Our lives never seemed to follow a proscribed linear motion. It feels like it has come in chunks of time, entering through doors that were left ever so slightly ajar.
A friend I knew when I was a lobbyist introduced me to the Denver Chamber Orchestra. I joined her one evening for a concert led by the incomparable JoAnn Falletta. The leadership was quite competent. The Executive Director knew what she was doing and the Maestra, Ms. Falletta, was magnificent. I was immediately attracted to volunteering for the small group.
So, I walked through the open door and remained there for a decade until the little orchestra couldn’t survive a Denver market that had no room for much classical music.
The music was stunning. The friendships were warm and delightful. But there was one experience, or I guess I should say, a series of experiences that made this decade shine for GB and me.
We opened our home to the soloists, conductors, and composers. We had a grand piano in our living room and the guest bedroom had an ensuite bath and privacy from the rest of the home.
Over the years, we hosted pianists like dear Jeffrey Biegel who, today, has shepherded American music and commissioned new music that is played throughout the country. Jeffrey was a young man when he came to stay for the week in our home. He practiced daily and we let the doors to the terrace remain open at the request of our neighbors who applauded the practice sessions. One day, Jeffrey told us that his fingers were cracking in our arid environment. GB tended the wounds and Jeffrey’s concert, Saint Saen’s 2nd Piano Concerto, was brilliant and shimmered with brightness.
Murry Sidlin, the American Maestro, stayed with us over numerous years. His concerts always drew large audiences and great reviews. One night, Murry called to say his plane had been delayed. He’d rent a car and come to our house around midnight. No problem. I left the front door unlocked with two Newfies sleeping soundly in the entry hall. When Murry arrived, the Newfs couldn’t be bothered to get up. The entry hall was marble and the dogs were easily slid across when the door opened just widely enough so that Murry could squeeze in. The Newfs didn’t notice the guest until the next morning.
We’d meet up with Murry at the Aspen Music Festival during the summers of that decade. The relationship soured when the DCO sought a new conductor after Joanne left and Murry wasn’t selected to follow her. I miss him still.
Each artist who stayed with us left permanent memories. I remember the composer who followed Max and Winnie, our first Newfies, around. He wondered how many times they’d circle the house before they tired of the game. As it happened, not many. Newfs laid down, composer went back to work editing the new piece that would premier a few days later. Or the pianist who had a nervous breakdown in our bathroom. She refused to speak to anyone but GB who did his best to reassure her. No, she didn’t make it to the concert and JoAnn substituted a local pianist for the gig. But the local didn’t know the piece and every time he lost track, JoAnn would walk over and point out the notes to him. She was brilliant. He was not.
Our new Maestro was Paul Lustig Dunkel, a master of the flute and contemporary music. When his appendix burst, he called me from the hospital. His old friend, James Galway, was in town with the Denver Symphony. “Give him a call and tell him I’m lonesome,” Dunkel asked. So, at 8 am, I called Galway who proceeded to yell at me. I was not intimidated by that Gaelic accent and pressed upon Galway’s better nature to visit Dunkel.
GB and I began to understand the psyche of musicians. The soloists were detail oriented. They thought only of their notes and the more complex portions of their music which they would practice endlessly. Sometimes, we would listen to a few bars of music wondering if there was anything else to the piece. Inevitably, there was. The conductors were another set of emotions. They were broad thinkers. Interested in music, arts, politics, history. They would weave their knowledge and emotions into the works before them. But the composers were the most intellectually challenging. They wanted to know everything all at once. They were gifted, funny, entertaining, and easy to like. Their egos were not out and about like the soloists or the conductors. They were like sponges, looking to soak up every bit of information, every source of an emotion, around them.
The guests were always offered a choice of staying in our home or at the hotel. Amazingly, a good number chose our home, and some became regular customers at our little musical B&B. And why not? They had a built-in chauffeur (me), cook (me), companion (GB, dogs, cats, birds, and me), dental care (GB), and a student (me) taking the week-long master class from the guest.
The decade of the DCO was a master class for GB and me. But the little orchestra simply couldn’t survive the next decade and it closed owing money to Dunkel. It was a sad ending to a decade filled with music and beautiful memories flowing through our veins.
Air. 
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