Autobiographical

Double bass stools

Double bass stools

Jazz  bassists stand to play pizzicato, and in continental Europe classical double bass players also play standing up, often draped over their instruments.  British players, however  are usually seated on stools. The stool has its own problematic issues . For a start it needs to be taken to the music venue along with the instrument – massively inconvenient on public transport. Secondly, players can’t merely perch anywhere – the stool need to be of suitable height for their frame.  A petite female player will need a smaller stool than a tall, burly man.  Many players also nurse personal preferences – comfort padding, back-rest, easily foldable, etc., especially in their later years.

When our son Andrew started learning aged seven, his stool had to ‘grow’ with him. My  husband James had an ingenious solution: every year he would buy the same cheap tall bar stool from IKEA , bring it home and chop its legs down to Andrew’s height. Over the years this ploy saved us money, but resulted in our kitchen becoming the repository for time expired stools for which we had to find new homes.  Decades on, we continue to come across friends greeting us with a cheery, “Hey, we still have Andrew’s old 4ft stool in our garage!”

Sometime after we were married we lived for a year in Grenoble, France. James who is a keen amateur bassist  joined the local symphony orchestra.  I attended one of their informal afternoon concerts where the bass section was comprised of five Frenchmen who played standing, with James at the end of the line-up seated on his musician’s stool. During the performance the lady beside me pointed to him whispering, “I think it’s commendable that disabled people are being taught these big instruments”!

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Double basses and  inquisitive toddlers

Double basses and inquisitive toddlers

We are a family of double bass players.  My husband, son, and my son-in-law all play it, so as a non-player myself, I have gleaned a fund of quirky observations about it from the sidelines.

Large and unwieldy, basses spend much of their down-time lying on one side, or propped up in a corner against a wall. To a small child this biggest instrument of the string family parked in the middle of a living room offers endless possibilities for explorative play. They love to propel it along the floor, twang its strings, or try to mount it as if it were a horse…  One kid got the prize for imaginative endeavour by posting a miniature toy car through an ‘f’ hole.

The problem was its extraction.  Initial time-consuming attempts, such as poking the slots with knitting needles, inserting magnets, coat hangers,  or kebab skewers…all proved futile. At long last, three sturdy men manoeuvred the bass aloft, face down, and instructed to shake it gently in a synchronized manner from side to side, like sifting flour, while a brave soul with nimble fingers crouched on the floor beneath then directing operations. Eventually, after much puffing and panting, and not a few expletives, the offending toy was gingerly coaxed out.
Moral: Establish early ground rules!

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Great expectations

Great expectations

“Well, isn’t this all very interesting!” said Jim Holmes, a freelance editor and publisher (www.greatwriting.org) in the USA, in response to my online query.   “Have your story published – yes, why not? You definitely have the germ of a book there.”  That was the  beginning of the beginning.

Jim was emailing from Greenville, a town in South Carolina I had never heard of. He is a committed Christian who had spent some years in the UK and in Iraq.  Given that I had come to the UK from Iran and that I am also a believer, clinched it for me.  I had a light bulb moment which finally banished years of procrastination in writing anything about myself. How fortunate was I to have found the sympathetic ear of real-life publisher whose establishment was grandly called Great Writing!

As my writing and Jim’s editorial reviews progressed, I began to dream of visiting this fancy publishing house.  In my mind’s eye I saw it as an imposing stone building, several storeys high, situated on the main thoroughfare, its façade graced by tall windows, its entrance glass-plated with a revolving door.  Prospective authors carrying weighty manuscripts could be glimpsed coming and going and being greeted by a smart receptionist on the front desk.  As the big chief, Mr Holmes’s office was the largest and airiest office on the top floor.  I imagined him to be a tall gentleman with a noble brow and neatly parted silver hair.

Every writer needs an audience, and for me, a grandmother who had never written anything of note, my audience was Jim.  Although all communication was online, Jim proved to be a good listener.  That he also ended up becoming a hand-holder, sounding-board, editor, critic and computer pro, was something that neither of had initially envisaged. But we also recognised in each other a mutual love for Christ, a keen desire to serve the Father, and abiding interest in the written word.  These things forged between us an alliance like no other.

Fast forward a couple of years:  After my book was published, I finally made a trip over to Greenville to meet Jim.  To my surprised amusement (and possibly his too!) Jim was neither tall nor silver-haired, though he is indeed a gentleman, and he does possess a noble brow.  The grand publishing house of my imagination turned out to be a modest room over his garage.  It’s the place where miracles of editing and publishing happen.

 

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My marriage and politics

My marriage and politics

James and I first met as postgraduates in in the UK during late autumn 1976.  Friendship slowly blossomed into something more, but that summer we were soon obliged to part. I was duty-bound to return to Iran to fulfil a condition of my academic grant, and he had to remain behind to complete his surgical training.  With no mobile phones or internet, we kept in touch by exchanging letters.  The imposition of martial law and the chaotic aftermath of a revolution which turned Iran from a centuries-old monarchy into a theocratic republic took everyone by surprise. In the ensuing civil unrest we lost touch with one another.  Three long years passed, during which each of us assumed the other had married and moved on.  But by sheer chance we did meet again. I returned to the UK and was enrolled as new student nurse in  London. Neither of us had met any ‘significant other’ in the interim, and we soon realised that this was it.  We married six months later.

Almost exactly at the same time Britain severed its diplomatic ties with Iran, and in the years that followed the political stand-off between our two countries worsened. Iran was lambasted in the press world-wide and became the target of international sanctions. It became increasingly difficult for me to re-connect with my family back home.  I was a Christian but I had been born into a Muslim family, so returning to an Islamic state could result in dire consequences for all of us. The last thing anyone of us wanted was for me to be held as a prisoner in Iran, or my relatives to be dragged into a Muslim backlash from my conversion. Added to which, unlike the UK, Iran does not recognise dual citizenship (once I re-entered Iran I would have no legal recourse to British aid).  Also, the British government was loath to grant Iranians leave to visit, and the situation became even more draconian after 9/11.  Fearing reprisals, ordinary Iranians were fearful of sticking their necks out to engage with authorities, and my elderly parents could not understand why I was unable persuade anyone to grant them a British visitor’s visa.  The unspoken criticism that I had not moved heaven and earth for them was personally unbearable. I was caught up in a conflict between loyalty to my home country, now the so-called ‘Axis of Evil’, and my pride at becoming British.  It was an emotional tug-of-war between freedom to worship as a Christian and fear of castigation as a ‘betrayer of Islam’, between being happy as a  cherished wife, and feeling guilty about relatives trapped in Iran.  I never saw my father again.

I managed to avoid becoming a nervous wreck, but even after forty years the vestiges of that guilt remain.  When my parents died I did not return to Iran to say goodbye. When my sister was imprisoned on a trumped-up charge I stayed home.  Where were my filial duty and affections during those times?  Was it right that I should have carried on living in comfort in the land of plenty while my family eked a hand-to-mouth existence under political and financial sanctions?  It bothered me massively at the time – and it continues to bother me.

Diplomatic relations between our two nations still remain precarious, and there is no easy end in sight.  I have now accepted that it is unlikely I will ever return to Iran during the remainder of my life, and James has had to bear the emotional implications of that burden on me.  I am indeed fortunate that despite the intrusion of such divisive politics, our marriage has strengthened and survived.

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Coffee break

Coffee break

Meeting a friend for that promised coffee, or using the spare time for private prayer? Given the choice on any given day I’m all too aware which I would naturally plump for.  Any opportunity to enjoy a cup of hot frothy coffee laced with companionable conversation is so deliciously appealing that the time set aside for prayer gets pushed further down the queue. And if I’m really honest, it’s usually relegated to the end of the day—at best!

A practical solution for people like me whose spirit is willing (but, oh, the weakness of the flesh!) is to meet God often, along with that all-important coffee.  It matters not how or where we meet Him, what matters, as in any loving relationship, is that we meet regularly. A solo coffee break with Our Father lends itself admirably to conversational prayer, and it can take place in our own homes, in our own time, and even as a breather in the midst of chores.

I close my eyes, sit quietly, coffee cup in hand, and ask God to join me. Soon I’ll feel Him right there beside me. Of course, I know that He’s always there, but this is our special time together, and He knows how much that coffee motivates me!  At times I hear Him speak straight to my heart; at others there is nothing but silence. I’ll tell Him about my day with all its messiness, without worrying about being inarticulate or too focussed on myself.  I know I am infinitely dear to Him, and that He really doesn’t mind.  I always have to flick away the distractions, but our loving Saviour does the rest.

We can do a lot worse than enjoy a coffee break with our Father. He’s aware of the frailty of our nature and our need for inducements, and He’s always waiting for us.  With prayer, it’s the practice that counts more than the theory.  As St Teresa of Avila once said, prayer consists not in thinking much, but in loving much”.

 

 

 

 

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