Music Camp Down Below

Ever since the girls started taking Suzuki music lessons, we’ve been making attendance at summer institutes a priority.  The first time we went to Santa Fe, which offered only violin but included classes for siblings; then when Beth switched to Suzuki method piano, we went to Chicago, which offers both violin and piano.  They’ve had excellent musical instruction, have been reinvigorated, and have made friends at Institute.  So when we learned that there would be a Suzuki Summer Camp here in Masterton, we signed up.

In the United States, these experiences are called “Institutes.”  Here, the Institute is what Americans call the Association, and the week-long experience is called a “camp.”  Rightfully so, as most people bring tents or caravans and actually camp.  Camp started on a Wednesday, and the day before was the hottest day we’ve had so far this summer.  When the wind began blowing and the clouds began to billow, we thought that we were in for a nice change of weather.  The rain started on Wednesday and didn’t let up until camp was over.  People were good-natured about it, but everyone was walking around soaked.  I felt a twinge of guilt (but mostly gratitude) each evening as we loaded into our van and headed home for a warm bath or shower and climbed into nice dry beds.  Of course today, the day after everyone has packed up their saturated gear and headed home, the sun is shining.

Katy has always looked forward to going to Suzuki camp.  She makes loads of friends and seems to enjoy getting up on stage and performing.  In Masterton, all the children bring bicycles and scooters and have a great time riding around the campus.  We also had free access to the swimming pool—but Wednesday was the only day suitable for a swim, as the rain started that evening.  So there were lots of opportunities for all the children to play together and meet other children who weren’t necessarily in the same classes.  Our family stood out a bit as “the American family,” though there was one other American family from Seattle there.  But everyone seemed to know who we were after Glenn stitched up Allen, a boy who’d punctured his leg on his bicycle handbrake. 

The classes in violin were similar to the ones Katy has had in Chicago and Santa Fe.  She had a daily master class with Val, who worked with her on strong, energetic bowing and helped her polish the Lully Gavotte to prepare for her solo.  Her group class was led by Annabelle, who taught with fun and games.  She had the students move in a circle with one half playing “Twinkle” and the other half playing “May Song.”  As they walked toward a certain point, they had to start listening to one while playing the other, then switch songs when they reached that point.  This was a great exercise in listening to other musicians’ parts—good preparation for playing the Bach Double or playing in any ensemble.  Katy’s third class was ensemble, led by Alison, who will be Katy’s teacher here in New Zealand.  The students had been sent the music ahead of time, so most already knew the music; the week was devoted to learning to play together in an orchestral setting.  It was wonderful to see the evolution of the students as a group—what started out as a cacophony barely resembling music ended as a lovely rendition of St. Anthony’s Chorale.

Beth usually attends camp reluctantly, even with a sense of dread.  She makes friends over time rather than in a week-long encounter, and the idea of performing fills her with apprehension.  The first day of this camp, we missed the announcement that pianists were supposed to go to a different room, so she was late getting to the initial “play-in” where all the campers play familiar music.  That made her feel off-balance from the beginning.  Glenn and I worried that she would be miserable throughout the week.  All that changed, though, at her first master class.  Zohara was her tutor, and what a lovely, talented master teacher she is!  Beth absolutely adored her.  Zohara taught Beth much in one week, and did so with a gentle, loving kindness that can’t really be described on paper.  A second class was accompanying, a new skill for most of the pianists and a great opportunity for them to learn to listen to others while playing.  They also played in an ensemble class, with four pianists playing together.  Beth played a Clementi Sonatina with three other pianos and a faculty orchestra—beautiful!  Her final class was a jazz enrichment class.  This was a stretch for any student who is a perfectionist or who wants to play music as it is written; they had to learn to trust their own sense of rhythm and melody.  It was a wonderful week for Beth, and although she was nervous about performing, she did a terrific job.

I just love Suzuki music and the Suzuki community.  A student can go anywhere in the world and play with other musicians, and they are connected through the same repertoire.  They may not even speak the same language, but they communicate through the language of music.  Camp here was a chance to meet a group of wonderful parents and delightful children, and to play together with and without musical instruments.  I’m looking forward to the next year of music lessons with Alison and Gillian.

Remembering Charlie

On January 6 (the 5th in the United States), Glenn received word that his father Charles Edward Craig, Jr. had been taken to the hospital for evaluation.  At first, we were told that his toe was black and they wanted to find out why.  It didn't sound life-threatening, so we weren't alarmed.  Later in the day, though, we learned that Charlie's leg was black from the knee down--gangrene, caused most likely by collapse of arteries to his leg.  The surgeon evaluated him and based on his overall health, his age, and his mental status, didn't feel that Charlie should undergo surgery.  Glenn and I agreed.

Glenn immediately began making arrangements to travel back to the US.  The earliest he could leave New Zealand was January 8, getting in on the 8th to Tulsa.  Due to the cost and difficulty of travel, especially on such short notice, Glenn and I decided that he should go and the girls and I should stay here.  Before Glenn could leave, Charlie died at 12:30 p.m. January 6.

When I first met Charlie, he welcomed me warmly with his huge smile, exuding genuine friendliness and joy.  That same smile welcomed many, many people over the years, and is what brought a number of people to his beloved College Hill Presbyterian Church.  His was a life filled with people.  He loved being the greeter at his church, being the first to say hello and the last to leave after the service was concluded.  He volunteered during the week to go and fold the orders of service, and he was available to help in whatever ways he could.  When we had a 90th birthday party for him at College Hill, the room was filled with friends and family, and he walked about the room smiling and greeting all.  I was amazed by the number of people of all ages whose lives had been touched by Charlie.

During that first meeting, Glenn and I went with Charlie to the nursing home where his wife Eleanor was living.  He went there every day, sometimes twice per day, to be with her and to feed her a meal.  He was compassionate and caring, and ever so patient with her, up to the time of Eleanor's death in May 1998.

Charlie's favorite entertainments at that time were baseball and financial paperwork, which he did in his own inimitable way.  He had heaps of papers on nearly every horizontal surface, neatly stacked and arranged by his own system.  Much to the amusement or dismay (I'm not sure which) of his accountant, he kept money ferreted away in many small accounts at several institutions, each account earmarked for a specific purpose.  Yet despite his unconventional system, Charlie was a good steward of his finances, and was generous as well.  He planned for the future by investing on behalf of his grandchildren and planning his estate.  Even in his death, he has been generous by donating his body to science and by planning and pre-paying his final arrangements.

Like all of us, I suppose, Charlie had his quirks.  I remember how Charlie refused to turn on the air conditioner every summer.  The house might be sweltering, but Charlie would be there in his skivvies with only a fan to keep cool.  If we told him we were coming over, he'd turn on the room air conditioner for us, but it was a sort of badge of honor for him that he didn't need it.  He was also impossible when it came to gifts.  He pretty much had what he needed, so most gifts were unnecessary, much to the dismay of anyone who tried to surprise him.  I felt a small victory when I was able to give him a set of pajamas that he actually liked and kept.

Though he had been an only child, Charlie loved being with large groups of people.  When Glenn and I were married, Charlie became a part of my side of the family, joining in the family celebrations.  I recall my mother's amusement when, after we'd all eaten way too much at Thanksgiving, she resignedly said, "Well, I guess everyone's too full for pie," looking a little sadly at the vast array of desserts.  "No," Charlie chimed in, "I think I can still have some."  And he did, too: pumpkin, cherry, and just a sliver of pecan.  He did love pie!

He also loved his grandchildren.  I've been told stories about how he and Eleanor took Danny to Space Camp, a real highlight of Danny's childhood.  When Beth and Katy were born, he was delighted to have more grandchildren, and he was among the first to see them in the hospital.  We have a picture of him holding up Katy's tiny foot; he's grinning from ear to ear.  He even babysat the girls a few times when they were toddlers, spending hours reading to them and snuggling with both girls in his lap.

It was Charlie's decision, made shortly after he turned 90, to move into Inverness Village, a multi-stage retirement community.  He had an independent apartment for a while and even continued to drive his car, but as he was eating irregularly, he moved into the assisted living program where he'd be reminded to eat meals and to take his medication.  He would walk around the room greeting people and helping the others with their meals, and I believe that in his way of thinking, he was there to help others, not to be helped.  After several strokes, though, he needed more assistance, and he spent his final couple of years in the skilled nursing unit.

How do you sum up the life of a person who lived 95 years?  His occupations--the Navy, McCormick Foods, Sun Oil?   The causes and organizations he supported--Animal Aid, the Red Cross, the Masons, College Hill?  The pet phrases he uttered--"It's not heavy, it's just bulky;"  "I'm not yelling, I'm being emphatic"?   No, none of these is adequate.  The best way to memorialize Charles Craig is through his relationships: he was husband to Eleanor, father to Glenn, grandfather to Danny, Katy, and Beth, cousin to Lena Mae, father-in-law to Bobbie and to me, and friend to all who met him.  His legacy is one of kindness and friendliness, of joy in life and the ecstasy of pie-eating.  He will be sorely missed.