Friday, May 06, 2005

I'm just full of news...

Dan and I experienced one of the perks of being season subscribers to the Pittsburgh Symphony: yesterday afternoon we got a backstage tour of Heinz Hall (kinda old hat to me, the reformed scenic artist, but still fun) and then an open rehearsal of Ives’ The Unanswered Question and Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony (being performed tonight and Sunday). The conductor is David Robertson, the music director designate of the St Louis Symphony. I really enjoyed watching him conduct – he’s incredibly expressive. He’s also obviously some sort of athlete (I’d guess a runner based on his build) because he never even broke a sweat and he was jumping around like a maniac, especially during the Beethoven. During the tour, he took a few minutes to sit down and talk about the music with us. Incredibly intelligent and well-spoken, he has a down-to-earth demeanor and a quick sense of humor. He really answered the questions asked, didn’t just spew out some rote reply. The music was wonderful, I appreciated the fluidity and slowness of the Ives’ more than the Beethoven – and I have to say I enjoyed the informality and sense of progress and working in the rehearsal much more than I have ever enjoyed a serious, formal performance. But then I’m weird that way, I suppose. I don’t hear the nuances of the music the way many true symphony lovers do, so listening to a working rehearsal opened up the music for me and made it much more accessible to my admittedly tin ear.

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I bought Leeway Cottage as threatened in the morning of May 3, the day it was released. And I finished it yesterday. It was good, a bit slow at times, but with really beautifully developed characters and a fascinating historical backdrop of the Danish effort to save the Danish Jews. If you don’t know what I am talking about, here’s the background, from Beth Gutcheon’s homepage:

When you mention the rescue of the Danish Jews to most people, they either look blank, or else reach into some mental corner and say “Oh yes … didn’t the King say the thing about the yellow armbands?” I first heard Victor Borge (I mean, saw him on television) tell the armband story, which goes: the Nazis told the King of Denmark all the Jews must wear yellow armbands, and the King replied, “Very well, but I too will wear a yellow armband and all my people will wear yellow armbands…” That is probably where this part of my new novel started for me. (I would say I was ten at the time.) The story isn’t true, as it turns out, but it’s a great story because it is true in spirit. When you look at Holocaust records of Jewish lives lost, you get numbers like 50,000 from this country, a million from that one … and from Denmark, I think the number is 219, of 7,000 Jews living in Denmark when the war began.

It’s an absolutely incredible story, and it’s always blown me away (and led me to question if I would have the heart and courage to do the same). I just started rereading Rescue in Denmark, Harold Flender’s book about the overall Danish effort to save its Jews, and which I read when I was a teenager (along with the requisite Diary of Anne Frank and The Hiding Place).

But I have to know: Does anyone else ever look around their house and try to figure out where they would hide if the Nazis came looking for them, or where they would hide their friends or whoever was in need? Or am I just a paranoid freak that thrives on melodrama? Here’s my rationale for being a freak: if you think, “It can’t happen here,” let me tell you, my friends, you are absolutely wrong. It can always happen, if people are not diligent and tolerant and strong.

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An article on Salon about nannies kinda pissed me off, so I didn’t really read the whole thing. But let me tell you, based on the letters it generated in today’s Salon issue, other people read the whole thing and felt incredibly strongly about it (whereas I just sighed and said, “Whine, whine, whine. Poor rich white baby, wealthy enough to afford a nanny and then pissed off that perhaps your child prefers the nanny…”) So here’s the best letter, expressing exactly what I would’ve if I’d cared enough (although, clearly I care enough to blog about it...):

It seems that if you can afford to hire a live-in nanny, you can damn well afford to stay home and raise your children yourself. They'll be in school and then grown and out of the house in the blink of an eye. No one said it would be easy, raising children. And no one is saying you have to sacrifice yourself to raise them. But you do need to be willing to sacrifice enough of your time to bond with them. So what if the messes don't get miraculously cleaned up?

Right on!
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On the other hand, sometimes Salon publishes articles so true to life that they make me laugh so hard I practically fall on the floor, and then they make me cry, like this one by the mother of three sons. For those of you who don’t really know me, it’s highly unlikely this third child will be a girl as my husband’s genetic make-up does not encourage female babies. I fully anticipate another boy come October, and honestly that is just fine with me. If only I could come up with a decent name…

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Various blips on my radar:

At lunch pre-symphony I had a very nice chicken pastine soup at Palazzo. But finding a recipe for said soup is proving to be difficult. It seemed pretty straightforward, so I may just experiment.

I was off from work yesterday due to the Feast of the Ascension. I gotta say, working for a Catholic university certainly has its perks.

I never got migraines with my first two pregnancies, and seem to have one twice a week with this one. Some people say it means this one is a girl. Never mind, it just sucks either way, because I can't take a single thing for it. And I thought the vomiting was over.

I *have* to curtail the use of those stupid smiley-face symbols. My natural sarcasm does not always translate to email/blogging, though, so I worry sometimes. But it must stop. They're insipid.

Someone thought it was a good idea to give my children this. I didn't really think about it at the time, until Jude got old enough to lay hands on it. When did "Don't hit your brother in the head!" become, "Don't hit your brother in the head unless it's with this toy that some adult gave you to use!"?

One of the goldfish went to meet his maker yesterday. Couldn't tell which one. Guess we have to go get another? All of 69 cents - could break the bank. Maybe if I spring for the more expensive goldfish, it'll live longer?

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