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Sunday, July 14, 2024

Pitch

Let's all just pitch in and come up with various definitions of "pitch."  Tar (black as pitch), of course. The baseball season consists of one pitch after another; good pitching trumps good hitting. And at our house, we throw out unwanted things, pitching them toward new homes. Finally, but not definitively, pitch is what you do with an idea that you are trying to sell to an editor or a producer. You pitch your outline in order to snag the contract.

 

And then there's musical pitch, some of it even perfect. I once heard a musician refer to a slightly out-of-tune performance as "a bit pitchy". Our family, collectively, has prided itself on having a good sense of pitch; that is, we can sing on key and can tell when someone else's pitch is off. Well, pride goeth, as we know, before a fall. Some years ago, when there were still three of us, my sisters and I were joking around in a recording studio (don't ask) and sang our version of "Daddy's Little Girl", the only trio we have left in our repertoire. By the end, we were congratulating ourselves on the mellowness of our three similar voices—and then the recording engineer began the playback. We were painfully out of tune. We doubled over with laughter (and humiliation) and never again tried to record a sisters' trio.

 

Recently the Globe & Mail used "pitch" ambiguously in a headline. Did the group in question promote the idea or throw the idea away? Unfortunately, I didn't bother to read the story, having been put off by the confusing head, so I still can't answer. But the moral is: don't use "pitch" in  a headline unless you're talking about baseball.

 

 
Copyright © 2024 Ann Tudor
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com
Audible.Ca: go to https://www.audible.ca and search for Ann Tudor
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Sunday, June 30, 2024

Words in the World

Beware the word, more powerful than we think—

than a locomotive, even,

though who but Superman, these days,

is compared to locomotives?

 

Can words sway the world

as once they could?

Written words held strength,

moved mountains,

destroyed empires.

 

Now? Now, not so much.

 

How do we reclaim the soul and body

of our world?

Return to words, poets implore.

Bring back the word,

the listeners, the readers,

the lovers of life.

Will that suffice?

 

Pluto invites us to visit him

in the Underworld.

Now there's a world that still knows

the value of words,

spoken or unspoken,

symbolic to a fare-thee-well.

Let us hie ourselves Nether-ward

and attend to the disquieting words

of his darkness.

 

 

 
Copyright © 2024 Ann Tudor
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com
Audible.Ca: go to https://www.audible.ca and search for Ann Tudor
Audible.Com: go to https://www.audible.com and search for Ann Tudor




 

Sunday, June 9, 2024

The Roar of the Press

A lucky person might be born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Or a wooden spoon to stir up trouble (I made that one up). Some are said to have printer's ink in their blood. Some have blue blood.

 

Myself, I was born to a sound. I didn't hear it immediately upon being born. Christmas Day in 1936 was on a Friday (oh, Google, you never fail me). So from Friday until the following Tuesday, I lived my tiny life in peace and quiet. We lived at the time in the apartment above the Delphi Citizen office. The apartment was long and narrow, running from its front on Franklin Street all the way back to the alley that divided the block. We lived there, my brother who was exactly two and a half on the day I was born, and my two parents, until I was just under a year, when we moved to the first of our two houses on the hill.

 

The defining feature of living "above the office" was the printing press. I don't know whether you've ever seen (or heard) a real newspaper printing press. It has the footprint of, say, a small room and is about ten feet tall. The operator (for ours, at least, needed an operator at every moment) sat at the very top in order to separate and flick the giant sheets of newsprint so they didn't jam as they slipped between the rollers.

 

But what I'm getting to is the sound of my life. The press roars. It roars endlessly as it prints its papers. In my case it roared all Tuesday afternoon every week, for the first run of the paper, and then all day Wednesday (the second run)—an unmistakable, inescapable rhythm that deafened everyone in the backroom. Or, in my case, anyone lying in a crib directly above the press.

 

I have to wonder what that new baby—after five days of quiet—felt when the press started up on that first Tuesday. Did my mind conjure up lions from a previous existence? Did I imagine terrifying beasts? Earthquakes? Or was I simply overwhelmed? Did I learn to sleep through it?

 

A family story: I was a "difficult" baby who cried when she was put to bed at night. So Eileen and Myron would take little toddler Dinty and go for a long family walk, leaving me to cry myself to sleep.

 

Did the noise of the press in my earliest days so disturb my sleep that I then became a "difficult" baby?

 

 
Copyright © 2024 Ann Tudor
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com
Audible.Ca: go to https://www.audible.ca and search for Ann Tudor
Audible.Com: go to https://www.audible.com and search for Ann Tudor