Better than Starbucks and Sunshine

This morning, before driving an hour down to Oregon to visit with my parents, I stopped by a Starbucks drive-thru and ordered a tall cup of coffee with cream.  It was one of those pleasant waits when the sun warms through the open sunroof, Richard Stoltzman enchants through several speakers with  Mozart's Clarinet Concerto in A Major, K. 622, my Starbucks card has plenty of money on it, and I'd remembered my own cup (thereby getting a discount).  My sunglasses were clean and the red arrow pointed to the "F" indicating a full tank.  There was even a joyous anticipation of getting to spend time with family.

Can't get much better than that, right?

Unless...

Unless--when you drive up to the window--the barista leans out and says, "The gentleman in front of you paid for your coffee."

A W E S O M E

No, I don't know who it was.  The car was black, and that is all I can remember about it.  It was already gone by the time I pulled up and she told me.

Windshield wipers in 3/4 time

I'm not a morning lark. There have been times I've had two alarms set; one to beat with my fist until the ringing stopped, and one across the room I cannot reach. The label "night owl" has often been attached to my name, but I consider that a compliment. I mean, how often have you heard of an owl being sucked up in a jet engine?

On the down side, it doesn't take much to put me off my game, at least until I've absorbed a cup of coffee. When I pulled out of the garage the rain attacked in little pellets, pinging into the windscreen. Flipping on my wipers, I began my trip to work, but soon became flustered. The thwack, thwack, thwack of the wipers did not keep time with Mozart's Clarinet Concerto. It was very disconcerting, like the wipers were trying to force Mozart into taking speed.

I lowered the setting on the wipers, but that made it worse for two reasons. 1) I couldn't see out of the window, and more importantly, 2) now they'd swipe intermittently, sometimes on beat and sometimes off until my shoulders hunched in terrified anticipation. Desperate, I punched buttons, trying to find a tune with the same beat, but to no avail. By the time I decided Mozart simply hadn't written anything in windshield wiper time, I was half way to work and my knuckles showed white on the wheel.

I'd have to change to the radio, but what station? NPR. Certainly the tempo of the wipers would have no effect on the news. I jabbed a button and the first words I heard were, "it is snowing." Sure enough, some of the drops hitting the screen splattered like wet flakes. Another couple of blocks and I turned onto the side street near work and the rain eased. I turned off the radio and heard the unmistakable sound of "snow silence" as the rain turned into cheerful white crystals.
My shoulders relaxed, I hauled in a happy breath and all was nearly right with the world. If I'd been in front of a fireplace at a ski lodge, with a cup of coffee in my hand, it would have been perfect.

Clarinets in 1805

According to two experts, very few amateurs would have had a clarinet in 1805. They were very costly, and not many had the free time to practice. It was suggested by one that a stringed instrument would have been more likely.

Professor Arnold Myers, Chairman, Edinburgh University Collection of Historic Musical Instruments, suggested the possibility a flute would have been more likely than a clarinet. He agreed, however, that if the gentleman in my book were to play Mozart's Clarinet Concerto in A Major, Second Movement, that he would, indeed, have to play a clarinet in A, although the B-flat was the more common size even then.

Luckily, my character has the time to practice, and the money to purchase the instrument.

There were six key instruments in 1805, but the more common clarinet would have been a five key.

Notice the ivory rings? All three of the above instruments were made in London, c 1790, c 1770 and c 1805. I wonder if they had connections to the ivory trade? The wood is boxwood.

I also heard from a clarinetist by the name of Tom, who told me of Richard Stoltzman. Mr. Stoltzman has numerous CDs and, of course, I've purchased one. Mr. Stoltzman breathes life into the clarinet, and reduced me to tears when I heard him play "Innisfree." Tom also took the time to tell me what it is like to play the clarinet, capturing my heart and making me regret a decision I made in second grade. My piano teacher told my mother that she had a waiting list and that I obviously did not have my heart in learning the piano. Would it be all right for her to drop me and take on someone who actually wanted to play. When my mother approached me and asked if I wanted to continue with the lessons or not, I shrugged and said, "not really."

Years later I realized it was a stupid decision. If only we could know the importance of things at a very early age, we wouldn't have to live with regrets later. I'm grateful that Tom, and Richard Stoltzman did not make the same mistake.

If you would care to hear one of the most beautifully played clarinet pieces I've ever heard, may I suggest you listen to "Innisfree" on the Open Sky CD.

Editor's Note: Photographs of the above instruments from the Edinburgh University Collection of Historic Musical Instruments used by permission.

A Clarinet by Any Other Name

October 25th 1805 caricature by James Gillray

"Harmony before Matrimony"

So there I was, minding my own business, writing a scene in my second book, when the fiendish captain picks up a clarinet and begins to play. What? Where in the world did that come from? I know nothing about instruments in 1805. Am I not already plagued by research? Did my characters conspire to force me into spending more time at the library? What manner of madness is this?

I've started looking into it and found a guy, online, who not only plays the clarinet, but has played the very piece my character is playing. I emailed him and asked him how he felt while he played it. Did it transport him to another place, another world? Did the perfection of the music (Mozart) make him want to cry, as it does me just to listen? Well? Fess up, man, tell me about your feelings!

What will this poor gentleman's reaction be to such ridiculous questions? I want to crawl inside the artist and feel what he feels, so I can write it. Is that so wrong? Is it? Will he even answer me?

(And if I didn't know better, I'd think the two cats in the above art were my own two precious rascals, who are obviously not impressed with the music.)