Matzo Madness and Memories

Last day of Passover. One of our guests brought the most delicious matzo: Yehuda Matzos. Ordinarily, I avoid the stuff, as it tastes like cardboard, but this year, the matzo was magnificent. Maybe it was just a good batch, I don't know. Late at night, I wandered for forty minutes around the kitchen, poured a glass of Manischewitz, and slathered butter and strawberry jam on those beauties. The combination of crunchy matzo topped with creamy butter and sweet berries tasted like Nirvana. Truth be told, I'm not ready to return to toast.

Passover, a season of renewal, is also an opportunity for reflection and contemplation. While Sarah and I were driving home from shopping, I mentioned that we've lived in the same house on Queen Anne for twenty-five years. That's half my life.
"Did you expect to live here that long when you moved from L.A.?" my daughter asked.
"No," I said. As I turned into our carport, I had a Proustian experience, and recalled magic moments of lost time.

Over the years, in our humble dwelling, my in-laws, Irja and Veikko Talvi would travel from Finland, and transform our house into a palace. Irja polished the kitchen counters until they gleamed, and Veikko set massive historical books on our dining table. He rattled away on Finland's history in Finnish, as if I could process a labyrinth of information, and strained his ears to hear Ilkka practice. He listened to his son's recordings over and over again with Seattle Symphony, demanding to know which violin Ilkka played.
"A wooden one," was the only response from his son.

My mother, Frances Kransberg, doted on her grand-daughters, Anna and Sarah. She'd go out to our backyard in the late summer, and pick apples, pears and plums from the plentiful trees. Then she'd simmer the fruit together in batches, and create a rich sauce for the girls. The house smelled like cinnamon and cloves. Because her four daughters, myself included, led such separate and disparate lives, my mother wouldn't have her children in the same room with her at the same time until her passing, in 2004. The shiva ritual took place in our living room.

Music has always filled our home. Many talented individuals have enriched our lives within these walls. I remember when George Shangrow accompanied me at the piano with the Beethoven Concerto before an appearance with Orchestra Seattle. Playing the Beethoven with George felt effortless, as he's a wonderful accompanist. Incidentally, the day that George was no longer part of KING-FM, we stopped listening to that station—forever. I think classical KING-FM was doomed right then and there.

Back in the days of Northwest Chamber Orchestra, Adam Stern arrived to rehearse Copland's "Vitebsk" for an all American chamber music program. Vitebsk is chock full of quarter tones which confounded me; the tonalities posed a challenge. My husband slipped into the room, appeared at once by my side, and placed my fingers accurately on the fingerboard. Besides having perfect pitch, Ilkka had analyzed the quarter tone interval down to a science. What I didn't realize at that time, but I certainly do now, is that it is vital for a musician to keep an open mind (and ear) with regard to repertoire. We learn the most from our cherished colleagues.

Ralf Gothoni practiced on our Steinway upright, and beamed energy into our home. He mused: It's not enough to be young and talented like we, of course, are. We still must practice.

And, believe it or not, Ilkka and I were once threatened at this address by the SS. The police came right to our front door, sent by a local conductor claiming that my husband had jeopardized his life with his blog. Ilkka then showed his blog to the policemen, and they agreed, shaking their heads at false accusations: the opposite was true. Tainted matzo? Madness? Perhaps, but like the Exodus from Egypt, we remember.

Turning Fifty

I have less than a week left before turning fifty, or forty-ten as my husband puts it. My daughter Anna keeps a stack of retirement home brochures in a special drawer, and assures me that she'll select the perfect home, when the time comes. Anna proposes a "nice Jewish environment" for me when I can no longer take care of myself; a residence where I can participate in hat-making contests, hamantaschen baking, Purim parties, sing-a-longs, and of course, my favorite (NOT)—flower arranging. She even insists that I'll be able to play a Fiddler on the Roof medley during visiting hours for family and friends.

But, for now, I'm still in relatively good condition, walking up and down hills in Queen Anne, browsing the library shelves and comparing grocery prices, like my own mother, Fran Kransberg, used to do. My youngest daughter, Sarah, assures me that I'm a youthful almost fifty, and Ilkka still makes me feel like a blushing bride.

The one thing I most look forward to in my old age is telling tales from my life. I'm not talking about pleasantries, which I find boring. No, what I want to share with my readers are some of the more bizarre happenings which I've experienced. At my age, am I not entitled?

Back in 1999, a twenty-year-old girl swinging a violin case showed up at our front door and introduced herself as Esther. She wanted an assessment as to whether or not she was qualified to become a professional violinist. Expecting a student-like player, I escorted Esther downstairs and encouraged her to play a piece of her choosing. After making a set of excuses for herself in advance, I haven't practiced in months, she slowly unzipped her case, and propped the violin under her chin. A few uncomfortable giggles later, Esther rendered an incomparably beautiful performance of the Tchaikovsky Concerto.
"You'd give even Hilary Hahn competition," was my remark after she finished, although I secretly noted the unfortunate Nadja mannerisms.
"Really?" she quizzed. "You mean—I shouldn't—um, quit?"
"Why would you do a thing like that?"
"The church," she said, eyes downcast. "I'm to be wed, and a path has been chosen for me."
Oy, I thought to myself, such a waste of talent.

In the ensuing days and weeks, I tried to learn more about this mysterious Esther. How had she found my name and why did she come to me? She returned to play for Ilkka, and the two of us were dismayed. Esther, it turned out, was being dissuaded from pursuing a career in music by her Fundamentalist Christian host family. She had arrived in the United States from Europe in search of a cure from her past. One thing for certain, Esther had been privileged with a strong education. Like her violin playing, her spoken English was pitch perfect.

Ilkka and I offered to come to Esther's aid, as we felt she was in need of a stable environment. We provided free lessons, free meals, and free transportation, as she was almost totally without funds, and helped to support her goals of resuming a musical career. As Esther's host family increased their fundamentalist ultimatums, we took her in as a lodger, free of charge. It was then we stumbled upon one small detail: Esther's name was not Esther. A whole new identity had been created for her, or had she created it herself? Esther's narrative resembled a suspense thriller, and whenever we asked for details about her real family and personal history, our guest would pass out and collapse onto the floor. Medical personnel shook their heads and ruled out any physical abnormality as a cause.

Initially, before I had an inkling as to the psychodynamics at play, I had thought our guest might respond to the numerous lessons, food and lodging, in kind, by assisting with a few light chores or watching the children. But this mysterious stranger helped herself to whatever she needed from our home. She raised eyebrows at competitions. The woman was, after all, twenty years of age. One is still eligible to participate in solo contests until the early to mid twenties. She talked endlessly about her musical aspirations, weighing one scenario against the other, comparing one violin teacher to the next, and pointing out deficiencies of those around her. I should have taken it as an omen that our cat, Seymour, got hit by a car and lost his eye that year. And each time a possible confrontation arose, she'd land on the floor.

Almost six months passed before I felt emboldened to insist the guest leave. We needed our lives back; our children, the top priority, not to mention financial obligations. Our visitor furthered her education with artists of renown at reputable institutions, and went on to collect top prizes in international competitions. Her guest appearances also included many hospitals, as an inpatient. The medical bills and student loans in the United States went unpaid. Collection agencies tried to locate her. Wouldn't you know, she had given our address as her own? The phone calls and letters demanding repayment persist. These days, she's back in the country of her origin. With piles of unpaid bills, I doubt she can return to the States. I don't profess to know what path she chose for a religion, as it's irrelevant. However, it's been pointed out that she features an endorsement on her website by an Antichrist, as opposed to any of her esteemed mentors.

You think this story is bizarre? Just wait!

Magical Healing

My late mother, Frances Kransberg, would have turned 87 today. I'll be visiting her grave later this afternoon. Rather than a bouquet of flowers, I'll bring Mom a note, crumple it up, and place it underneath a stone, as is Jewish custom. I can hardly wait to tell her about my year, and especially this past weekend.

For those of you that never met her, my mother was an amateur violinist; she loved music more than anything in the world. As a child, the violin held her fascination. Although she begged and begged her parents for lessons, my grandparents didn't have money for such frivolities. In the fourth grade, at Saltonstall Elementary in Salem, Massachusetts, ten-year-old Frannie picked up an old, broken down violin from the unwanted instrument heap, wiped off the caked rosin, and planted herself in the first violin section of the school orchestra. No lessons; my mom taught herself to read music. Her violin was put on hold after elementary school, but her love for music grew.

Sometime in her mid thirties, my mother struck up the courage to take private violin lessons. An attractive woman with dark hair, olive skin, and a petite figure, she had no trouble snagging the most accomplished teachers—all men from Boston Symphony, even though she was at beginner level. By the time she was pregnant with her fourth and last child (me), my mother played under Harry Ellis Dickson in Brookline Civic Symphony, and had become a respectable musician. She practiced seven hours daily and took three lessons per week. Brookline Civic ignited her spirit, lifting my mom from an existence of mundane domesticity, to a supernal world of magnificent sound. But her teachers admonished her for having begun lessons too late in life for a professional career. Frances Kransberg was the talent that could have been.

So, I was gifted with a quarter size violin on my fourth birthday, and I let you, patient reader, imagine the rest. My mom would say: Either you'll love me for this or hate me one day.
And there have been times, at least recently, that I've considered the classical music business a nasty, insular bubble. To be a professional artist, one has to be acutely sensitive, yet Teflon-coated, just to survive the cut-throat competition. These days, it's not enough to offer stellar performances; audiences demand eye candy as part of the package. Erica Morini had been my mother's role model, not some sex kitten.

Meanwhile, I have a tendency to walk into a room, and absorb the atmospheric vibes. If there's friction, or negative energy, I'm out. During this recalibrating period of the arts scene, some workplaces are growing ever more hostile, while others are undergoing a resurgence of recognition. At the Bellevue Philharmonic Orchestra concert yesterday, the First Presbyterian Church was packed to capacity with well-wishers, fans and supporters of the organization. It was heartening to see and hear the dedication of those eager to help usher in a new era for the BPO, as the group has been fraught with daunting challenges. In his gracious, farewell speech to the audience, Maestro Fusao Kajima reminded everyone not to remain passive, especially when faced with the task of rebuilding an institution. The orchestra is the Eastside's cultural jewel.
As my mother used to say: When you have a diamond, just take care and polish it.

One of the highlights of my year so far, were the performances of Mahler's "Resurrection" Symphony with Rainier Symphony and Maestro David Waltman. Not only did I have my favorite concertmaster at the helm and Anna in the audience, but I had the honor of Andrew Sumitani, my accomplished student, sitting by my side and playing like an angel.
Somehow, I couldn't feel luckier, and yes, healed.

left to right: Andrew Sumitani, me, Ilkka

That's Life

The man on the left is my late father, John Kransberg, seated under the Brooklyn Bridge with my Uncle Harry. I found out about my father's death as abruptly as I found out about my parents' divorce.

A year ago, my one remaining sister Susan, sent Dad a birthday card. It was returned with the word "deceased" scribbled on the envelope. No apologies, sentiments, or pomp and circumstance; John Kransberg was no more.

Until my dad walked away in 1976, he was subjected to endless violin practice sessions, lessons, rehearsals, music camps, student recitals, and confrontations with irate violin teachers, who had suddenly found themselves dumped and replaced by more "famous pedagogues" thanks to my mother.

I have to give my father credit—he was practically tone deaf. Dad tried to like the stuff I played. Except for the opening bars of Kol Nidrei, my father barely recognized a tune. I think Bartok's music grated his nerves like a dentist's drill.

When my mother would compare her little angel (me) to violin prodigies in the early 70's: Lilit Gampel, Dylana Jenson, Stephanie Chase, and Lynn Chang, he'd roll his eyes, fumble into his front pocket for a cigarette, light up, take a long inhale, and say:
Christsakes Frances, can't you let her be a normal kid for a change?

I was a late child—eleven years younger than my youngest sister, Karen. All my sisters were assigned music lessons at the insistence of my mother: Judy, the eldest, tickled the piano keys, Susan, the middle child, engaged in a protracted battle with the violin, and cherubic Karen (if only she had practiced) might have polished Old Black Joe to perfection. I guess I was my mother's last hope.

Mom, Dad, Judy and Karen: are you happy now?

Altered State

After my mother died, I waited for her messages from the Other Side. I looked for signs that Mom was still here with me. I figured she'd at least cause my music to rustle or nudge my violin case, so I wouldn't get lazy about practicing. Nothing. It was as if she'd abandoned me, and I'd have no choice but to grow up.

For a long while I didn't hear from my mother. I had almost given up hope. But one night she appeared in my dream. She was in our living room, curled up on the puff chair, bewigged, with a coat covering her instead of a blanket, half asleep. Mom had one question for me: Found anything interesting from the library?
That was it. Then she closed her eyes and fell back to sleep.

But I took that as an omen, and like a dutiful daughter, began checking out books by the armloads from the local library. I found some unusual material, like the people I seem to be attracted to, and these books imparted life-altering ideas. A selection of writings I'll mention here: Viktor Frankl's Man's Search for Ultimate Meaning, Helen Keller's Light in my Darkness, and Rudolf Steiner's Staying Connected: How To Continue Your Relationships With Those Who Have Died.

Following these readings, I met the visionary pianist Lorin Hollander. After playing Bach's F Minor Concerto together with Northwest Chamber Orchestra, he invited me to breakfast the next day. Lorin might have sensed my eagerness to learn from him, I'm not sure. Playing the Bach with him was as natural as breathing. Hollander's interpretation of Bach felt so right to me; it was as if he had channeled Johann Sebastian to sing through the concerto with him.

At breakfast, sitting across from Lorin Hollander at the Seattle Downtown Hilton, his eyes radiated decency, warmth and compassion. I know it's cliche, but the eyes reflect the soul. We talked about many things, from the burdens of exploited child prodigies to the depravity and spiritual void of today's world.
"Our paths have crossed for a purpose," he assured me. I nodded and felt honored. "That would be nice." I told him about some of the interesting material I had been reading, especially the writings of Rudolf Steiner.
"Great individual," he said. "I've read all of Steiner's works relating to the curative approach to teaching. So, tell me," he paused, while sipping herbal tea and munching on fruit."Have you undergone any unusual experiences?"
"Um, what do you mean?" I traveled out-of-body during the pedantic renditions of Nutcracker, but that didn't count.
"Anything—paranormal?"
I shared my stories with him. Although I hadn't experienced the supernatural first hand, Ilkka and his first wife were awakened in the middle of the night by the ghost of Victor Aller, the legendary pianist, playing flawless scales at breakneck speed. I could boast I had experienced this through association.

Our discussion turned from ghosts and the after life to the here-and-now. Lorin Hollander enlightened me about the transformational powers of playing and teaching. For this I'm truly grateful. He instructed me to substitute a new word for teacher and musician, and with that one word came a whole new attitude.
"Healer. We're healers."

Illustration by Zela Lobb

Meadowmount

With another school year only weeks away, and summer drawing to a close, it's always a mood lifter to receive a phone call from Walter Schwede, former Associate Concertmaster of SS orchestra (the best they ever had) and now Professor of Violin at Western Washington University in Bellingham. I've always admired Walter Schwede's soulful artistry. He's a beautiful violinist, caring teacher and supportive colleague; rare attributes this day in age. So, when Walter bubbles with enthusiasm for having spent another summer teaching at Meadowmount School of Music in upstate New York, I inhale his exuberance. My mind travels back circa 1970's, before cell phones and the internet, to the days when I attended that unique summer school for strings. Indeed, Meadowmount is so close to my heart, that it's one place I must revisit before I die.

My parents sent me to Meadowmount because it had the reputation of being a Boot Camp for Musicians. Meadowmount had nurtured the artistic talents of such luminaries as Michael Rabin, Itzhak Perlman, Pinchas Zukerman, Erick Friedman, and Miriam Fried, among an impressive list of others. The Meadowmount schedule was rigorous; five to six hours of daily practice, with private lessons, coachings and performance gatherings. My first year of attendance in 1971, I was eleven years old, a student of Sally Thomas. My tiny cubicle of a room was directly above Ivan Galamian's studio in the Main House. The first thing my mother said as she unpacked my belongings:
Sweetheart! Put your ear to the floor and you'll be able to hear Mr. Galamian teach all day long! You'll be that much ahead of the other students. I sat on the lumpy cot and stared at my mother. Picking my fingernails, I wondered how I'd survive the homesickness, not to mention the exhaustive, tedious, painful hours of relentless, unendurable practice.

But once my parents left the premises, I gathered my courage and reached out for friends. I met students from all over the country, and far away places. For a kid growing up in Beverly, Massachusetts, the varied backgrounds of Meadowmount campers was a culture shock. And with newly acquired friends I learned the most amazing things: I discovered how to fake practicing, by first playing into a Sony cassette recorder and pressing playback for 45 minutes while contentedly playing Solitaire. I learned how to sneak away with others in the middle of the night to visit the boys' dorms (Robert Portney, Chin Kim and Gil Morgenstern were heart throbs). I perfected the skill of tuning excessively and making chit-chat during lessons to avoid nasty scale and etude work. I learned to snatch extra pancakes when Judith Galamian turned away in the dining hall. She had quite a temper, that Mrs. Galamian, but those pancakes were worth the struggle. Two Meadowmount beauties, Heidi Carney and Sharan Leventhal instructed me on the art of applying Maybelline products, and caused my addiction to Entenmann's Chocolate-Chip Cookies.

But the jewel at Meadowmount was violinist/pedagogue Josef Gingold. Mr. Gingold taught chamber music to Meadowmounters for over thirty years and influenced a whole generation of string players. He had introduced 13-year-old Itzhak Perlman to chamber music and 14-year-old Pinchas Zukerman to the viola. Gingold's studio was at the opposite end of Mr. Galamian's in the Main House, and his teaching style couldn't have been more of a contrast. While Ivan Galamian appeared rigid and strict, snapping his fingers and urging students to practice, Mr. Gingold, round and bear-like, suffused Meadowmount with affection and charm. Every comment Mr. Gingold offered during coachings was followed by a witty and applicable story. Humor served Mr. Gingold well. I don't recall him ever losing his temper, or having a bad day. I'll never forget my first session being coached by the eminent professor. My group had prepared Haydn's Lark Quartet. The quartet of students faced Mr. Gingold, and behind him a large, panoramic window. As Mr. Gingold interrupted the quartet to make an instructive comment by sharing a humorous anecdote, a decapitated dolly dangled up and down the window behind him, displaying a bizarre, circular dance. Suddenly, headless dolly disappeared, only to be replaced by a mangled, one-eyed teddy bear, and later, a limbless Raggedy Ann. The quartet tried to stifle giggles but it was to no avail. We burst out laughing until tears rolled down our cheeks. Mr. Gingold was infected by our laughter, mystified by what was so funny. He didn't think to turn around at the window. "Oh, vot children," he laughed. Above his studio, a few impish Main House girls had tied dolls with defects and stuffed animals to a rope, and dangled them up and down the window, intent on derailing our coaching. Poor Mr. Gingold! He never caught on; such an innocent and sweet man; probably thinking we were laughing at his anecdotes. When I visit Meadowmount in the future, I'll pay homage by first stepping into Mr. Gingold's studio.

Drawing of Josef Gingold
New Yorker 1991

All My Students

Back in the 70's, when I was growing up outside of Boston, I'd receive numerous invitations to appear as soloist with the various, local orchestras. The engagements were always accepted for me by my mother, who insisted exposure would be essential for a developing artist, and never refused an opportunity. Although I'm certain Mom intended to sit through my concerts in those days, nerves would get the best of her, and she'd make a mad dash for the bathroom the moment I stepped on stage.

The Sunday afternoon I performed with Newton Symphony as soloist, my mother surprised me. She sat through the entire first half, and listened as I played Bloch's Nigun and Saint-Saëns' Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso from the audience. What happened? Later, my mother explained to me: An elderly Jewish lady seated next to her in the balcony, urged her to calm down and enjoy the program. "But that's my daughter," said Mom to the white-haired, bespectacled lady. "I can't relax; I'm dying here; my Marjorie hasn't practiced enough; she's not ready."
"Dayge zakh nisht," the elderly lady replied in Yiddish. In other words, don't vorry.

I played those pieces convincingly, and by intermission, the two ladies came strolling backstage to greet me, arm in arm. Although they had struck up a friendship of sorts, my mother had no idea that the woman was Jennie Bernstein, Leonard Bernstein's mother. And when my mother learned of her seating partner's identity, she was astonished. "You're Leonard Bernstein's mother? Why didn't you tell me? Oh my goodness, you must be so proud of your son!"And then every other word out of my mother's mouth was Lenny, Lenny, Lenny.
Mrs. Bernstein drew in a breath, sighed a long exhale and announced: I'm proud of ALL my children.

And this little admission my mother never forgot, for when she attended my concerts here in Seattle, as I performed as soloist, chamber musician, and concertmaster, audience members would make a similar comment: Mrs. Kransberg, you must be so proud of your daughter. My mother, never forgetting Jennie Bernstein's statement, would sigh. "I'm proud of ALL my children."

This evening, I've returned home from an exciting performance of young string players enjoying quartet literature in the admirable camp called Mini-Mania founded by cellist, Leslie Marckx. One of my most gifted students, ten year old Lev Roshal gave a spectacular performance in works by Mozart and Villa-Lobos. I think Lev was born to play the violin. Quite a few of our talented students have gone on to make names for themselves in the challenging world of classical music: Carla Leurs, first prize winner in Tibor Varga International Competition after continued studies at Juilliard with Itzhak Perlman, Andrew Sumitani at University of Chicago studying privately with famed virtuoso, Ilya Kaler. Irene Cheng furthered her education at Yale Graduate School with Sidney Harth, and went on to pursue a career in teaching and concertizing. And many more lovely students: enough concertmasters and first chair players of Garfield High School and the various youth orchestras that it's difficult to keep track. Just a few weeks ago, I felt a surge of pride as a few of my top-notch students participated in a ground-breaking program at Music Works, organized by pianist Nino Merabishvili. These dedicated youngsters lift my spirits and enable me to feel hopeful for the future. But when they perform in public, even at Talvi Violin Studio recitals, I have to remind myself to calm down and sit still. I guess I inherited my mother's jitters. But here's the bottom line: Not everyone is destined to become a professional musician. Yet, I'm convinced all our students will lead successful lives because they've learned dedication and the attention to detail through the study of great music, and they will always respect and understand the art form, feeling music from the inside. I still hear Jennie Bernstein and my mother's voice chiming together, and from the bottom of my heart:
I'm proud of ALL my students.

Almost Always on Sunday

My mother, Frannie Kransberg, almost never missed a Sunday matinee of the Northwest Chamber Orchestra. I'd walk onstage, scan the half-empty hall, and there she'd be, in her usual aisle seat; a fixture. Even at the age of 82, Mom was fiercely independent, insisting on taking buses everywhere from her home in Bothell. She'd flit away the hours prior to concerts shopping for bargains, mostly at The Rack. By the time my mother wound her way to Nordstrom Recital Hall, she'd be loaded up with shopping bags, bundles, she called them. I was tipped off by a concertgoer that Mom innocently whacked the person a row ahead of her in the head with her pocketbook. I suppose my mother got a bit excited at concerts. She'd boast to the person next to her:
See the concertmaster walking onstage? That's my daughter! And do you realize, she's married to Ilkka Talvi, the other concertmaster? And, on top of everything else, they have the world's most beeeautiful daughters—my grandchildren, Anna Mirjam and Sarah Lilian!

At the end of concerts, she'd appear backstage, and make the same comment time and time again. "You look so much better now that the performance is over!"
And I'd think, Gee, I wonder why. Like, it's not pressure having you here?
Then we'd leave the hall, take the elevator down to garage level, and I'd drive her home.
"Our time together," she'd say.

One of Mom's favorite violinists on the planet happened to be Joseph Silverstein, the Principal Guest Conductor of NWCO. My mother remembered Joey Silverstein from her days as an amateur violinist in Harry Ellis Dickson's Brookline Civic Symphony, back in the late fifties, early sixties. Silverstein, during those years, regularly tested out repertoire with community orchestras before solo appearances with Boston Symphony. Understandable and logical. Joseph Silverstein was BSO's young concertmaster, and took the role seriously, practicing (according to my mother) his violin right up until the last second before entering the stage. I noticed whenever my mother spoke of Mr. Silverstein, she'd lower her voice, and lift her eyes heavenwards.
"His tone is like the finest wine," she'd say.

So, the Sunday concert on November 14th, 2004 was penciled in my mom's calendar. Silverstein was slated to conduct with Mark O'Connor as soloist. But there was a problem. And the problem was NWCO sold out that entire weekend, due to Mark O'Connor's popularity.
"I'm sorry, Mom," I said. "No more tickets."
Secretly, I felt a little relieved. I mean, I loved having my mother in the audience but let's face it, I was a little concerned about what she might say or do.
Once the concert finished, I walked to my car, and realized I felt lonely. I missed my mom that day, November 14th. I missed her so much that I called her house as soon as I drove from the Benaroya Garage. It was 4:44 on the dot. The phone rang and rang: no answer. If she wasn't at my concert, then where was she?

I found out two hours later. True to Mom's character, she had taken a bus to and from the grocery store, her cart loaded with bundles. Mom was probably tired and hungry. She must have missed hearing the NWCO. I wouldn't be surprised if her thoughts were music-related, envisioning my performance. She certainly didn't sense the car coming. And the driver didn't see my mother. Time of fatal accident: 4:44.