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"Where's
your wagon?" they grumbled when we got there, on the premise that
all harpists drive station wagons.
"That's
it." I said, and pointed to the VW.
"Right,"
they said. "Very funny. Where is it?"
"I'm
not joking," I said.
"You
can't get this thing in there," they said.
"I
can," I said. "The question is: Can YOU?"
And
eventually they did. They coddled it, they giggled, they stood back and
shook their heads, they giggled some more, they shifted it, they turned
it this way and that, they laughed the whole time and when they were done
they called everyone over to see what they’d accomplished.
I don't
know whether it was the thrill of putting something that beautiful into
a vehicle that ugly, or the charm of fitting the overtly unfittablle together,
but ever after that, they scrambled over each other, offering to take
the harp out to my car.
I remember
walking to the Oakland Symphony rehearsals. I was so proud to be dressed
just like everyone else: in black. It was probably the only time in my
life I felt like a "real musician." I had seen musicians as
a child, and they looked like that: Subdued, black, and inevitably carrying
something. I was carrying my strobe tuner, since I couldn't carry my harp
gracefully. The strobe tuner was about double the size of a lunch-box
and covered in black leatherette. I am quite sure that if I hadn't been
carrying the strobe tuner, I would not have felt like a musician. Yes,
I had seen real musicians as a child and they ALWAYS carried something,
generally in a black case.
And
the fact that I finally had a black outfit and a black case gave me the
courage to ask Celeste to make a band.
You see, I’d also
been playing with a group of strolling violins at a posh hotel (no, I
didn't personally stroll), but I'd been fired for asking what key we were
playing in. So I found a job for Celeste and me playing “for your
dining pleasure” at a high-class Middle Eastern restaurant across
the street from that posh hotel. In addition to a modest nightly fee,
we could eat as much as we wanted. We were college students. We wanted
to eat a lot. In fact, leftovers from the "Orient Express" would
become the sum-total of our daily diet.
And
the only problem was how we would get there. Now we had a harp AND a cello
AND a cellist. And we had to get it all from Oakland to San Francisco.
But
I have noticed in life, that once you have done one impossible thing,
the next one is not so difficult.
Celeste
and I discovered that by the use of clever angling, we could get the harp,
the cello, and both ourselves into the VW (if you don’t believe this,
I can get a testamonial from Celeste). Thus, we were able to use an impossible
vehicle to begin our career of playing "for your dining pleasure."
And
that is where my Grand Ploy began. I just wanted us to be together. And
playing music, we would be together. We would also have adventures. And
sharing adventures would be sharing a life.
Next:
Weddings, Swans and Other Disasters
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