Always keep a big quiet man as one of your friends
I remember ages ago I was at my cousin’s watching football with a few of his friends. At one point I went to the kitchen, which was next to the front door, to get a beer refill when there was a knock on the door. Since I was right there, I answered it, only to find some Elmer Gantry-looking chap. Before I could say anything, he yelled in that tremulous manner that TV preachers do, “Halleluja Brother, are there any sinners in this house?” I told him that there were a bunch of guys drinking beer and watching a football game on TV. He burst past me into the living room, turned off the TV, and started praising the lord to these guys. Their jaws were slack with surprise until one of them, a defensive lineman-sized man, stood up and simply said, “Go away. Now.” Elmer took the hint and scurried out as I held the door open for him.

Seems there was an orchestra, with a master Violinist in first chair. In the midst of final rehearsal for a grand exposition of powerful music, a bizarre dissonance was heard. The conductor stopped the piece as he nearly fell off his podium. The concertmaster was heard to say softly, “Apologies, Maestro – there are flies here. One landed on my score and I played him.”

I live next door to a lovely lady who is a music professor at our local university. During the year she takes time to lead workshops, give recitals, and appear as a guest artist in various orchestras around the world. I am her designated house caretaker whenever she’s traveling, whether it’s to Interlochen in Michigan, or southern Italy. Besides tending her plants inside and out, I also collect her mail from the community mail boxes, which I sort into piles of advertising, bulk rate, and first class. She also tends to do a fair amount of shopping online, which means the occasional UPS dropoff on her porch. On longer trips, she has been known to mail manuscripts and scores no longer needed back to herself. Imagine her surprise when I emailed a photo of one day’s deliveries to her: