The World’s Biggest Pipe Organ I Won’t See

Posted on February 24, 2013 by Nathan Grohn

About once a year I get to fly somewhere on an airplane. Sometimes it’s for work, sometimes for a wedding, sometimes for a funeral, never just for vacationing, but perhaps I will do that someday. I like flying in airplanes. I especially like that final turn on the tarmac, sometimes followed by a pause at the runway, when I know the engines will throttle up next, and inertia will push me back in my seat. I recently found out that most people like aisle seats, and airlines may be charging more for them soon. But I like the window seat, especially during the day. I like when there is a break in the clouds and I can see the ground passing below. Once in a while I can see the shadow of the plane on the ground, miles below. From that height the shadow is tiny, just like an airplane in the sky is tiny when viewed from the ground, and not at all as the aircraft seems when I am in the airport watching them come and go. I like watching the shadow pass over the patchwork of fields of different colors, of green circles made by irrigation systems inside of arid brown squares. Passing hundreds of these fields in a minute, I begin to add up the length of the flight . . . all these parcels, owned by someone, tended by someone.

Next week I fly again, and this year’s trip is for work. As much fun as it is to fly on an airplane, I am really excited because I am going to Atlanta, Georgia, and there is a small possibility that I will get to see the World’s Biggest Pipe Organ. I read about it a couple years ago. It is up in the air exactly how the biggest pipe organ would be measured, so there are actually a few contenders, depending on if you count manuals, ranks of pipes, total number of pipes, or number of stops. But this particular one is a stand-out among gigantic pipe organs. It has seven manuals (keyboards), over 1200 stop tabs, and it has one of only two true 64′ open stops in the world.

The boxes on this wall are the actuators for the lowest diaphone pipes. There is one box per pipe, and the bottom of the pipe begins at about chest level.

The 64′ Diaphone is a pipe that makes an 8 Hertz tone, more than an octave below the normal range of human hearing. It works the same way a foghorn does. I have personally heard a 32′ Diaphone in person and remember it well, but this goes a full octave lower! It is true that this organ is not in very operable condition, and much of it doesn’t work. But even so, I hear that they are open a couple days a month for tours, and maybe I will be able to catch one of these. That would be so cool! This organ is the loudest musical instrument in the world – the Grand Ophicleide stop alone produces 130 decibels at a one meter distance. It operates on 100″ inches of air. That is to say that the air supply for the pipes has enough pressure to raise a column of mercury over 100 inches. Mercury is heavy! A church organ operates on something like 30″, and most theater organs on 60″ or more. But 100″?

I’m not really a pipe organ nut. I don’t play them, repair them, or collect them. But I do appreciate the complexity of moving parts, the mechanical apparatus of a tracker, and the valves, solenoids and switching network of an electrically operated organ. I appreciate the craftsmanship that goes into an instrument like this, and the amount of time and skill it takes to build one. I love the sounds they produce and the works written for them, especially those by the greatest Lutheran cantor ever, J. S. Bach. And I love a performance by a skilled organist. The pipe organ is, after all, the mother of all brass instruments, and while I am confined by ability to playing the smaller, less complicated, and less expensive variety of brass, that doesn’t mean I can’t sit back and enjoy the performance of someone else who can play it well.

So although this is a business trip, I am hoping that there will be an opportunity for me to break away and go see this behemoth of pipes.

What’s that . . . ? I have my cities mixed up . . . ? The biggest pipe organ is at Boardwalk Hall in Atlantic City, New Jersey? It’s not in Atlanta, Georgia? I guess my chances of seeing it on this trip are significantly diminished.

So what else is there to do in Atlanta? At least I still get to fly on an airplane. And I have a window seat.

No Imposition

Posted on February 13, 2013 by Nathan Grohn

There was no imposition of ashes on that Ash Wednesday.

In the early evening, I waited at the airport for my sister, Allison. She had planned another trip, but something had told her not to book it. At the last second, she used that money to set a flight for Portland instead. I was parked in short-term parking, as close as possible to the arrivals, in order to make a fast getaway. I waited, looking for any way to make things go faster.

Mom had called and said not to delay. Breathing was labored, and a morphine patch would be applied to ease the distress. There was no more time to waste. The plane was on time, and after a hasty greeting while moving through the airport, we found the car and made our way to the freeway as quickly as possible for the 50-mile drive south.

Once on the road, I said to Allison, “I want to warn you, Grandma doesn’t look the same as the last time you saw her.” I had been down to visit frequently in the evenings after work, and on weekends. I wanted to warn my sister of how thin she was, how her eyes and skin were yellow, and how weak she would be.

A handful or two of days prior, Grandma told me weakly, “I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to fight this. I’m going to do what the doctors say. I’m going to beat it.” It was an aggressive tumor surrounding her bile drain tube, squeezing down on it and shutting off its flow, causing a chain reaction of failures. I don’t think any of us knew just how bad it was, not until a day or two before. Various treatments were used and more were planned. One kind of stent was inserted to keep the drain open, and that failing, another more robust one was planned. But that was called off. I had not been there yet that day, but had been told the decline was rapid. We knew this was really happening. Grandma was dying.

Mom and Dad, my aunt and uncle, my cousins, and now my sister and I were there in the hospital room. Only my brother, Austin, was missing. He had finished his day teaching in a small town 250 miles to the south, changed his clothes, and was on his motorcycle heading up the freeway over mountain passes in the cold February air. “Go Austin, Go!” I thought.

Grandma’s breathing was rough, impeded by fluid in her respiratory system, rattling. I sat nearby, I stood, I held her hand, I talked with my family. I didn’t really know what to do. When it seemed best, I took her hand, whispered my name in her ear, and told her that I loved her. I told her that I thought it would seem just a short time to her, but we would all be there right behind her. I said goodbye. Her breathing was in gasps, moments of stillness between. Others said their goodbyes too. We watched, helplessly.

Her pastor, Pastor Brauer, came to the hospital after the Ash Wednesday service at Redeemer. He performed a Service of Commendation of the Dying, tracing on her forehead the cross he had made with ashes on the foreheads of his other parishioners that night. “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

Her breathing became slower, the gasps more shallow, the moments longer. I looked to my cousin, a nurse, for what this meant. She confirmed what I already knew.

My heart was breaking. It was breaking for myself, for all the memories of my Grandma. My mind raced through all these as if they would depart with her, and I wanted to catalog them so they wouldn’t slip away. This is the grandma whom I followed as she vacuumed her formal living room. And as I followed, I carried a little chair stamping four feet marks in the smoothed golden carpet at every step, in awe of the pattern on the canvas she had smoothed for me. The memory is actually in her telling of the story, and the many stories she told . . . feeding a whole stack of ears of corn to the hogs after they were shucked for dinner . . . filling the newly planted and tied-up cauliflower with dirt . . . other things I don’t actually remember. The memory is of her smile and laughter, the laughter that was hard to stop once it was started.

For all the thousands of memories fixed in sounds, actions, looks, places, and pictures, the most vivid is the smell of Grandpa cooking bacon, then frying eggs in the bacon grease, of toast and coffee, and the ever-present smell of Grandma’s perfume mixed in. That was the smell of waking up at Grandma and Grandpa’s in my childhood. Grandma and Grandpa’s was the very best place to visit on the surface of the Earth.

I wanted that smell back again. It wasn’t just her – it was her and Grandpa together – as it should be – as it seemed it always was. My heart was breaking for him. His wife of 60 years was being called away. He had asked her to marry him the third time they met.

After his basic training, they met a fourth time and were married that day. The next day, he shipped out for the war in Europe, and she waited the 16 months until he returned. In the remaining 59 years, there was one argument, and only one. Their younger child, my aunt, an infant, was crying. Grandpa held her that early morning. Grandma asked him to give her the baby so he could go and milk the cows. He said no. That was it, the entire sum and substance of the argument.

I can point to nothing, save the hand of God, that could explain my Grandma and Grandpa. Almost unbelieveable, their love for each other, and the way they treated each other seems to be located the smallest degree this side of impossible. And yet it was. He now sat beside her and held her hand, as she lay looking upward from the bed, those breaths becoming more and more delayed.

There was no imposition of ashes for any of us that Ash Wednesday, save Pastor Brauer. None was needed. The imposition of ashes as a symbol of repentance at the beginning of Lent is tradition and is not mandatory. I have heard it said that to put on ashes, the recognition and of our sin and the penalty for it, is only half the confession . . . that the baptismal font should immediately follow the imposition, washing away the ashes, a remembrance of our baptism when we were baptized into death with Christ. No, that Ash Wednesday, the consequence of sin was staring us in the face, in the dying body of my Grandma. She was becoming dust before our eyes.

Where is Austin! Dad was on the phone in the corridor. Austin was circling the hospital outside, and did not know where to go. Should I go and point the direction? Should I go and take his bike? I don’t know how a motorcycle works, what would I do with it? How would I park it? It’s after visiting hours, and he will need to be checked in and cleared by the guards at the door. . . can I go and let them know he is coming? How can I get him here faster? I already got to say goodbye, he should be able to . . .

Her breathing was barely perceptible. It was so long between breaths . . . long suspensions . . . and then . . . she simply stopped. Her pulse faded, and peacefully, she died. Her burden was lifted. Clothed in Christ’s righteousness, the sentence pronounced at her baptism finished, she went to her Lord’s side. And there she waits as we do here, for the fulfillment of His promise, and to receive her body made anew.

Grandpa was in shock . . . grief beyond expression. He had quit his job just a few days before in order to take care of Grandma full-time. But that was not God’s will. Now what . . . ? The next few years would be hardest.

I met Austin at the door of the room two minutes later . . . two minutes. “I’m sorry, Austin . . . ” My heart was breaking for my brother. Breathless, he put his hands on his knees for a moment, then stood upright, and went in. Two minutes. 80 miles an hour for 250 miles in the cold winter air . . . two minutes.

Is there a better way to die? Is there a better way than with the knowledge that your debt was already paid centures ago, His name marked on you by the Spirit in the plain water of Holy Baptism, and forgiveness received in His body and blood? Is there a better way to live?

There was no imposition of ashes that Ash Wednesday.

On The Road Again

Posted on February 4, 2013 by Nathan Grohn

Tonight I went on a bike ride for the first time in ten weeks. Only on level ground, only for half an hour, and only for a short distance that I do not know because GPS conked out on me. In my short ride, I was stopped by the police, but not for speeding – they wanted to know if I had seen a missing boy they were searching for. I also rode past an elementary school that burned down yesterday. I saw the cloud of smoke on my way to church, but did not know what it was until I rode past tonight. The smell was something like the burn pile back home, only more sickening. I last smelled this particular smell when Dad took me to see the home of some friends from church after it had burned when I was a youngster. That time I was in my barn boots, and was shown a plastic clock that was still recognizeable, but was droopy and mishapen, something like in the famous Salvador Dali painting. Tonight there were news trucks from all the big local stations, and their lights were on. I was able to see that pretty much the whole building had burned down to the ground.

I haven’t ridden since the week before Thanksgiving. After ten days away with family at the end of November, I came home with a horrible nasty cold, and my ability to breathe was no good for cycling, or much of anything else for that matter. Once over that problem, there were a series of Dr. appointments to diagnose a knee problem, and the bike didn’t work out schedule-wise. That got me to Christmas, when I spent a little more than a week at Mom & Dad’s. On January 15, my knee was operated on for a torn medial meniscus. This is a part of the knee that had been repaired before, but the repair did not hold. The solution this time was simply to cut the torn portion away as is usually done, and clean that area up.

Knees are funny things. It doesn’t take much of a problem to cause swelling, and in my experience, once the kneecap is out of place, it hurts. There must have been advancements in surgery techniques, because instead of three incisions, there were only two this time. Before being discharged from surgery, they gave me a hydrocodone pill for pain, and a prescription for the same which was filled, but which I never took. The swelling was also much less, so much less that my knees looked almost symmetrical after only five days.

I had stayed with some good friends the night after surgery, since I wasn’t supposed to be alone for 24 hours after general anesthesia, and was lovingly scolded for bringing my overnight bag down the stairs the next morning. I was scheduled for six physical therapy sessions over three weeks, but was discharged after only three. At the first session, the day after surgery, the therapist said the crutch I was using was really only a prop, and I wasn’t required to use it. The therapist laughed at that third session when I leapt out of the chair in the waiting area, only a week after surgery. That day the joint was only six degrees away from full range of motion.

The overwhelming success of the surgery may be directly attributed to the skill of the surgeon (if anyone in the area needs a good one, let me know), the care of the nurses, the cleanliness of the facilities, and all the benefits that good medical practice can provide. But as Grandpa says, many prayers were answered. The truth is that all of this is a gift from the Father, providing for his child.

So perhaps after a couple weeks on level ground, I’ll be taking the ol’ bike over the bridge to work again.

My ’71 Schwinn Suburban

More Tired

Posted on February 1, 2013 by Nathan Grohn

These days I work a little more than normal. I have my real job, repairing various commercial electronics for Mood Media. Most days I choose one type of electronics, say a certain digital satellite music receiver, and work on that model from the beginning of the day to the end. On these days, there is little excitement from one unit to the next. Few and far between are the times I get to say, “I’ve never seen that before.” Today, however, was varied. I repaired three satellite receivers, two oscilloscopes, one spectrum analyzer, a power amplifier, and a large venue projector. I enjoy a new challenge. Working on something I never have before is exciting, like hunting in a new terrain, trying to ferret out the faulty component. This is what I do for 45 to 50 hours every week.

In my evenings and weekends I work on a (very) small side business where I design and build electronics. These are small items, most of which will end up in antique cars. All are handcrafted, so every hole is drilled one at a time with a pull on the drill press, every component is placed one at a time by hand, and every circuit is hand-soldered one point at a time. As any craftsman knows, an error can be disastrous, and some cannot be undone. This is a lesson I have learned the hard way, and so every detail is seen to with patience. This is what I do for about 20 – 25 hours a week. I suppose that overall, I work harder than some, and not as hard as others.

But today I am tired. I compare this tiredness to another . . .

Am I more tired than when I baled hay and straw with my family for eight summers?

Am I more tired than on the thirtieth consecutive fourteen-hour day without the respite a rain would provide?

Am I more tired than pumping diesel fuel into seven empty tanks at the end of the day with a hand crank pump, arms aching no matter how many times I switch hands?

More tired than living in a camp trailer for six weeks because home is too far away to drive every day?

More tired than an uneaten pizza, the crew’s reward for turning out 5000 bales yesterday, left because it is too hot to feel like eating?

More tired than reaching the seasonal goal of 120,000 bales, enough to meet the needs of the books, and then pushing further because this is where they go into the black?

Am I more tired than when I rode on the back of a baler for half a day trying to get a knotter to work right, the honeymoon after winter maintenance and repair long over?

More tired than when I busted my knuckles on that knotter when the 17mm wrench slipped off the nut that fastens the worm gear to it’s shaft?

Am I more tired than hauling a 40-pound pail of open-gear lubricant to the top of each machine three times a day in order to pour from it onto a half-ton of moving gears under my feet?

Am I more tired than taking advantage of a moment when all the machines are working right, everything is fueled and lubed, twineboxes are stocked and no one is complaining, a moment to lie down in a windrow and close my eyes, never at ease lest a machine should swallow me up?

More tired than searching a 40-acre field by spotlight for a cell phone I had dropped?

More tired than the dog, panting in the stagnant heat of the pickup truck, motor off and A/C not running because gas has gone up to $1.19?

Am I more tired than my sister, shotgun in the same stuffy pickup truck, broken leg in a fiberglass cast, and if casts aren’t bad enough in their seventh week, this one was sweated in eight hours a day?

More than trudging in five-pound steel-toe work boots from one end to the other of a 400-acre field to pull all the twine from a row of bales because the baler operator didn’t notice that the center twine was always popping?

More tired than climbing inside the 16″ x 22″ chamber of each baler to change the plunger knives, lying on my side in the confined space with just enough room to manuever the breaker bar?

Am I more tired than when I had to pound a broken shear bolt out of the flywheel . . . again. . . because the operator kept overfeeding, and then the hole became out of round and no shear bolt could be expected to last too long, even under normal circumstances?

Am I more tired than after blowing all the straw out of three balers with compressed air in order to go to another farmer’s fields, appearing like a ghost from the cloud of dust and chaff?

How about when the Chevy had it’s Third Annual Spontaneous Water Pump & Fan Clutch Failure Extravaganza, and it had to be attended to first because it carried the parts and tools to repair the other two machines that were broken down? That's me on the phonee, and my brother behind the door.

Am I more tired than at 11:30 at night, trying to figure out how to only spend 50 cents in the campground shower and have enough water to get all the gear lube and Bigfoot grease off my body and out of my hair?

Or am I more tired than eating a chicken chimichanga at midnight for the thirty-fifth time because Muchas Gracias is the only place open after 10:00 in this small town?

And am I more tired than one of those really hard days, the ones when there wasn’t a moment that something wasn’t broken, and at the end of the day, it’s two beers with my chimichanga instead of just one, because, lets face it . . . when you’re drinking Icehouse, it takes two anyways?

Despite how it sounds, these were great times. I’ve never worked with another crew as good as this one, and I don’t expect I ever will . . . more on that another time.

When I consider these things, I find I’m not so tired, and I can go another round or two, repair a couple more receivers, drill a few hundred more holes, and solder another dozen boards. I know I can’t keep this pace up indefinitely, and it isn’t suitable in the long run. But in this time and place, these are tasks I have been given to do, and they meet my needs. So I push ahead, thankful for this daily bread, and thankful for having the task to do.

Nothing New

Monthly Archives: February 2013

The World’s Biggest Pipe Organ I Won’t See

No Imposition

On The Road Again

More Tired