Reflections - Piano Sisters

Byeol Kim's Hands and Reflection - photo by Anita

Thursday evening, July 30, I stood at the kitchen sink but didn’t gaze through the window at frolicking rabbits and robins—my dish-washing entertainment. Instead, I peered over my shoulder at the laptop on the kitchen table. The screen displayed Josquin Otal’s fingers confidently pressing piano keys. The speakers released majestic Brahms. Minor chords sent shivers of awe down my spine. And my heart warmed at the thought circling through my head.

My sister Anita, in her home on a New Jersey mountain top, was watching the online performance at the same time. I’d emailed her about Virtu(al)oso, Piano Cleveland’s Global Piano Competition for Artist Relief. While dunking my hands in sudsy water, I anticipated nine nights of sharing expert piano playing with my sister—six with five contestants each for the first round, two with three candidates each for the final round, and the closing award ceremony. Apart yet together.

At the end of Otal’s performance, my cell phone chimed to alert me that an email had arrived from Anita. Watching Virtu(al)oso, then, would be more than mentally sharing with my sister. We could chat throughout the performances without hearing a single scolding “shhhhhhh.” Wiping my hands, I clicked on her message.

A: I love to watch their faces. You can tell if someone is into the music or just playing notes. The first pianist is in a world of music and truly felt the chords. This one sways a lot, but her facial expression barely changes. [Tian Tang from China]

J: I don’t like her dress. Though she had such a high, delicate speaking voice, her piano voice comes across strong. 

A: Her dress was not a good color on her. Her fingers on the keys were not as good as I expected. Flat fingered a lot. This guy [Elia Cecino from Italy] has a nice selection and plays well, but again, those flat fingers. Miss McCarthy would have my fingers black and blue from hitting them with a ruler.

Miss McCarthy had been our piano teacher in Titusville. As a first or second grader, I walked from Elm Street School to her house for lessons during my lunch break. My memory of piano lessons was munching a peanut butter and jelly sandwich while sitting on a cushioned bench and listening to the slow plink of notes made by the student before me. Anita must be right that Miss McCarthy was strict. One day, instead of walking to her house, I carried my lunch home. 

Mom waited for me at the door. “Why didn’t you go to your piano lesson?” 

Uh-oh. Miss McCarthy must have called. I lied. “I don’t feel well.” 

Mom sent me to bed. 

Forcing myself to be as quiet as the whole rest Miss McCarthy taught me about, I heard Mom say, “She must be sick. She didn’t complain when I put her to bed.”

If Anita had been the student before me, the music accompanying my lunches would have been better, and I couldn’t have skipped the lesson. Older than me by two years, she would have marched me to Miss McCarthy’s.

I would have listened to her then, and as I read her emails about the piano competition decades later, I enjoyed the sound of her voice in my head.

We chatted. 

A: This one is a little drama queen so far. [Fuko Ishii from Japan]

J: He's kind of dancing with the piano. His phenomenal fortissimo section gave me chills. [Han Chen from Taiwan]

A: This guy’s going to get his nose stuck in the keys. [Lovre Marusic from Croatia]

We cheered.

A: Bravo!

J: Well done!

A: WOW, double BRAVO. 

We chose finalists.

A: Another night of good competition and some great artists.

J: I’m fogged tonight. Can’t remember which ones I liked. Probably all of them except the drama queen. So 1 [Han Chen],  3 [Madoka Fukami from Japan], and 5 [Zhu Wang from China]. Do you think 4 [Martin Garcia Garcia from Spain] should be on the list?

A: No, I was not impressed with him. This one [Zhu Wang] is much better technically. His only fault is he needs to iron his shirts.

Choosing just six finalists from the thirty contestants challenged us. Because the pianists had survived the first cut from one hundred fifty-eight applicants living in thirty-three different countries, all played technically amazing performances. On top of that, the first round stretched over six nights. As their fingers blurred through presto passages, their performances blurred in our minds. To compensate, we relied on the email comments to refresh our memories, and I deferred to Anita’s judgment on modern selections which made me want to plug my ears.

Madoka Fukami - photo by Anita

Real life obstacles ratcheted up these challenges.

Doggy duties pulled Anita away sometimes.

After she retired from her job in school district administration, Anita became a foster mom for Tibetan Terriers. She fostered Tibetans with health issues, fell in love with them, and adopted many. She cared for up to seven dogs at a time. She’s down to four now. She also arranged emergency care for Tibetans in trouble all over the nation.

A: (Friday) I missed a little in the middle because the boys needed a potty break, and I didn’t want to clean it up.

A: (Her first email of Saturday night arrived fifty minutes into the performance) Having issues with a rescue tonight so being interrupted and not seeing much of the performance.

A: (Her second email arrived a half hour later) I hope that is the last call tonight. I have been listening off and on but haven’t been able to watch.

With dogs under control, emails became the issue. Our Piano Competition string had added one email after another from the first performance through the fourth night. As Martin Garcia Garcia played a composition he’d written about the pandemic (Abstract XI in E Major, Op. 1), I typed our ninety-ninth message—Gmail’s count not mine. Minutes later, Gmail posted we’d written six messages. 

Yikes! Where had the others gone? Did Gmail trash the string when we hit a hundred? I clicked menu items. 

Not in the trash. 

Not in the inbox. 

Fretting I’d never remember our choices, my phone chimed with an answer. Anita’s next email came with a microscopic trail of old messages under it. Only the computer trail had disappeared. Without answering Anita, I squeezed my eyelids until my face muscles ached and read the teensy blue print to scribble a list of our choices. (Note: In fairness to Gmail, I would find the computer emails tucked in an “Anita Keepers” file several days later.)

And on the fifth night, worse trouble loomed.

A: Unfortunately, we are in line for the hurricane tonight and tomorrow. There is a weird smell with the wind. Sweet but not pleasant. This [Isaias] is the worst storm since Superstorm Sandy to hit the area. The power company has called me for 2 days to bottle water. The county has called the last 3 days telling us the shelters will not be opened because of COVID and to preplan.

J: Yikes. I hope the forecasters are wrong. Hang in there.

A: We will be safe, but maybe a little blown and wet.

The forecasters weren’t wrong. 

Isaias pelted New Jersey with rain and knocked out Anita’s power before noon Tuesday, the final day of the first round. The county management called her to say her power would be off for days and she should go to a hotel.

She didn’t. She stayed home with her Tibetans. No internet. No landline. But she had her cell phone.

A: Cannot see. No power.

A: I might be able to watch a little from my cell phone.  

A: Saw first part of Bach. Will listen in and report at intermission.

Visualizing Anita peering at pianists on her tiny phone screen, I doubted she could see their hand posture or facial expressions. I would have to be her eyes. I neglected the dishes, scribbled notes, and sent a long email about the first two contestants during intermission.

J: First player [Abuzar Manafzak from Azerbaijan]

Bach/Liszt prelude: Rounded hands. Bounced on the piano bench. Accurate, flat dynamics.

Bach/Liszt fugue: Not much variation in tones. Looked like he strained the notes through his face.

Rachmaninoff: Rounded hands. Face showed effort, not passion. Soft touch to slamming bangs.

Prokofiev: Rounded hands. More life. Short, dynamic, and lovely. His best.

 

Second player [Michael Lu from the United States]

Wearing a mask.

Schubert: Rounded hands. Had energy, excitement, and dynamics.

Price (Cotton Dance): Lively. Sparkled. He seemed to smile through the mask. Crossed hands over several times. Fun.

Schumann:. Fingers blurred. Excited. Sat still, no swaying. Passionate. Ended strong.

 

With three more artists to go, I watched, washed, and wrote notes. Hanging up the dish towel near the end of the fifth player’s performance, I tapped computer keys to record the soggy notes while Martin James Bartlett concluded his performance with Rachmaninoff. Doubting the pianist at first because he grimaced and made funny faces like Alfred E. Newman, I expected Martin to burst out laughing at any moment. But, he was masterful. He bounced on the bench playing chords, swayed with melodies, and earned my ratings of awesome, awesome, and awesome again. He would definitely be a finalist. While I debated the three pianists in the middle, Anita emailed.

A: Like your comments. 

A: Got to see some on phone

A: My picks are Anna [Anna Han from the United States] and Martin [Martin James Bartlett] from England. Going to bed. Finding my way in the dark. Will see your comments in a.m.

Encore Performance by Byeol Kim - photo by Janet

Sheesh. Of course Anita was right. She had made quick, decisive choices using only her tiny phone screen.

Anita didn’t have power the following day when the judges announced their six finalists, but, because she had a battery pack to keep her cell phone charged, she found the post as soon as I did. The judges chose three from our list.

Martin James Bartlett, a masterful pianist who brought every song to life and entertained with unique facial expressions.

Byeol Kim, a gifted pianist who played with emotion and pedaled in neon green spiked heels.

Madoka Fukami, a talented pianist who played Bach distinguishing all the fugue voices and kept a solemn face above her kimono and white socks. 

Friday, the first day of the finals, Anita sent good news after lunch.

A: We just got power. Hope it stays on.

It did. 

We chatted.

We cheered. 

We chose the same three pianists we’d selected from the first round.

A: Bartlett and Kim, then Fukami and then all the others. 

J: Those are my top three too. But this guy [The leaner—Lovre Marusic from Croatia] might place.

A: Technically, I agree, However on crowd appeal, not so much. Tomorrow at 7 we will see how right/wrong we have been in our choices.

Monday came after what seemed like ten nights. I booted up the computer, tied on my apron, and washed dishes while glancing over my shoulder.  

On the computer screen, hosts repeated thank you, thank you, thank you. 

My stomach tightened. I told myself it didn’t matter who won because all the pianists were excellent. And I’d had an eleven day virtual vacation with my sister chatting via emails. We’d already won. Nevertheless, I bit my lip and waited.

Beyol Kim took third place and played an encore from her home.

We hadn’t chosen the second place winner, Arseny Gusev from Russia. While he played his encore, I silently chanted Martin has to be first.

A host cleared his throat and announced, “The first prize winner is . . . “

Sheesh. Do people always have to pause before the name?

“ . . . Martin James Bartlett from the United Kingdom.”

I hooted. 

All three cats scratched the wood floor with their claws and dove under the sofa.

A: YES YES YES

J: Ditto! We picked him!!! We’ll have to watch for his name in the news.

A: Wonder how he felt when he found out he won. That little smile?????

Now, when I stand at the sink, submerge my hands in soapy water, and gaze through the window at rabbits nibbling clover, I remember the camaraderie of listening to piano performances with Anita. And I crack a little smile.

Martin James Bartlett - screenshot by Janet

 Reflections -  I’d Longed for This

Deer Creek Upstream from Mary Ann's Bridge

What was my husband doing? I could see his feet propped on the coffee table and his hands tying the laces of old tennis shoes, but . . .  “Don’t you want to wear shorts?”

Spence straightened and rested his hands on his denim-covered thighs. “Oh. I forgot.” He stared at his tied shoes. “I’ll go this way. My jeans can get wet.”

I didn’t argue. On every hot, humid day this summer, I had longed to sink my feet into the cool water of Deer Creek. 

Spence didn’t share my passion so putting shorts on before forcing bare feet into old tennis shoes didn’t come naturally to him. He could soak his jeans if he wanted. I needed company for a creek walk, and COVID-19 kept all our creek-walking visitors away. Spence, a phenomenal, accommodating guy, agreed to humor me for my birthday outing.

For a third of a mile, our creek shoes crunched gravel on the dirt road to Mary Ann’s bridge—my name for it because our late neighbor had resided in the nineteenth century farmhouse across the bridge for much of her life. I planned an upstream walk so disturbed silt floated away rather than obscured the rocky creek bottom. 

Spence halted twenty yards from the bridge. “Which side?” 

I stepped into the drainage ditch that spring rains widened into a four foot channel. “Let's follow the ditch. It’s dry.” 

Spence led the way. 

Halfway to the creek, a blackberry bush scratched my shin, and plants came up to his thighs. 

“It’s turning into a jungle.” He pointed his hand to the adjacent woods. “We could go that way.”

The understory grew knee high there, but across the road brush topped-out at crew sock height. The blood drops oozing from my scratched shin convinced me. “Let’s try the other side.”

Spence shook his pointing hand. “This might be easier.”

“I don’t think so.” I stepped out of the ditch, crossed the road, and walked through the underbrush toward the creek. No new scratches. 

“Trouble is,” Spence said behind me, “we’ll have to get over the downed tree.”

“No. It’s downstream.” I emerged from the woods and underbrush to Deer Creek’s bank. “Oops. That tree.”

To the left, a moderately sized maple had fallen across the creek. We didn’t have to climb over it. 

An ancient cherry blocked the way to the right.

Before it fell, beavers had built a bank den under its roots. Twice, in mid March and in mid April, we’d stood on the bridge while a subadult beaver down the slope from the land entrance and swam to the underwater opening. After the tree fell, we didn’t see the beaver again, and no fresh sapling stumps—their pointed tops marred with fresh tooth marks—appeared near the creek.

The fallen cherry had three trunks. Each was thick enough to harvest for lumber, and each came thigh to crotch high. Go back and risk getting scratched on the other side of the road? No, I could sit on the trunks, twist, and hop down. Easy.

Backing up to the first trunk and standing on tiptoes, I hoisted my fanny up and onto the log. I lifted one leg then the other. While gripping the log with both hands so I wouldn’t topple over, I swiveled to the other side and lowered my legs. My creek shoes dangled two feet above water that filled a depression in the creek bed. If I jumped into that, I would get splashed—not to mention probably losing my balance and falling in. 

Stretching one leg wide, I slid my fanny along the trunk. The scaly old bark chafed my cotton shorts. I thought they’d rip, and I’d have to continue with my underwear showing. Inching sideways, I cleared the creek and slipped off the log. OUCH! My shorts stayed intact, but the bark scraped the backs of my bare thighs. Blackberry thorns pricking my shins would have been less painful. I had two more trunks to cross. If the first trunk hadn’t been chest high, I would have retreated and taken the woods route. Spence’s idea of wearing jeans made perfect sense now. I gritted my teeth and clambered over the next two cherry trunks. 

In front of me, Deer Creek spread wide. Water gurgled around rocks varying from pint size to sit-on boulder size.

Spence Wading in the Shallows

I stepped in. Creek water seeped into my shoes cooling and soothing my feet. Smiling my thanks to Spence for enabling this moment, I walked to the middle of the creek.

When water came up to my calves, I glanced upstream and gasped.

A baby beaver with a bloated tummy floated feet up. The kit’s guts bobbed in the current by its side.

Usually the putrid stench of death warns of a nearby carcass. On this sunny, 84° F (29° C) afternoon, the air smelled fresh as if it had just rained. Perhaps the creek washed the odor away, or the kit hadn’t been dead long enough to stink.

As if a beaver carcass wasn’t gross enough, the decades old vision of Mary Ann’s worried face popped into my mind. She had warned, “My daughter swam in the creek once and ended up with beaver fever.” Mary Ann had pulled at the knuckles of her long, bony fingers. “She got real sick. Fever. Cramps. Diarrhea.”

We were already downstream of the kit. Hopefully it hadn’t caught the parasite that causes the disease. “Wade to the other bank. We need to avoid the carcass.” 

Spence splashed behind me. “There are two. Looks like something attacked them.”

Six feet further upstream, a second baby beaver lay on its side with its intestines bobbing on the current. 

“If a predator attacked, why wouldn’t it eat them?” I skirted the second carcass as quickly as I could while keeping my balance on the rocky creek bed.

“Maybe it was a land predator. The beavers could have escaped into the water.”

“Or an adult beaver chased the predator . . . ” I halted and stared. “Uh-oh.” 

The rocks had disappeared. Silt covered the creek bed the whole forty foot expanse under the bridge. Wading through that would be like wading through quicksand. And the narrow beach next to the slow moving section consisted of mucky mud. 

Spence shouted, “Head for the beach.” 

Unfortunately, the beach was on the opposite side of the creek because of our detour around the beavers. “I should have risked getting my legs scratched and gone through the woods.”

“Slow easy movements.”

Of course he was right, but when my feet sank into the soggy silt, I sloshed to the beach as fast as the shoe-slurping silt allowed. 

Spence came at a more sedate pace. On his last step, he pulled his shoe out of the sucking silt—THWURRUP—releasing an earthy mud fragrance which combined with the musky-algae smell from the stagnant water under the bridge.

I walked along the narrow bank, until rocks covered the creek bed, then stepped in. 

Water trickled and splashed. Light flickered through treetops. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out a plastic sandwich bag, unzipped it, and grabbed my phone. I tapped the camera app button, focused upstream, and took several pictures.

“Did you get a picture of the beavers?”

“Yuck! No, and I don’t want one.” I tucked the phone into its bag and back into my pocket then strode upstream. 

Though COVID-19 deprived me of creek-walking visitors, it taught me about avoiding disease. We didn’t drink or swim in the water. We didn’t touch our faces. We would wash our legs and hands with soap when we got home. We’d also wait one to three weeks for symptoms to appear before getting medical help. In the meantime, Deer Creek sparkled in front of me.

Stretching my arms to the side for balance on slippery, algae covered rocks, I watched each step to avoid deep holes.

Swish. Swish. Swish.

Sunshine warmed my head. Minnows darted in the cool water around my legs. Damselflies, neon blue Ebony Jewelwings, flitted along the bank. 

I’d longed for this.

Deer Creek at the Wells Wood End of the Trek