Seattle 164, or Fiction

(Sometimes, the Fiction Monster takes little bites out of my heels until I figure out something to do with her.)

G-d and I meet for lunch at a place neither of us have ever been to, but the Yelp reviews are fantastic, and it’s halfway between our houses. The paparazzi arrive just after we do, and I thank my stylist, Melanie, who agreed to a short-notice appointment this morning and managed to get rid of my split ends. Not that I thought G-d would care, but this is New York City and some things just matter. G-d looks at the menu miserably and says,

“Would you keep it a secret if I ordered the veal? I’ve gotten eight thousand emails from every kind of vegetarian, Hindu to hippie in the last hour alone, and my inbox really can’t handle that kind of publicity.”

I nod, and G-d asks for some drinks with our meal. The waiter starts to make a joke about holy water, but his tongue turns into a snake that then bites him on the ass and he shuts up.

“I hate that line,” G-d mutters. “The tap water’s bad enough in this town without stale prayers floating around in it.” I nod with extra sympathy, as if I know something about holy water. G-d kicks off her flip-flops and runs her fingers through her beard and asks,

“So, why me?”

I want to say something about Krishna being booked solid till next October, or the way Horus never returns my phone calls, or how the Flying Spaghetti Monster has turned into a complete diva since the website launched, but instead, I start inhaling my osso buco, and spill a spoonful of wine sauce down the front of my shirt. I reach for my water glass, but G-d points to my chest and, following a sudden burst of warmth, my shirt is completely clean.

“Thanks,” I say. “Really, I just wanted to pick your brain about some things, see if I could find some answers.”

“7,” says G-d.

“Excuse me?”

“Well, you were looking for answers. 3+4, days of the week, last digit of Pi…”

“Really? Pi has a last digit?”

“Yes, but don’t tell the mathematicians. They’d lose faith, and that’s way more fun than answers.”

“I guess I wanted to know if you were planning to cut my grandmother a break any time soon. Like, either let her die or ease up on her body. She’s in a lot of pain.”

“That’s really what you want?” says G-d, who would be raising an eyebrow, if she had eyebrows. “I offered you the answer to one of your people’s greatest mathematical mysteries and you instead ask me if a human is going to die?”

“At least I didn’t ask you to end any wars,” I shoot back.

“And I’m glad you didn’t,” G-d says with a huff. “I’m not IN the war department. There’s a reason Death exists, you know. He’s a fabulous secretary, and what’s more, he handles all the war and medical research, which leaves me much freer in the afternoons.”

“Medical research?”

“Absolutely. Doesn’t it make sense, to pair up the things that try to control mortality?”

“Fair enough. Can I have a bite of your veal?”

“Of course,” says G-d, pushing the plate towards me. “Listen, darling, this was a fabulous choice of restaurant. I’m glad we had time to catch up. Last time I saw you, you were too busy fighting Death to really pay attention. Tell your grandmother I said hello, and I’m sorry about the inconvenience.”

“I will, but I doubt that’ll make her feel any better.”

“Right,” says G-d, floating towards the door. “Right.”

Paradox 1, or Family

The first dive into the lake is a homecoming - she's so gentle right now, two feet of warm before the cold undercurrent, glassy surface, easy swimming. All the trees survived winter, and the house is sound, cool. I'm here, and things feel almost right. I wish SALM was here. He loves the woods, even though he's a city boy.

Saturday night, and there are cousins and friends, and all the young'uns have decided to make dinner, and I'm in charge. And here, too, is home - not the one I grew up with, but I love bossing everyone around the kitchen, seeing the meal take shape under five different knives. The parents stand back, mix drinks, offer advice to the younger ones. Allie and I share the stove with our easy dance, seasoning each others' dishes without asking, because we trust each other like that. She grates lime zest into the beans until they shimmer in my mouth. The peppers, onions, cukes, chard, potatoes and tomatoes are all from Tom, the grizzled gardener who owns a plumbing parts store and grows magic in his yard.


After the cousins go home, the house is quiet with just five. Allie, Jake, my mother and I play word games and curl up on the couch, singing - ballads and pirate songs, 70s folk-pop and college standards. I haven't sung in so long.

I hop up on the water skis for just twelve seconds - long enough to prove I can still do it (I'm not chicken!), but I still really, really hate water skiing. The cousins go after that, zipping around the lake like pros.

Today, there is enough rain to justify a trip into town - to the farmer's market, the library, maybe the pottery shed.

Always, always, there's promises whispering - you will come back here. This is where you belong, girl, in our sticky heat and snowstorms. You're welcome.

Seattle 163, or Food

In the middle of July, I wake up early one Saturday morning. SALM snores softly next to me, but I am more restless than I've been in months. I feel excited, and I don't know why. Maybe it's the sunshine, finally getting to me.

I nudge SALM. "Hey, I'm going to get a head start on the market today. I want to make sure I get a chicken from the Ranch of Happy Meat."

He burrows deeper into the covers and mumbles, "Have fun with that." I bounce out of bed and steal one of his grandmother's giant shopping bags (formerly used for quilting supplies).

The market is almost quivering with abundance. So many things are making their way into the stands - basil, tomatoes and baby beets and carrots are saying hello, while scapes and asparagus have their farewell signs up. I find a good little chicken from the Ranch of Happy Meat, some scapes, greens, a few jewel-like tomatoes, a bunch of palm-sized onions, two small bags of basil.

I consider buying an olive-and-herb fougasse for SALM, but as I'm deciding, my phone buzzes. SALM is on his way, and wants fish and milk. I stop by the fish guys to make sure there's plenty of SALM's favorite sockeye lox, make a mental note to pick up their fresh salmon roe next week, and reserve a bottle of milk from the Farm Across The Water. Then I stop by the Apple Guys for a treat - a big glass of fresh cider blended with nothing but ice. I park myself in the shade and wait for SALM.

And this, my darlings, is what happened to all of it:

Pesto, enough for four meals. I never freeze pesto; it's just not worth the loss of flavor. I'd rather savor it when it's in season and eat all I can.

Fingerling potatoes, garlic scapes, and those little onions go under the chicken. See my pretty new pot?

The finished chicken - trussed with dental floss, for lack of anything else!

And with the leftovers - chicken salad, of course, using the green tops of the baby onions!

Seattle 162, or Maybe I Do Belong In the Shtetl, After All (rough draft)

Since I returned to Seattle, I've been grappling with the loss of the Kibbutz. I've been living among, and making community with large groups of Jews since high school. For the first time, I'm living in a house where people are friendly, but not interested in doing things together, and none of them are Jews. Without a synagogue, or a desire to go to the "post-college Jewish networking and fun" events put on by the local university, I find myself working on Friday nights, which I find less depressing than Shabbat by myself. When one of my extended family died last week, I said Kaddish by myself, and instead talked about her for a few minutes before eating some dates (a food I will always associate with her) with some non-Jewish friends.

Does it sound sad? It is. It's not overwhelmingly awful, but it does hurt.

When an acquaintance of mine posted a link to a Commentary (a well-renowned Jewish publication) article by Daniel Gordis titled "Are Young Rabbis Turning On Israel?" I expected a political rant - which, to some extent, it is. Gordis opens with a long description of Yom HaZikaron - an Israeli version of Memorial Day that is far more about mourning than barbecues and shopping. On Yom HaZikaron, Gordis explains, air raid sirens blast twice during the day, filling the entire country with alarm. When Israelis hear the siren, they stop whatever they're doing - driving, talking, haggling, walking - and stand at attention until the siren ends. It sounds visceral, and it is. We Jews have always been good at mourning, good at remembering. I walk with ghosts, and I know it.

Gordis, who emigrated to Israel after founding a rabbinical school in Los Angeles, contrasts this picture of Yom HaZikaron with an email sent around Boston's Hebrew Union College:

“For Yom Ha-Zikaron, our kavanah [intention] is to open up our communal remembrance to include losses on all sides of the conflict in Israel/Palestine. In this spirit, our framing question for Yom Ha-Zikaron is this: On this day, what do you remember and for whom do you grieve?”

It is the rare e-mail that leaves me speechless. Here, at a reputable institution training future rabbis who will shape a generation of American Jews and their attitudes to Israel, the parties were treated with equal weight and honor in the run-up to Yom Ha-Zikaron. What the students were essentially being asked was whether the losses on Israel’s side touched them any more deeply than the losses on the side of Israel’s enemies.

Gordis's flaw, as far as I'm concerned, is equating Israel with Jews. Jews are not the only citizens and inhabitants of Israel, and Israelis constitute neither the entirety, nor the pinnacle of Jewishness. Gordis would argue that I merely illustrate the problem; I have a far-too-American slant on things.

Or, maybe, he argues, it's about formative experience.

It was June 1967, and I was almost eight years old. As on almost every night at dinner, our little black-and-white television was tuned to Walter Cronkite. But on this night, my parents didn’t eat. They didn’t even sit at the table. All they did was feed us, watch TV, and pace across the kitchen as the news of the
Six Day War unfolded.

“We’re not hungry,” my parents said the next evening when they did not eat once again, and I asked them why. But how could they not be hungry at dinner time? And two days in a row? My Zionist commitments have some innate root in the simple fact that with Israel seemingly on the very precipice of destruction, my parents couldn’t eat.
But when the students with whom I was speaking shared their formative memories of the Jewish state, the differences were profound. One said that his earliest memory was of the day that all the students in his Orthodox day school were summoned together for an assembly, and they watched as Israel and Jordan signed a peace treaty. For another, it was the intifada of the mid-1980s, and the images (again, on television) of helmeted IDF soldiers with rifles chasing young boys who’d thrown rocks.

My formative Israel experience, at least, as far as media goes, is the assassination of Yitzhak Rabin, in 1995 - the shock, the mourning, but most particularly, the reaction of one Hebrew school teacher.

"Watch carefully, boys and girls," she told us, sitting on the edge of her desk after explaining what happened. "He was one of the very last who really wanted peace. I'm afraid we're going to have more war. But don't worry; Israel has the best army in the world, and we continue to prove it, time and time again."

This sentiment about Israel's military might has echoed through my childhood. When, in third grade, I learned about the Minutemen in the Revolutionary War, I also learned that the Israeli army was designed to mobilize just as quickly. When my grandfather showed me how to use my first Swiss Army knife, he told me that the Swiss and Israeli armies were among the best-disciplined and best-trained in the world.

Is it any wonder, then, that I've grown up to sympathize with people who've been subject to this army?

Gordis would scoff at me. "Where's your pride?" he might ask. "These are YOUR PEOPLE, and they are the BEST." I think I'd point back to his own article to answer his question.

Gordis makes a distinction between what he calls the particular and the universal. Simply put, people who were raised particularly Jewish feel that they belong to a tribe, a different people. They identify with their tribe, practice rituals unique to it, and interact with the rest of the world through that lens. That lens includes the concept of enemies. Universalists, on the other hand, are raised to believe that Jewishness is a part of them; not that they are part of the Jews. They are raised to value the lives of every human being equally.

Of my generation of rabbinical students, Gordis writes:

The right of these rabbinical students to criticize Israel is not in question. What is lacking in their view and their approach is the sense that no matter how devoted Jews may be to humanity at large, we owe our devotion first and foremost to one particular people—our own people....what is entirely gone is an instinct of belonging—the visceral sense on the part of these students that they are part of a people, that the blood and the losses that were required to create the state of Israel is their blood and their loss....

Now, let's consider my upbringing for a moment. I believe I was raised straddling the line between particularist and universalist. I was raised in a mildly observant household; we were pulled out of school for the first days of Passover, lit Shabbat candles, made our own challah, received part-time Jewish educations. I have always believed that being Jewish makes me different, but not better than (okay, maybe sometimes better than) my Gentile neighbors. I proudly explain different Jewish customs and traditions to anyone who asks (and even a few who don't.) I seek out other Jews at national poetry events, and believe that something rich and filling happens when we gather for the "12 tribes reading."

My family also believes in gay rights, are largely pro-choice, feminist, and vote mostly Democrat, but only for politicians who openly support Israel. My mother is Israeli; her family lived in Israel during its formative years (1948-1957), and a good number of our relatives remain there. When I think of the Israeli army, I can't help but think of my cousins, aunts and uncles. Of course I want them to live. Of course I want them to succeed.

But I, too, was raised to value all lives. Maybe it's the influence of growing up around Unitarian Universalists. Maybe my childhood synagogue just wasn't particular enough. Maybe it's my fancy-liberal-college indoctrination. Who knows?

Here's what I do know: here, in Seattle, I miss the easy presence of Jews. I even miss fighting about this exact issue with an old particular housemate of mine. Can I be a universalist and still feel lost and lonely without this community? Can I value all lives equally and still feel like a part of the Jewish people, instead of a person who happens to have Jewishness (like she happens to have brown hair, or a Socialist bent?)

I suspect Gordis would say no. What do you think?

Portland 1, or When We Were Happy

In the year I turned 25, I took my first-ever non-family-or-work-related vacation. Secret Agent Lover Man and I have descended on our fair sister to the south: Portland. (Not that one, family - the West Coast Portland.)

Portland seems determined to charm us, from the markets to the food carts to the four-story City of Books. Let me also mention here: the free hotel breakfast, that included bacon-braised greens. The homemade gnocchi from the collection of food carts, dressed simply with fresh tomato and basil. The carnival foods, glistening, crispy and so many shades of brown. I feel full - stuffed on books and food and the ever-delightful company of SALM.

Tomorrow: food pictures, I promise. Today: just two pictures of the market's bounty.

Seattle 161, or Nesting Bird 2

I happen to have some incredibly talented friends. Having their creativity around (in the form of books, photos, paintings, etc) is encouraging, nourishing, and sometimes downright cheerful. Check out my wall of Abby, the brilliant card designer. Here you see (from left to right):

A. A valentine's day card with a lemon on it that says "my main squeeze."

B. A belated birthday card of a giant nose that says "hope your birthday didn't blow!"

C. A card she sent me after my last knee surgery with some cheery nectarines.

D. A Rosh Hashanna card with two little blue shofarot on them.

E. A card she did not make, but picked perfectly for my birthday last year that says "I'm writing you a poem for your birthday. / What rhymes with 'huge penis?'"

These aren't the only ones - her "Tofu: the other White Meat" card sits above my desk, and this year's birthday card is sitting with the others, on my bookshelf, where they'll slowly retire to the walls.

Having Abby's work around makes me feel incredibly loved. She's a piece of my home.

Seattle 160, or Interpretations of Food

Since I'm apparently better at expressing my feelings through food than by talking about them, I decided to write a Guide To Dane's Mood And General Mental Health. This guide only applies to food I make for myself; food I make for others is very different. Note: these are all things I eat on a fairly regular basis.

Meal X: Whole Foods Salad Bar - a variety of things, but invariably too much Cesar dressing and parmesan cheese

This doesn't even count on the scale. I can't face my kitchen, or I don't have a kitchen. I am one step away from plunging my head into these all-too-cheery plastic green bowls and letting my sobs echo across the Jamba Juice stand and the gelato bar.

If you see me eating this, I recommend: pretend you don't know me.

Meal A: kosher dill pickles (3), two spoonfuls of peanut butter, one fistful dried fruit, the remainders of any dessert-like items in my kitchen, a hunk of cheese

This meal has three possible interpretations:

1) I am in a hypoglycemic fit and will pass out if sugar is not consumed IMMEDIATELY. See: post workout, having walked a mile uphill from work, having just worked an overnight shift and completely forgotten what time/day/season it was.

2) Ooh, I should probably check to see if I need to buy tampons.

3) I am so depressed I shouldn't handle anything sharp, like a butter knife, or the edge of a frying pan.

If you see me eating this, I recommend you: flee the premises, dimwit. Can't you see? You're next on my list.

Meal B: boxed macaroni and cheese (hippie version) with smoked paprika and other spices, plus extra cheese of various kinds

Again, several interpretations:

1) The darkest days have passed, and I can consider cooking again. Probably still best to avoid knives.

2) Final exams, or something similarly deadline-locked, and comfort food is necessary to avoid complete panic.

3) My arteries were feeling a little too clear today.

If you see me eating this, I recommend: you nod and cluck sympathetically, and ask for a bite so I can later tell myself I didn't eat the entire box.

Meal C: sauteed collard greens with hot pepper with a sizable chunk of smoked salmon

Life is getting way better - considering that this dish requires a half-stocked pantry, foresight to buy smoked salmon at the farmer's market, and the use of knives. Mood: considerably cheery. Minus points if eaten wrapped in a tortilla, though.

If you see me eating this, I recommend: telling me it smells good. This will reinforce my memories of competence and happiness, which I know are now within reach.

Meal D: happy meat (grass -fed, local, organic yadda yadda yadda) hamburgers, spiced with garlic, coriander and chilies, topped with caramelized onions and happy meat bacon, side of sauteed chard, slices of raw tomato, on an organic wheat bun.

Clearly, Secret Agent Lover Man is over for dinner. Guests! Life is not half bad. Add points for getting meat from independent rancher at the farmer's market; minus a few if I just snuck over to Whole Foods and got their happy meat. Consider photographing the bacon; this just may be something worth an ounce of pride.

If you see me eating this, I recommend: pulling up a chair. Chances are, there's enough for you.

Meal E: sustainably-harvested tunafish salad with chopped peppers, scallions, fresh herbs, a pickle, plenty of mustard, curry-related spices and a dab of mayonnaise, served with a slice of whole-grain toast

I've been watching Jamie Oliver's Food Revolution at work again, and feeling simultaneously inspired to completely change my eating habits and guilty about my boxed mac-and-cheese consumption. Also, the food we serve at work. And what my friends eat when I'm not cooking for them. Damnit! Why can't they all eat like this?* What is wrong with my generation?

If you see me eating this, I recommend: hightailing it before you get sucked into my rant about institutional food systems and how processed food contributes to the myriad of mental health issues for which my clients are/aren't being treated. I may also chase you with a forkful for you to try.

*(At least half of them eat better than me. It's just a figure of speech)

Well? What does your cooking tell us about you?

Seattle 159, or Nesting Bird

I've moved into my new house, and things are Okay. Not perfect, not hugely exciting, but Okay. I spent last night unloading a box of books, which is always an emotional experience. It also brings up questions about how I want to organize my books: do my comfort books go on the easily-reached shelf? Do I take the plunge and go alphabetical? What about arranging them in a rainbow by spine color?

One things was certain right away: my new little bookshelf isn't going to hold even half of what I've got. It's possibly time for a run to the dreaded Swedish shop, or some aggressive Craigslisting. In the meantime, here are my shelves:

- Lesbian/Feminist comfort books (includes books by Leslea Newman, all of Alison Bechdel, and Eve Ensler)

- Young Adult comfort books (includes Bat 6, Speak, No Castles Here, Mixed Up Files of Mrs Basil E Frankweller and all of Joan Bauer...

- Important Books That I Never Read (includes prayerbooks....and that's it.)

- Significant Books That I Never Read (includes books with long, loving notes from the authors or gift-givers, and other peoples' treasured books)

- Books For When Small Children Come Over (Includes A Fly Went By, Walk When The Moon Is Full, Rise Up Singing and others)

Soon to come: Poetry, poetry, poetry. Also Old Haggadot, Cookbooks With Pretty Pictures, Cookbooks That Are Important For Unknown Reasons, and Old Notebooks That Deserve To Live Somewhere Other Than Under The Bed.

Seattle 158, or Freezer Aisle Conundrums

The hardest part about being back in Seattle is not having the kibbutz. Granted, the Happy Hippie Co-Op Down The Road fills some of the void, but I miss having a central gathering place for the people in my circle. I'm about to move into a house where the housemates don't typically talk to one another. Many things about the house are just right (price, location, gas stove), so I'm telling myself this is a good experiment in a different kind of living. But I miss the community. I've never had anything amputated, but I imagine this is a fraction of what it feels like - constantly reaching for something that isn't there.

So when Muppet* called from the Happy Hippie Co-Op Down the Road to tell me he'd just lost a dear friend back East to a drunk driver, and he might be in need of some company, I was so grateful. Here was a call to be part of someone's community when they needed it most. I promised him I'd be there with all proper Shiva call accoutrements - Entenmann's coffee cake, and a willingness to stay for hours.

I headed to the grocery store, strode purposefully towards the bakery, and was completely stunned to find no Entenmann's. No coffee cake at all, actually. They had something called "two-bite cinnamon rolls" that looked like rugelach, but other than that, bupkiss. I turned heel and walked to the aisle with the Hostess and Sara Lee confections, but was was thwarted there, too, despite some kosher squashed-looking cinnamon rolls. I asked a store clerk where the Entenmann's were, but she'd never heard of the brand.

At this particular grocery store, which features the largest kosher section in town, there is one employee who seems to have been hired specifically to deal with the Jews. He wears a kipa and tzitzit, and can often be seen struggling to keep up with women barking orders at him in rapid-figure Hebrew right around Passover. I saw him walking by with a giant box of Israeli candy and flagged him down.

"Yes?" he said, all business and busyness.

"I need some help," I began. Then, for some reason, my voice cracked. "What do you bring to a shiva call if there's no Entenmann's coffee cake?"

His face softened, but he didn't ask questions. "We have bapka," he said, putting the box down and leading the way. Bapka! Of course! That was even more perfect than coffee cake! I happily trotted after him - all the way to the freezer aisle.

He and I stared at the shelf of cinnamon and chocolate cake through the freezer door.

"Do I bake it?" I asked uncertainly.

He answered, just as uncertainly, "I think you just leave it on the counter for eight or nine hours." He then strode back towards his box of candy, calling a gentle "good luck" over his shoulder.

I whipped out my phone. My mother would certainly know the answer, but was wasn't picking up her cell phone. My father, too, was likewise unreachable, but I sent him a text - "What do you bring to a goyishe shiva call if there's no coffee cake??" I called my grandparents next, but they only suggested I try something other than frozen bapka. I wandered around the freezer section for twenty minutes, phone to my ear, demanding of four different people what to do!

Yes, it's silly. But I somehow wanted, as we all do, to bring the perfect thing, the one thing that could make my grieving friend smile. I had my heart so set on something that would remind me of my own culture and family that I completely lost sight of his. When my father called back to suggest "anything my friend would eat, or anything his guests could help themselves too," I knew I had my answer.

The pound cake and bowl of fruit salad went perfectly with the giant pot of vegetable stew and cornbread that was being served at the Happy Hippy Co-Op Down The Road for dinner. Secret Agent Lover Man and I settled in for a long evening with Muppet, hearing stories about his friend, talking about love, reading books, and admiring shiny new gizmos and gadgets. I found out that Muppet's father had once been an Entenmann's traveling salesman, but he thanked me for the pound cake all the same.

"Just as long as it wasn't angel food cake," said SALM as we walked home. "That would've been kind of tacky."

Seattle 157, or The Homeless Shelter Piano

One of the shelters I work at is called Chrysalis* . It houses a dozen young people from 18-21 years old. They are allowed to stay up to six months before finding other housing. It is the only shelter around that allows its residents to have drug problems; in the other shelters, people are kicked out for using drugs. Chrysalis philosophy argues that living on the streets is no way to kick a drug habit; one must first feel safe and stable before attempting something that hard.

In the corner of the Chrysalis dining room sits a bedraggled piano. It is an older upright, high as my shoulder, with no brand name in sight. Half the keys stick. It is so far out of tune it's nearly painful. Someone, years ago, took a permanent marker and wrote the names of each note on the keys, so it looks like a mouth full of alphabet. On top sits a giant houseplant and piles of forgotten papers.

But two days ago, on the evening shift, I heard someone playing. The music rolled, taking familiar tunes and spilling them into syncopated riffs. I heard the theme from "Fur Elise" turned into a river of jazz. Remembering how much it embarrassed me when my mother acknowledged my playing when I was young, I listened from behind the office door for maybe twenty minutes before sticking my head out. They player was one of the residents, often sent to his room for being intoxicated. He played with his eyes closed, occasionally squinting one open to examine a chord.

"That sounds beautiful," I called during a lull. He opened his eyes and spoke slowly.

"Yeah? You think so?"

"I know so," I said. "I really love hearing you play. Where'd you learn?"

He shrugged. "Taught myself. Played drums for awhile, learned how to read drum music, but everything else is just me."

I was stunned. I played piano for eleven years and took college-level music theory. The kid had talent - he had an innate sense for putting sounds together that made musical sense. I could hear the rudiments of composition in his work. Plus, it sounded damn good.

"You don't know how to read music?"

"No. Wanted to learn though."

"I'll teach you," I said immediately. His face brightened. "Really?"

"Yeah. Right now. You have time?"

"Hell yeah!"

I printed out a simple piece of music, and a sheet of staff paper from the internet. I labeled each note and asked him to label each note in the piece I'd given him. We completed one line together, and then I asked him to play it. Having the names of the notes written on the keys helped. He asked me how I learned to play without looking at my hands; I told him of an old piano teacher who used to keep a finger under my chin so I couldn't look down.

I figured if he was serious about learning, he might be willing to do some work on his own.

"Finish the rest of the piece," I told him. "I'll be back again in two days; show me what you've finished by then."

This morning, I walked in and he was waiting for me, homework in hand. "I looked up some stuff on the internet about chords," he said. "Can you show me how to do that?"

I looked at the piece of paper he'd painstakingly copied down. It was a list of formulas - major chords, minor chords, diminished, augmented, and sustained. I'd forgotten half these terms, but they came back quickly.

"Sure," I said. "Let's begin with the major scale." I gave him the formula for figuring out any major scale - whole-whole-half-whole-whole-whole-half. He followed my lead - A major, F major, B-flat major. It didn't take him more than a few tries to figure out each one. Once he'd done that, we worked on building chords. I was exhilarated.

But he was frustrated. "Look at this," he complained. He'd tried to play a scale, and four of the seven keys had stuck. "How am I supposed to play if they keep sticking?"

I didn't have an answer, but it was time for our lesson to end anyway. I told him to keep practicing, and working on the piece we'd done the first week. Once he was gone, I slipped into the office and started searching the internet for piano tuners in Seattle. I called the very first one I found, told her the story, and she said she just happened to have a free appointment the following morning and she'd be glad to come donate some of her skills and time to help us out.

"I can't promise I'll fix everything," she warned, "but I should be able to leave it in better shape than I found it."

I won't be there tomorrow when she arrives, but I can't wait for our next lesson - or to see his face when he sits down and realizes someone fixed the piano.

This kind of stuff doesn't just make my day - it makes my year. It is why I do this.