The Phantom Tollbooth

"There were at least a thousand musicians ranged in a great arc before them. To the left and right were the violins and cellos, whose bows moved in great waves, and behind them in numberless profusion the piccolos, flutes, clarinets, oboes, bassoons, horns, trumpets, trombones, and tubas were all playing at once. At the very rear, so far away that they could hardly be seen, were the percussion instruments, and lastly, in a long line up one side of a steep slope, were the solemn bass fiddles.

On a high podium in front stood the conductor, a tall, gaunt man with dark deep-set eyes and a thin mouth placed carelessly between his long pointed nose and his long pointed chin. He used no baton, but conducted with large, sweeping movements which seemed to start at his toes and work slowly up through his body and along his slender arms and end finally at the tips of his graceful fingers.

'I don't hear any music,' said Milo.

'That's right,' said Alec; 'you don't listen to this concert--you watch it. Now, pay attention,'

As the conductor waved his arms, he molded the air like handfuls of soft clay, and the musicians carefully followed his every direction.

'What are they playing?' asked Tock, looking up inquisitively at Alec.

'The sunset, of course. They play it every evening, about this time.'

'They do?' said Milo quizzically.

'Naturally,' answered Alec; 'and they also play morning, noon, and night. Why there wouldn't be any color in the world unless they played it. Each instrument plays a different one,' he explained, 'and depending, of course, on what season it is and how the weather's to be, the conductor chooses his score and directs the day.

The last colors slowly faded from the western sky, and, as they did, one by one the instruments stopped, until only the bass fiddles, in their somber slow movement, were left to play the night and a single set of silver bells brightened the constellations. The conductor let his arms fall limply at his sides and stood quite still as darkness claimed the forest.

'That was a very beautiful sunset,' said Milo.

'It should be,' was the reply; 'we've been practicing since the world began.' And, reaching down, the speaker picked Milo off the ground and set him on the music stand. 'I am Chroma the Great,' he continued, gesturing broadly with his hands, 'conductor of color, maestro of piment, and director of the entire spectrum. Now I really must get some sleep.' Chroma yawned. 'Be a good fellow and watch my orchestra till morning, will you? And be sure to wake me at 5:23 for the sunrise. Good night, good night, good night.'

.........

One by one, the hours passed, and at exactly 5:22 Milo carefully opened one eye and, in a moment, the other. Everything was still purple, dark blue, and black, yet scarcely a minute remained to the long, quiet night.

'I must wake Chroma for the sunrise,' he said softly. Then he suddenly wondered what it would be like to lead the orchestra and to color the whole world himself.

And so, as everyone slept peacefully on, Milo stood on tiptoes, raised his arms slowly in front of him, and made the slightest movement possible with the index finger of his right hand. It was now 5:23 AM.

As if understanding his signal perfectly, a single piccolo played a single note and off in the east a solitary shaft of cool lemon light flicked across the sky. Milo smiled happily and then cautiously crooked his finger again. This time two more piccolos and a flute joined in and three more rays of light danced lightly into view. Then with both hands he made a great circular sweep in the air and watched with delight as all the musicians began to play at once.

The cellos made the hills glow red, and the leaves and grass were tipped with a soft pale green as the violins began their song. Only the bass fiddles rested as the entire orchestra washed the forest in color.

Milo was overjoyed because they were all playing for him, and just the way they should."

-The Phantom Tollbooth
by Norton Juster

In Mourning

Today I weep. I waited and planned for this day with such tender care. I designed the craft and gathered my tools. The mozzarella was smooth and fresh; I sliced it lovingly. I chose my first tomatoes of the summer from the farmers' market, marveling at the thinness of their skin and the sweetness of their swollen flesh. At just the right moment, I plucked fresh basil leaves from the backyard garden and breathed in their heady aroma. All was set. All was ready. Let the feast begin.

But the last piece, the one to bring it all together, the crust, was never meant to be. A misunderstanding led to a frantic plan B which led, to my dismay, to a substitute that could never withstand the weight of such a summer bouquet. How disappointing to lose such a dream just before it came to fruition. One that's been desired and anticipated for so long! A winter of waiting dashed by a simple turn of events.

So my sweet, aborted pizza, I weep for you and for the summer celebration quelched by your sudden absence. More summers and more pizzas will come, it's true, but on that one special July evening you were all I wanted. All I needed. You.

Everything's Coming Up Roses

My fear-conquering music gig hasn't really panned out. Why, you ask? Well, the guitar-playing friend has been a little, shall we say, unreliable. That is, I have suspicions that he may not be a guitar player at all. He might be a hit man. Or a spy. Or in fact, Superman. I haven't actually seen inside the guitar case. It might be a cover.

IF he makes an appearance at the time and place he said he would, he tends to disappear without a word or a trace at some point before the night is over. Last time my friend Irena saw him she pulled him aside and intimated, "We just want you to know, that we KNOW..." She reported that he looked worried.

However, while my cafe-singing dream may be temporarily postponed, I had an inspiring music moment of a different sort. A week after we held our Spring Recital for all the children, we held a Musicale evening for our adult students. Lisa and I both teach only one adult student each, so decided to host an informal gathering over wine and appetizers where they could play for each other. Both students invited their husbands and their parents came as well!

Lisa and I arrived early to decorate our sweet little studio space with flowers and candles. It was beautiful! We had just enough space to get everyone into the little room, and with the night falling outside the enormous window over the leafy trees, and the candles twinkling all around the room--on the piano, on the fireplace, windowsills, etc--, it was such a warm ambiance.

Both students played well, and then Lisa and I took our turn. Lisa played a gorgeous Nocturne by Chopin and I played and sang a little Italian art song. It was so much fun to be in such an intimate space, having community and sharing music! After listening to Lisa's rendition of the Chopin, I have a renewed appreciation for classical piano music. I've started learning a few new pieces, and I haven't seriously undertaken any new pieces since I was taking lessons in college!

I can't wait until we organize the next Musicale, and I hope to do them regularly. I'm feeling nostalgic about Gram's memories of her dad on the cello, her mom on the piano, and the neighbors coming over in the evenings to play and enjoy music together. Oh life, before we had so many mind-numbing things to grab at our attention!

I invited Mom and Dad to play too on the next one since they are both doing an independent study. We'll see if I can convince them...

An Inefficient Pleasure

When an economist looks at a cherry tree, he or she sees inefficiency. The excess of flowers will yield an excess of cherries, each with its own fertile pit, all of which can't possibly grow into cherry trees. What a waste! A poet who considers a cherry tree--particularly a Japanese poet who considers a cherry tree heavy with blossoms--will inevitably feel a surge of melancholic verse well up inside about the beauty and fleeting nature of Earth's creation. A cherry lover looking at a cherry tree will mainly think of the delicious bounty of cherries it will produce.

The best thing you can do with fresh, ripe cherries is to bite them off at the stem immediately, eat them and, if you're outdoors, spit the pits as far as you can. With any luck they'll grow into cherry trees. After all, the more cherry trees, the better.

If the cherries are over- or underripe, or if you have so many you want to do something other than stick them all into your mouth, make a cherry pie, and be grateful Mother Nature never studied economics.

--Elbrich Fennema