Dear friends,
We were late to Tuba Christmas, but truthfully, 90 minutes may have been about 60 minutes too long for a tuba concert. Not because a hundred or so tuba players playing holiday music in a public square isn't a sight to behold. But the concert was outside in a brick amphitheater, and there weren't great places for my father to sit. He was pushing a rolling walker—a red one with a seat if he needed to rest.
Already, he'd spent the morning wandering a holiday bazaar with us, and he was tired. The woman who sold me a vintage leopard-print blazer sized him up, too, and found him a perfect wool Pendleton coat from her inventory. Both the blazer and the coat are from a time when clothing was so well-constructed and of such fine fabric that it could be sold in near-mint condition at a holiday bazaar 30 years later. We left my father for a bit to shop on our own. He sipped boozy hot chocolate at the bar, in the care of a realtor who persuaded us to sign up for her raffle. Chris bought spices, barbecue sauce and cocktail bitters. I bought some earrings, Merry Christmas to me.
After the bazaar, the three of us got brunch. My Bloody Mary came in a mason jar shaped like a flamingo. I could finish only half of it and still drive. We weren't in a hurry, and by the time I retrieved the car and we headed for the tuba concert, we weren't sure we'd make it. But I drove by the square windows down, hoping we would at least hear the tubas. The concert was still in full swing, there in the heart of downtown Portland. Throngs of people crowded the square and the sidewalks, making it slow going on the streets nearby. I figured we could use the congestion to our advantage. "Wanna hop out?" I asked. They did.
I parked once more, and then walked back to the square. The city felt vibrant, like it was during the holidays in the 90s. The skies were sunny and bright. Chris and my father had established themselves directly behind the Sousaphones, the tubas played by marching bands. Many of the brass musicians wore pom-topped ski hats knitted with the phrase "TUBA CHRISTMAS." It looked so fun, being a tuba player in a tuba band, sun glinting on brass.
Only Chris had ever been to an all-tuba concert. Once in high school, he played the euphonium in a Tuba Christmas concert at the Town & Country Shopping Center in Kettering, Ohio.
I had imagined all those tubas playing together would sound brassy and loud, like a marching band. But the tubas were resonant and low, like a cat's purr or the rumble of a train. The deep notes touched some emotion within, making me cry even to "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer." Embarrassed, I buried my head in Chris's shoulder, smearing mascara in the folds of my turtleneck. Who cries at tubas? I was so happy, though, there in my city. What was this frequency?
May your spirits be bright,
Erika
THE NEWS
All the links…
Today is Windfall’s 11-month anniversary, woo-hoo! And the audiobook version is on sale for $2.99 on Chirp, which is affiliated with e-book retailer Bookbub. You have to download Chirp’s free app, but it’s easy. You can also gift people the book via the app. So if you’re looking for a bargain last-minute gift for your favorite audiobook listener, well, consider it a digital stocking stuffer.
Presidential historian Alexis Coe on the now-fraught consideration of whether to fly an American flag in front of her house. “My career is an expression of my patriotism. Raising a flag in front of a house financed by my books about presidents would be another.”
When your yoga teacher dissects cadavers… By Friend-of-The-Windfall-Dispatch Danielle Friedman.
This piece transported me directly there, wedged between the tubas and the sousaphones, each having its big fat say, a vision Harold Hill himself might have conjured.
Well done. 👏👏👏
Yes, “like the rumble if a train”. It’s solo trumpets that bring on my tears. So brave and resonant. Thank you for sharing a bit of your day and this lovely portrait of our oft-maligned downtown.