Dr. N.A.N.’s Blog
News, views, and how the world skews from Lincoln, NebraskaA Florida tradition
Every summer, my family and I spend a week in the panhandle area of Florida. We have been coming to Fort Walton Beach for 30+ years to drink margaritas or mojitos or whatever the adult beverage du jour is, walk on the white sand beach and generally do nothing. Sometimes we get lucky and the weather is sunny throughout the week and sometimes we aren’t so lucky. Since we always come at the end of the summer, our visit coincides with the hurricane season. Perhaps not the best planning but it’s tradition.
Our holiday always includes a trip to Nick’s Fish Camp, an unassuming bar/restaurant on the edge of the Basin Bayou. Nick’s is home of the “fried-fried”. This term was coined by my long-time friend Randy A. when he was describing a particular dish at another favorite restaurant of mine in San Antonio. I think Nick’s motto should be: “If it ain’t fried, it ain’t worth eatin’”. Highlights of the menu include fried shrimp, fried oysters, fried fish, fried hush puppies and of course, the ubiquitous French fries. A side order of coleslaw is available. I think the coleslaw is Nick’s attempt to round out the food pyramid. Another food tradition that we observe in Florida is the seven-layer bar. My Aunt Joanne always favors me (and my sister) with a pan of these thunder-thigh confections during our visit. Imagine a multi-layer pan cookie with a graham cracker crust and chocolate, butterscotch, coconut, pecan and condensed milk heaped on top which is baked to a gooey treat.
Another tradition that we enjoy is the company of guests that join us for the week. We have had friends visit from all over the country and world! Although the accomodations at this condo complex aren’t exactly Hotel de Crillon, we do offer the basics–cable tv, pool, laundry and pizza delivery. We rely on our guests to entertain us so if you come, be prepared to tell us stories, take us kite-flying, deep-sea fishing or anything else that will keep us occupied.
I’m not napping, I’m listening
The other day while teaching a lesson, I noticed that my responses to the student’s performance seemed instinctive—I wasn’t pondering the situation like I have been known to do on so many other occasions. Now, it is possible that this instinct is actually the product of the thousands of piano lessons I have had and the endless hours of practicing (or banging my head against the wall). Regardless, my most inspired teaching seems immediate and without hesitation. I respond to what I hear and see. Sometimes, I’ll close my eyes to hear better. (On those occasions, I do reassure my student that I’m not napping.) I also find that asking questions of the student gives me insight into his or her way of thinking about the music. Questions I typically ask are: what color do you hear? Do you have a scene or image in mind while you are playing this piece? If not, do you hear dialogue? (I sometimes hear dialogue but not specific words—just inflection, rhythm (anger, sadness, joy, inquiry)) Answers to these questions help me guide the student to play with greater clarity.
Piano technique
I would describe my technical approach to piano playing as a combination of the Dorothy Taubman technique, the John Perry technique and an invention of my own ears. I think technique should be the servant of the ears. So often, I hear pianists who have chops to burn but no discernible musical ideas. For example, a pianist came to our school and played a recital filled with very technically demanding pieces. As the program wore on (and I mean wore), my ears grew tired and I found myself searching for other things to think about so that I could leave the hall without actually going anywhere. Each successive piece got faster and louder until the piano was literally quaking on its dolly. The piano wasn’t just out-of-breath, it was exhausted. And what did this pianist accomplish? Not much. I want my students to listen and not just hear what they are playing. Often, during a lesson, I will ask, “What do you hear when you listen to this passage? Do you hear dialogue or do you see an image?” By insisting that they actively listen, the music and thus the performance becomes purposeful.
A Circumcision Parade
While still in Marrakech, my parents and I spent several hours going through the main Souk (Arabic market). We started off in the town square (or what I think was the town square) which comes alive around 6pm every night. The square itself was congested with people selling stuff. There were snake charmers, henna artists, junk dealers, pastry makers, penny whistle musicians—you name it. And although I loved being immersed in the frenetic energy created by so many people, I was happy to enter the more organized part of the market.
I still haven’t figured out if this part of the market was part of a building or just had a tarp for a roof but merchants offered their wares from booths. Each booth was probably no more than 10 feet wide and 15 feet long so accommodations were cramped. It seemed that each vendor specialized in one product or variations on a product. One gentleman was selling dates and raisins and dried figs –apparently, there are many varieties of dates and thus many different “price points”. I’m not a big fan of dates so I wasn’t overcome with emotion at the sight of them. However, when we came upon a booth selling Arabic pastries. I sensed a quiver of excitement emanate from my father. He had discovered a booth selling a rich selection of pastries (mostly fried, light dough, sweetened with honey) similar to the ones he used to eat as a little boy while living in Constantine, Algeria.
Between the two of us, I think we picked out one of each kind! What makes these pastries so unique is that they are made with no preservatives and sweetened only with honey. Some of them have nuts, others just fried dough sprinkled with powdered sugar. A lot of them have sesame seed paste or marzipan fillings. (My mouth is watering as I write this.) Typical of my father, he carefully doled these confections out over the next several days, not wanting them to disappear at the hands of others.
OK, so we finally made it through the Souk (not before we were given a half hour rug presentation by Mohammed, a master salesman) and found ourselves outside once again. Suddenly, we all hear this wonderful upbeat music coming from behind us accompanied by a lot of singing and clapping. We turned around to find a processional of musicians followed by a man and little boy on top of a horse that had been all decked out in equestrian finery. My mother asked our guide what was all the fuss about and Anas explained said that this was a post-circumcision celebration for the little boy astride the horse. The man was his father and one of the woman on the ground was his mother. Apparently, the little boy (probably 3 years old) had been circumcised that morning and as was tradition, given his own little parade as the sun went down. Ouch.
My Berber Day
Although I didn’t expect our side trip to Morocco to be life-changing, I think it was and I am anxious to go back to this beautiful country. My parents and I flew to Casablanca (or Cazablanca as it is said in Arabic) and drove from there to Marrakech.
Our days in Marrakech were very nice, but our time spent in the high Atlas mountains proved to be absolutely unique. 
We stayed at a lovely hotel nestled into a hill just above the river that runs through Asni valley. Hanging out at the hotel our entire visit would have been fine. But on my last day there, I was escorted around the valley by an employee of the hotel, a Berber-born and raised gentleman named Mohamed. He offered to escort us to the Saturday market down in Asni Central - an opportunity to experience an Berber market first hand.
Saturday morning, Mohamed showed up at the hotel, having hitched a ride on a local taxi. From there, the four of us headed down the mountain to the market. On the way there, we passed by his home so he invited us in for a snack and mint tea. After the brief repast (and an opportunity to meet some family members), we continued on to the market. The market experience deserves its own essay so I will be brief here. There were so many unique things to see and smell and touch in the market including a typical “Berber parking lot” (a hundred tethered donkeys waiting for their owners to fill their packs and head home).
We must have looked every bit the tourists, as we were approached by several men intent on talking us out of some of our dirham. In the market, Mohamed helped me buy a 2 kilo cone of sugar (which I hauled back to America just because I wanted to), an authentic tagine (traditional Moroccan cooking vessel) and a suitcase (!) for my parents.
When we finished exploring the market, my parents headed back up the mountain in a taxi. It was my plan to walk back. Mohamed took me aside and asked if I would go to an internet café because he wanted to show me a website. After we spent time looking at websites (I helped translate some of the English), I thought surely I would head home. Nothin’ doin’. He said he wanted me to have my hands henna-ed and would I go up the mountain (in another direction) with him?
So we crammed ourselves into one of the many van/taxi buses that regularly run a route among all of the little villages and headed up the hill. Our destination (which at the time I didn’t know) was the village of Moulay Ibrahim. Please understand that a Berber taxi can be anything from an old Mercedes to a rusty Volkswagen to a mini bus. Taxi drivers don’t have a meter—you just barter the price ahead of time based on where you are going. I noticed that Mohamed had a concerned look on his face—maybe he was worried about putting me on one of those buses, sandwiched between complete strangers in a strange country with strange customs but I kept smiling because for me it was just part of the adventure. Once we arrived, we walked up these very old steps and came across several women who were offering henna services. He sat me down, had a rapid discussion in Arabic with the woman (I’m assuming over price) and then he left me while she went to work. He arrived shortly before she was finished (I had thick ink on both sides of both of my hands by now) and asked me if I would like to see more of the village. From there, we wandered around Moulay Ibrahim.
Mohamed wanted me to have something to remind me of him and my Berber day so he bought me a beautiful Hand of Fatima wall ornament from one of the many merchants in the Soukup (poor translation for market). It now goes everywhere with me! It was in this same outdoor market that I noticed goat carcasses hanging in a butcher’s window—I could handle that because the carcasses had been cleaned and were ready for cooking. What did bother me was when I noticed the heads of these same goats lying on the ground next to the display case. I know my mother would not have been happy!
From there, we headed back down the steep hill. Instead of taking the road, Mohamed suggested we take a “shortcut.” This wasn’t your average shortcut. Very steep and rocky—much better suited for a mule or donkey than a human. But I loved every minute of it. As we clambered downward, Mohamed and I talked about so many things that were important to our lives—a very humbling experience for me.
Mohamed would frequently ask me if I was hungry or wanted something to drink. I finally agreed to have mint tea at a café we found at the bottom of this craggy hill. Like the rest of the gallons of mint tea I had consumed, this was delicious. Of all the wonderful things I had to eat and drink during my trip, I think I miss the mint tea the most.
Now I could go on, but I won’t bore you with the walk, taxi, scooter and motorcycle ride that we took just to get back to the hotel. As our day together was coming to an end, I realized that I was taken with this gentleman. He escorted a complete stranger around on his day off, spent his hard-earned money on her (he wouldn’t let me pay for anything) and demonstrated a genuine kindness and generosity that I found refreshing and almost unsettling.
As I said earlier, I want to return to the area. Perhaps I could bring Piano-in-Tow with me?
Finally, a day that makes all this hard work worthwhile…
I was beginning to wonder…When I applied for a Layman Fund Grant ($10,000) to initiate my Piano in Tow project, I figured I would hear the results mid-March. Well, mid-March came and went so I was really starting to worry. (I imagined that they contacted the “winners” first and then sent the losers a snail-mail letter. So, I have been approaching my school mailbox with fear and trepidation–knowing full well that any day, I would read that my project wasn’t worthy of funding…)
This morning, when I was checking my email, I found a note from the Vice Chancellor of Research. I was convinced that funding for P-i-T was not going to happen, especially when the first paragraph of this email was all about how the committee comes to their decision–I’m thinking, “Ok, let’s get this over with.” I keep reading and a little further down there are the words “pleased” and $10,000. I read no further. Time to get on the phone and tell the world!!
Many thanks to my parents and Mr. Ben for all of their help in putting together what must have been a convincing proposal!!!
The Special Men List
Several years ago, I realized that there are several men friends in my life who are very special to me. NOT boyfriends - these are “men friends” with whom I do not have any romantic involvement. These are men of diverse backgrounds who don’t necessarily share any particular characteristics with each other. They are special because they are kind, gentle, hard-working and compassionate. But they all possess a quality hard to find nowadays in anyone—altruism, defined by the dictionary as the “unselfish regard for or devotion to the welfare of others.” Below, then is the first entry in Dr. N.A.N.’s Special Men List. I refer to them by their first name only to protect their identity…
First on the list is Steve. Steve’s a camo-loving hunter who regularly gives his time, energy and tremendous skills to The Cat House. Being a vegetarian, I usually don’t seek out the company of hunters, but Steve is different. He enjoys hunting but is just as happy to go out in the wilderness and not shoot anything. For him, it is an opportunity to leave the stress of work behind and to drink lots of cheap beer. He and his wife frequently take in kittens either too young or too wild to be placed in the shelter. Steve watches over those kittens like they were his own children. Nobody messes with those baby kittens.
Steve is always willing to help me with any task. He’s moved a lot of my junk (washers, dryers, bedroom furniture, cat trees), installed a disposal, unplugged a shower drain (I didn’t want to handle the very toxic product designed for this chore), hung plastic over my windows and patched a hole in the wall where a lit candle got out of control. He’s even taught me how to shoot various firearms (only at a target) and to appreciate the importance of the Second Amendment.
I find myself smiling when I drive up to The Cat House and see Steve’s truck. I always feel safe when he’s around! I don’t know what if anything I can do to repay Steve for all of his kindnesses. But I would like him to know how much his friendship has meant to me.
New Additions - Brahms and more
Since I’m a pianist, some of my readers have asked me to share some of what I do for a living on the site. So I’m happy to oblige. Look to your right and you’ll see a sidebar called “Dr. NAN’s Performances.” Which is just what they are - both recordings taken from some of my solo recitals, as well as some of my CD recordings. The first two are taken from a solo performance I did here in Lincoln a while back - a couple of the wonderful late piano works of Johannes Brahms. Hope you like it. I’ll be updating the sidebar from time to time with more music so stay tuned!
Deborah Reinhardt, 1937-2007
Maybe there really is something to the adage “only the good die young.” I just learned about the recent death in a car accident of one of the founding members of The Cat House here in Lincoln, Nebraska. Deborah Reinhardt was one of the key movers in TCH when it was first started back in 1999. She eventually moved to Chico, California to join the music education faculty at Chico State University but her contributions continue to be felt to this day.
Not only did I know her through The Cat House, I also had the pleasure of working alongside her at the University of Nebraska. Deb was an extraordinarily talented and intelligent person. She was an expert in the Dalcroze method of music instructions, as well as a beautiful needleworker, vocalist, pianist, gardener, baker and lover of kitties.
No task was ever too big or too difficult for Deb. She could lay carpet, strip furniture, roof a house and guide a classroom full of students. She was even a winner on Jeopardy! many years ago. I was in awe of her intelligence.
Deb Reinhardt will be sadly missed by The Cat House community. Her needlework still hangs here in Lincoln, and her contribution of ideas and enthusiasm to our organization will never be forgotten.
Deb’s death is the third loss to The Cat House of wonderful volunteers who died too young. Evette McPherson and Linda Vavrus were two other very committed members of our organization who passed away too soon. This kind of tragedy always inspires a renewal of my dedication to TCH. If you haven’t already, please visit our website: www.thecathouse.org. It is truly an amazing group dedicated to the welfare of cats and kittens!
Claude Françaix
Last time I was in Paris, I had the opportunity to meet one of the daughters of composer Jean Françaix. Claude Françaix lives in Orléans, but makes frequent visits to Paris to care for her ailing mother and her mother’s two pets.
We met over tea and ice cream (from Berthillion, where else?). She shared many funny stories about her father and gave me some insight into his way of thinking about music and life. Claude explained that her father loved ambiguity in all things. For instance, when she was born, Monsieur Françaix declared that she should be called Claude because of the ambiguity of the name itself. He wanted the world to wonder if she was a little boy or a little girl. When her sister was born, he tried the same thing but their mother would have nothing to do with it!
Claude also told me when Jean Françaix was a young man, he would occasionally accompany a choir that his mother conducted. He was appalled at the choir’s lack of intonation and noticed that the only person singing in tune was a young girl. He later claimed that he chose that young girl to be his wife because she sang in tune!
For most of the meeting, we spoke French. I had asked my parents to participate so that when I had difficulty with either comprehension or articulation, they could help with translation. Although they seemed interested at the beginning, somewhere in the middle of our conversation, I looked over to see my father with his head drooped, quietly napping. I then turned to my mother who was valiantly trying to stay awake! So I still wonder if I understood everything Claude was saying…
At one point, Claude described to me the apartment that her parents shared. She said that it is practically a museum filled with most of her father’s memorabilia. Can you imagine the treasure trove it must contain? Her mother continues to live in it but prefers not to have any visitors. What I would give to poke around in Jean Françaix’s home of many years!
We ended our meeting with a promise to stay in touch and for Claude to send me more stories about her father. She also gave me a CD that she and her father had recorded of his works for two pianos. The playing was lovely and the ensemble was very tight. And I know a little something about this, having recorded my share of two-piano CDs..
Talking to Claude felt like I was sitting across from history itself. Here was a woman who knew Jean Françaix intimately, had spent much of her life learning from him and had even made music with him. I look forward to meeting with Claude again, immersing myself in more of Jean Françaix and maybe even getting the chance to snoop around his old home.
