The Golden Telephone, and other stories.
8:02 a.m.
Yesterday morning I waited for the chimney sweeps to come. They had told me they would be here in the morning, and so I waited. The time was spent pleasantly enough chatting online with a friend, but still everytime I heard a car or truck go by I would leap up and run to the window to see if it was them pulling into the driveway. At noon I simply could wait no longer. I had promised Little Princess I would meet her at 12:30 for lunch and I was determined not to be late for her. So I bid my invisible friend au revoir, exchanged my glasses for contact lenses, slapped on some makeup, and was out the door.
Little Princess and I dined in the main dining hall since the cafeteria was closed (more on that later) and had a very nice lunch. I recall when I was about 20 and working as a legal secretary at a law firm in downtown Toronto in one of those enormously tall white buildings. The law firm occupied two full floors, the 78th and 79th, or something like that (it was getting close to 30 years ago, don�t expect me to remember details) and on the street level there was a food court where employees generally took their mid-day meals. Every-so-often my mother would meet me and we would eat together. I never told her this, and I never shall, but I resented those visits terribly. The whole time she was sitting across from me at one of those little tables with the swivel chairs, I was wishing myself back at my typewriter. It wasn�t that I despised her; I was still living at home and we had a very good relationship. I think it was because the time from 9:00 to 5:00 when I was at work was for me a different universe from when I was at home with her and my dad. I wanted to keep them separate. Also, for my mother there is no such thing as a �companionable silence�. If she is in the presence of another person, she must keep up a steady stream of conversation. It drove, and still drives, me crazy.
Having said all that, you can imagine that I do not want my own daughter to resent me in the same way that I resented my mother. The difference is that where my mother never seemed to notice or even pay attention to my body language, or my distraction, or my mono-syllabic answers, I am constantly analyzing Little Princess� reactions, searching for a clue that perhaps I should back off and leave her alone. So far I have not sensed that. We do sit together companionably silent, she will bring up topics of conversation that interest her (totally unheard of for my mom where the discourse was always on her side) and I try to look at the world from her point of view. So, what I am trying to say is that lunch was a success.
Following that I attended the special convocation in Centennial Theatre for the installation of our new principal. Two rows of graduands received their caps and gowns, including Vlad and David�s son, of whom we are all very proud. Three honorary doctorates were granted, and the keynote address was made by the CBC correspondent. It was very good. The new principal gave a speech which was a little too long, but which shows that he really is a thinker and an intellectual, unlike the former prin who was good with the money matters but not really an academic type, and the chancellor gave a wonderful address to the graduating bunch, as always, and ended with the following story:
A young man, who had just graduated from Bushop�s, went to New York for a holiday and went into one of the big churches. He saw in the back pew a golden telephone and asked the sexton what it was for. The sexton replied that it was a direct line to God. The graduate thought about this and then said, �Could I call God? I just graduated from Bushop�s University and I would like to thank him.� The sexton said, �Sure, that�ll be $10,000.00.� �Ten thousand dollars!�, cried the graduate, �I can�t afford that!� �Well,� said the sexton, �try going to New Hampshire; I understand things are cheaper there.�
So the young man got on a Grayh0und bus and rode to Hanover where he went into another church. There in the back pew was another golden telephone. He asked the sexton if this was a direct line to God and was told that it was. When he asked how much it cost, the sexton replied, �Five thousand dollars.� �Five thousand dollars!� exclaimed the Bushop�s grad, �I still can�t afford that! I just graduated from Bushop�s University and I don�t have that kind of money.� The sexton said, �Well, why don�t you go to Quebec. I understand things are a lot cheaper there.�
So once more the young man got on the bus and crossed the border into Quebec. He went into a church and, sure enough, there was the golden telephone in the back pew. He found the priest and asked if this was a direct line to God, and the priest answered in the affirmative. The recent graduate asked how much it cost, and the priest replied, �Twenty-five cents.� �That�s amazing!� said the young man. �In New York it was $10,000.00, in New Hampshire it was $5,000.00. Why is it only 25� in Quebec?� The priest replied, �It�s a local call.�
There was a reception afterwards in the cafeteria which had been closed for lunch: little sandwiches, lots of desserts, punch and hot apple cider. Hubby and I got to socialize with some of our colleagues, many of whom we only see at these kinds of events. Everyone agreed that these small convocations are so enjoyable, whereas the ones in the spring in the steaming hot gymnasium with 400 graduates are unbearable. I am reminded especially of the time we gave an honorary doctorate to a former Bushop�s grad who is now a doctor working with M�decins sans fr0nti�res and he gave a speech that was in effect a power-point presentation that went on for 45 minutes! But actually I was trying to forget that.
We came home for a hurried supper, and then we went back again for a piano recital at 8:00. It was a local performer who has made quite a following among the community and so the hall was packed. The audience loved him, leaping to their feet at the end and giving him a resounding standing ovation. Unfortunately, his playing didn�t merit such a response and Hubby and I had a post-mortem at Vlad�s afterwards where they drank Scotch and I had tea. The first part of the programme was Scarlatti and Mozart, which the young man played all at one dynamic level, mp, and it was simply boring. He is the kind of person who overprepares and doesn�t allow the moment to take over his performance.
As a musician myself, I know that it is the performance itself which is important. The hours of practice are merely prepration for that. The actual moment that the music is produced on stage should be fresh and spontaneous as though you are hearing that music for the very first time. That is why live music is so much more exciting than the best recordings. Otherwise there is no heart, no indication that the performer himself is moved by what he is doing. This young man was totally detached from the music he was playing. He played like a machine, to be blunt.
The Mozart was followed by two Liszt sonatas: loud, bombastic pieces which showed off the range of our new German Steinway quite nicely, but which also showed that this guy�s reach exceeded his grasp. The second half of the programme was more of the same: Prokofiev, Rachmaninoff and Chopin, lots of fingers, lots of noise, very few actual right notes. The music was simply too hard for him. But the audience, most of whom do not know better, loved it. Give them flash, give them crashing bass chords (the poor Steinway, it�ll never be the same again) and brilliant scales in the upper registers, and they don�t care that the composer is turning over in his grave. It�s enough to make a person want to quit the business all together and become a lawyer. (At this point your intrepid reporter sticks her finger into her mouth and pretends to upchuck.)
At the reception I could not even bring myself to greet the artist. I disappeared into my office and played Freecell on the computer until Hubby was ready to go (he was dealing with department stuff and didn�t get to congratulate the pianist either), when we met Vlad in the parking lot and she invited us up for a drink. We left her place at almost 1:00 a.m., which accounts for the heaviness of my eyes.
By the way, the chimney sweeps did make it yesterday. They arrived at 1:15 p.m. just as Hubby was about to step into the shower. It took them a half-hour to clean the flu, which was entirely choked with smoke particles. We will have to consider getting it cleaned mid-season because this is a very dangerous situation. When they left at 1:45, Hubby had ten minutes to shower and dress and be at Centennial Theatre to robe and line up for the convocation procession. He was very handsome in his light blue gown with the pink hood (pink for music). But he said it was stiflingly hot on stage. Perhaps he could have dispensed with the sports jacket. Even the principal, when he took off his plain black gown and put on the silver-edged vice chancellor robe, revealed himself in shirtsleeves with suspenders and a belt. I guess this guy likes to be prepared too.
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