Smile for the camera

The church is putting together a new pictorial membership directory.  They have a professional photography company come in and take the pictures.  You receive a free directory and one free picture and of course, they try to sell you a photo package while you’re there.  I wound up in the handbell choir because Jane was going through the last membership directory and cold calling likely suspects.  Since I consider that a fortuitous event, I decided I should take the time to get my picture taken for this year’s directory. 

Plus, I’m not sure you get a copy of the directory if you’re not in it and I really need one so I can do a better job of remembering people’s names.  It gets embarrassing when they have to keep reintroducing themselves.  The new minister made a plea for everyone to get their picture taken so that he could use it to help him learn everyone’s names.  He assured the congregation that he’d pray for us when he came to our picture.  Anyone who reads my blog regularly knows that my soul needs all the help it can get.

I had my picture taken on my way home from work today.  The proofs the photographer showed me were the worst looking collection of pictures I’ve had taken since the same photographer took my picture for the last directory.  If I really believed I looked like that, I’d slit my wrists.  I know I’m not the most photogenic person in the world, but I’ve had plenty of amateur photos taken that are way better than the ones they took tonight.  I considered asking if I could pay them not to put the photo in the directory.  The photographer must have agreed because while he ran though the packages and the photos, he didn’t put much effort into trying to sell me any.

I told Dad if I happened to die before he did, he was definitely not to use the church directory photo in my obituary.  He looked startled, but then burst out laughing.  “If it’s as bad as you say, it would be just the right picture to use.  People would take one look at it and say, ‘Well it’s no wonder she went now.’”   I have to hand it to him, that was a pretty funny line.  Maybe it was worth the public humiliation.

   

Third time's a charm

I definitely left my mark at last week’s church service.  I used to think that Jane asked me to play outside of regular bell choir because she knew she could count on me.  I’m beginning to think it’s her personal outreach effort to get me to attend services more often.  It’s definitely not because I’m especially talented.  If I entertained even a vague, unspoken thought that my ability might be the reason, I put that to rest last Sunday.

Jane asked me the week before if I’d be available to play a really simple bell accompaniment to a piece the choir was going to perform.  It was so simple, she didn’t even ask me to practice beforehand.  All I had to do was turn up a little early to run through it one time with the choir.  Okay.  And since I was going to be there anyway, she asked if I’d toll the hour to begin the service.  No problem, I’d done that before.

Except last time I apparently tolled too quickly.  She instructed me to mentally repeat “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” between each toll.  I could do that, but I’d have to use my fingers to keep count.  I’d only have one hand free, but when I reached my thumb for the third time, that would be eleven.  

When I explained my system to Jane, she looked alarmed.  I think she pictured me holding my hand up for everyone to see.  I planned to keep it firmly at my side, hidden in the folds of my skirt.  No one would know what I was doing.

The hour is tolled when Jane finishes playing the prelude.  Last time I tolled the hour, I was in the choir loft so it was easy to see when she was finished.  This time, I was supposed to be at the front of the church.  I took the bell to the pew with me and prepared to stand and ring when Jane quit playing. 

Past experience has told me that the congregation gets antsy if the service runs past 12 noon.  Getting out late means that all the best tables are taken at the local restaurants by parishioners whose pastors aren’t as long-winded.  That being the case, I figured it was important to begin promptly.  

Jane paused, I stood, and prepared to begin tolling.  I accidentally banged the bell into the back of the pew in front of me when I got up.  I hope that no one else noticed, but I think there was a nick in the wood that maybe wasn’t there before. Oops.

I rang the first time, and Jane began playing again.  The prelude was listed in the bulletin as three pieces, but I had no idea when one ended and the other began.  I’d thought she was finished.  My watch said 11.  I stopped and waited.  The music stopped.  I rang.  The music started again.  Oh, dear.  This was getting embarrassing.

I leaned down to the choir, seated in the front pew, and said obviously I shouldn’t be tolling the hour because I didn’t know when to start.  One of the choir members told me that Jane would turn and look down when she was finished.  That would have been nice to know earlier. 

Jane finally stopped playing and turned.  I rang the bell 11 times, mentally saying “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” between each toll.  While I was tolling, the choir filed to the front for our first hymn.  Since I’d decided to stand in the side aisle to toll the hour instead of at the front of the church, I practically hit one choir member in the head as he walked past. 

I finished tolling the hour and went to take my place at the bell table.  Since I’d jumped the gun with the tolling, I waited for the choir to start before I rang the first note.  I actually didn’t start until the second note, just to be on the safe side.  We finished together and I was relieved to take my seat and hopefully vanish back into obscurity for the remainder of the hour.

During the meet and greet portion of the service, one of the men in the choir shook my hand and remarked kindly that I’d had a little trouble getting starting that morning.  I assured him that one thing playing bells had taught me was humility.   He laughed.  The choir member next to him said that I’d rung the wrong number of times.  I froze.  I was sure I’d counted correctly. 

“You’d already rung the bell twice.  You only had to ring it 9 more times,” he informed me.  “If I’d done that, everyone would have thought that not only did I not know when to begin, I also don’t know how to count,” I replied.  Thankfully, no one else commented on my mistakes and I didn’t see Jane after the service.

The next day at bell practice, Jane was introducing our newest ringer.  It was the first man from the choir.  When she got to me, he said my name in greeting.  “You know me.  I’m the one who can’t start on time,” I laughed. 

 “You can’t start on time?” Jane repeated, confused.  I told her my mistakes from the day before.  She hadn’t even noticed.  I should have kept my mouth shut.  Confession is for Catholics.

Failure is not an option

We had our first bell practice of the fall last night.  We take summers off and start back practicing Christmas music in September.  The minimum number of ringers for a bell choir is usually 8.  We have 2 bell choirs at our church.  The Monday group, which I play with, is smaller and where new ringers start out.  We’re down to 6 ringers, so Jane is getting creative with the arrangements.  Creative for her means mass confusion for us.

At times, it would be helpful if we had as many arms as one of those Hindu gods.  I’m used to playing 2 bells simultaneously in my dominant hand.  So I can play 3 bells at a time without too much of a strain.  Until you start adding sharps and flats, which means playing extra bells.  

Switching bells throughout a piece is a challenge.  I can manage it if I only have to do it with my 1-bell hand.  I haven’t quite figured out how to make it work with my 2-bell hand.  Getting the grip right when picking them back up is crucial because if you don’t hold them at the correct angles they won’t sound at the right times.

Although I’m the only one consistently playing with 2 bells in one hand, the other ladies all play multiple bells.  The last song we rehearsed found several of us with additional orphan bells, bells that only play a note or two in a few measures of a piece. This time the orphan bells were also in different clefts from our regular, primary bells.  Having to read both treble and bass clefts at the same time is hard. Usually a ringer plays bells in only one cleft, which is much easier. 

The piece is going to be fun.  It features a narrator as well as bell ringers and in some places, the bells are the voices of the characters in the story, sort of like Tinkerbelle.  The basic tune is one that will be familiar to everyone.  We usually comfort ourselves by assuring each other that the congregation won’t know what the piece is supposed to sound like, so they’ll be unaware of our mistakes.  This time they’ll definitely know if we ring a wrong note or miss a note.  It will be blindingly, horrifyingly obvious.

Last night we made many mistakes.  Which is to be expected on the first run through.  We were juggling bells like crazy and trying to figure out how to make it work.  One member of the group is particularly vocal when she’s trying to work out a difficult section.  She’s an excellent bell player, but it just wasn’t clicking for her last night.  We were all struggling. 

Jane assured her that if it was going to be too hard, we’d make some changes and figure something out.  Worst case, we’d drop that piece from our playlist.  The ringer quickly informed her that was not an option.  “We can’t tell people that we can’t play Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star!” she said indignantly. 

That would be humiliating.  Although that’s not the title of this piece, and the arrangement is more complicated than that, it is basically Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.   And it kicked our butts last night.  

We now have plenty of incentive to practice very, very hard.  Maybe if we master Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star by Christmas, we can play Chopsticks for Easter.

  

Creepy critters

I spent Saturday taking down all of the stars and stripes decorations that have been up since Memorial Day.  Pumpkins, skeletons and bats are now the order of the day.  It felt odd decorating for fall when the temperature was still hot and extremely humid.  The weatherman promised it would change for Sunday and it did.  Now we have gloriously cooler weather.  The kind of weather that makes you want to leave the windows open at night.

When I opened the windows Sunday morning, I noticed that the sills were dirty.  They were covered with lots of little black specks.  I thought it was dirt.  Upon closer examination, I realized there were spiders living in the windows and it dawned on me that those little black specks weren’t dirt, but spider poop.  Yuck!  That’s just rude.

I only realized this year that spiders poop.  I don’t why I thought they could eat all those insects and not have to eliminate, but it just never occurred to me that they pooped in my windowsills.  I always thought that was just good old dirt.  I found it beyond disgusting yesterday to scrub out those windowsills.  I used a rag, but I still ended up with my hands in spider poop.  I may be decorating for a creepy effect, but that was way too realistically creepy for my taste.

On a more pleasant note, I added a couple of lighted grapevine cats to my Halloween decorations this year.  I found them at Big Lots.  The one in the hall has an arched back and orange lights through his body and tail.  For some reason, probably cost, there are no lights on his legs.  I found that strange, but he’s still cute. 

(Mine was only $20 at Big Lots. The exact same cat is at Pier 1 for $39.99.)

The one in my study has a purple boa around its neck, glowing green eyes, and purplish/fuchsia colored lights on the body. Yes, I do realize it would be more appropriate in the room of a 12-year old.  It may not be sophisticated or tasteful, but it is fun.  And I deserved it after cleaning up spider poop.

(This is the cat in my study except mine is purple, not orange.  It looks more like a cat in person, maybe because one of the ears on this cat looks like it's been broken.) 

I'm definitely no Mother Maybelle

Jane, our music director at church, e-mailed me early last week to ask if I’d ever played the autoharp.  “It’s really easy,” she assured me.  The solo she’d planned for Sunday’s service had fallen through and she was searching for something different to perform during the offertory.  I vaguely recalled having played the autoharp sometime in my youth, probably waaaay back in elementary school.  If Jane was game, so was I.  We scheduled practice for Tuesday.

The song only had 4 chords, C,G,D and A7.  That meant I only had to memorize the position of 4 buttons.  I won’t tell you the mnemonic I used to remember the order, but it involved taking the Lord’s name in vain.  Dad just shook his head when I made the mistake of sharing it with him.

I played the hymn through three times and Jane pronounced me ready for Sunday.  I felt pretty good about things until I came home and googled how to play the autoharp.  I thought I’d pick up some helpful tips.  Instead, I discovered that I was definitely playing the autoharp for dummies version of the hymn.  No wonder it had seemed so easy.

Jane had assured me that since it was Labor Day weekend, there probably wouldn’t be many worshipers in attendance.  I wasn’t sure whether I should be reassured or insulted.  Then she e-mailed me that instead of playing in the choir loft, which is in the rear of the church and where no one would be able to see me, we were going to perform in front of the congregation.  I was going to be accompanying the choir and one choir member was just back from knee surgery and unable to climb the steep steps to the loft. 

Jane wanted to know if it would bother me to be in front.  I assured her that I was fine playing wherever she wanted me to be.  I don’t get that nervous performing in front of our congregation any more.  They’re mainly old and remarkably warm and appreciative of our efforts, regardless of mistakes.

Dad and I had breakfast at Oscar’s as usual Sunday morning.  I told Edith that I was going to be playing the autoharp at the 11 o’clock service.  “Today?” Dad asked.  “You’re playing today?”  “I told you I was playing the autoharp.  Remember I practiced Tuesday night?”  “But I didn’t realize you were playing today,” he replied.  I guess he’s so used to us practicing for months before we play bells that he couldn’t believe I was playing after only 1 practice.  Neither could I.

When we got back home, he wanted to know if this would be the only time I’d play the autoharp.  “Probably,” I replied, “but I guess it depends on how it goes.”  I didn’t ask why he wanted to know, but I figured maybe he wasn’t keen to go to church.  I had to be there at 10:30 to do a brief rehearsal with the choir.  Jane had also asked if I’d ring the bell to toll the hour and begin the service.  We did that from the choir loft, so I saw Dad walk in and sit down. 

It was communion Sunday.  Dad has never liked communion Sunday.  Even when we attended church regularly growing up, we usually skipped communion Sunday.  After I played the autoharp, without missing a note, I went and sat with Dad.  When it came time to go up and take communion, he stood back and let me go ahead. 

I took my piece of bread, dipped it in the chalice of grape juice and walked back down the aisle.  When we got back to our pew, Dad held out a good size piece of bread.  “I don’t know why they thought I wanted half the loaf,” he complained.  “Maybe they thought you looked malnourished,” I laughed. 

They had given him an awfully big piece.  Normally each parishioner is given a small piece of bread, about the size of half your finger.  Dad’s piece was more like the size of your palm.  I’m sure it was just a result of the way that piece tore off, but he was not happy.  I don’t know if he actually dipped any of it into the grape juice and ate it or if he just carried the hunk back to the pew.  I swear I think he put the uneaten hunk into the hymnal rack.  And Jane was worried that playing the autoharp in front of people would embarrass me.