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Beethoven, The Emerson, The Alexander, and Me

I grew up
listening to Beethoven. Actually I
probably grew up listening to Beethoven, Bach and Brahms, but it is the
Beethoven that I remember.
I remember my father placing his LP’s lovingly on the turntable, the
large speaker he had made from a kit.
I remember how he set the pressure on the stylus as lightly as possible,
so that the needle would just kiss the surface of the LP: just enough to extract the sound
without wearing out the LP. I
don’t actually know if you wear out LPs but I remember that is what I was
told. I remember learning not to
run through the house, not to allow a door to slam, that such noises would
cause the old wooden boards to shake and the needle to skip. Scratching Beethoven was a capitol
offense.

Later, when
I was finally allowed to take the piano lessons I had been craving since I was
4 or 5 (I was 16), my piano teacher wanted me to perform a piece by Beethoven
in a competition. I played it the
way I had heard it on my dad’s recordings. But my teacher told me that was wrong, that it needed to be
more gentle and melodic and I learned to play it her way. My father told me my teacher was wrong
and I was torn. I always aimed to
please, too uncertain of my own tastes and opinions, too eager to please. In the competition I played for my
teacher.   The judges said I
could have won if I understood Beethoven better, if I had played the piece my
father’s way.

The music of
Beethoven was like a part of me; but a part of me I am not sure I ever fully
understood. It was there, I recognized
it, but I did not know it.

Years later,
G and I went to a series of concerts at Lincoln Center. It was 1997 and the Emerson Quartet was
presenting the complete Beethoven Quartet Cycle, with other works, in a series
of 8 concerts. I was in heaven.
When the cycle was released on CD, G and I bought the set. For years, when we listened to a
recording Beethoven string quartets, we listened to the Emerson play them.

Just this
past week I have listened to them again, and I have made a rather shocking
discovery. I don’t like the
Emerson Quartet’s performance of the Beethoven String Quartets, at least I
don’t like the recorded performances.
I don’t like them at all, with, perhaps, the exception of No. 11 in F
minor, but that one quartet is not enough to redeem a series of recordings that
seem emotionally void, empty, and vapid, even if precisely and expertly
performed.

I am forced
to wonder what I was listening to.
Was I listening, actually listening, or I was listening through the ear
of memory, through the haze of the desire, through the fog of expectation? I really don’t know. The truth is often
listened to these CDs in the car, when we were travelling somewhere, and the
car is a less than ideal venue for music. The noise of the car, the road, conversations, the
distractions of driving — listening to music in the car can be as much about
expectation as what is actually heard.

It came to
my attention, while sorting through our CD collection for an upcoming project,
that we have two complete sets of the Beethoven String Quartets, and another
set of just the late quartets.    This came as a bit of a surprise; I expected
some overlap, just not quite so much.
Of course I had to listen to them to see if we actually needed all three
recordings.

The entire exercise makes me question if I would have liked the
Emerson’s rendition more if it had been the first recording I listened to. But it wasn’t.

First I
listened to a recording of the late quartets by the Alexander quartet. I purchased it after a concert in which
I had been completely blown away by the music. They performed Beethoven and Shostakovich and I bought
recordings of each. I recall that
G asked me at the time why I needed more Beethoven when we had the Emerson at home,
and I had said that I didn’t recall the Emerson sounding like “that” meaning
the concert we had just heard. But
after I got home, and listened to the recording a few times, it was just filed
away and forgotten.

My loss.

I was
immediately struck by the emotion and power the Alexander Quartet brought to the
music. The music was gripping: sometimes shockingly aggressive,
sometimes meltingly tender and filled with humanity. I sat on the edge of my chair, gripping the armrests,
remembering how I felt exactly this same way at the performance two years
before. Admittedly there were
times when the players seemed to skim past a few notes and this was even more
evident when I compared the playing to that of the Emerson. But I seem to be a person who reacts to
music on an emotional, almost visceral, level, and to me, the emotional depth of
the performance seemed to far surpass the minor imperfections.

Listening to
the same piece as recorded by the Emerson was a disappointment. Yes, the notes were recognizably the
same. But the music seemed cold
and almost superficial; they were playing Beethoven but it was only a shadow of
Beethoven. The overwhelming
spirituality of the 15^th quartet was particularly lacking. My mind wandered; in fact there were
times when the performance seemed almost boring. The music was a background melody to the landscape of the
mind. There was nothing
compelling, nothing to make me take notice.

At this
point I turned to the third set of Beethoven String Quartets in our
possession.   This set was by
the Takacs Quartet and I was eager to see how they compared in this case. In terms of the late quartets at least,
they came in second best. Technically I think the playing was tighter and even
richer than the Emerson, and there was emotion and depth to the performance, but my heart had already been won over by the pure power of the Alexander Quartet.

I didn’t
stop there however. I went on to
compare the Emerson and Takacs in selections from the early and middle
quartets. Here the Takacs really
surpassed the Emerson in terms of power, emotion, and precision. Both groups seem better suited to the
earlier quartets than to the late quartets. Even so, the recording by the Takacs Quartet displayed a
strong balance of precision, emotion and grace, at times seeming almost edgy in
its strength. The Emerson
occasionally seemed scattered and disconnected; in fact I think their
performances were superior on the late quartets, at least as compared to their
own performances of the early quartets.

I am no
longer particularly interested in the Emerson Quartet's Beethoven recordings,
but I will keep them because G adores them and I am not going to force my point
of view on him. Instead of
eliminating a set of CDs it seems I will have to add more, because now I want
to hear the Alexander Quartet’s version of the early and middle quartets. If I had not heard the Alexander Quartet, the Takacs Quartet's recording of the Beethoven String Quartets would be my favorite, and they are incredibly beautiful, capturing the range of emotions found in the music, and yet they are not enough….for me.

But I have heard the Alexander and now I want to find their recordings of the early and middle quartets. I can understand that they may not be to everyone's taste, but then they are to mine. But then, I like Mahler too, so obviously outrageous eruptions of emotion are right up my alley.

July 24, 2009
Progressing Slowly

I've still not been getting as much done, creatively speaking, as I'd like, but in the past couple of days I have managed to get an hour, maybe two of knitting in before Moisés jumps in and decides to do battle with whatever is in my lap.

I am also continuing to work my way through the mountain of UFOs. I got Mine out of its bag and on the blocking board, where you can see its really nice shape — really it is more flattering on that it appears it would be here.

The weather has been damp enough, and cool enough that the air conditioning doesn't come on to suck that moisture out of the air, so that it took it a few days to fully dry before I could start sewing it together.

I am working on the neckline now, and I should finish and get the beads sewn on this weekend.

I am also hoping to get the Gedifra Milena sweater finished as well and on the blocking board by Sunday. I have a couple of sweaters drying on the blocking board now, at the moment there seems to be something of a sweater backlog, but it should work out.

My step-son is coming in for a visit and will be arriving late Friday night. I will have to go pick him up at the train station and that will probably afford me a little extra knitting time. Hopefully, even with the company, I should have two finished sweaters in the next week.

July 23, 2009
Reading about Music

I finished reading The Rest is Noise this morning and it is a really fabulous book which I thoroughly enjoyed reading. I spent a long time with it, not because it was at all difficult, but more because it was such a joy…..

Hmmm. I seem to be saying that a lot of late.

I was just a teeny tiny bit disappointed that the last quarter of the 20th century seemed to get short shrift, at least in the number of pages devoted to it, but then "classical" and "pop" seem like such archaic terms to me today, that an adequate discussion of the last 20 or 30 years would probably take an entire book in and of itself.

I was particularly struck by this quote from the epilogue:

"At the beginning of the twenty-first century, the impulse to pit classical music against pop culture no longer makes intellectual or emotional sense. Young composers have grown up with pop music ringing in their ears, and they make use of it or ignore it as the occasion demands. They are seeking the middle ground between the life of the mind and the noise of the street. Likewise, some of the liveliest reactions to twentieth century and contemporary classical music have come from the pop arena, roughly defined."

And this reminds me of a talk by Leon Botstein, given several years ago at the opening concert of one of the Bard Music Festivals, I don't remember which one, but it was a 20th century composer, possibly Schoenberg. Basically Botstein said that this music (whatever it was) was easy for members of his generation (or my generation and younger) and what is truly difficult for those of us who grew up listening to the 20th century, particularly the latter half of the 20th century, is the music of Haydn and Mozart.

This overlapping of influences and sounds is so much a part of life, and perhaps I am truly just not enough of an intellectual, that it seems difficult to completely separate out the threads of Schoenberg and Stravinsky from Reich, Adams, Talking Heads, Takemitsu, Björk, Coltrane, and Lou Reed. I am not speaking literally here, just jumbling together the thoughts that come out of my mind. I hope you understand.

But the music of Mozart or Beethoven,of Haydn or Brahms, much as I adore it, now that is something different. Oh they provide a sort of background. We have all heard the melodies. But to listen, to sit back and actually listen to what they produce – that requires a completely different kind of mental attention, one that perhaps our forebears were more readily trained. Is it that our ears are different? Or have we formed different mental synapses?

Now I need to go listen to some music.

July 21, 2009
The beginnings of Fall

That lovely stack of fabrics is still sitting on my cutting table waiting to be made, well except for the four fabrics that still need to be pressed. I have been occupied with other things, like visiting with an old friend, and wiling away the hours in idle pursuits with my sweetie.

The August Vogue and Bazaar magazines came on Friday, and of course, Vogue patterns went on sale as well, so I have also been occupying myself dreaming of fall. I know perfectly well that I haven't even started my summer sewing: not the things I have thought about sewing this summer, plus the many collections of things that I have posted here and planned for previous summers. Those things are all in my dreams, and plans.

But this weekend I have been thinking about fall. It has struck me that just as I am settling into this retired life, and beginning to really come to terms with my more casual wardrobe needs, the patterns I am lusting after are anything but casual. But sew (and wear) what you love has always been my motto.

I haven't really thought about inspirations from the magazines yet, I am still just perusing them and thinking about possibilities. This photo however really captured my attention, not because I particularly want to copy the coat (I don't) but because the shape and lines of the blanket portion of the coat caught my eye. It reminded me of a piece of plaid mohair I have had in my stash for years. I still adore the fabric, but my original plans seem so dated to me now, and I have not quite been able to figure out what to do with the fabric. This photo reminded me to look at different shapes and cuts, and try to think about the fabric in a different way. It may just be the kind of inspiration I need.

Somehow while thoughts of plaids were running around in the back of my head, my eyes fell on another piece of fabric which was sitting on the shelf. I pulled it out last winter, wanting to make it up, but again, my original thoughts no longer seem right. And then it occurred to me that instead of a suit jacket it could be a coat.

The more I thought about it the more the idea of a coat really appealed. I can see this fabric over several pieces of fabric I have in my stash, as well as with several pieces that are in my closet.

Of course the first idea that popped into my head was that I could use it for this fabulous Donna Karan coat pattern. Of course it is not quite the same kind of fabric as the original. As I think about it further I am thinking the fabric might be a little too heavy, or the pattern might be unsuitable. I really have to think about it further, but I am thinking a coat or coat-like jacket might be the way to go. The pattern is on its way to me anyway and I am sure I will eventually make it up, even if this doesn't work. I had ordered the pattern before I thought of this particular fabric anyway. And its not like I don't have other coats in the works (oh please don't remind me).

Anyway, here are the other patterns I bought:

July 19, 2009
Look! I finished something.

The Brilla pullover is finished. It certainly took me long enough to sew it up, not the least because my work table in the sewing room, and I prefer to stand at a table while sewing up sweaters, has become a battleground in the war between two male cats to determine who is going to be sewing room cat. I don't care, I just want to declare my room a demilitarized zone.

Moisés wanted so badly to be included in the pictures. I however was less eager to have a kitten bitting and clawing my new sweater, creating snags before I even wore it out of the house. G. snapped a picture while I attempted to disconnect one growing squirming kitten from my sleeve.

Of course he did succeed in creating a small snag. Neither one of us noticed it until after the pictures were taken. Rest assured it has been corrected now.

Pattern: Boat Neck Pullover with Ruffle by Jean Hurwitz in the Filatura di Crosa Spring Summer 2009 Collection.

Yarn: Filatura di Crosa Brilla a fingering weight rayon/cotton blend.

My sleeves ended up a bit longer than the patten, and they are a little fuller as well.

The sleeve length issue is purely knitter error; there seem to be some lessons that I learn very slowly. I knew that my pre-blocking gauge was spot-on, and I also knew that post-blocking my gauge was ending up a little longer than the pattern specified. This was fine for the body of the sweater as I wanted it to be longer than the 23 maximum length specified in the pattern.

When I knitted the sleeves I didn't think about the length. Mistake.

First, my arms are short and most sweater patterns are too long. With the extra length that my sweater gained post blocking, I should have shortened the sleeve as I knitted.

On the other hand, these sleeves are wider than they appear on the model in the pattern, something I did not really expect, as I tend to think of my arms as being rather thick. Once again, if I had actually thought about the sleeve dimensions, I would have realized the sleeves were too wide. For this width of sleeve, I like the extra length, so I am happy with the result.

I really love the ruffled hem at the bottom of the sweater and the sleeves.

I would judge this sweater a success. I will have to be careful wearing it though; at least until Moisés has learned a few manners.

July 19, 2009
New food mag and a long-simmering rant

My first issue of Edible Hudson Valley arrived Friday (two issues actually since they sent me a copy of the first issue as well) and I started reading them on my way to the butcher shop while G drove. While we were there I picked up a copy of Edible New York so I had even more to look at between other marketing stops.

I was thinking how happy I am that we take the time to go to the butcher, and the better fish market when it is open, and how lucky we are to have these things: farmer's markets, a butcher specializing in grazed, grass-fed meats and free-range chickens and their eggs, creameries, and several cheese makers as well.

Every year I become more convinced that it is not just what you eat, but the quality of what you eat that is important, and that hidden costs of cheap food show up in higher health care costs among other things. Perhaps it is just that I still have The Queen of Fats which I only finished reading last week on the brain. But I remain steadfast in my conviction that I would rather spend my money on food — not just expensive food — good food; although better quality food is unfortunately often more expensive, often because it takes more time and care to produce, transport, and store. Good fresh food, and healthy fats (I am thinking of Omega-3s here) are far more unstable and perishable which is a big problem in a food industry that is geared at making cheap food that has a long shelf-life.

While I was walking back to the car from the butcher shop, I was thinking about a conversation we had with a houseguest a couple of months back. Food had actually been a frequent topic of conversations, mostly not slanted favorably toward my own preferences. There was the discussion about how we spend too much time, meaning I spend too much time, planning menus and eating actual sit-down meals. And although it is true that I have always gone to several stores, and been more interested in the WHAT of my purchases, than the convenience, it is also true that I cook even more now than I did a few years ago. Many of the individual meals are simpler, I no longer prepare wild gourmet meals that might take up an entire weekend, but I do cook three meals a day. When I was working this was not the case, although we did always have some kind of breakfast at home. And I am sure that things would have been different still if we had small children as well. Lunches were usually purchased although I did plan some kind of lunch on weekends, if we weren't out running around, and we often packed picnics when we were traveling to concerts and the like. I suppose that is something G and I shared, this belief that mealtime was something important to be shared, and the food was part of that sharing. Like all things in life, other things were sacrificed. Besides, I find that I am far more likely to eat something healthy if I plan a meal: when playing catch-as-catch-can it is all to easy to fall back on chips, cookies, peanut butter, cheese, and chocolate, not that those things are bad, and I do indulge, but they do not a meal make.

The other topic of conversation was about how grass-fed meat was just not worth the money, that they (the houseguests) had tried it and it was a total waste. I managed to keep my mouth shut and not point out that everything they had eaten in their week here was grass-fed, free-range, or in the case of fish either wild or sustainably and organically farmed. Not that I have anything against a good prime steak. I still maintain that quality is worth it. But G and I have always liked the flavor of grazed beef since we first had it in Spain and in Argentina. Besides I am increasingly convinced that if I am going to eat meat, it should be the healthiest meat I can find. I will acknowledge that it does take a little time to learn to cook the leaner, more muscular meat found on an animal that actually had to walk to find its dinner. Again, it is a matter of priorities. These are mine, and they are exercised in my house. When traveling and visiting others I adapt and accept.

Speaking of meals, today we had a fabulous salad that I hadn't made since last summer. We found fabulous fresh, never frozen shrimp, which I cooked on the grill after grilling an eggplant for Burnt Aubergine with Yellow Pepper and Red Onion from the Ottolenghi cookbook. I should have taken a photograph. It was so fabulous, the kind of fabulous where each bite is just the perfect combination of flavors, the kind of fabulous where I wonder why I eat anything else, or remind myself that I should strive for this kind of bliss in everything we eat. Well, that is a long shot and an impossible standard.

But I do highly recommend the cookbook. Many of the recipes are quite easy, such as the salad above, some are more complicated. Absolutely everything we have tried has been excellent. I even baked some of the pastry, back before I knew I shouldn't. That is what I still have to work on: gluten free baking that is fabulous, because if it isn't fabulous, it just isn't worth it. But I've got lemon meringue pie and a chocolate cake under my belt so life isn't so bad.

July 19, 2009
We: Reflections on reading past and present

I’ve had a
“bad back” since I was 11 or 12 years old, when I was diagnosed with scoliosis,
although for the most part it doesn’t bother me that much. It is just something that is there, in
the background, mostly ignored. I
remember when I was typing up the transcription in G’s office, and he would see
back patients who would complain bitterly that their life was ruined because
they could no longer roll over in bed, they had to wake themselves to change
position. I have not been able to
roll over since I was 16, when I had a Harrington rod installed in my
back. On my back I am somewhat like
a turtle that has been upended, although eventually I can right myself. I wake up, change position, and go
right back to sleep; I’ve been doing this most of my life so I suppose I was
not very sympathetic.

Occasionally
however, my back does act up a little bit. I did something early in the week, trying to wrest the top off
of the pool chlorinator I believe, and spent the first few days of the week
pretty much on my back as both standing and sitting were excruciating. Yesterday my low back was better but my
neck was stiff and I could only look down – perhaps convenient if one is
walking the streets of Paris – but other wise not particularly enjoyable or
productive. I’m not really
complaining about these days, I actually have far fewer back spells than I did
when I was younger, and the down time did give me ample time for reflection.

One of the
subjects that caught my wandering attention concerned a book I had been reading
last week, WE by Yevgeny
Zamyatin. I was actually
re-reading We, and finishing
it reminded me of my teens, when I first encountered this book, and the strong
impression this book and several others made on me at the time.

Why this
book? Well, as I was lying down
looking at the ceiling, I recalled that I had discussed this book, among
others, during a college interview, and my father, who was with me during the
interview, was shocked and appalled.
Reading the book now, in my 50’s, I was reminded of that interview and
the shock on my father’s face.

The books I
discussed in that interview at Rice University were: We, Inside the Third Reich, All Quiet on the Western Front,
and Pere Goriot.

Why these
books? They all challenged the
idea of who I was and my view of the world, even as they struck people who knew
me as books I most definitely would NOT
enjoy. I remember a friend being
surprised that I was so involved in Albert Speer’s memoir, pointing out that it
was not the kind of book he would expect me to enjoy, and for the most part it
was atypical: I read fiction and
nonfiction, but really preferred happy sunny stories, fantasy, and good-versus-evil
sagas where good always won. This
fit with my bouncy happy outer self, which is the greater part of myself, but
not the whole.

I read All Quiet on the Western Front
when I was 14. I remember
finishing it in class, I don’t remember which class, although I do remember the
classroom itself; it was one of those classes where the teacher had us do our assignments
during class time and I had worked far ahead of the rest of the class. This was one of my “bad habits” that
would plague my teachers throughout most of my time in high school, culminating
in senior year “pre-calculus” where I did all the problems in the book in the
first six weeks, correctly to my teacher’s consternation, and spent the rest of
the year quietly and subversively reading books of my own choosing.

Remarque’s
book shocked me; I had nightmares for weeks. I was plagued not by the physical
horrors of war, but the emotional horrors of war, the idea that war could
destroy all hope. This book
changed how I looked at authority and cultural identity and history. We were
still at war with Vietnam, some of my classmates had siblings in Vietnam, some
of them wanted the war to end, some of them wanted to go off to war
themselves.

I had a
quotation from this book pasted above my desk throughout high school and
college:

“I know
nothing of life but despair, death, fear, and fatuous superficiality cast over
an abyss of sorrow. I see how
peoples are set against one another, and in silence, unknowingly, foolishly,
obediently, innocently slay one another.”

It is a
common quoted passage, although I did not know it at the time. I saved it
exactly because it represented the antithesis of my own experience, my own
hope, and it struck me that the tenor of a life could change so irrevocably,
how blindly and hopefully people set out to follow what they believe to be
right, and how cruel and unjust are the paths of history, of civilization, of
power. I believed that everyone should have to read this book, that the mere
act of reading it could change everything. I was still quite young.

Later, when
I was reading We, it struck
me that the emptiness of the soul and despair that I saw in Remarque, was also
present in Zamyatin. In this
wonderful utopia, freed of the cruelty and passion of human life, cruelty was
still present, but it was robed in a cloak of virtue. In D-503’s world the
individual life is as empty and without hope as Paul’s life after he survives
the killing fields, and the way in which the soul is stripped from a man is no
less shocking.

There is a
certain commonality between Speer’s memoir and Zamyatin’s fiction, in that both
Speer at D-503 initially extol the praises of their respective worlds. Speer is practically besotted with
Hitler, worshipping him as a hero, and only gradually becomes disillusioned. Both write memoirs, which serve to
explain and attempt to justify their experiences. Speer’s is autobiographical, written after the fact, and
undoubtedly paints a picture tainted by the infallibilities of memory as well
as a human need for self justification and redemption. D-503’s “journal” is of
course, a work of fiction, but even so D-503 writes it proclaiming his honesty while
also self-editing for how things might be perceived by others – this is after
all, a journal he intends to be read.
D-503 begins by singing the praises of his perfect society. He cannot
imagine the more “primitive” world that came before, but he too changes,
develops a soul, begins to doubt.

Both Speer
and D-503 appear to be very naïve, and they probably are naïve in some sense:
at any time humans have a great capacity toward self-deception and blindness. And yet both come out with some degree
of redemption in the eyes of their respective societies.   Speer, one of the few Nazis who
expressed guilt or remorse, is given a prison sentence and escapes death, and
has a chance to redeem himself further by writing a book. D-503 returns to his society of order
and the mind and turns in his co-conspirators, dispassionately, and a bit
sanctimoniously, watching as is former “love” is tortured. Both know how to adapt to the world and
come out on the winning side.

But how do
these books relate to poor old Pere
Goriot?

At that
fateful college interview, having mentioned that I was an avid reader, I was
asked which books made the greatest impact on me and why. These were the books that came to
mind. Pere Goriot was only the most recent of them. My father was most appalled by my choice
of Pere Goriot (he had not
read We) because he saw it as
a book about a parent who does everything for his children and is subsequently
abandoned by them.

That was not
completely the point that I was making, although it did play a role.   Pere Goriot was also not the man
he believed himself to be, and he created for his daughters the lives he wished
he had, not necessarily what would make them happy. Having achieved his goal,
he was surprised to learn that this did not necessarily endear him to these
same daughters, for whom he had sacrificed everything. He was a classic of example of “getting
what one wishes for, but not liking what one gets”. No one in this novel comes out smelling like rose. Neither does Speer, or D-503.

In Pere Goriot I saw the tragedy of
every family, of parents dreams for their children, of the children who were
perhaps too successful of embodiments of their parent’s aspirations. In Speer I saw the dangers and tragedy
of greed and ambition. In D-503,
and in Paul, I saw the tragedy of every man, trapped in our own small bubbles
of the world, far to often oblivious to the greater forces that have the power
to shape and destroy our lives.

I am sure my
reflections today are formed by the decades of thought and experience that has
intervened since that interview. I
do not remember exactly what I thought at 17, but I know I was attempting to
put a form to these nascent thoughts.

I do
remember watching my father’s face turning red and then purple as I spoke about
Pere Goriot, about D-503, and the other characters. Perhaps it is only now, in my 50s that I can begin to
appreciate the shock of a parent watching his fledgling child take flight in
ways previously unexpected.

July 17, 2009
Sneak Peak

Here is a little peak at what is coming up in the sewing room:

These fabrics have all been washed although I am still in the process of pressing a few of them.

Today however, I think I shall spend what sewing time I find, perusing the new Vogue Patterns magazine and the new Fashion Sewing Group newsletter.

July 9, 2009
Seize the light.

Do you recall that I mentioned that the tall white lilies were lying down in the grass? They stayed down there for days, as if they were just done. But then after one full day of sunshine they stood right up, and they have been predominantly upright ever since. Well, maybe they got up to 120 degrees, maybe 150 in the morning, but they bend down to get the afternoon soon, when they are only at 90 to 100 degrees. I am certain that I still need to move them. But they are standing.

I am sure there is a lesson in that about seizing the bright things in life and just picking oneself up and making the most of whatever it is we have.

On another note, I got a couple of dozen roses from my darling step-son and his wife today. Flowers always make me happy. I had let the yellow roses dry out as they still had a heavenly aroma, but fresh flowers are even nicer.

July 7, 2009
Little bits of household sewing

I have to say that I have been thrilled and tickled pink at all of the nice comments. I thought no one would be hanging around after all my absences. Thank you so very much.

I have not made much progress since yesterday, managing to successfully avoid trying on tops and tees today. But I did finish up the second of those minor household sewing tasks I mentioned. I was a little reluctant to start any real sewing for me, as my Bernina had a minor meltdown on Friday, which seemed pretty major to me at the time, and I wanted to be sure it ran well before plunging into a garment. Wouldn't that be just my luck. I have a note on my Elna — "jammed" — dating from last time I sewed, so I know I have to figure that out, hopefully it is minor or there will be a trip into NYC for repair as no one locally will service it.

But the Bernina! That really came close to upsetting my plans. I was doing a little mending for G, and had really been sewing only about 20 minutes, mostly straight stitch and a little zigzag, and I did have to sew some elastic, but nothing complicated. Suddenly in the middle of my last repair the machine stopped and a message appeared on the screen:

Motor Failure

I pressed the okay button, and more messages appeared. I didin't write them down but they were something like this. I do remember that these words appeared:

Danger! Excess power failure. Motor Failure. Danger. Danger. Excess power for motor. Do not operate machine. Danger. Excess Power. Danger…..

So I pushed the okay button again and the same message reappeared. I shut down the machine and waited a few minutes, then turned it back on again, and the same message appeared. I didn't know what was going on, but I was worried. It reminded me of that old series "Lost in Space" where the robot would roll around flashing its lights and crying "Danger Will Robinson".

It was 4 PM and I called my local Bernina dealer, where they told me they were closing at 5 for a week. So I got myself together, crawled under the table and unplugged the machine from my UPS/Serge Protection System, packed it up and drove over to the dealer's.

Mr. Bernina dealer said he had never heard such a message, although Mrs. Bernina dealer said some of the original Arista 200's had had motor failures, but she thought it was only in embroidery mode. They plugged it in and the message reappeared. Mr. Bernina dealer turned it off and took the bobbin out and turned it on again. No messages. Mr. Bernina said that removing the bobbin often helps. Who knew?. They threaded it up, got a piece of fabric and it purred along like nothing had happened, so I brought it home. But still I was worried.

I made pillow cases on Sunday for these tiny pillows we got years ago and both find necessary to a good night's sleep. They travel with us as well, which is why I stopped cutting up white pillowcases to match my bedding to make small cases for these pillows. It is much too easy to lose a white pillow in a hotel bed, but not one covered in some wildly colored cotton. EAch pillow takes about 3/4 of a fat quarter of quilting cotton, giving me an excuse to accumulate pretty fabrics.

The first one is mine. This second one is G's. Once I figured out that fat quarters worked so well, I started making them different which is nice also. Both fabrics are cottons from Kaffe Fassett.

Today I worked on another 10 minute project, sewing loops on some kitchen towels so they could be hung up on a hook. For years I hung my towels on the stove handle which is a good 12 feet from the sink and lived with it. Our kitchen cabinets have those invisible pulls that are hidden under the drawer or door, so there are no handles to hang towels on near the sink, and no place to put up a towel rack either.

This year, with G helping out with the dishes, it finally occurred to me to get one of those stick-on hooks, and put it on the side of the cabinet right next to the sink. I didn't have any white ribbon or twill tape, but I had brown petersham, which matches the towels. I pre-washed the petersham a couple of times so it doesn't bleed on my towels and sewed up a set of 7. I should have done this years ago. Sometimes I think I am pretty dense.

July 6, 2009