Alpha

Day 312: Admitting defeat doesn't come easily to many of us, but eventually the truth of the matter becomes so painfully obvious that only a fool would persist in denying it. Today, I relinquished my alpha status with respect to the harpsichord, although I did insist on covering it with a thick and somewhat moth-eaten Pendleton blanket. My first attempt involved a quilt, and it didn't register with me that it had been stored in a trunk with a pennyroyal packet. The lingering scent of pennyroyal had the same (or even stronger) effect as catnip on my Wild Child who, at great peril to my skin, had to be stuffed in the Time-out Box until it wore off. Casting about for any other protection I could offer the wood, the Pendleton came to mind. It was also savagely attacked, although the novelty wore off after half an hour or so. However, a secondary problem arose, in that now paws could reach both a dangling Hoya vine and a framed needlework piece if he really stretched himself. The plant has been moved. The needlework may have to be. Little by little, I'm learning whothe real boss is around here.

Pluck It

Day 97: When it comes right down to the mechanics, a harpsichord is a much more complicated piece of equipment than its descendant, the piano. For one thing, the strings are plucked, as opposed to being struck. When a key is depressed, its jack is raised in much the same fashion as the jacks on a loom raise the harnesses, and a small projection called a plectrum ticks the string, causing it to sound. When the key is released, the jack drops back into its resting position and the sound is dampened. In other words, if you want a whole note to sound throughout an entire measure, your finger must remain on the key while your other fingers play the remaining notes. In this, the method for playing a harpsichord is similar to that used in playing an organ. My harpsichord is double-voiced, which is to say that each key can cause two strings to be plucked at once ("can," not "must"). I also have the option to lightly damp either voice for a softer tone. It is also rather a pain in the neck to tune, but I've written about that before in all its gruesome detail.

Baroque

Day 66: With rain coming down and no sign of a break from unpleasant weather, I'm getting a little desperate for material here, so today I'm going for baroque and will bore you with a glimpse of my back-story. In the long-ago, I trained as a keyboardist, and it was then that I first became interested in the harpsichord and the music of its era. Although I had only a piano on which to play, I began tucking away my figurative pennies in the hopes that some day, I could purchase the instrument of my dreams. Evenutally, I saved up enough for the double-voice rosewood Sabathil you see in this photo. As has been said of harpists, harpsichordists also "spend half their time tuning and the other half playing out-of-tune." Fortunately, my husband was possessed of perfect pitch and kept it on key. For me, though, tuning is a struggle, especially when two strings serve two different notes, and each single note is served by two strings (one for each voice). It takes me hours to tune it up, and one humid afternoon to knock it out of whack. As a result, I don't play as often as I used to (or as I'd like), and although my electric piano has a harpsichord voice, the artificial generation of the sound simply doesn't have the character of plucked strings. That said, although I don't play many carols, various instruments seem to come out of hiding during the holiday season even though I can only play one at a time.

Poco A Poco

Day 325: There's an old joke about harpists which applies almost equally to harpsichordists: they spend half their time tuning up and the other half of the time playing out of tune. Trust me, I know. I play both. Although a harpsichord holds its tune better than a harp, it is much more difficult to maintain because each note is serviced by two strings, each of which supplies a "voice," i.e., when A is struck and both voices are active, two plectra are raised to pluck adjacent strings. These voices can be isolated or muted at the performer's discretion, although doing so does not affect tuning. However, to further complicate the tuner's job, each string runs the length of the sound box from one tuning peg, goes 'round a stationary peg and returns to be wound on a second tuning peg to give the next musical half-step. In other words, A and B-flat are played on halves of the same string in any one voice. As the tuner brings A to pitch, the tension of B-flat is also affected, so that a balance must be achieved, and each voice must be tuned separately.

Okay, if you're good and confused, maybe you'll understand why I always left the tuning of my harpsichord in my late husband's capable hands. The man couldn't read a note, but had perfect pitch. It took him about half an hour to perform the equivalent of a full-day operation for me. Since I've been on my own, tuning is something I try to avoid, often playing with the instrument so badly out of pitch that it makes me cringe, and never playing in front of anyone.

I've been feeling a need for music in my life, and not the kind which comes out of a speaker. As a side to my current interest in Morris dance, I've dragged out a recorder and my harmonica and have been picking away at "Shepherd's Hey" and "Tinner's Rabbit." Although that has satisfied my desire to make music, it hasn't done so fully, hence my project for the morning: tune the harpsichord. I settled in for the siege, but surprised myself by having it done in about an hour. Now, where's Haydn hidin'?

Prunes And Prisms

Day 113: I was only about four years old when my grandmother (a teacher in the early 1900s) explained to me that smiling was an affectation of the vulgar. "A proper young woman should never allow her teeth to be seen," she told me. "You must practice holding your mouth in a prim manner by repeating the words 'prunes' and 'prisms' several times throughout the day." Although I ignored this rather Victorian piece of advice for the most part, I did take to heart her counsel about not frowning or squinting. Today, I have but a few lines on my ancient forehead. In fact, my age shows primarily around my mouth, perhaps because I neglected those pert, proper prunes and prisms prescribed in Grandma's school of etiquette.