How things are going at the Cove:

Instrumentally: Now I remember what it felt like to play the oboe. The sore lip. The sore muscles resulting from a neglected embouchure. The backpressure on the brain. The breathing out at the end of phrases. The reeds that are expensive, fickle, and easily broken.

I have once again pulled out the oboe for renewed examination and use. I miss playing chamber music. I miss the sound of this double-reeded squealer.

The cats are not amused. They leave the room, the looks on their faces saying, “Mom, um, that thing hurts, and it doesn’t look like you’re very comfortable. We’re just going into the back bedroom until the pain subsides.” Yes, kitties, the oboe, when played the way mommy is playing it just now, is not a pleasant instrument. It is good that mommy is a masochist. She apologizes for the transient sadism she is perpetuating on you. She’d tell you that eventually, when mommy has gotten better at playing the oboe, you will not feel angry, upset or nauseated, but mommy would be lying. You will never enjoy the dulcet tones of the oboe.

I’m all right with that.

Now all I need is a reed that will let me get some decent sound out of this thing. I need to make my own again.

Vocally: The concert is tonight. Yesterday’s dress rehearsal was not one of the better ones, but in performance superstition, that means a good show. The oboist, clarinetist and bassoonist were all pretty well “on”; the tympanist got there admirably; the harpist was chronically ahead and the bassist was chronically behind. Maestro made some reference to his medication wearing off too soon. But he did manage to keep it together, never exploding, just passionately explaining that he needs us all to give him our utter attention.

The children’s choir sounds great. The director did have to recruit a couple of adults to fill in the middle parts. The guys are doing a lovely, restrained job with their falsettos; the mom in the back row clearly has never been a part of a “real” choir before. She looks around, taps her shoe on the hollow risers, and lisps when singing. I’m so glad I can’t see her from where I am. I’m in the second row, looking over the heads of the children right at Maestro. Most of the time, the director of the children’s choir is in front of me, and that makes me feel comfortable. I love her.

My eyes will be on Maestro tonight. Nowhere else. I can’t bear the wrath that would come my way were I to look anywhere else and be caught. LMT knows what I mean.

Domestically: The apartment is coming together and I’m down to the details. I’ve realized that I need a shelf for the office; I’ll go to Granny’s Attic (local thrift store) to see what they’ve got. I’m not one of those people who wait around for them to open, so I might not get the best stuff, but I can’t bring myself to be one of those people who wait around for Granny’s to open.

The deck looks great. I have the café set out, a bench for sitting, and a bench for plants and gardening implements. The candle lanterns are hung, as are the prayer flags. Boats go by. Soon to go up are the rope lights, those clear tubes of white lights that many folks use to line their deck railings. I thought I’d follow the herd on that one, and do the same.

Half of the fridge decorations are up. The surround sound speakers (weak little "speakers that could”) have been hung, as have all the portraits. The keyboard, guitar, and oboe have homes. The sleeping loft is snug, cozy, and conspicuously WITHOUT AN ELECTRIC BLANKET. Bubba can stop worrying.