Reflections - Misleading Ledger

Township Building

Spence returned from the July township meeting, petted the cats, and said, “Zina resigned.”

“Whoopee!” I pumped my fists in the air.

Three furry faces and a bearded one stared at me as if I’d lost my mind.

I hadn’t.

In March the township secretary-treasurer Zina, with a cut of her hand and pouty lips, shouted, “I’m done!” Without authority, she’d fired me and the two other elected auditors. We had worked sixteen hours on her mysterious books—featuring double entries, creative categorizations, and fantasy dates. Zina refused to answer the last three questions we’d hoped would balance the accounts.

Able to talk two of the three supervisors into her suggestions, Zina convinced the pliable men that the elected auditors were too dumb to understand computer recorded accounts. The supervisors voted two to one to hire a public accounting firm.

The firm asked the same three questions along with ninety-seven others, according to Zina, and charged the township $5000. That money could have filled a lot of potholes.

I had whooped at Spence’s news in the hopes that a new secretary-treasurer would input data accurately. Though I’d learned a lot about township finances fixing Zina’s chaotic records, I longed for easier audits.

Nancy, the head auditor who’d balanced the township books to the penny for decades, didn’t whoop. Since township books have to be audited at the end of the year and when a new secretary-treasurer takes over, she schemed. Her pride—she was just three questions away from balancing the accounts—and frugality—she didn’t want the township wasting another $5000—motivated her to get the books for the transition audit.

In the meantime, Zina advertised for a new secretary-treasurer. The supervisors interviewed the applicants and chose Veronica, a shapely, fifty-year-old who worked days in a medical office. Zina trained Veronica during the month of August.

I admit that the training part gave me nightmares.

Before the September meeting, Veronica’s first, Nancy went into action. She figured John, the seasoned farmer who I’d talked into running for supervisor, would vote for the elected auditors to save money. She figured Gavin, the young whippersnapper who vacillated between charming helper and screaming jerk, would support his friend Zina by insisting on the public accounting firm. That left Jeff, a tall dude who sways with the last commenter. Nancy arranged a meeting with Jeff and me.

We met in the corner of the township building, a huge aluminium sided garage. Dump trucks, a grader, a roller, and a huge tractor with mowing attachments took up most of the space. Dust and diesel fumes floated through the air. Masked, Nancy and I sat on one side of the table. Unasked, Jeff sat across from us. To give him credit, he opened the front and back doors then turned on the ceiling fans.

On the table facing Jeff, Nancy laid months of financial reports Zina had included in the township minutes. “I’ve been studying the reports.” She pointed to circled numbers. “Zina overdrew the bank accounts here and here.”

Jeff leaned closer. “That’s not good.”

“I’m within two thousand dollars of getting this to balance, and I know where to look. The money has to be in the tax withholding account. I can save the township another five thousand dollars if I can look at the books.”

Jeff rubbed the stubble on his chin. “My personal accountant told me to take care of the pennies and the dollars would take care of themselves . . .” Then Gavin’s words came out of Jeff’s mouth. “We have to use the public accounting firm because they did the audit last time.”

“The elected auditors did the audit when Zina took over the job,” I said. “Besides, we need to build a positive working relationship with Veronica. All our questions will be about Zina’s work so we won't offend Veronica.”

Table Inside the Township Building

Jeff leaned back. “I’ll call PSATS.” [PSATS is a nonprofit that advises township governments.] He frowned at Nancy’s papers with the circled numbers. “Then I’ll call Gavin, John, Zina, and Veronica. We have better uses for the five thousand dollars.”

Follow up not being his strength, Jeff didn't make the calls. Before the August meeting, however, he conferred with Gavin outside the front door of the township building. Inside, the supervisors voted—two yes, one no— to look into hiring the public accounting firm. At the end of the meeting, when supervisors sign checks and the audience chats, Gavin grumbled, “The people in this township are pains in the ass. I resign.”

The next day, as if given permission to audit Zina’s books, Nancy emailed Veronica requesting printouts of four types for records from January 1, 2020 to August 31, 2020. She also asked for the physical files documenting revenues, expenditures, and bank accounts. An email conversation ensued.

Veronica: A decision was not made at the last meeting on who was doing the audit. I believe the supervisors will make a decision at next month’s meeting.

Nancy: According to psats book sunshine act and the right to know law manual 2016 edition section 703, townships must accept written record requests by mail, fax, email and in person.

If a request seeks information that is stored in an electronic device, it can not be denied. Everything we requested is public record.

Veronica: I believe these are what you are asking for. [She attached four spreadsheets.] As for reviewing physical paperwork, you will need to schedule time with me to look at them. I can’t let you take the paperwork as I’m responsible for it. We can determine a mutually agreed upon time for you to review them.

Nancy: There are three auditors. If you're comfortable, we can use the records at the township building or we could work at your house 6-8 pm nights or weekends. What's convenient for you? We anticipate less than 15 hours.

 

Digital Silence. No “I believe” from Veronica.

 

Still without an official vote from the supervisors, Nancy changed tactics. She asked John, as a supervisor, to get the books and let the elected auditors work on them.

John spoke with Veronica several times during the next week. He promised he’d take charge of the financial records. He promised the auditors would only work on the books at the township building. He promised to cart the books to and from the building every day.

John’s word didn’t satisfy Veronica. She forced him to sign an affidavit stating he took personal responsibility for the records before she handed over a carton of file folders.

 

Nancy scheduled the first work day at the township building for Thursday, October 8 from nine to noon and two to five.

Township Vehicles

Carol refused to wear a mask for the indoor work.

Nancy wore a mask to make me comfortable and let me arrange the furniture.

Placing two tables end to end, I set a chair in the middle and a chair at each end. We propped the doors open and turned on the fans. I requested the chair by the door.

But Carol said, “Diesel fumes did weird things to my brain.” She sat there.

I sat farthest from Carol, and opened the files. My glasses fogged from breathing through the mask. I took them off.

Nancy scooted her chair closer to me.

Carol scooted her chair down the other side to sit across from Nancy.

So much for social distancing.

A breeze blew through the building lifting the January statement for the state checking account off the table and depositing it on the floor covered with enough soil from dirt roads to grow a patch of strawberries. I retrieved the account, shook the dust off, and hoped neither John nor Veronica would notice the slight discoloration and wrinkle. We weighed sheets down with our pencil cases and scratch pads.

Inspecting the state ledger, the general ledger, and seven bank accounts, we checked—

✔Each expenditure with the ledger, paper bills, and bank statements.

✔Each revenue with the ledger, written documentation (when we found any—none of the numerous local tax deposits had the usual paper trail), and bank statements.

✔Each bank transfer from one account to another.

✔Each time sheet for hours listed against hours paid.

The computer could have added the accounts and spit out the balances for us—if the transactions were recorded properly. They weren't. The computer’s trial balances for state and general funds were way off.

At the end of the day Monday, October 12, the day of the October township meeting, we were exhausted. Nancy had worked six hours on Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Monday. Carol took most of Thursday and part of Saturday off for appointments. I skipped Saturday afternoon to watch the Jane Austen AGM.

Our calculations came closer than the computer’s but still didn’t balance. We found $20.03 less than the bank totals for the general funds and $2008.93 more than the bank totals for the state funds.

Frustration strained Nancy’s face. “We’re over the time I predicted.”

“They’re Zina’s books. Of course they took longer.” I shoved scratch pads and colored pencils into my tote bag. “I don’t care about the money. You don’t have to turn in all my hours.”

Carol slammed her fist against the table. “I want every penny I earned. They treated us with disrespect. They made us work here . . .” She raised her hands and swiveled as if directing an imaginary television audience to view the road-soiled vehicle backdrop. She picked up her purse, said, “Let me know when we meet next,” and left.

Nancy didn’t pack her gear. She stared at the ledger in her hand. “It has to be one item. One bill we're missing.” She tossed the ledger into a folder. “What will we say at the township meeting tonight?”

None of us said anything.

Carol didn’t go because of the diesel fumes.

I didn’t go because most people don’t wear masks.

And Nancy didn’t go because she fell asleep right after dinner.

Later, John reported that when someone asked about the audit, he said, “They're almost done. Just adding and subtracting the final numbers.”

Besides, the meeting had bigger news. Gavin rescinded his resignation, which was okay with PSATS because the other supervisors didn’t accept it in a formal vote last month. And Veronica handed in her two week notice.

That triggered the third audit for the year—when we finish the second.

End of Part One

Township Sign

 Reflections - Jane Austen Comes to Wells Wood

Jane on Screen

Friday, October 9, at 6:50 p.m., my fingers trembled over the computer keyboard. In ten minutes, I would discover why my friend Jennifer’s cheeks blushed cherry blossom pink, eyes lit like luminaria, and lips curved into a child’s Christmas grin at the mention of an Annual General Meeting (AGM) for the Jane Austen Society of North America (JASNA).

And this was no regular AGM. Jennifer and her daughter Amy organized the conference around the topic of Jane Austen’s Juvenilia, her teenage writings. The event would take place in Cleveland with special events held at the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, the Cleveland Museum of Art, and Trinity Cathedral. I caught Jennifer’s enthusiasm and decided to make my first AGM trip to her AGM. I even planned to attend the ball wearing a Regency dress which came into creation with the help of four fairy godmothers. [See “Like Cinderella” May 17, 2020]

But COVID happened. The JASNA board cancelled the AGM in April. Jennifer and Amy scrambled to get a virtual AGM online instead.

During the week prior to the weekend conference, I’d visited their virtual meeting’s website multiple times to familiarize myself with the schedule and pages for Main Stage, Breakouts, and nine other choices. The conference would begin at 7:00 on the Main Stage.

I clicked.

500 Error.

That hadn’t happened before. Probably our rural internet connection had winked off and on. I X-ed out and signed in.

500 Error.

The clock ticked. After four years of Jennifer’s excited chatter and a year of ball gown creating, I got an error message? In disbelief, I left the website and entered a third time.

500 Error.

Blinking back tears, I told myself I could still visit the site during the next thirty days to view recorded events even if I couldn’t watch live with all 1,400 other Janeites. And I emailed the volunteer coordinator. (Since her name is Jennifer too, I’ll call her Jen B. to lessen the confusion.)

Jen B. had asked me to post a question in chat for breakout session A-5. That wasn’t the breakout I’d selected but, being a question queen, I agreed. Now I wasn’t sure.

JW: I won't be able to help with A-5 after all. My computer won't let me connect tonight. I've read the email about reconnecting several times. I just can't.

Jen B.: I’ve just been texting with Jennifer W. We all are getting the same error message right now. If the vendor can get the website back up and running, will you still help?

JW: If I can watch, I'd be glad to help. Poor Jennifer. After all her work, this isn't fair.

Jen B.: You are right. I feel horrible for Jennifer and Amy. I'm saying a little prayer that it will be worked out soon. Let's see what happens.

Over the next half hour, I logged in every five minute until WE’RE HAVING TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES popped onto the screen. I heard jaunty guitar music. Progress! Finally at 8:15, Liz Philosophus Cooper, the president of JASNA, said, “Welcome to the Twenty-Twenty Annual General Meeting for Jane Austen Society of North America.”

My facial muscles expanded into a grin that I imagined mirrored Jennifer’s in her Ohio living room. The grin lasted while the presenters transported me into Jane’s teenage world.

For example, I’d never stopped to ponder the depths of the simile that Jane used to describe the character Charlotte in Lesley Castle—“her face as White as a Whipt syllabub.” Julienne Gehrer described syllabub as a sweet, flavored whipped cream. Whipt meant extended whisking with a utensil made out of a bundle of stripped birch twigs, and white wasn’t just a color. It referred to part of the cream produced by the Alderney cows that Jane’s mother tended—the part with the fat removed.

And I fell in awe of Juliet McMaster. She charmed me with her Kenyan-British accent when telling stories of how, like teenage Jane, Juliet preferred boys’ games growing up at a boys’ school. She’s an Oxford literary scholar and a trained artist who creates entertaining cartoons and captivating sculptures including a gargoyle for the Washington National Cathedral.

Losing her eyesight at age eighty-three, Juliet gave her speech with a handful of papers instead of index cards or a teleprompter. She would nod to within four inches of the paper, which showed the wild, white hair atop her head, then bob up to explain how she planned her illustrations for Jane’s Juvenilia: read for details, draw to the main theme, and focus on contrasts. When asked if Juliet would ever illustrate Jane’s adult novels, Juliet said, “No!” Because Jane’s novels don’t describe characters like her teenage fiction and because the novels’ tone is more serious than Jane’s early farces, Juliet said, “My cartoons wouldn’t be appropriate.”

Screenshot of Juliet McMaster

Listening to Juliet give an interview, a speech, and JASNA’s toast to Jane Austen, I understood the reverence in Jennifer’s voice a year before the AGM when she’d whispered, “Juliet McMaster agreed to be a plenary speaker.”

Jennifer wouldn’t speak in awe about my part in the AGM.

After watching Kathryn Sutherland’s Main Stage speech, “A Wild Mind and a Disciplined Eye,” comparing characteristics of Jane’s teenage and adult writing, I clicked the Breakouts button.

500 Error.

Not funny. I’d told Jen B. I would cover A-5, Ryoko Doi’s “Cathareine, Catherine, and Young Jane Reading History: Jane Austen and Historical Writing.” History isn’t my strong point, and the scholarly title made my head swirl with doubt. Nevertheless, I accepted the job to help our Northeast Ohio JASNA group.

Struggling with cyber connections, I entered the breakout room seven minutes late. Professor Doi’s Japanese accent was so thick, I only caught a word here and there—no complete sentences. My desperate eyes found a click here for captions button. Saved! I clicked.

500 Error.

Would another seven minutes pass before I got back in? Doubt changed to panic. I emailed Jen B.

JW: I tried to click on captions for A-5 but got the error message. I’m having trouble understanding the talk.

Jen B.: Captions won’t be up until after the conference. I’ll post for you now. Will you put up a reminder at 2:00 for participants to put questions in chat?

JW: Will do.

I logged in and watched the chat messages at the right side of the screen. Praise and questions poured in. At two, I added a lame message. “Thanks for getting up in the middle of your night to be with us, Professor Doi. We’ll put questions here for you to answer at the end.” As if the messaging Janeites from around the world needed encouragement.

After the breakout session, I reported back.

JW: Chat filled up with questions and praise. I posted the message at 2:00.

Jen B.: Thanks for a job well done.

Well done? Only if Juliet McMaster were looking for a farce to illustrate.

And my social participation?

500 Error.

At an in-person AGM’s, first timers wear special name tags so that veterans will welcome them. Seated tagless in the great room, I felt invisible. But . . .

I didn’t follow any other chat discussions—too distracting from the talks.

I didn’t join the social hour—too shy to type messages with strangers.

I didn’t join in the scavenger hunt or bingo games—too sleepy.

I did participate in the Virtual Promenade. To strings playing Spring in Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, I gazed at elegant strangers and hooted when a photo of Jennifer in her bonnet appeared. I was the only one wearing a mask—an outsider again.

While I slept, Jennifer emailed at nine minutes past midnight Sunday morning.

Jennifer: Hope you are having fun at the AGM! It's been a crazy ride. And nothing like what we planned for the past 4-5 years! But when the site works, it is AMAZING! I hope you had the chance to see a lot of stuff, play a quiz, post on the social wall. I saw you in the promenade! Awesome!

Her punctuation triggered a mental memory of her bubbly AGM voice and the picture of her face—a Rembrandt painting of joy. And she took time to email me while 1,400 other Janeites were expecting her to keep the program rolling for them. Humbled and honored, I reflected on my first-time experience.

Jennifer, busy making the AGM run smoothly, had reached out. Jen B responded with the kindness and grace of Jane’s character Anne Elliot to my pestering, insecure, mini-problem emails. Both gave me a glimpse of what the social aspect of an AGM could be.

I had experienced that inclusion feeling earlier in the year while watching Virtu(al)oso, Piano Cleveland’s Global Piano Competition for Artist Relief. Three hundred sixteen miles away, my sister Anita watched too. Through hundreds of emails, we critiqued performances and collaborated on picking winners. Her doggie duties, my disappearing emails, and hurricane Isaias knocking out her power for three days didn’t deter us. I connected with her and the event. [See “Piano Sisters” August 23, 2020]

The next time I attend a huge virtual JASNA gathering, I’ll find a partner to accompany me via text. We can message during the social events and on breaks between presentations. I’d already had four fairy-godmothers help me dress for the ball, after all. I just needed a cyber Jane-sister to turn my experience into one like Jennifer’s. AMAZING and AWESOME.

Jennifer and Janet in the Promenade

Reflections - More Anti Than I

Log House

I plan for potential problems. Spence is utterly, completely anti-potential-problem planning.

On Tuesday, September 22 after listening to a recorded robo call twice, I hit the off button and said in my serious-teacher voice, “We need to make a plan. Penn Power is making emergency repairs in Sandy Lake tomorrow. Power will be off in some areas from eight a.m. to two p.m.”

Spence kept his eyes on the news article he was reading. 

“If Sandy Lake loses power, we often do too.”

“We’ll handle whatever happens.” He tapped computer keys. “Don’t worry.”

If I have a plan, I don’t worry. Waiting for whatever happens can be disastrous. I know. I taught first graders. Though I didn’t discuss the event with Spence again, I made mental plans.

First, keep slippers within reach. As soon as the lights blinked off in the morning, I would dash outside and throw the switch to disconnect the solar panels from the grid. I didn’t want the responsibility of electrocuting any line workers.

Second, postpone washing breakfast dishes. Without the electric pump functioning, well water wouldn’t replace the water we drained from the basement tank. We should save the water for essentials. I could manage the sacrifice of waiting until the power returned to wash dishes.

Third, organize electric-free activities. Drive to Meadville to buy fabric for a Halloween wall hanging, write four snail mail letters, process the walnuts we’d harvested, and finish reading Girl Waits with a Gun. Whoa. That gave me more choices than I could complete in six hours.

Fourth, charge my phone overnight. For certain, I would need to hold my phone's flashlight up so Spence could search the basement for the extension cords and adapters needed to connect the solar panels to the essentials—the downstairs freezer and our WiFi.

I was ready.

The next morning, the kitchen clock chimed 6:00. I wanted to roll over and sleep another hour. But, I remembered the power outage alert and eased out of bed. That gave Spence, who groans but gets up with me, enough time to cook breakfast on the electric stove while I executed my morning routine—ablutions, scribble three pages in a morning journal, and practice yoga in the loft. During that last one, I had my slippers handy to carry out the first step of my plan.

Solar Disconnect Switch

The lights stayed on. Eating breakfast, we listened to National Public Radio. The workers must have had a late start. I wrote a letter to a fifth grader, my pen pal since her great aunt Lori, aka my friend Sister Loretta, died.

Power kept flowing.

Sighing at missing my dishwashing vacation, I cleaned up in the kitchen. I’d gotten to scrubbing the cast iron skillet when Spence called, “What time was the electricity supposed to go off?”

Casually, as if I hadn’t given the matter a second thought, I said, “Eight. I guess the outage doesn’t extend this far north.”

Dishes finished and exercise walk taken, I left Spence in the kitchen connected to a ZOOM meeting and slicing tomatoes to boil down for sauce.

At Fox Sew and Vac in Meadville, a worker mistakenly asked, “Can I help you find something?” She spent the next half hour carrying fat quarters from all corners of the quilt shop to match the remnants I’d toted to the store.

Back at home, the kitchen smelled like tomatoes and bubbling sounds came from a six-quart pot on the stove. I saved the other items on my activity list and used electricity to prepare the new fat quarters for the sewing project—machine overcasting the cut edges, rinsing them to bleed out excess dye, and shrinking them in the dryer. 

The next Wednesday, September 30, the phone rang. 

        Hello. This is a message from Penn Power. Due to the need for         emergency repairs, power will be off for various streets on                Tuesday, October six from approximately eight a.m. to two p.m.         In case of emergency or inclement weather, service will be                 rescheduled for Wednesday. 

The robo voice didn’t designate a borough or township this time.

I wasn’t worried. I had a plan, and we’d collected three times as many walnuts to husk, scrub, and lay out to dry.

The image of walnuts laying on a screen six inches above the basement floor triggered red flags. The cats are fond of tipping the bowl holding hickory nuts that Spence gathered on our walks. The cats would have fun batting rolling walnuts into nooks and crannies or scattering them to make tripping hazards for us old folks.

No worries. I have time to plan for this potential problem. And Spence will handle whatever happens.

Reflections in Deer Creek

 Reflections - Girl Waits with Gun

The title of Amy Stewert’s historical fiction novel, Girl Waits with Gun, puzzled me until I discovered it was an actual headline from 1915. Stewart researched primary sources for her story so the main structure is true. Three sisters were driving their buggy when a silk factory owner’s automobile hit them. The man harasses the women. Stewart includes actual newspaper stories to move the plot. She adds embellishments like giving Norma pigeons. Norma attaches headlines to the pigeons’ feet and sends them home.

Pigeons were such a focus that I pondered one of the sisters being kidnapped and sending the clue to her whereabouts via pigeon. No sister is kidnapped. No pigeons come to the rescue. The hobby is a red herring.

Other parts were foreshadowed heavily too. Constance, the POV character and oldest sister, is actually the teenage mother of Fleurette. Society thinks Fleurette is the daughter of Constance’s mother. Another part of heavy foreshadowing is that Constance would become a Deputy Sheriff. I was hoping all of Fleurette’s sewing skills would land her a seamstress job. They didn’t.

The novel flows with a smooth storytelling voice. Stewart also develops well rounded characters. Practical, no-nonsense Norma raises pigeons for a hobby and disapproves of Constance solving mysteries. Seventeen year-old Fleurette is naive and fanciful. She creates plays, sews, fashions, and longs for adventure. The sheriff works tirelessly for justice and protects the three sisters. He’s like a father-figure or older brother. Frances, the actual brother, disapproves of his sisters living on their own and complains he hears news from the sisters in the paper.

Even though the girls carry guns, I looked forward to reading a chapter or two of Girl Waits with Gun each night.

 Reflections - Midnight:Three Women at the Hour of Reckoning

The afternoon of August 25, 2019, I attended a JASNA meeting at the Orange Branch of the Cuyahoga County Public Library. Victoria Shorr talked about her book, Midnight: Three Women at the Hour of Reckoning. Though I enjoyed the talk, I didn’t “buy” the book until September 25 that year when I chose it as one of my “rewards” for helping Jennifer pack for the October AGM [Annual General Meeting]. I put the book in my stack of books to read.

The book is classified as a biography but reads like a novel. Shorr’s storytelling pulls the reader into the drama. Her research makes events come to life.

The first section relates Jane Austen changing her mind about accepting Harris Bigg-Wither’s proposal. I’d long known about that decision and was thankful for her choice because it meant Jane would write instead of run a household. Shorr adds details I hadn’t known. Jane had her own bedroom that night so her sister and her friends were not with Jane to calm her when doubts arose. Shorr ratchets up tension by putting the decision into perspective with Jane's whole life—contrasting Jane’s poverty with her relatives’ wealth and underscoring society’s expectations for her.

The second section follows Mary Shelley. She had a horrible life. Unlike Jane’s story, where I knew what the hour of reckoning meant, I didn’t realize Mary’s until the end. She faced too many hardships. Her story starts and ends with Mary waiting for Shelley to return via boat. While she waits, she bleeds as a consequence of a pregnancy. Shorr then tells the backstory of Mary's life. The end culminates with Shelley dying at sea.

In the third section, Joan of Arc, the decision is obvious again. When Joan is about to be burned at the stake, she confesses she’s been a heretic to save her life. She trades her pants for a dress and expects to be imprisoned by the churches. That doesn’t happen. Guards beat her. During the week, though, she reflects and gains back her courage. She’s burned a week later. The inner thoughts Shorr records for Joan are awesome and come from records of the trials.

Jane Austen has my gratitude. Mary Shelley has my sympathies. Joan of Arc has my admiration, Victoria Shorr has my endorsement. Midnight: Three Women at the Hour of Reckoning is a fascinating read.

 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