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May 27, 2007 at 9:31 AM

Memorial weekend always comes as a shock to me. Memorial weekend officially marks the beginning of summer. At this time, the occupational transition becomes complete; once I was a music teacher, and now I am a baker for hundreds of hungry summer campers. I fell asleep Friday night with a happy sugar-plum nostalgia, filled with memories of good friends and springtime and oodles of snickerdoodles. I like baking. Anything that brings me closer to the fundamentals of existence makes sense, and eating food is about as elementary as it gets. Elevating this primary function to an aesthetic, tongue-tempting creation is incredibly satisfying, enough to keep me awake at night planning my strategy for the next day.

I awoke in a good mood today. However, something happened between the dewy ideal that rises with the day and the brutal nastiness of the reality that burns it off. Baking 325 sugar cookies, 320 rolls, 250 servings of pumpkin bars, and 250 biscuits may look about like one simple line of writing on paper. It’s ambitious and exciting in the mind. In reality, it becomes eight numbingly painful hours on my feet, lifting large bowls of dough, scooping, squeezing, scraping, wiping, slicing, pressing, rolling, and arranging. For eight hours. Meanwhile, 300 people took turns at thirty second intervals interrupting my counting and measuring with questions about silverware, pots and pans, cleaning sprays, wash rags, screwdrivers, and general accommodational needs. Combine this with an unsupervised 2-year-old pushing a piercingly squeaky mop bucket around the kitchen for an hour or so, and I was dancing all over the boundaries marked for sanity.

I took a break to grab a cup of hot tea. Someone in the dining hall was playing a Joplin rag–quite well, in fact–on the camp’s clunker piano. I noticed right away because the notes flowed harmoniously and carefree, orchestrated by competent fingers. I smiled, happy to have my ears rubbed with musical salve for a change. But to my dismay, the anonymous performer stopped abruptly once he noticed he had an audience. No amount of coercion on my behalf would make him finish the piece. As a piano teacher, I assumed my authoritative insistence would succeed. Play! I was a little frustrated and disappointed when I failed to pry any further music from the pianist. Why was he so belligerent?

Suddenly, I saw. He was just like me, all those times when people asked me to play and I was too bashful and “humble” to gratify their request. It never once occurred to me that those who beckoned may have sincerely needed to hear music that day. I’d overlooked what a blessing a happy tune can be to a burdened soul.

Thank you Scott Joplin, for writing your cheerful ragtimes, and thank you to all those who have found the time and discipline to acquire a bit of music to entertain a threadbare audience from time to time.

Just don’t forget to share it, okay?

From Karen Allendoerfer
Posted on May 27, 2007 at 12:23 PM

Thanks, Emily. That never really occurred to me before either. I always thought people were just being polite or "making conversation." Or worse, that they wanted to put me on the spot. But you're right, sometimes a person just *needs* to hear music.

From Pauline Lerner
Posted on May 27, 2007 at 8:58 PM

My next door neighbor used to be a music teacher. After he moved out, he created a community symphony orchestra, and he called me up and invited me to join. Then he told me a true story. He said that he often had trouble getting to sleep at night because one of his other neighbors played recordings of country music very loudly. He especially hated Achy Breaky Heart, which they played frequently. On those occasions, he would move to the living room sofa to sleep because he could hear me playing my violin through the living room wall, and he liked it. He said that he especially liked the way I played Bach. I never suspected, while I was playing, that I was auditioning and making someone feel good.

From Yixi Zhang
Posted on May 27, 2007 at 10:41 PM

Emily, my problem is that I dispiritedly want other people around me to enjoy the music that I’m enjoying. This tendency applies to playing CDs as well as my own playing of the violin. Recently I was checking out a home stereo system in a store and. I had my Zuckerman’s Bruch Concerto CD with me so I put it and played the 2nd movement in one of the most expensive system. As soon as the music started, a man nearby who was looking for earphones froze. After a few minutes of listening, I got good enough an idea how this particular machine sounds and wanted to change to the next one, but I couldn’t because the guy was still in a same frozen position, lowering his head pretending he was examining the earphone but you could tell he was listening. I kept the music going and he kept standing there all the way until the end of the 2nd movement was over, then he left. We didn’t say a word to each other nor even making eye contact so I wasn’t sure about what really happened, but I like to think the music grabbed him and it would be cruel for me to stop music to switch the machine in the middle of it. That thought made me smile.

From Albert Justice
Posted on May 28, 2007 at 2:55 AM

Music is, God's natural sedative. But I'm commenting because of your awesome writing!. You go Emily!.

From Donna Clegg
Posted on May 28, 2007 at 3:06 PM

I love to bake too - have never done it for quite so many people! I read your blog last night and then got up and made banana bread this morning. Something I haven't baked in years. The lower level of my house smelled scrumptious. Baking may be my gateway to living a mindful life - a new goal of mine. What kind of camp is it?

From Emily Grossman
Posted on May 29, 2007 at 6:34 AM

Thanks, Albert!

Yixi, sometimes I want people to enjoy the music that I love so much that I end up being afraid of being let down by their lack of response or disapproval, and I don't share it at all. Magical moments like the one you describe seem to be precious and few.

Donna, the best part of baking is when you go into the farthest room in the house and find the smell still lingering there, several hours later(unless you burned something, of course). I bet your banana bread was tasty. In answer to your question, I work at a Christian youth camp and conference/retreat center. We just finished Memorial Work Weekend, a retreat in which families work to get the facilities ready for summer in exchange for food and lodging and lots of frisbee golf.

From Roelof Bijkerk
Posted on May 29, 2007 at 12:24 PM

Next time put your invisibility cloak on and make sure no one can hear you come in the room.
Do you have an invisibility cloak?

From Emily Grossman
Posted on May 29, 2007 at 9:47 PM

No. But I have The Ring. Does that count?

From Roelof Bijkerk
Posted on May 30, 2007 at 4:48 AM

My precious
You have
My precious
You stole it
musician with itchy fingers
grabs my precious away from me
Smeagol will get violinist
Sneak into violin and jump out of F hole
Will get precious back

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