From backhoes to Bach

It was a day to stand watch with amazement as threads from long ago loop through each other and stretch on to the future. The day had three simple chores at my father's house - meet with the folks who'd be installing propane tanks, meet with the engineer who'd be designing the new septic system, and taking a carload of sauna wood from the basement to the camp. - followed by an evening of music at the annual piano recital.

And, here's how it went:

• The guy who'd be installing the propane tanks (with his grandson doing most of the heavy lifting) went to trade school with my father in the 30s. He still thought my father lived on Pine Street in Gardner, at my grandparents' home. I explained how this house came to be and how my grandparents moved next door in the early 60s.
  
• The guy with the backhoe would be digging the test holes for the septic system. I recognized the last name. He was a few years younger than me, but I knew his older brothers.
  
• I didn't know the engineer, but he had a Grateful Dead sticker on his truck. A woman from the engineering company had married into a large family who shared a camp at Queen Lake. We often see her husband paddling his kayak around the lake.
• The fellow who is refinishing the floors in the house is a long-time friend of Mike's and, in the antediluvian era, was a debating opponent of mine when we were in high school.

I watched as the backhoe operator dug three big holes in the front yard, where the septic system has been. It may be too wet there. (For readers who don't own property in Massachusetts, this work is required to meet Title V requirements. Title V specifies how water and sewer systems must be built to ensure clean water in neighboring wells and in other water sources. When you sell a house, not only must the system pass inspection, but you must guarantee that it will work for one year.) Plan B led to three big holes in the woods behind the house. As I watched the operator dig three more holes, I studied the pine trees that I used to climb as a kid. The trees are taller now and the lower branches have fallen away, so climbing would be tough. The trees are tall enough to block some of the sunlight in the winter, sunlight that my father used to keep his house warm.

Lots of people who can load and unload a truck full of wood after a day's work; some will even cut and split the wood as well. So, loading and unloading a Subaruful of wood shouldn't be front page news, but, for me, it was the mark of a good day. The wood that I brought to the camp will likely give us saunas for the rest of this year. The wood is split small and very dry, so we'll get good, hot saunas quickly.

The piano recital was held in the Town Hall, a classic New England building in the center of town. There were a couple dozen performers, hosted by their teacher. Tess and Krista delighted us with pieces from Scott Joplin while Mike lit up the hall with Mozart's Fantasia in D Minor.

A long time ago, I took a music appreciation course. The teacher, a woman, said that because men do better at math than women, they're more inclined to like Bach. Take that as you will. The only Bach piece played at the recital was by a young boy.

It's said that the mark of a truly cultured person is the ability to listen to the William Tell Overture without thinking of the Lone Ranger. So, as we listen to one of students play Dance of the Hours by Ponichelle, I heard the words to Allan Sherman's Hello Muddah, Hello Fadduh.