Romeo & Juliet - Revisited

NOTE: This blog was originally posted to Xanga.com on September 7, 2006, a little more than three years ago. I'm re-posting it here because it's about two people who I've been dearly missing of late, two people at least partially responsible for any redeeming qualities I might possess.

A love story ended today, the most powerful love story I've ever heard told or witnessed. I have no doubt in my befuddled mind or pained heart of the veracity of that statement because, in this case, I was a witness. I was one of the blessed few to share in the wonderful, magical, and ultimately tragic love story of Kay and Frank Northway.

Kay and Frank met many years before I was born, in the San Francisco Bay area they called home. Frank was an engineer, a man who helped build massive, riveted creations of steel, cable, and reinforced concrete. From drawbridges throughout California's Central Valley (where I myself grew up) to the unparalleled majesty of San Francisco's Golden Gate Bridge, Frank left his mark on an America trying to pull itself up by its bootstraps amidst the innumerable challenges of the Great Depression. And, though he was indeed a strong man and a small part of his legacy is truly encased in steel, Frank Northway was also the most caring, sensitive, and loving man I've ever known.

Kay was an artist, a free spirit who, on the surface at least, appeared as different from Frank and his steel creations as a mountain flower might differ from the powerful granite at a mountain's roots. Though challenged to carry a tune, Kay probably sang most of the days of her life. Her songs reflected the joy in her heart and the beauty in her soul, a soul that seemed to derive as much joy from serving a family breakfast as from painting the most beautiful works of art. Yes, she was the artist, he the engineer, and yet, from the moment I first met them, I couldn't imagine them apart.

For Frank was like the mountain's granite, the strong presence that allowed Kay to continuously flower. And Kay, with her ready song and her rainbow of paints, warmed the strong stone, kept it clothed in verdant greens and other beauteous shades, like an idyllic alpine garden where it was eternally spring. Together, they almost always had a smile on their lips. Together, their hands were seldom apart. Together, it was like looking at love incarnate.

And then Frank's flower was lost, brutally crushed beneath the unforgiving boot of cancer. From that day on, it was like a light had been shut off inside him, as if his very soul had been diminished. While he remained the caring and sensitive man I myself had grown to love, a man who still had a smile for his friends and family, his grandchildren and great-grandchildren, he now had to have a reason to smile. And even then, there was something behind the smile, something in his eyes, a sadness he unsuccessfully tried to hide from those who loved him.

For Frank truly did have steel running through his veins, steel that betrayed him day after day, and year after year. Though his heart felt broken, it was actually stronger than the hearts of many. As the years progressed and other family members passed on before him, first a grandchild, then a daughter, then a son, his heart remained strong. Other parts of his body failed him, his ears, his knees, and eventually his kidneys, but never his heart.

I last saw Frank little more than a month ago, while traveling in California on business, after hearing his health was failing. His medical condition had finally blessed him with a choice he'd never before been given: to live on in constant and progressively worse discomfort, or to finally rest. Frank chose rest.

The news arrived this evening. We'd been expecting it for some time, but it still hurts badly. My chest is tight, my vision blurred. And yet, I can't help feeling a small spark of joy, somewhere deep inside me, a spark that reminds me of an alpine garden clothed in verdant greens and other beauteous shades, set atop a strong, majestic mountain. And in that garden, a flower is blooming again, to the carefree warbling of songbirds.

I love you with all my heart, Frank and Kay.

Manufacturing & Art

Two pursuits I thought were completely unrelated...           Until I visited South Whitley, Indiana [I stand up slowly, surrounded by strangers, in a room  normally used for some other purpose. I clear my throat,  trying not to appear as nervous as I feel, and begin speaking.] "Hello everyone. My name's Tim, and I'm a bassoonist." "Hi, Tim!" [Everyone in the room responds in unison.] Yes, it's true... I play the bassoon. Not well, mind you,  but I do play. In amateur ensembles, for my church orchestra,  in my own basement... Wherever and whenever I can...  Because I love the instrument. And if someone asked me "Why the bassoon?", I'm not sure I'd have a rational answer. All throughout grade school, junior high, and high school, I played the tenor saxophone because that was 'the family instrument'; An old, beat up Buescher made in the 1930's and passed down from brother to brother, and finally to me (a son). Though I toyed with other instruments (e.g. flute and clarinet) in my senior year, I didn't touch a bassoon until college. And the strange beast stole my heart. The relationship has made no sense from the very beginning, for a number of reasons: Bassoon reeds cost as much as ten times what sax reeds cost (or more), and require adjustment and a soaker cup for proper play There are as many thumb keys on a bassoon as finger keys (and, if you're like me, you probably have more fingers than thumbs) Bassoon music is written in three clefs (e.g. Bass, C, and Treble), one of which is movable Still, something about the instrument has always enchanted me. Perhaps a part of the enchantment has to do with an affinity for the instrument's personality, potentially difficult and admittedly different. Or perhaps it's simply that I love the sound, and especially love the fact that it's me, partnered with my bassoon, helping to make that sound. My own mediocrity is momentarily forgotten amidst the realization that I'm somehow helping make such beautiful music. Which brings me to the true reason for this blog. A year ago, on my birthday, I received a gift, something I've longed for more than twenty-odd years since college... A new bassoon. And not just any bassoon, but a Fox. The bassoon I was given by my wife was worlds apart from the nondescript, off-brand, plastic instrument I'd played in college, and I've tried to care for it as best as I could since receiving it... Which is why my wife and I traveled to Whitley, Indiana, this past weekend. Whitely, Indiana, is home to the world headquarters of Fox Products, the premiere US manufacturer of bassoons, contra bassoons, oboes, and english horns. It was an amazing visit as, while my own bassoon was receiving its initial annual service, my wife and I were given a tour of the factory. From aged maple to gorgeously finished and fully tested instrument, we saw how Fox manufactures bassoons, via a meticulous and labor intensive process that takes approximately six months. Fox bassoons are manufactured by people who are skilled craftsmen and craftswomen, wood workers, machinists, wood finishers, and many other meticulous jobs requiring skills more typically associated with jewelry making than factory work. At Fox, the boundaries between manufacturing and art are blurred, with the occasional computer-controlled machine coexisting with legions of highly skilled people, combining to create products of unparalleled quality that are essentially handmade. But enough words. Come... Take a tour with me, and see 'the Fox magic' for yourself. The place and history The factory nestled amidst corn fields, and the 'first Foxes' in the lobby (i.e. first bassoon, first plastic bassoon, first oboe, etc) Closeup of the 'first Fox' bassoon, and a portrait of Hugo Fox, CSO bassoonist from 1922-1949 and founder of Fox Products. The Materials Aged wood (maple pictured here) and plastic, the basic materials used in the making of a Fox instrument. The Machines Definitely not the stars of the manufacturing process, as that would be the people. Pictured here are a manual and a computerized lathe. Fabricating keys, and a polisher (the pink bits are ceramic, used to polish the keys prior to sending them out for plating) The People World class craftsmanship, being practiced every day in America's heartland. Pictured are tone holes being drilled into bassoon and oboe pieces. Hand drilling post holes, and using a torch and silver solder to hand craft a key assembly Other Parts and Pieces Hard rubber liners for bassoon wing joints, and finished bassoon pieces sans posts, keys, etc. Bassoon keys arrayed on a mold board, and finished contra bassoon pieces sans posts, keys, etc. Well, that's about it for today's 'virtual tour'. I hope you enjoyed it! ;-) PS: If you'd like to hear me playing my bassoon, errors and all (pained smile), here's a recording of Pachelbel's Canon in D, played on my Fox-Renard 220.