A Tale of Two Dulcimers

Some folks have been asking how my new (used) Masterworks differs from my older Dusty Strings. I think they were just being polite. But, in case anyone really wants to know, here it is: A mostly non-technical description of the differences between the two dulcimers.

The first thing you notice are the visual things: The Dusty Strings is a light birch. The Masterworks is mahogany and cherry. The Masterworks is a lot prettier, with rounded edges, a thicker body, and generally more craftsmanship details.

The Masterworks has more notes, too. 5 more, to be exact. That will let me play more tunes, though I have by no means exhausted the list of tunes that could be played on my Dusty Strings. Still, it's nice to know that if I get a hankering to learn "Masters in This Hall" this Christmas, I won't have to retune my right treble D to a D#.


Of course, more notes means more tuning. The Masterworks takes me about an hour to hour and a quarter, instead of 45 minutes. Part of that is the new one hadn't been tuned in several months. As it gets used to getting tuned, it'll let me go about it faster. Also, the Masterworks has tuning pins on both sides. I've had years of handling the tuning wrench exclusively with my right hand, and the pick exclusively with my left. Becoming ambidextrous at tuning will take some getting used to.

The big difference is in how they sound: The Masterworks is a lot more resonant. It has a richer, warmer, fuller sound. And the sustain goes on forever. Compared to the Masterworks, the Dusty Strings sounds a bit plinky.

Of course, when you're not comparing them, the Dusty Strings is still a fine instrument. I'm definitely looking forward to taking it to work to replace the Dusty Strings 12/11 that I have there.

And, what'll become of the Dusty Strings 12/11 at work? Alas, going into that would make this a tale of three dulcimers. All I can say for sure is that Banjo Bob has first right of refusal on it.

A Yes Answer to a Non-Prayer

I've often heard preachers say that God always answers your prayers, but sometimes the answer is "no."

The Bible says, "Ye have not because ye ask not." And, it says, "Ye ask, and receive not, because ye ask amiss, that ye may consume it upon your lusts."

The message is pretty clear:

• You won't get anything if you don't pray.


• The answer to greedy, lustful prayers is "no."


• The answer to other prayers is also sometimes "no."

Well, asking God for a new dulcimer would definitely have been greedy. With a Dusty Strings 12/11 at work and a Dusty Strings 16/15 at home, I already had more dulcimers than somebody of my skill level deserves.

Nevertheless, I wanted a new dulcimer. I wanted that rich, full sound you hear on Scott Williams' CDs. I wanted that sustain that goes on forever and those low notes that get into your bones. And, I wanted the 5 extra notes you get on a chromatic dulcimer.

Sounds a bit like lust, doesn't it? Maybe with a bit of coveting my neighbor's Masterworks thrown in. Definitely not prayer material.

But, this year I am learning that God sometimes answers "yes" to the prayers that we don't pray.

In the midst of all this not praying, I received Scott's latest email to his adoring fans.

Now, Scott's emails never have "for sale" info. And, you never see people selling their full-sized Masterworks dulcimers. And, a used dulcimer worth having would never, ever be at a price worth the 4 hour round-trip to the LA/Riverside area.

Never was last Sunday.

And, now the answer to my non-prayer is in our music room, a reminder that sometimes we don't have to ask. Sometimes God just gives us the desires of our hearts.

Tortillas

Lately I've had a hankering for homemade tortillas.

When I was 11, my best friend's mom Francis made tortillas all the time. Debbie & I would take a hot tortilla off the griddle and rub a stick of margarine all over it, roll it up, and munch away as melted hydrogenated fat ran down our chins.

The tortillas were thick, irregularly dappled with brown spots, and not entirely round. And, they were wonderfully moist & chewy.

So, of course it galls me to pay upwards of $3/dozen at the grocery store for tortillas that are perfectly round, completely white, paper thin, brittle, dry, and tasteless. I look at these things and think, "$3 for 12 little pieces of flour and fat?!"

No doubt it was my hankering for real tortillas that made me decide to create soy tortillas for my knitting group today. (The theme was "foods that cause or cure hot flashes.")

So, I bought a tortilla press, googled up a tortilla recipe, and figured I'd substitute soy flour for half the unbleached white flour.

The tortilla press did not come with instructions. And, I don't think my friend's mom ever used one. But eventually I figured out how to operate it.

The first tortilla came out dry, brittle, and tasting like an unsweetened soy pancake.

Much kneeding later, the next few tortillas came out like soy-flavored naan.

I started double-pressing the tortillas, and then stretching them like pizza dough. The tortillas gradually got better.

The final ones were a lot more irregular in circumference and dappling than the tortillas of my childhood, but they were reasonably moist and were finally starting to get the right level of chewiness.

And, they tasted like.... soy.

Nevertheless, I'm kinda proud of the fact that they came out looking and feeling almost like tortillas. If I would have just stuck with plain all-purpose flour, they might have even tasted like tortillas, too.

But, next time I have a hankering for tortillas, I think I'll go to the store and uncomplainingly fork over $3 for a dozen perfectly round, perfectly white, and perfectly tasteless pieces of flour and fat.

Volume, Vol. 2

Spouse & I are still trying to find a church that won't cause our ears to bleed.

I googled churches in my city. Friends Christian Fellowship was on the list. They didn't have a Web site.

So, a little research. There are four general flavors of Friends (aka Quaker) churches. Think of a 2x2 matrix: Liberal (similar to Unitarian Universalists) vs Conservative ("Christ-centered"), and unstructured vs structured.

Unstructured... Hmmm... If you're sitting silently waiting for God to speak to you and/or prod you to speak, then you probably don't have a rock band blasting you at 120 decibels.

Unstructured conservative would probably be perfect for us. And there are lots of these. In places like Pennsylvania.

The church here in town had no Web site. Odds were, though, since CA is a ways away from Pennsylvania, this wouldn't be an unstructured conservative service. But, if they're too small to have a Web site, maybe they're too small to have a rock band. Or, at least too small to afford big amplifiers.

So, we went.

This was an Evangelical Friends church. Going back to that 2x2 matrix, that would be conservative & structured.

Well, I was wrong about them being too small for a rock band. They were small, alright. I counted about 30 adults. But, they had the rock band.

The good news is, they do have a sound level meter. And, they claim to try to keep it at or under 90.

In fact, decibels ranged from 85 to 99, and that was with the drummer missing.

This may be as good as its going to get for us.

Meanwhile, Spouse & I are certainly not alone in our concern for aural safety at church. Others, including Nephew 1.0 and our friend Grant report that their churches are too loud. And,the Neph isn't an old fogey like us. Nor is it some weird California phenomenon. The nephew's church is in Wisconsin.

Maybe I really should consider going back for an M.Div. and starting my own church. The problem is, almost any seminary is going to require attendance at chapel services. Where they'll probably have rock bands.

He must increase, but I must decrease

Is there a verse that causes you to stop in your tracks, every time you see it? John 3:30 is that verse for me.

He must increase, but I must decrease.

An amazing declaration.

And, if you look at the context, John T. Baptist isn't saying this in some Eeyeore-ian tone of voice. No, he's happy. Like the best man at a wedding is happy.

With questions of who gets to sit on the right hand of Jesus' throne and who gets to sit on the left, one gets the impression that the disciples weren't saying, "He must increase, but I must decrease."

Their attitude was more like, "A rising tide lifts all boats." Yay! Go Jesus! More fame, honor, and glory for you means more for me, since I'm on your team!

I think most modern Americans can relate a little more to the disciples point of view than they can to John B.'s.

But, there he is, in the third chapter, quietly among his own disciples, saying, "He must increase, but I must decrease."

And, just in case his disciples don't quite get it, John B. adds, "He who comes from above is above all, he who is of the earth is from the earth...."

In other words, "Guys, He's God. I'm not."

It seems people today really want to be their own god.

Well, they've always wanted that. But nowadays they're a lot more open about it.

A former coworker was into Etherian Mysticism. She'd left an article by the reigning mystic on her desk. It said something that pretty much boiled down to "You are God."

Yeah, lots of people seem to like that nowadays... being their own god.

But there he was, John T. Baptist, happy to say, "He must increase, but I must decrease."

I think I would like to have known him.

Legacies

Maybe it's different for people with children -- they have built-in legacies. But, I'm noticing a trend among some of my childless peers. With statistically more days behind than ahead, they're starting to think about what they will leave behind.

It's something Spouse 1.0 has been thinking about for years, though he hasn't used the actual word "legacy." He wants to leave something behind of lasting importance. Some written work.... some change in how people think about technical documentation.... something.

Childless friends who have done a fair amount of short-term mission work and overseas teaching did use the word "legacy" when describing how they want to leave behind lasting changes in people's relationship to God.

Other childless friends have dedicated their entire working lives to leaving behind Bibles translated into three languages, literacy, and changes in how Bible translation is done.

Notoriously passionate coworker "X" hasn't explicitly said anything about legacies, but another coworker explained: This project is her legacy.

Oh.

Wow. No wonder she gets a bit worked up about it. This isn't just a task the corporate gods are paying her to do. It's... well, her immortality.

That's what legacies are, when it comes down to it. Your chance for some part of you to live on when you're no longer alive. Immortality -- at least of an earthly sort.

In 2007, when I was interviewing for department transfer, one interviewer asked me to describe a portrait that I would leave as a legacy to my descendents. I didn't bother telling him there weren't any descendents. It was irrelevant.

This was harder than the "What do you expect to be doing in ___ years" question.

Oddly, I've never expected any part of me to live on when I'm gone. Certainly, I like my work and try to do my best. I like helping improvements happen. But, I don't believe that any change I could usher in would ever be of lasting significance.

Maybe my legacy-indifference is because I'm not yet 50. When you're 40-something, you double that, and you're still under 100. Living into one's 80's and 90's is not unusual nowadays. But, 100 still is a rare age. So, at 50, you really do have to start accepting your mortality. And, from there, seeking your earthly immortality.

Screaming

My voice coach is always trying to get me to yell, scream, get loud. He says that's the only way my system will learn to produce certain notes.

I have full faith in him. In my head, I know he's right. But, wow, do I ever hate screaming.

I hate doing it most likely because I hate receiving it. I truly hate being in the presence of screaming. And, I really, really hate it when raised voices in my world can be heard by my neighbors.

The only thing worse than making a scene in public is making a heard in public.

I was on the receiving end of screaming recently. Fairly publicly.

(No, it wasn't David.)

Once the reverberations in my skull subsided, I was able to wonder: What must it be like to be inside that person's skin? I can only try to imagine.... Her world can't a be a very pleasant place.

If it were, she wouldn't be screaming.

Reelin' in Saint Anne

At this point is sounds more like St. Anne's Dirge than St. Anne's Reel, but it feels just plain good to be learning a new tune again. And, it's going relatively well.

Banjo Bob and Fiddlin' Susan have been wanting to add this one to our Thursday lunch menu. But, distracted as I've been by household and health, I've been holding out.

Funny how, when confronted by a bunch of notes running wantonly around on a page, learning even the simplest and most beloved tune can feel like a chore. But, finally, I'm starting to approach learning new tunes as one would properly approach a coding a project.

No decent software developer is going to sit down at the computer the moment she gets the project overview and start banging out code. (Lots of indecent ones do, but that's another story.)

Both with code and with old-time fiddle tunes, it helps to think in an object-oriented way. Fiddle tunes are very object oriented. When you understand what the tune's objects are, learning it gets a lot easier.

For example, the 2nd and 3rd phrases of the B part is usually the same object as the 1st phrase. The 2nd phrase takes n-1 as its input parameter, where n = the starting note of the 1st phrase. Easy!

Years ago, my dulcimer instructor told me to look for "repetition." But, of course, she didn't use words like "object" or "module" or "input parameter." So, somehow, I've made tune-learning a lot harder than it needed to be.

Just like those silly developers who start banging out code without planning their projects.

Surviving Another Mother's Day

The google logo has changed, and it is therefore now officially Mother's Day -- at least on the east coast and in the Midwest.

My mother's dead. She's been dead for nearly 30 years.

We have nieces who are mothers. Some of these nieces weren't even born when my mom died. She died when she was four years younger than my current age.

I am now four years older than my mother.

Spouse 1.0 always takes Mother's Day harder than I do. His mom's only been dead 22 years. Plus, he didn't live his entire childhood with the expectation that she'd die. He didn't have as much of a chance to get used to the idea.

So, he'll want to stay home. Stay in bed. Avoid any and all media that would try to get him to buy pink carnations, sentimental necklaces, and/or lacy lingerie for the assorted mothers in his life.

I won't want to stay home. Hunkering down and trying to avoid the day only makes it bigger, more important, more obvious.

So, tomorrow we'll get up, shower, dress, and go about our normal Sunday business as best we can.

At Starbucks, the nice young man will smile and say, "Happy Mother's Day." I'll just smile back and say, "Happy Mother's Day to you, too." He'll look a little startled (they always do), and then he'll pour my venti decaf, take my money, and wish the next customer a Happy Mother's Day.

I can handle that.

At church the pastor will have all the mothers stand. He'll tell them how wonderful they are for being mothers. He might preach a sermon on how to be a great and godly mother.

I can even handle that.

After church, we'll go to lunch at the usual place. A perky young lady will be at the door handing out pink carnations. She'll say, "Happy Mother's Day." I'll smile, shake my head, and say, "I'm not a mother." If I'm lucky, this year's designated flower-pusher won't insist. I really won't want to destroy her cheery mom-friendly mood by growling, "I'm not a mom. I don't have a mom. And I really don't want to be forced to take a damned pink carnation to remind me of the fact that my mom's been dead for thirty years."

The insistently delivered pink carnation: That, I don't handle so well.

I used to think that Mother's Day wasn't so hard on the motherless people who have children. Then I discovered that my sister-in-law (who is a mother and has both a daughter and a daughter-in-law who are mothers) loathes the day.

Tonight, I don't look forward to tomorrow. But when tomorrow actually arrives, I'll be fine. I'll get up, have my breakfast & my coffee. Read the newspaper. Maybe even start working on St. Anne's Reel. We'll go to Starbucks, church, lunch. We'll go to the Byron Berline concert.

But, just for the next 24.5 hours, I think I'll avoid google and its pink carnation logo.

Pastor Pleads Guilty to Abuse

You've seen that headline over a thousand times. Somewhere around the 1,742nd time you see it, you just get a small pain in your gut, murmer "how awful," and go on to the next news story.

Then, on the 1,743rd time, the pedophile is someone you knew. Your age. A peer. Someone the church you grew up in hired after you'd left for college. Someone you saw when you came home for holidays.

A young man who helped your church acquire a magnificent pipe organ. A gifted musician. Someone who played the hymns at your mom's funeral.

Someone you ate dinner with at Clyde & Alice's house.

A good actor. No doubt about it. A great actor. An actor who spearheaded your church's effort to stage "A Christmas Carol" as a gift to the community. And, what a staging it was, too! He transformed your sweet but ordinary fellow paritioners into such convincing actors.

Someone your good friend had a bad feeling about. Ah, but he was such a good actor. Nobody listened to her. How could she be so suspicious of this wonderful young man?

A man who eventually left your church under something of a cloud. Someone who never should have been allowed to work with kids again.

The 1,743rd time you see the headline, you weep.

http://www.modbee.com/local/story/693302.html

Volume

The music was too loud at church today. It may have been too loud last week, too, but we showed up too late to know.

While we were looking for a church, a lot were disqualified because the sound guys just had things cranked up tooooo loud.

For instance, when we visited Church X, we took three steps into the sanctuary, did a U-turn, and politely and regretfully informed the usher we couldn't stay. We didn't think it would be good stewardship over the two perfectly fine ears God had given us.

Our neighbors attend Church Y. He's an audio engineer. He knows about decibels & stuff. Surely their church would be a safe haven for our ears. So, we visited their church. Once. Our neighbors later said they were able to use our failure to return as a concrete example when talking with their elders about the music volume.

So, after that, we jokingly referred to our walking out of deafness-inducing churches as our "ministry."

And, maybe it is. We were told today that Church X has done a few things to mitigate their sound. They've re-equalized, installed some sound barriers and sound absorbing materials. Too many people were complaining about the music being too loud.

Unfortunately, the guy telling us about Church X's sound mitigation didn't mention the cheapest, easiest, and most effective solution: Teaching the sound guy to rotate his wrist counterclockwise while gripping the volume knob.

We've offered to help the church we're attending buy a decibel meter.

Coffee, God, and Vinegar

It's Sunday, and I'm here drinking one of my few remaining cups of Komodo Dragon Decaf. Starbucks, in a strategic effort to alienate one of their most devoted customers, discontinued it months ago. As soon as I got word, I bought as much as my freezer could hold. I have 1.125 pounds left.

Coffee is proof that there's a Higher Power out there. One could rhapsodize endlessly about why coffee is evidence of God and what coffee teaches us about the Divine Nature. But, maybe sometimes God just wants to be loved, not analyzed. So, for now, I'll sip my coffee and be thankful.

Vinegar also made me happy today. While brewing the coffee, I noticed that one of my pans had gotten that weird green film that builds up from hard water interacting with broccoli. And, its glass lid had gotten cloudy. So, I got out the vinegar and a washcloth and began scrubbing away. The vinegar turned green and cloudy as the pan turned silver and shiny. Beautiful.

Then the label on the vinegar caught my eye. It said that it was good for cleaning stainless steel -- which I'd been doing. But, somehow this reminded me that my almost new stainless steel flatware was getting tarnished. So, I got out the most offending knife & rubbed a little vinegar on it. Magic.

I would have cleaned the rest, but the coffee was done brewing.

Finally Blogging

Yeah, now that everyone else is twitting (or is that tweating?), I'm finally blogging.

And, it's customary in one's first blog post to set the stage: Tell who you are, why you're blogging, and why you're calling your blog whatever it is you're calling it.

Well, the question of "who are you" can be complicated, even for the most ordinary of us. I'm Christian. Female. Married. [Mumblemumble] years old. Technical Writer (sort of). Live in a suburb of San Diego. No kids. Amateur & occaissional player of dulcimers (both mountain & hammered). And so on.

Why I'm blogging... haven't quite figured that one out yet, either. I think it has something to do with former co-worker Mary who said I should. And, this seems a good way to keep friends & family apprised of my... adventures.

And, finally, why I'm calling my blog Dulcimer Lady. That one's easy:

1) All the really good blog names were taken -- usually by people who never got around to posting anything. They never wrote anything because they felt overwhelmed & intimidated when trying to address those three obligatory questions.

2) I really do play the hammered dulcimer. Sometimes. Just not in the last month or so.

I didn't really want to define myself by the instrument I sometimes play -- especially when so many play so much better. But, dulcimers are less common than guitars. When you choose 64 strings over 6, you do get defined by your instrument.

So, here it is. First post. I'm finally blogging.

The nieces will be so proud.