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"...Oh, I'm listening to my daughter play the piano right now. I wonder if she takes requests."

If you keep your cards close and lay them down carefully, it's possible. Off the top, I would guess she would find it hard to say no if [1] You send a fire-daddy to make the request, [2] He writes it on a twenty, and [3] A lot depends on what you ask for.

If a fireman were to ask for "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes," who could deny him? I know I couldn't. Of course, she may not be old enough to know this one, though I would imagine any daughter of yours would have at least a nodding acquaintance with the great lyrical works... and, it is covered very often in film and TV, to this very day. But that is where writing it on a twenty comes to the rescue. It may not be your daily grind of a 12-bar blues, but almost any performer will make an effort for an audience which shows some bulge at the tip jar, and I daresay there's a Fake Book within arm's reach. For twenty bucks, you might even get a medley... "Smoke Gets In," "Our Love is Here to Stay," and "These Foolish Things." (I'd ask for that one a little up-tempo; it brings out the poignancy, and no teenage girl can resist that.)

I suppose there is not much call at a wedding for "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes," unless one of the mothers-in-law is in an especially grim mood. Though, to me, 1933 is not so very long ago, and Jerome Kern is as fresh as tomorrow. George Gershwin,"Our Love is Here to Stay;" released in 1938 after his tragic, early death, but it still has a lot of life left in it.

I did not know this story, though:

"These Foolish Things" is a standard with words by Eric Maschwitz and music by Jack Strachey, both Englishmen. Harry Link, an American, sometimes appears as a co-writer; his input is probably limited to an alternative "middle eight" (bridge) which many performers prefer. It is one of a group of 'Mayfair Songs', like "A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square" [my idea of a fine encore--- ed.] Maschwitz wrote the song under his pen name, Holt Marvell, for Joan Carr for a late-evening revue broadcast by the BBC. The copyright was lodged in 1936. Maschwitz was romantically linked to the Chinese-American actress Anna May Wong while working in Hollywood, and the lyrics are evocative of his longing for her after they parted..."

So far, so well-known. The incredible part:

..."The song was not an immediate success and even Keith Prowse, Maschwitz's agent, refused to publish it, releasing the copyright to Maschwitz himself - a stroke of luck for the lyricist. Writing in 1957, he claimed to have made £40,000 from the song. Despite being featured in "Spread it Abroad," a London revue of 1936, it aroused no interest until the famous West Indian pianist and singer, Leslie Hutchinson ('Hutch') discovered it on top of a piano in Maschwitz's office at the BBC. 'Hutch' liked it and recorded it, whereupon it became a great success and was recorded by musicians all over the world. This first recording by 'Hutch' was by HMV in 1936."

from Wiki:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/These_Foolish_Things

For once! It may be a touching song, but I call it a happy ending.
"The smell of burning leaves, the wail of steamers/
Two lovers holding hands who walk like dreamers..."

Our modest little request may be written on a twenty today, but tomorrow it could be on a fistful of ten-thousand-dollar bills. Hey, a girl never knows.

Wow, Clef, thanks for the back story on "These Foolish Things." Who knew? What a great lyric that song has.

I had a great time in Berlin playing for the Canadian Ambassador. "Heart of Gold" scored big points for me and I even got one of those maple leaf lapel pins, which might come in handy. I performed in Berlin with my long-time song-writing partner Peter Fessler, who is a gifted guitarist and a world class singer. We did five songs, two of which were penned by us. About 100 people at the Ritz Carlton. Lovely hotel, and they have grand pianos everywhere. I saw at least four of them in the 18 hours I was there.

There was some VIP staying in the room next to me. I knew this because there was a security guard sitting outside the room all day and all night. And I thought having an assistant was bad. Imagine having someone right outside your door all the time. I don't know if this made me feel safer or not. Maybe I've seen too many movies where the bad guys break into the wrong room and whack the piano player. Actually there are no movies like that, but it's not a bad idea. At breakfast the next morning I noticed a lot of high fallutin' Russians. Maybe the VIP belonged to that bunch.

Last night's wedding was easy, although the guests were extremely LOUD. I played for the cocktail hour. The Upper Class Trio (featuring GoGo the singer) followed me and played dinner music and later for dancing. I love this band, in spite of their unfortunate name—but what the heck, they work all the time, so the name obviously isn't hurting them.

My big concert at the castle is tonight. There is a lot of snow on the ground and I fear attendance may be hindered. I hope I can be there myself. As I write this there are small children (not mine) skiing down my driveway. I'm very much looking forward to this evening. We'll have about 75 people in a charming salon with lots of candlelight. The concert will be followed by a four course dinner. Yeah! My husband and I are staying overnight and ringing in his 54th birthday in style. John has spent the week performing with the fantastic Kurt Elling. Now he is out shovelling snow. Ah, the life of the working musician . . .

It will be good to have a day off tomorrow.

i always enjoy your anecdotes Robin!

Nothing messes up my ability to play either piano or bass more than shovelling snow. I hope John doesn't have to move too much of it! Happy birthday to John, and enjoy your concert and evening, Robin!

John survived the shovelling, I survived the drive (over the river and through the woods), and we only had a handful of cancellations for my concert. What fun we had. There was such a nice vibe in the audience—I knew (personally) about half the people there, and the complete strangers who happened to show up were welcomed warmly by those more familiar with what I do. After the concert people were seated at tables of ten and oh boy did they ever whoop it up during dinner—not something I expect at a candlelight dinner, but there was such a festive mood to the evening. I think we were all just happy to be alive after risking life and piano limbs just to get there.

John (the husband) and I have sort of a rule about not working together—we figure our marriage is more important than a couple of gigs, but we broke with tradition for this one concert and he played a few pieces with me, most notably a musical version of "Married to the Bass" a story from Piano Girl. I recited the story while he stood behind me and played. You can just imagine. I am posting it below, in case you're not familiar with this piece. Bass Player Magazine published it a few years ago and I started getting emails from bassists who were carrying it around with them so they could show it to babes they wanted to impress. There you go.

One funny thing happened at the concert. We did the program, took a bunch of bows, and then the audience wanted an encore. I sat down to play, and a guy in the front row, who was wearing an AMERICAN FLAG tie, shouted out "ROMEO AND JULIET." So there you go, once a cocktail pianist, always a cocktail pianist. I should have told him to write the request on the back of a twenty.

Anyway, that's it for me and the high pressure gigs for this year. I have quite a few cocktail piano gigs coming up between now and January 1st, but those jobs will be easy and fun. One wedding, tomorrow. I hope something will happen so I can report back here, but off-season weddings tend to be uneventful.

Here's the Married to the Bass story. Happy reading.

Married to the Bass
Excerpt from Piano Girl: A Memoir
Courtesy of Backbeat Books
©2006 Robin Meloy Goldsby

Okay, Ladies, listen up. Bass players make great husbands. There is no scientific data to support my claim. But having worked my way through the rhythm section, the technicians, and a handful of brass, reed, and string players, I’m a qualified judge.

First, consider this. A man who plays an upright bass is strong. He lugs the instrument around, carries it up steps, slides it in and out of cars, and maneuvers it through large crowds of people. If you marry a bass player you’ll be getting a physically fit husband. Okay, there is the occasional back problem. This crops up two or three times a year—usually when you want him to move your grandmother’s walnut armoire or need him to stand on a ladder and drill a hole in the ceiling. But you can cope with such minor inconveniences by calling a muscular clarinet player who is handy with a power drill. Good luck finding one. Here’s the thing: When your bass player is pain-free, he’s as strong as a bull. He has to be in order to make the gig. And he might even throw you over his shoulder and carry you over the threshold every so often, just because he can.

Next, ponder the shape of the upright bass. It’s shaped like a woman. A bass player knows about bumps and curves—he even likes them. He has dedicated his life to coaxing beautiful music out of voluptuous contours. He’ll do the same for you. Just don’t marry a stick-bass player, unless you look like Kate Moss or intend to spend the rest of your life eating lettuce.

Examine the bass player’s hands, especially when he’s playing a particularly fast passage. Now imagine what those fingers can do to you. Enough said.

A great bassist is an ensemble player, a team member who executes, with confidence, a vital role in any band with the strength of his groove, the steadiness of his rhythm, and the imaginative logic of his harmonic lines. This doesn’t just apply to the bassist’s music. It also applies to his outlook on life. A bass-player husband will be loyal, true, and interesting, and will help you emerge from life’s challenges looking and sounding better than you ever imagined. If you’re in a bad mood, don’t worry. He’ll change keys. On the other hand, if you marry a pianist, he’ll try and arrange everything and then tell you what your disposition should be. If you marry a guitarist, he’ll try to get ahead of you by analyzing your temperament in double-time. If you marry a drummer, it won’t matter what kind of mood you’re in because he’ll just forge ahead with his own thing. A bass player follows along, supports you, and makes you think that everything is okay, even when the world is crashing down around you.

There are some minor drawbacks. You need to have a house with empty corners, especially if your husband owns more than one upright bass. I know, you have that newly reupholstered Louis XV chair that would look fabulous in the corner by the window. Forget it—that’s where the bass has to go. You can come to terms with these trivial decorating disappointments by reflecting on the sculpture-like quality of the instrument. Even when it’s silent, it’s a work of art.

If you have children—and you will because bass players make great fathers—your most frequently uttered phrase will be “WATCH THE BASS!” You will learn how to interject this phrase into every conversation you have with your children. For instance: “Hello, sweetie, watch the bass, did you have a nice day at kindergarten? We’re having rice and broccoli for lunch, watch the bass, do you want milk or water to drink?”

You will be doomed to a life of station wagons, minivans, and SUVs. You might harbor a secret fantasy of zooming around town in a Mazda MX5 convertible, but this will never happen unless you go through a big messy divorce, give your bass-player husband custody of the children, and marry a violinist, which would be no fun at all. Better to accept the hatchback as an integral part of your existence and get on with it.

Any trip you make with your family and the bass will be a pageant that requires detailed organization and nerves of steel. In addition to your two children (one of whom probably wants to be a drummer—heaven help you), you will commence your journey with suitcases, bass, bass trunk, backpacks, amp, car seats, strollers, and diaper bag. Your husband, weighted down with an enormous backpack and a bass trunk the size of a Sub-Zero refrigerator, will leave you to deal with everything else. As you try to walk inconspicuously through the airport terminal, people will point and stare.

First Spectator: “They look the Slovenian Traveling Circus!”

Second Spectator: “Hey buddy, you should have played the flute!”

Things like that.

You will learn how to say ha, ha, ha, stick your nose in the air, and pretend that you are traveling with a big star, which of course he is, to you.

Your bass-player husband will know the hip chord changes to just about every song ever written in the history of music. This is a good thing. Just don’t ask him to sing the melody. He might be able to play the melody, but he won’t sing it—he’ll sing the bass line. And, if you happen to play the piano, as I do, don’t expect him to just sit there silently and appreciate what you are playing without making a few suggestions for better changes and voicings. He’ll never give up on trying to improve your playing. But that’s why you married him in the first place. He accepts what you do, but he pushes you to do it better.

If you marry the bass player, you marry the bass. Buy one, get one free. Your husband will be passionate about his music, which will grant you the freedom to be passionate about the things you do. You might not worship the bass as much as he does, but you’ll love the bass player more every day.

LOL That is a fantastic story about a bass man!

Glad things have simmered down for you. I'm off to a "musicians social" to support a local band this evening. My friend plays bass, I just might have to point him to this story!

You're very kind to us bass players, Robin. Thanks!

Glad you enjoyed the bass player story! Just don't get me started about guitarists. I'm not nearly as kind.

So at last night's holiday wedding I had to deal with a famous Russian piano teacher (he was a guest) who stood by the piano and STARED at my hands while I played. I am pretty confident these days, but that was a little more than I like to deal with. He tried, really he did, to say some nice things, like (imagine Russian accented German here): "You play very well considering this piano is less than optimal." Or: "It is a miracle that you can play at all without the music in front of you." Or: "Nice acoustics."

I just kept smiling, nodding, and saying, "Danke," because, really, what's a girl to do? The Prokofiev just isn't in my fingers any more, and even if it was I doubt that the wedding party (average age: 19) would be interested in hearing it. At least not my version. How about a nice Christmas rendition of "What Child Is This?" Of course my arrangement of this piece does sound a little like "House of the Rising Sun," but whatever.

Then, on top of everything else I had a another guest, whom we shall call Katarina, hovering over my other side and telling me about her sex life. In detail. Maybe that's why the Russian piano teacher was hanging around—he wanted to hear all about the nasty-nasty.

The bride was wearing the pouffiest of all pouffy gowns. She needed several assistants just to get up the stairs. And I can't even think about what she must have had to deal with in the ladies' room.

And just let me go on record as saying that the Yamaha C7 I play in the main hall of the castle is a fine instrument. It is a war horse, that piano. It's 20 years old, gets moved around regularly, sits next to a working fireplace, and has drafts hitting it from three different directions. We should all hold up so well. I have a great technician there, and he comes once a month (sometimes more if we have concerts) to tune it. This alone makes a huge difference.

I played for lunch today and I'm back there again tomorrow night for a rare Monday night private party for Lufthansa. Come fly with me.

Happy Holidays everyone! Lucky me, I made the NPR Piano Jazz Christmas Show this year. It's a nice hour of holiday music with wonder-woman Marian McPartland. I'm on toward the beginning of the program playing my composition "First Snow." Title of the show is Let It Snow, and there are lots of great players on here (including George Shearing). Have a listen while you're trimming the tree or decking the halls or wrapping the presents. Cheers!

http://n.pr/VWCPBq

An organist friend just did a wedding. Somehow, the first bridesmaid wasn't listening to instructions at the rehearsal and she started down the aisle during the prelude. (Maybe tone deaf?) The organist made a split second decision to somehow end the music and launch into the usual Wagner, but it was an awkward moment for all.

Ah, the premature bridesmaid launch. I hate when that happens. Those bridesmaids are like horses are the gate. Sometimes they seem to almost run down the aisle. Good that your organist friend was thinking on his feet. Although the impromptu Wagner medley must have been interesting. What was he playing before he had to switch to the Wagner?

I have one day off after working six days straight, then I'm back in for another five gigs between now and January 1st. I got hit by three soup spoons yesterday when an overzealous waiter came speeding past the piano with a tray full of empty soup bowls (cream of chestnut, in case you're interested). Miraculously no stains were left on my dress (red velvet, if anyone cares, and anyway, I'm ready to burn that dress after a month of holiday parties).

The good news: I finally figured out an ending for Carol of the Bells.

"When a lady wears red, she means business."

I'd love to attribute the quote, but my memory is failing as badly as a private piano seller's, when he tries to recall a piano's age, level of use, and amount of regular maintenance. Press such a person in your dictionary if you wish an example of how to use the word, 'unreliable' in a sentence.

But of course it could have been worse--- "Incoming: three full bowls of cream of chestnut, scalding hot. Jump for your life!"

That is code. It means, grab the wedding planner and use her as a shield.

And of course we care about your red velvet creation, Robin. And we're glad to know you're in such demand that you've all but slept in it for a month. But, who are we to take the bread out of the drycleaner's mouth? And after all, maintenance and replacement of costumes is deductible. Green velvet is also very Christmasy (if you wanted to add to your holiday trove), and then you can move on to deep purple for Epiphany. A nice rest for the eyes.

The whole of the spectrum belongs to the performing artist; you are fortunate you have the natural coloring to support whichever color you like to wear. We redheads have to be a little careful--- there are certain color schemes which are a little too daring--- and some people seem to have such terrible color judgment.

Well, catch your breath while you may. I don't really have any wedding news. There is a story and photo I gleaned from http://spaceweather.com , which shows a lady in a sleeveless wedding dress getting married under the Northern Lights. There's nothing wrong with the outfit as such, but all I could think of to say, was, "Put something on, dear."

Well, she was north of the Arctic Circle.

Happy New Year, everyone.

A cashmere wrap, a bolero, a brocade blazer—anything! I freeze just thinking of that arctic bride. Of course I play in the land of drafts, so I am never without multiple layers.

Much as I adore velvet, it doesn't hold up well for those of us who make a living sitting on our behinds. The fabric gets a little pulled and worn in that one particular area. I have distinct derriere marks on the backside of all my velvet dresses. I'm thinking of writing to Travelsmith to ask them if they manufacture gowns for piano girls. Limited market, though.

"Incoming: three full bowls of cream of chestnut, scalding hot. Jump for your life!"—that made me laugh out loud, Clef. This same Brasserie serves fondue every Sunday night—not the cheese kind, but the boiling oil kind. Luckily I've never been asked to play during those hours. If so, I'd have to call the fire daddies and ask to borrow protective gear. Now there's an idea—flame-proof velvet for the pianist on a hazardous job. A little Kevlar wouldn't hurt, either.

And speaking of hazards, I have a weekend to get through, but New Year's Eve is just around the corner. The dinner where I am playing costs € 440 per person. Imagine. It's beautiful and gourmet, and (I have tasted this chef's amazing cooking) well worth it, but still. High-rent wine and champagne and dancing with the Upper Class (!) Trio until the wee hours add to the value of the evening. But still. It amazes me that we're always sold out on this night. There's even a waiting list.

This is the 12th year in a row I've played for New Year's Eve at the castle. I never ever get tired of the fashion show and the hoopla. My husband plays there with a jazz duo in another outlet (the Brasserie—home of the cream of chestnut soup—I'll have to warn him), so we get to go to work together, hang out on our breaks (they even serve us a nice dinner in the bar), and travel home together. We finish at 11:15, so we always arrive home in time to witness our crazy German neighbours shooting rockets and missiles off into the New Year's sky. Drunk people and rockets are not a good match, but so far there have been no tragedies. Our neighbours, who still, after all these years, have no clue what we do for a living, think we're nuts when we get out of the car at 11:55 (my husband in black-tie and hauling his double bass out of the car, me in a ball gown and heels that are too high) and hustle inside to avoid all the celebratory noise. I'm sure they think, "What's the point? All dressed up, sober, and no rockets or explosive devices."

So I'll see you all on the other side of 2012. May 2013 be healthy (above all), peaceful, and full of the music you love.

xo
RMG

Well, now you've given me an earworm, and I think I'll just pass it on.

"She.................wore.............BLUUUUUUUUUUUUUUE Velvet..................."

My last chore of the night -- every night, even after playing a formal concert with the orchestra -- is to walk the gigantic Poodle and the neurotic Lab. When I've been away at a concert for five hours, they seldom have the patience to let me change to jeans.

I'm sure the neighbors wonder about the guy wearing a tux at midnight to walk the crazy dogs...

Well, the club where I am tuning New Year's Eve is charging $60 a head. The club where I am going, where I was in charge in October, is a bit cheaper, but includes dinner. It will cost me more, since I am paying the difference between my friend's quartet and her quintet. Just a little non-deductible charity, to improve the lot of musicians.

One of the production managers at the club where I am tuning (where I have tuned for 30 years now) called New Year's Eve "partying with the amateurs." Whereas the other club is pretty much all amateurs, except we all lend whatever expertise we may have. Sometimes that is better than professionals.

AS to the early launched bridesmaid, I am not sure, but I think it was "Sheep May Safely...". Or prob. the old warhorse Pachelbel. I'll have to ask her.

Dear Friends,

Our colleague Apple (Mary) died this morning. I was shocked to find out how gravely ill she had become. I hope you will join me in sending prayers, good thoughts, positive vibes—whatever works for you—to her family.

Her stories here about playing for weddings, church services, and, yes, funerals, were a joy to read. I ask myself this: Who plays for the funeral organist when the funeral organist has left the cathedral? I hope someone puts a long-stemmed rose on her bench. I hope that organ stays silent for tomorrow's services. Sometimes, when the music ends so tragically and abruptly, silence is the only answer.

Apple was the ultimate Piano Girl. She loved music, she loved her job, she loved us.

I suggest each of us take a moment to play a song this evening in her memory. She'll hear us.

Goodbye, Apple. x

Dear Friends,
I think Apple might have liked this little essay. She always seemed to know a lot about things I'm just now figuring out. I can't stop thinking about her.

RMG

**


A Titanium Foot and a Long-Stemmed Rose: Lessons in the Art of Gratitude

The ball drops. Champagne flows. Regrets (I’ve had a few) are counted, and triumphs noted. Glasses clink, lips meet, smiles stretch the faces of children and drunks and musicians. We ring in the new, send in the clowns, bring on the dancers, bend the rules, launch the rockets, and catapult from one year to the next.
Mr. G. (my dear husband) says that end of year retrospectives—The Best of the Best of 2012!—make him want to cry. The sad moments are sad, the happy ones are also sad, because they’re not really all that happy. I get what he’s saying. If you examine the highlights and lowlights of a year they turn into a reality show version of what actually counts. What counts isn’t what happens in a year. What counts is what you learn.

I learned a lot in 2012, lessons I wish I had learned a little sooner. Here are three that come to mind:

1. In June of 2012 watched my nineteen-year old son receive his German Abitur (an academic high school diploma that makes my American high school degree seem like a summer camp certificate). I sat with my husband, my parents (who were in town for the festivities), and my daughter. I listened to the music—featuring a faculty choir that sang a heart-wrenching version of “Shenandoah”—and smiled as two decades of parenthood flashed through my memory—a flickering diorama of music lessons, math and physics homework, Harry Potter marathons, fights (in two languages!) about computer games, philosophical discussions (of which he was capable at age five), flights back and forth to the USA, and drives—a million of them—to the school from which he was now graduating. After his name had been called, he received his diploma and a long-stemmed red rose, did a hip-hop victory-walk down a runway, found me in the audience, and bent over and handed me the rose. I never knew I was capable of projectile crying until that moment.

“Nineteen years of raising Curtis and you get a rose,” said Mr. G. “Well done. You deserve that.”

Lesson learned: a little bit of gratitude from your adult-child means way more than the thunderous applause of strangers. Way more.

2. After a three-month siege following foot surgery (a brand new titanium joint that will forever protect my right foot from the perils of pedaling a grand piano while wearing high heels), I found out what it’s like to be confined to a small bedroom, lose my ability to drive, and have my daily exercise limited to crutch-assisted trips to the bathroom. Thinking I would enjoy lolling about in bed and eating cinnamon toast prepared for me by my doting husband, I discovered that watching endless hours of PBS documentaries on Netflix—a fine activity when one has options to do other things—has certain disadvantages, most of which involve ibuprofen-induced nightmares about Bill Moyers.

I was thrilled when my surgeon (a skilled craftsman with the personality of a desk) told me I had graduated to a Frankenstein boot and could begin moving around a bit. The Frankenstein boot had a three-inch platform on it and threw my weight back onto my heel. It also threw my back out. I could walk very slowly, but I looked like Quasimodo. I couldn’t go to work. Even though the boot was black, Quasimodo in a black lace dress has never been a good look for a cocktail pianist. Not that I could play—the fingers were fine, but operating a sustain pedal with the left foot is best left to contortionists.

Still, at least I was moving. At least I didn’t have to go up and down four flights of steps on my butt. At least I could undress myself and take a shower without having my daughter monitoring me to make sure I didn’t slip and take a dive while conditioning my hair. Things were looking up.

That’s when the stomach virus hit me. It was one of those “pass the bucket” bugs—the kind that normally lasts twenty-four hours—but, because I was still recovering, it slapped me in the gut and flung me back to bed for another two weeks. And that’s when I began to feel like an old person. Enough. I hobbled to the dining room table and declared 2012 my Year of Health (an announcement that caused members of my family to laugh uncontrollably for about ten minutes). I put myself on a take-no-prisoners nutrition program, removed myself from negative influences, bailed on a couple of “friendships” that were draining my energy, and eliminated stressful work situations that weren’t either artistically satisfying or financially clever. I snapped back, stronger than ever. Okay, maybe not stronger, but smarter.

Lesson learned: Feeling old is a drag. Be good to yourself, keep moving, and take care of your feet.

3. In July of 2012, Julia G., age sixteen, took off on her long-awaited Summer Adventure, all of it paid for by an expatriate essay competition she had won in 2009 (when she was twelve) and a scholarship she received to attend the Eleanor Roosevelt Girls’ Leadership Worldwide Academy in Hyde Park, New York. (Note to parents of teenage girls: Check out this program—it’s wonderful!)

Julia had an ambitious plan. Before arriving at her dormitory at Vassar, Julia would spend a week in Louisville for a music workshop at the Jamey Aebersold School of Jazz at the University of Louisville. In between the Jazz Guys and Eleanor Roosevelt, Julia would hang out with her grandmother in Kentucky and her maternal grandparents in Western Pennsylvania. Following her graduation from Eleanor’s she would head to Manhattan to visit friends before heading back to Pennsylvania for more time with her grandparents. She’d fly back in Germany in time to start the eleventh grade. I was exhausted just looking at her itinerary.

My job, as chief travel coordinator for Julia G’s Summer Adventure was to put her on a flight at Düsseldorf Airport, then beg and bribe various family members and friends to transport her from one American location to another—a complicated operation that involved arranging planes, trains, and caravans; vegan picnics, sandwiches in the back seats of moving vehicles, meals in shopping mall food courts, tea at the Plaza and cocktails at the Waldorf; plush guest rooms, a Vassar dormitory without air-conditioning, and an inflatable mattress on the floor of a stylish Manhattan living room.

Her grandparents, her aunts, her uncles—all of them pitched in, spending hours behind the wheel to get her where she needed to go, on time and in style. Aunt Gail transported her from Louisville to Reynoldsburg, Ohio; Aunt Randita drove her from Ohio to Pittsburgh. My parents got her from Western Pennsylvania to Vassar. Our friends Carole and Emilio Delgado rented a car and drove from Manhattan to Hyde Park to attend her Eleanor Roosevelt graduation as ersatz parents (Carole, a big ER fan, was exactly the right person for this job, mainly because she had the perfect outfit). Carole and Emilio hosted Julia in Manhattan for a week she will never ever forget. My dear friend and fellow Piano Girl Robin Spielberg took the train from Baltimore, and hid behind a potted palm next to the “Eloise” portrait at the Plaza with her daughter Valerie, just so they could jump out and surprise Julia. She hadn’t seen them for five years. You can just imagine the fun they had at the tea party.

I’m astonished by what Julia learned this summer. Eleanor Roosevelt’s team of enthusiastic counselors, in between trips to the United Nations and sessions about the value of volunteering, taught Julia to “act like a lady and speak up.” Jamey Aebersold’s music workshop taught her about jazz theory and performance, and that “anyone can improvise,” especially a sixteen year old girl. But mainly, what Julia learned this summer is this: If she makes the effort to show up and do her part, she’ll have an eager support team waiting to transport her from one destination to another. If it takes a village, she has one of global proportions. If it takes a chariot, she has a golden coach with a band of willing drivers. If it takes love, she’s holding the winning ticket in the friends and family lottery.

Lesson learned: The kindness of strangers means a lot in this world, but when you want to get your daughter from a Starbuck’s in Düsseldorf to Peacock Alley in Manhattan (via Atlanta, Kentucky, Ohio, Poughkeepsie, and Pennsylvania)—and back again— you call the people on your A-List. Friends and family make one heck of a hauling squad—even if they’re an ocean away.

The New Year’s Eve glitter has clumped on the dance floor and the corpses of spent fireworks still litter the town square. Resolutions (not my own) own the month of January. I’m writing new music, launching my kids into adulthood, taking very good care of myself, and watching to see what 2013 will teach me. Slow down, hold on, let go, be grateful. That’s what I know for now, but these are last year’s lessons. I’m hoping 2013 will be the Year of Continuing Education.

***