Pistachio Anniversary

A few days ago, we triumphed to our 25th wedding anniversary. Ilkka returned the day before from Iceland and Finland, in honor of our event. How, exactly, did we celebrate? Well, I found my husband glued to the television as he watched Ted Kennedy's funeral, a carton of Haagen-Dazs Pistachio ice-cream on his lap, the spoon lovingly held between his fingers.

"It's our anniversary," I said. "Are you just going to sit there, stare at the funeral procession, and pig out on ice-cream?"
He looked up, spooning the remainder of the ice-cream, which had melted into a sweet syrup. "What more appropriate way to celebrate a wedding anniversary than by watching a funeral?"
"Like, you mean, it's symbolic?"
"Kind of—" he shrugged.

Which reminds me. My daughter, Anna and her fiance Andrew Blick will be getting married in a matter of months. Twenty two years ago I waddled around Green Lake, in my almost tenth month, while desperately trying to prompt her out of the womb. Anna was a large baby; just under nine pounds, with elbows and feet that kept jabbing my insides. Ilkka was given time off from one of the Wagnerian operas to assist at her birth. I seem to have a hazy recollection of trying to use all the various labor techniques with my husband, like deep breathing exercises and whooshing sounds, only to conclude that his presence in the delivery room fueled my discontent, though admittedly, he looked handsome in scrubs. After two grueling days of non-stop contractions, Anna Mirjam Talvi announced her way into the world with a piercing scream, while bewitching the entire birthing unit by her fine, cherubic features. "No Cone-Head for us," muttered my husband. "She's beautiful."

"You smell just right," my husband says to me, alluding to pheromones and their powerful means to attract, which results in a "perfect genetic match". The ice-cream carton is emptied; the television switched off; Facebook can wait for one more day. I inhale. He smells of pistachio. I can tell you, I'm good for at least another twenty five years with this man.

Photo by Sarah Talvi

Bildungsroman

Am I turning into Pollyanna? I was describing my coming-of-age revelations to my daughter Anna a couple of days ago, telling her life is good. Anna, by the way, gleans obvious satisfaction from tormenting us mercilessly with her own blog: Life With My Parents Seen through Anna's lens, I suppose we're characters. She refers to Ilkka and me as Ma and Pa Raisin.

Over twenty years ago, when Anna was a baby of four months, she looked up at us from her baby swing—as if to study our faces—and burst into peels of laughter. Nowadays, my Anna jots one-liners and keeps a note-pad handy at all times. Every so often, when I'm on the phone with that college girl of mine (in a Masters in Education in Student Affairs Administration, GPA 4.0, no less) she'll stop me mid-sentence. "That's it, Ma. Thanks for the material." And I'm left with a dial tone wondering what she's about to publish.

I have to admit—I love life. The Seattle Post-Intelligencer is about to become The Past-Intelligencer, and critics are from the days of yore. Collective bargaining agreements between managements and players have indicated fermatas, or in some cases, tacet signs. As Blair Tindall eloquently states in "Mozart in the Jungle": The classical music business is experiencing a kind of market correction. If seen in a positive light, by a Pollyanna, this opens a whole new vista for artists, opportunities for innovation, and collaborative creativity. An orchestra player should enjoy an active role, not passive. If you check Daily Observations you'll see what I mean.

Which brings me back to Bildungsroman: As I play among enthusiastic music lovers at Rainier Symphony, cradle my late mother's violin, and nourish myself with friends, students and family, my faith in this journey is being restored.

Photo of Anna Talvi by Ilkka Talvi 12-08

Hands-Off-Care

My daughter Anna refers to my parenting as hands-off-care and laughs. My baby will turn 21 on July 21. Anna is my first-born. During my pregnancy, I was rather naive about motherhood, telling myself having a baby would be a cinch. I didn't grow up with younger siblings and never babysat, so, I came up short on experience. But it's not as if I hadn't been forewarned. This is what my mother said after she learned of my pregnancy: It's not the same as raising Boston Terriers, Marjorie Jill. A child is a full time responsibility, and you're a violinist. How will you find the time to balance everything? I couldn't tell if she was mad or glad, but I knew Mom would roll up her sleeves and help. I'd take a short summer respite from performances for maternity leave, and then begin full swing as concertmaster of Northwest Chamber Orchestra, Pacific Northwest Ballet, and Peter Britt Festival with a daunting pile of repertoire, including solo work, to prepare for upcoming seasons. I figured the violin would not only soothe but lull our newborn to sleep.

At the onset of labor, Ilkka was excused from a dress rehearsal of a Wagner opera to assist in the birthing. (That was back in the old days, when Seattle Symphony and Seattle Opera still had a few decent individuals in their midst—compassion, then a core value). Our daughter Anna Mirjam burst into this world weighing 4000 grams (almost 9 lbs) after a long, arduous labor. She was more perfect than Ilkka or I ever dreamed possible, with beautiful and wholesome features resembling both our mothers. It wasn't until a week or so after Anna's birth that I attempted practicing, and found to my dismay, that violin playing caused her to scream bloody murder. I tried everything: con sordino, molto adagio, doloroso, even pizzicato, but it was to no avail. My violin playing did nothing but agitate my own child, and I turned into a wreck. Together, Anna and I unleashed a torrent of tears, until Ilkka calmed her down by cradling her and singing Finnish lullabies.

I don't know how we survived those early experiences. Anna wasn't a sleeper as an infant. She gave new meaning to the term terrible twos, and I threw tantrums for precious practice and sleep time. Over the years, I ran myself ragged trying to balance the professional obligations with motherhood, skipping school gatherings and small celebrations for futile board meetings and boring luncheons. I did the best I could, earning the title she coined: Best Hands-Off-Care Mom because in a way, my daughter Anna raised herself, and did so, magnificently.

"Anna," I said to my self-assured, college graduate the other day, almost twenty one years later. I have to look up to her because she's so tall. "How about I do things differently from now on? You know, more hands-on. I have time now."
My Anna didn't even stop for pause, or give the offer a moment's thought.
"Oh no, Ma. Please. No, no, no. It's best the way it is." And she reminded. "I love you."

Photo of Anna Talvi 2008