"So you're the trombone player."

Easter Sunday.

Had a pleasant time at the Lutheran church today. The organist really knows his stuff, and there's something stirring about listening to the organ. Perhaps it's in my Protestant heritage. The pastor was an excellent orator and gave an interesting sermon. He was really good at using the pitch and volume of his voice to fill the space.

During the point in the service where they "Spread the Peace" or "Greet in Christ" or "Turn and Shake Someone's Hand", I had the misfortune to shake hands with a man who had an almost laughably bad hand shake. This guy apparently never read all the rules that are written down somewhere about how you shake hands with other men.

One: He approached me to shake my hand, but then kept his hand close to his side. To illustrate, place your wrist at your waist. Now point at the door handle in whatever room you're in. I wouldn't have even known he was going to shake my hand, except that he had his hand in the standard pre-shake orientation. Shameful. This forced me to reach almost to the extension of my arm OVER my music stand.

Two: Some men have strong handshakes grips; some have soft. Either is ok, depending on the familiarity and cirumstances. This fellow had no grip. He may as well have handed me a department-store dummy's hand. His fingers and thumb moved almost imperceptibly when I "slotted in". Let me tell you, nothing is stranger than getting a dead fish handshake.

Three: Eye contact. It's acceptible to look at your hand during the approach, to make sure that you aren't going to miss. But after you begin shaking, it's customary to look at the other person in the eyes, while saying something. This fellow wouldn't look at me, and barely mumbled something at me, which may very well have been the name of his favorite baseball team: I wouldn't know, because I couldn't decipher it. Part of the reason I couldn't was because the guy didn't look at me, even as I was shaking his hand. It wasn't because he was already looking at the next guy in line, either (seeing where he was headed next). He was looking at the floor or something in that vacinity.

Frustrating. If he didn't really wish to greet me, he should have just stuck to nodding his head at the other people in the choir loft.

My accompanist: now there's a good handshake. Perhaps it's because we're friends (and I pay him money), but he has an excellent handshake.

*** *** ***
Thirty seconds after walking in my door after the service, my doorbell rang. It was my downstairs neighbor. She wanted to know if I could talk to her grandson and family about music. "He has some questions for you."
Well, it turns out that he didn't have much to ask me. In fact, he may not have looked at me. He vehemently denied wanting to ask anything when prompted by his mother. But the four adults in the room were excited to hear me talk. I got to hear about how he plays 7 different instruments, but really appreciates the bassoon most. And how he's good at all of them. Did I mention he's in 7th grade?
Anyway, the parents got what they wanted out of my discussion: the name of the college bassoon instructor, the idea to insure instruments as a rider on home insurance, and the fact that someone in the states of Kansas or Missouri studies music. And likes it.

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