months, each favorite for a different reason.  August may be my Queen of Favorites.  It’s the month when I was delivered from my mother’s womb, into a mini-world which—for nearly 77 years—I have found to be personally friendly and kind. 

But even more than the fact of a birthday, August embodies so much that I passionately love:  including a leisurely quality of life, the relaxed and summer-worn earth around me, a non-conformist/creative landscape and lifestyle in my home, and those poignant Gypsy stirrings which rustle in the blood on breezy days portending Autumn.

August is a tattered cloth, frayed at the hem and gaping at the seams.  August is a sterling silver cup tarnished green and purple with age.  August is the timeless magnificence of weathered wood, chipped paint, and rusty iron.  August is a rhapsody of life well-lived, a musical masterpiece accompanied by the rustle of field corn swaying in the wind and crickets sounding the demise of a season on sweltering nights.

* Understanding that we are human beings was a lifeline to me for many decades when my life was packed with responsibilities, multi-tasking, and many pressing things to do.  Over forty years of raising 6 children (and doing the bookkeeping and office work in our family business for several years as well) I found it essential to savor brief moments of solitude, while focusing on an intrinsic quality of life. 

As busy and often exhausted as I was during those forty years, even when there were only a few solitary moments in a week, I had to realize that I was a human being!  Experiencing the sights, sounds, aromas, flavors, and textures of every season is integral to the soul discipline of “being”!

Margaret Longenecker Been, ©2010

P. S.  For more celebration of the ragged and regal month of August, you can check my latest poem on “Paintings and Poems”—on this site.

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Piano Lessons

One of the many great features of our new home is the fact that we have room for my piano in our living room.  Before we moved here, our piano was resigned to a lower level family room where it competed with television tennis, football, and basketball. 

My husband was always willing to turn down the sound on the idiot box, but I quite frankly am not a “lower level” person.  I like being on the ground floor, in rooms with views!  And so does my piano.  Since we moved here I’ve practised nearly every day!

In past decades, music was a major part of my life.  I studied violin for many years, had a few years of piano, and sang in choirs “nearly forever”.  Now my violin skills have diminished from lack of exercise and my singing voice has grown crackly, but–praise God–I can still play the piano.

Up to a point!  I’ve been practising assiduously (my mother would have loved to hear me practise the way I do now!), yet I sometimes stumble over what should be very familiar exercises and musical scores.

What happens when I stumble?  I simply SLOW DOWN!  Allegretto can become andante, and andante can even turn into adagio when I sit at the piano–regardless of whatever the composer originally intended!  At my own piano, I’m in charge! 

Piano lessons, and lessons for life!  Today I’m having an andante day.  Tomorrow may be adagio.  Allegretto may not happen for some time–if ever again.  But never mind.  It’s all sweet music to me!

Margaret L. Been–All Rights Reserved

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