Reaching For The Stars

For Casey

It was the summer of '76, and it was hot. Summers in Stockton, California, were always hot, so that wasn't anything unusual... Though it was an unusual summer, nonetheless.

In '76, an original copy of the Declaration of Independence rolled into town on twin ribbons of steel. An avid student of U.S. History, I still remember the awe I felt, standing but a pane of glass away from John Hancock's florid signature. I visited twice that summer, once with my seventh grade class and again with my paternal grandmother. She drove me in her old '57 Chevy, a green and white, 2-door sedan my dad had won for her in a gas station raffle decades before. It was hot and I stuck to the Chevy's vinyl seats, but I didn't care, as I had a second date with history.

As memorable as the historical aspects of 1976 were, though, my fondest memories of that summer are associated with another old car, an AM radio, a church parking lot, and a man with a most distinctive voice.

Throughout much of my childhood, I attended my parent's baptist church. It was the church they were married in, and it's the church they attend to this day. By the summer of '76, my mom had given up on trying to get me or my sister to attend anything more than Sunday School, and pretty much let us do whatever we wanted while she attended the main service. And what we wanted to do was to sit in the church parking lot, listening to Casey Kasem.

That was the summer that my sister and I discovered "America's Top 40". Every Sunday morning, Casey would count down the most popular songs in the land... One after another, with colorful commentary about each artist or band... In glorious, monophonic sound. Stuck to the vinyl seats of my parent's old '64 Ford in +100 degree heat, my sister and I sang along to the Captain and Tennille, Queen, Elton John, Barry Manilow... We sang along to music we couldn't afford to buy, but could listen to for free on the radio... We sang along oblivious to the stifling heat, to sweat or discomfort, lost in the music.

In another year, at the tender age of 13, I'd get fed up with the Baptist hypocrisy, with the differing treatment of the church's 'haves' and 'have nots', and would stop attending entirely. And, when that happened, when I stepped through those church doors for the last time in a great many years, it wouldn't be my Sunday School teachers or the others my age that I'd miss... It would be Casey.

The old Ford's long since rusted away, my sister and I haven't spoken in years, and Casey's now but a memory as well. Still, listening to 70s music via satellite radio on the way home from work tonight, I couldn't help remembering back to that hot summer of '76, with its vinyl seats and its rich tapestry of musical hits... The summer I learned to "Keep [my] feet on the ground, and keep reaching for the stars."

A note to social media users: Here is a sample tweet you can use to share this memory: 

• Are you a fellow child of the #70s? Care to share a #memory? http://bit.ly/1FSQCnN #music #memories #blog #AmericasTop40 @CaseyKasemAT40

Someplace special

A recent work-related conference placed me within an hour's flight of my hometown of Stockton, California. As the base airfare was less than $40 and opportunities to visit my parents and sister only arise once or twice a year, I jumped at the opportunity.

Some who are familiar with my hometown's many challenges might wonder why I'd bother. Not being a 'Stockton apologist', I recognize said problems and have even sung the blues about them. Problems aside though, there's a lot to like about Stockton that many (read “Forbes Magazine”, among others) either refuse to acknowledge or gloss over. After spending an extended weekend in the nation's easternmost Pacific seaport, I'd like to rectify that oversight.

Valley deliciousness

My first stop upon landing at Stockton Metropolitan Airport (SCK) was Chuck's Hamburgers, a family-run eatery dating back more than forty years. Though Chuck's menu includes a range of delectable options (e.g. milkshakes served up in the metal can, pancakes so large they're nicknamed 'manhole covers', etc.), this trip included two of my longtime favorites: A completely loaded club sandwich on sourdough and a half-order of onion rings. Yum!

The visit and related proximity to childhood memories also inspired me to make sopas (a traditionalPortuguese dish often served on or around Easter) for my parents and sister. Sopas made with fresh-baked multigrain sourdough bread from Stockton's Boudin Bakery made for yet another delicious Stockton memory.

Music and the arts

Second stop on this year's spring vacation to Stockton was the Haggin Museum. My parents and I enjoyed wine tasting, hors d'oeuvres and the blues, made possible by Friends of the Haggin (who organized the refreshments) and Ms. Lizzy and Her Cadillac Kings, the evening's talented performers. Sipping delicious, locally grown and produced red zinfandel wine accompanied by fresh California strawberries, all while listening to classics like “Sweet Home, Chicago” (a song about where I now live) made for yet another memorable moment.

The weekend's entertainment didn't end with that first night at the Haggin though. On Friday night, my parents and I enjoyed listening to local band “Bad Habits” while dining on delicious tri-tip sandwiches at Royce's BBQ. My mom and I then headed out to the Elks Lodge to listen to the classic rock n' roll stylings of “RB/X”.

[More]BBQ and Baseball

Yet another Stockton claim to fame is Banner Island Ballpark (aka 'The BIB', a minor league venue once recognized as one of the nation's finest ballparks). A quick stroll around The BIB quickly illustrates why it's a Stockton gem. Nestled alongside the headwaters of the San Joaquin River, just across the water from Stockton's downtown marina, with a host of children's activities and blessed with cool delta breezes and a plethora of dining options (I enjoyed a BBQ'd chicken salad and deep fried Stockton asparagus), I can't think of a better place to enjoy a ballgame... Which is no mean compliment coming from someone who's personally enjoyed 'The Friendly Confines' on a number of occasions.

Far away home, far away port

Watching the Stockton Ports' batters slam doubles and triples, seeing ocean-bound freighters loading up on molasses and concrete, enjoying warm sun and clear skies... Good times. Does any of that eradicate the specter of bankruptcy, high crime or Stockton's other challenges? No, of course not. That said though, I'd like to remind Stockton's many naysayers that, while the city's challenges are great, a thousand miles of sun-drenched waterways, countless acres of verdant farmland and plentiful vineyards all translate into someplace that, challenges aside, is still pretty dammed special.

Thoughts of 'Tits'

Teenage memories of a well-endowed American beauty

NOTE: This blog was originally posted to WrittenByMe.com back in 2001, almost a decade ago. I'm re-posting it here because of a recent comment of my sister's, which then reminded me of an old 'acquaintance' from long ago.

She was gorgeous, a golden all-American beauty... Tall, lithe, with small pert breasts, a sixteen year-old's dream. I've been thinking of her quite a bit lately, especially since finding a new mistress this past spring. My new love is Italian, a golden beauty as well, though much younger, more petite, and, uh, less 'well-endowed'.

I was a sophomore in high school, struggling to play 'the family instrument', an ancient tenor sax. My uncle Eugene, my dad's oldest brother, had bought the sax back in the late forties from a long since defunct little music store in downtown Lodi, California. The horn was a Buescher, made back in the mid-thirties, and I considered it to be something of an eyesore growing up. When I entered the fourth grade and was finally old enough for band, my parents bought a new case for 'The Buescher' and sent it, and me, off together on the bus for school.

Ours was a 'love-hate' relationship from the very start. I'd complain that the instrument was too hard to play, too difficult to blow, but would never practice the hours I was supposed to... "It's old, breaks down all the time, and then has to be fixed" I'd say, failing to mention the many times I'd taken a running start and slid on the case all the way across my elementary school's lunch room floor.

My whining pretty-much continued until my sixteenth year, when my sister helped change the situation completely. She, unlike me, was (and still is) an accomplished musician; A piano/keyboard player, a bass player, a composer and arranger, who today holds a master's degree in music. Back then she was an aspiring pianist in the high school jazz band who needed a new instrument to take to gigs, an instrument my parents ended up buying her... a brand-new Fender Rhodes electric piano. It was the perfect opportunity... If she could get a new instrument, why couldn't I?

Though I felt I held the 'high ground', I was still surprised when my dad, a man forever frugal to a fault (the new Rhodes is still a partial mystery to me), actually appeared to give in. He took me down to our local music store, Bill's Music on Harding Way, in Stockton, California where we lived, and we talked with the owner, Bill Magellan, about tenor saxes. Bill was almost my downfall, as he'd been a sax player himself, had tried The Buescher, and thought it a fine horn. Still, I was determined to replace that scratched up old horn with something nice and shiny, so we were shown the new student instruments, all Conns, untouched polished brass and mother-of-pearl glittering in sapphire-blue lined cases. We were also shown one other horn, a slightly older, semi-professional model I immediately fell in love with, and later nicknamed 'Tits'.

The sax itself was a tenor, also made by Conn, but an upgraded 'Artist' model, with beveled keys and improved action. I'd love to say that the horn's quality was what impressed me the most at the time, but that really wasn't the case. The feature that stood out to me (so to speak) those twenty-two odd years ago was the engraving on the front of the bell, of the nude bust of a woman. "I'd be the only guy in school to have an instrument with TITS on it!", I remember thinking to myself. Needless to say, I was sold, and my father, the man under whose tutelage I gained my early appreciation of the female form, seemed as equally impressed.

Abandoning the old family instrument to a dark closet somewhere, I took that new and sexier horn a lot of different places... On high school jazz band and choir tours across California, Oregon, and Florida, and later on the road with GoldRush, the Top-40 lounge band I joined in my senior year of high school, playing in bars, clubs, and on military bases across four states and two countries.

A year or so after getting married, in our first house and so deeply in debt that each day felt like we were but a breath away from bankruptcy, I had to sell 'Tits' to help pay some bills. She ended up being bought by a music teacher from Holt, California, who needed instruments for the San Joaquin County Schools music program.

While I'm enjoying my new Italian beauty, a professional alto sax made by Grassi that I picked up in May and played this summer in the local community band and community jazz band, it's not the same. The action's superb, the tone (even from a hack like me) vibrant, her brass and mother-of-pearl shiny and new... Still, she's a little too 'flat-chested' for my tastes, leaving me to wonder if there's another obnoxious sixteen year-old out there, back in San Joaquin County, who's just been assigned his school instrument, has removed it from the case for the first time, and discovered that he's already 'made it to first base'.

Dear Director...

An open letter to Maryann Flock

Dear Maryann,

Hard to believe that we, the Concert Band of Benedictine University, have completed yet another school year, yet another graduation ceremony......

This year was my tenth as a community member under your direction, though it seems like yesterday when we first spoke. I can still remember my wife telling me the name of the stranger on the line as she passed me the phone, how you explained that you'd been given my name by another community musician and wondered if I'd be willing to pick up my clarinet again for the first time in almost twenty years.

Since that fateful day back in August of 2000, I've had the honor of learning under your direction, just as your many students have. And, while I have no doubt you've helped me grow as an amateur musician as I fumbled through whatever woodwind parts you needed covered, my growth has been nothing compared to the transformation of your students, year after year, for more than a decade.

Every Fall, fresh young faces arrived, looking for guidance and encouragement, unsure of what their new college experience might entail. And every Fall, the transformations began... Aided by a teacher who offered a ready ear and realized that listening can impact learning more than tutorials or lectures; a teacher who attended her student's games and cheered them on; a teacher students knew was only a cell phone call away; a teacher who, year after year, sent graduating seniors off on their next adventure with more than a diploma; a teacher who'll be remembered far beyond the band room, as the former 'fresh faces' leave the confines of Benedictine University as confident, young adults.

Considering the positive impact you've had on so many of Benedictine's finest, it's amazing to consider in hindsight all the many challenges you've taken in stride, refusing to allow adverse situations to negatively impact the lives of your students. My own recollections include a director who barely took time for a quick sandwich between back-to-back rehearsals, who lead past BU ensembles in St. Patrick's Day parades in the freezing cold, who directed concerts while eight months pregnant, conducted on stages so dilapidated you had to watch for the holes, and who kept a positive attitude even after losing her ensemble's permanent rehearsal space and being bounced between four other temporary facilities in subsequent years.

I suppose that, were I asked to offer an opinion as to how you not only managed to keep Benedictine University's Concert Band program moving forward through such adversity, but also managed to grow student participation more than sixfold, your enthusiasm would be what first came to mind. I further believe that it's primarily due to such enthusiasm that my most vivid memories of my 'Benedictine years' will likely be of candlelit Lessons and Carols services or the diverse themes of the many Winter and Spring concerts, not of uneven floors, creaky elevators, or the smell of chlorine.

It's been both an honor and a privilege, Professor Flock.


Sincerely,

Timothy R. Nunes
Former BUCB Community Musician, 2000-2010

Composed & posted via my iPad

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.