Last week I asked for advice on playing recorder at an outdoor wedding when the forecast was for a temperature of 54.

Somebody kindly suggested Dupanol to clear condensation from my instruments, so I went to Loving Music, River City's classical music store. Loving Music hires a lot of dispirited college students who always look at me as if I were nuts, no matter what I ask for. No exception this time. After a lot of staring, the kid asked somebody else and what do you know, they sell it, but the other college student had let the supply run out. So no Dupanol.

Well, it wasn't 54 at the wedding, it was 45. I borrowed a T-shirt from my husband (it came to my knees) and wore a wool poncho and wool hat all day. I wore slacks and kept the mouthpieces of my recorders tucked in the waistband from 12:30 to 3:15. It worked. They were nice and warm and didn't clog while we played two Bransles, Linnen Hall (an English country dance) and a Courante collected by Michael Praetorius.

By "we" I mean me and my very talented brother. He played "Jesu Joy of Man's Desiring" on the cello for the processional. He played guitar on the other pieces, and my husband did some nice tambourine playing on the Bransles. Since the bride and groom have been Rennies for a long time, they approved of the authentic Renaissance music.

Other observations:

1. The street layout of the Twin Cities must have been designed by Jackson Pollock

2. I saw one piece of litter downtown, a piece of brown paper crumbled against a gutter. The Governor will probably institute a commission to investigate it.

3. We had a delicious dinner at Nye's Polish restaurant, but they had a trumpet playing the polkas instead of an accordion, so we didn't go listen. The trumpet was too loud and shrill. Try the chicken kluski.

4. The bride's grandfather has built a retaining wall of multicolored igneous rocks. The DH and I (hardrockers surrounded by miles of limestone)lusted after it.

5. Why would anyone think that people in a $150-a-night-hotel want to listen to a recording of a guy who sounds like he has been living under a bridge? (throat tight with self-pity, rasping the infected sludge in his throat, mumbling incoherent lyrics)

at breakfast?

PS Not that we actually paid $150. We're not nuts.