After writing about my grand time at the Central Ohio Folk Festival, I had every intent to detail the rest of the festivals: "What I did on my summer vacation." Welp, here it is, the end of November and I haven't done that, NOR detailed the fabulousness of my Fall vacation either!
Bad Blogger, no cookie.
This summer I went to more folk festivals and did more folk music oriented things than I've done in years. Waiting so long to document it, without programs in hand, means I'm likely to forget more than I remember, So I'll start with the highlights, and backfill with specifics later.
Dulci-More Festival, Memorial Weekend
I've known about this festival for about as long as its been going on, but never attended till this year. This required investing in a new tent, as it'd been about a decade since my last camping, and that tent had been a garage sale give away last year, all sorta gooey and sticking together. The draw this year was again having some headliners who were friends: Sally Rogers and Doofus. I've known Sally for decades, since first meeting her at Northern Illinois University's New Prairie Cafe, where she appeared with Claudia Schmidt, and among lovely songs and witty repartee, gave a demonstration of the proper way to blow your nose complete with a spitton like vase to put the ...er... products... into. Most impressed that she could sing that well while obviously harboring a snottycold. In later years I saw Sally when we'd present her in Cleveland, or at Folk Alliances. I knew she was a beader & I decided to clean up some of my karma by FINALLY fixing a necklace she'd gotten from me at FA in Washington DC, that I'd promised to fix when a strand came loose. I had quite a bit of a chance to spend time just chatting and catching up with Sally. We shared our sadness at Mary's death and the sorrows of the Paton family. In her mainstage set, Sally dedicated a song to Mary and another friend of hers who had also died recently. With Sally's own recorder, I digitized? (wanted to say taped, but that wouldn 't be accurate anymore, would it?) - recorded her set, so David could hear it. I also went home with some of Howie's wine for myself and for David.
Along with my camping, I'd talked Betsy into going along, with her larger car hauling the EZup canopy and some of the grilling equipment. When I got to the camp in central Ohio, it was an incredibly hilly place, and looking to hike up that hill a couple times a day was a bit daunting with bad knees. The new tent went up very nicely, just like the instructions said. Betsy arrived after I'd gotten it up and things inside, and just BARELY got her tent up when the booming I'd taken to be someone shooting in the distance turned out to be thunder and a frogstrangler storm coming in from the east (a direction weather goes TO up where I live, not where it comes FROM!). I was dry and comfortable in my tent - light to see, book to read, air mattress cushy below me. What was NOT so great was how I'd sited the tent. I'd forgotten to look very carefully at the land, and what I ended up with was a dry tent proper, but this big new thing came with a sort of screened in porch room on the front, with mesh gutters along the inside edges. THAT was ankle deep in water that never came in the tent. The weather cleared up, mostly, the festival was a blast. Doofus, made up of two couples I know from somewhat different contexts weren't only fantastic on stage, but they gave incredibly good workshops in group playing and autoharp. Betsy, with lap dulcimer and fiddle was on a different track entirely through the workshops, and had praise for much of what she attended, as well. (who could NOT find Sally to be wonderful?)
Some of the other "stars" were wonderful folks unknown to me before this festival. A mulitinstrumentalist named Timothy Seaman was camped just the other side of Betsy. We breakfasted with him and vastly enjoyed his company and playing. In one of the song circle sessions he'd brought his flue and improvised around the melody as we sang. At the request of one of the dulcimer players, we did a reprise of Shenandoah, with just voices and his flute - magic! Susan Trump was also a revelation. Turns out she's buddies with Phil & Margaret and I delighted in her performances.
Ohio Scottish Games
A regular June event, and my first time ever making it. Made the most of it, too. Saw Alasdair Frasier for the first time & totally blown away. Attended a session where he taught a tune for a couple hours and watched Betsy get up on stage and boogie to it, as she'd not brought her fiddle. A roup of sisters who'd played at Dulci-more, were a great band, with two harps, whistles and concertina and an age range from 8 to 20something. Got to be audience for Tim Wallace, who was running one stage. Saw some pipers I know march by, kilted up. Lovely time
Raccoon County Folk Festival
Held in a historical village museum setting, this was the first time I'd been to this long running festival, and a number of friends have played it in previous years. There was some wonderful oldtime music coming from some delightfully young performers. The Akron Ceili band was a bit of fun, and I very much liked their attitude of encouraging anyone to come to their weekly ceili sessions. I resolved to take them up in this invitation. Even though it rained a bit through much of the festival, folks put up umbrellas and stayed. Got to see people I've not seen 'round for awhile. Lovely time.
Music in the Valley
Always a good time to be had at the annual Hale Farm event. This year, Mud in Yer Eye didn't have a place set up so much as many band members joining a jam session with old time players. I wanted to find some folks to sing with, and sat off by myself, with a few friends coming by now and then. Had a chance to do some autoharp playing with some folks I know from the extended MIYE family, including singing. Then off to Paul & Laura's bash where I saw MORE folks I hadn't seen in ages. Seeing folks whose kids were about the age THEY were when I first met them had me feeling powerful old. Actually getting out an instrument there and playing it for the first time, incredibly liberating. I went with Ruth to this second part of the day, and had flashbacks to all the wonderful "girl trips" we'd taken in the past.
Cleveland's Irish Cultural Festival
July. HOT. very hot. Mike was MCing the gazebo stage again, and spent some time hanging out with him. I got to gag at the Irish Sopranos (could NOT get out fast enough when they started into Danny Boy) I'd plunked meself down at the wrong stage with my lunch! gaaaah! Did get to see some lovely music before the skies opened up - and they did. Wicked nasty gray sky, rolled in over the hot hot hot in the sun and just DUMPED water. I dashed to the canopy behind the stage and helped get instruments and instrument cases under cover and stood chatting with the dancers who'd been there to dance to Cherish the Ladies. Glad I went, but left before the evening could get rainier.
more.. definitely more to the summer... I threaten to edit this to be more complete. Sue me if I don't, eh?
Wednesday 24 November 2010
Saturday 15 May 2010
In the merry month of May...
as many an Anglo Trad song would have it... this May I went a-folking downstate for the Central Ohio Folk Festival. Last year May had started out with a weekend of making music off in the wilds of Pennsylvania. Plans for doing that this year fell through when JanC was not well enough to go. I'd had a wretched spring, or at least I FELT wretched with a month long battle with bronchitis, sinusitis and hand strain. I hadn't recovered enough ambition to go alone, so I postponed carousing for another week to go to COFF. (An ironic acronym after the spring long Cough That Would Not Die)
The lure was too much- all the headline groups were people I knew, loved, and in some cases, hadn't seen for way too many years. Cherished crazies from northern Ohio, the Smokin Fez Monkeys, were there to do their Jugbandbizzare best. From Michigan Mustard's Retreat, who've been friends for nearly 25 years were part of a larger group, "The Yellow Room Gang" that also included Matt Watroba, who I've enjoyed singing with for years, at Folk Alliance or festivals, but had only a handful of previous experiences in seeing him as a mainstage performer. The end of the show headliner was Canadian James Keelahagn, who I'd not seen for a decade or more. I'd vivid memories of a time he appeared here in a concert I helped present, in an unusual venue - the chapel of a small Catholic college. I'd gone to bring him his fee and record sales proceeds, and walked into him changing - temporarily shirtless- with long hair flowing, in the sacristy of the chapel. One of dozens of priceless Celtic Ceol moments, that.
Friday afternoon: slow to get on the road, as the Grace Car had "needs" a bit beyond what her mechanic and I had expected. 'Twas hot on Friday. really. 85° in Columbus at 9:00 pm when Ellen and I went out to dinner. I had a brief glimpse of her two feral kitties and enjoyed trading "whatcha been up to" stories with her, since it had been a good handful of years since I'd seen her when I'd do Winterfair in December at the State Fairgrounds- nearly a decade, I think.
Saturday morning I intended to get going early, as I still had to register at the festival, find it, AND navigate around a large bicycle rally that takes place through Ellen's neighborhood and the direction I was heading. '
I got myself to the festival grounds in good time, but Oh, the temperature had dropped. Dramatically dropped. I heard the high expected was 55° and I don't know that we even hit that, as the wind was ferocious adding a windchill that reminded me of winter on the prairie. I had known evening temperatures would be lower, and brought some warm pants and layers of sweaters with that in mind. The only jacket-coat like thing I had was my lovely purple wool ruana, which I wore all the time & had plenty of compliments about ("would you mind if I felt your shawl..?) I also wore a brim style chapeau with a beaded hatband, so my pinned up hair could fit out the top. The wicked wind precluded wearing my hair down for my fancy flower hat - I'd NO desire to end up an accidental rastafarian. By ten o'clock I'd added so many layers that I had on socks, long velvet pants, a floor length full skirt, two layers of sweaters and a long tunic top, under the ruana. I didn't look TOO bag lady, but someone asked me if that (the hat, ruana, beadwork, etc) was my "everyday" dress. Well yes, sez I, just not ALL of it on the SAME day, normally!
The whole festival, COFF, was much different from one I'd been to before. The emphasis was very definitely on improving instrumental skills and knowledge, in particular dulcimers. I'd go so far as to call it dulcimer-centric. I don't think I'd seen so many lap dulcimer options since the demise of the (long gone, much missed) Black Swamp Dulcimer Festival. There were day long performance stages - two of those, concerts in the manstaige tent, and one smaller tent. The other four tents were dedicated to workshops or song swap sessions. Another wealth this festival has is in (really good quality) singer-song writers. That'd describe most of the headliners - with folks from the Yellow Room Gang and Keelahagn doing a 2-day songwriters' class. Not that trad was completely ignored - far from it. I was amused that out in this lovely Columbus Metro Park I heard one of the most academic talks based on a single song since I heard Joe Hickerson give the life history of "Bright Morning Stars" at the University of Chicago festival, ages ago. It 'twas in this same academic atmosphere that I discovered a traditional folk instrument to loathe.
Some folks cant abide banjos
Many people run from hammer dulcimers
Drummers get a bad rap regularly
Bagpipers are expected to keep moving to be less of a target.
More loathsome than all of these is the bazooka.
Bazooka's not a folk instrument, you say? Well... it sounds a bit like bouzouki, but I'm talking about acoustic mouth driven bazooka bubble gum. Lawd, oh lawd, there was a lad who could pop his gum at a heretofore unimaginable volume. It CRACK! sounded like someone clapping CRACK! once, at random intervals. You never quite knew CRACK! when he'd pop his gum again. People craning their necks to see who was the perpetrator CRACK! and their annoyed glares phased this guy not at all. CRACK! I have to admit, this is one of my least favorite things that people can do in public, but this was above and beyond. Too much CRACK! spoils the craic, sez I.
The Fez Monkeys did a Jug band workshop with the stated intent of having the participants be part of their mainstage appearance that evening. Kazoos were passed out. Small jugs were loaned. Percussion instruments were put into willing hands. One guy came with a totally Fez Monkeyish washboard with...er... attachments (cowbell, cymbal, bike horn, bells, cans) Fun, silliness, music, noise & sent on our way chuckling.
A real joy in a new festival in a new area is you don't know the local talent, or what they do, and it's all gloriously fresh. The COFF program had descriptive biographies, and even more welcome writeups about each of the workshops to help make decisions (5 tents, 2 side stages, one main stage - LOTS of decisions). I made some good choices, some eh choices, and some timeslots just had nothing that interested me, a permanently lap dulcimerless lass. It gave me time to talk with a number of interesting folks, including already seen performers who impressed me, look at the recordings and instruments and "stuff" on sale, and get some food now and then.
I'd hauled along serious instrumentation, but with how cold it was, didn't worry 'bout leaving them in the car. It's terribly unwieldy to haul folding chair, autoharp, bowed psaltery, concertina and a tote bag everywhere you go. Eventually, I stocked up my lovely folding chair (with multiple side pockets) with my tea bottle, program, and stuck other necessities in my wee bag worn bandolier style. I took along a blanket with the chair to go to the evening concert. First up were the Fez Monkeys, and I knew we'd be joining them the second half of their set. As I sat there I panicked - I'd left my Fez Monkeys OFFICIAL kazoo in my tote bag in my trunk, oh no!!!! Then I relaxed, realizing I still had my Mud-in-yer-Eye April Fool's dance kazoo in the side pocket of the chair. Before I could relax entirely, I had the horrific realization that I'd left the car keys hooked into the tote bag - in the trunk of the car. I went bolting out of the tent and scared up a park ranger to deal with the problem while there was still daylight. I fruitlessly looked into my wee purse, but I knew the keys weren't there. Bless those Park Rangers - they'd have a great career in car theft - he had the window shimmied and my car open with no scratch or dent in about 3 minutes. I got back to the main stage audience in goodly time to see the bulk of the Fez Monkeys' set and get up and be part of the festival pick up band. Grand fun. I know there was video recording of it all, but no idea where those recordings go.
It was immensely gratifying to see that Mustard's Retreat are highly valued and frequent visitors to the Columbus Area. Here, they'd performed their first show in my living room back in the late 80s, had a couple other shows, but nowhere NEAR the repeat audience who can sing along on all their songs. Life hasn't been easy for David in the last decade or so, and seeing such a solid fan base there pleased me to no end. Their group of friends in the Yellow Room Gang reflected the same kind of joy, intelligence, wonderful musicianship and incredible wordsmithing that I'd come to love of David and Michael - what a joy to see!
James Keelahagn - I wouldn't have recognized on the street unless I heard his voice, it's been so long. He'd recently returned from a trip to Australia, in particular a section that had been devastated last year by fires. He talked about the resonance of his song "Cold Missouri Waters" to the experiences of friends there in losing their houses to fires flashing through in moments. His story songs continue to be brilliant points of light on his chosen topic. I brought his "House of Cards" album home along with a couple Mustard's Retreat albums they'd produced since I saw them last.
Saturday night retreating to a WARM hotel room and HOT shower was extraordinarily welcome. Sunday dawned warmer & as the day went on, warmer still. I was able to wear not so many layers, and even shed some, though it never got all THAT warm. I had a chance to spend time with some of the performers who were known to me. Bill Schilling was giving a workshop most of the time, from what I could gather - some of it filling in for some no-shows. I sat in on his Bowed Psaltery workshop. I was intrigued by a man who'd built his himself from plans he "found online" as a sort of warm up exercise to building himself a hammer dulcimer. His psaltery range was from C to C- which I'd never seen before. I had a good case of WANT. I've still got the plans for my alto psaltery - wonder how hard it'd be to do another one with a change of range? Marge Diamond was being her cheerful dulcimer playing self. I was most surprised by a trio made up of folks from the Akron/Kent area I've known for years - but not as a trio. Ed Bray and his wife Elaine joined up with (known mostly as a bass player) Barb Withee. All three of them multi instrumentalists, and all three doing vocals. I don't know that I've ever heard Barb sing like that before, and I was delighted. I was fond of the repertoire they were performing and hope to get a chance to sing with them later this year. Their set was the last thing I was able to attend. Matt Watroba was leading a song circle till later in the day, but I had to head home for a band rehearsal Sunday night - going directly from festival to rehearsal.
It was peculiar to be at a festival where I had no job/responsibility & could roam freely and only have to worry about getting to what I wanted to see on time. Of the dozens of festivals I've been at, I think this was perhaps only the third or fourth time that'd been the case. I was surpised at how much I didn't miss the responsibilty part, possibly because it was a new-to-me venue. Or, it's one more sign of leading a very different sort of life in this decade.
The lure was too much- all the headline groups were people I knew, loved, and in some cases, hadn't seen for way too many years. Cherished crazies from northern Ohio, the Smokin Fez Monkeys, were there to do their Jugbandbizzare best. From Michigan Mustard's Retreat, who've been friends for nearly 25 years were part of a larger group, "The Yellow Room Gang" that also included Matt Watroba, who I've enjoyed singing with for years, at Folk Alliance or festivals, but had only a handful of previous experiences in seeing him as a mainstage performer. The end of the show headliner was Canadian James Keelahagn, who I'd not seen for a decade or more. I'd vivid memories of a time he appeared here in a concert I helped present, in an unusual venue - the chapel of a small Catholic college. I'd gone to bring him his fee and record sales proceeds, and walked into him changing - temporarily shirtless- with long hair flowing, in the sacristy of the chapel. One of dozens of priceless Celtic Ceol moments, that.
Friday afternoon: slow to get on the road, as the Grace Car had "needs" a bit beyond what her mechanic and I had expected. 'Twas hot on Friday. really. 85° in Columbus at 9:00 pm when Ellen and I went out to dinner. I had a brief glimpse of her two feral kitties and enjoyed trading "whatcha been up to" stories with her, since it had been a good handful of years since I'd seen her when I'd do Winterfair in December at the State Fairgrounds- nearly a decade, I think.
Saturday morning I intended to get going early, as I still had to register at the festival, find it, AND navigate around a large bicycle rally that takes place through Ellen's neighborhood and the direction I was heading. '
I got myself to the festival grounds in good time, but Oh, the temperature had dropped. Dramatically dropped. I heard the high expected was 55° and I don't know that we even hit that, as the wind was ferocious adding a windchill that reminded me of winter on the prairie. I had known evening temperatures would be lower, and brought some warm pants and layers of sweaters with that in mind. The only jacket-coat like thing I had was my lovely purple wool ruana, which I wore all the time & had plenty of compliments about ("would you mind if I felt your shawl..?) I also wore a brim style chapeau with a beaded hatband, so my pinned up hair could fit out the top. The wicked wind precluded wearing my hair down for my fancy flower hat - I'd NO desire to end up an accidental rastafarian. By ten o'clock I'd added so many layers that I had on socks, long velvet pants, a floor length full skirt, two layers of sweaters and a long tunic top, under the ruana. I didn't look TOO bag lady, but someone asked me if that (the hat, ruana, beadwork, etc) was my "everyday" dress. Well yes, sez I, just not ALL of it on the SAME day, normally!
The whole festival, COFF, was much different from one I'd been to before. The emphasis was very definitely on improving instrumental skills and knowledge, in particular dulcimers. I'd go so far as to call it dulcimer-centric. I don't think I'd seen so many lap dulcimer options since the demise of the (long gone, much missed) Black Swamp Dulcimer Festival. There were day long performance stages - two of those, concerts in the manstaige tent, and one smaller tent. The other four tents were dedicated to workshops or song swap sessions. Another wealth this festival has is in (really good quality) singer-song writers. That'd describe most of the headliners - with folks from the Yellow Room Gang and Keelahagn doing a 2-day songwriters' class. Not that trad was completely ignored - far from it. I was amused that out in this lovely Columbus Metro Park I heard one of the most academic talks based on a single song since I heard Joe Hickerson give the life history of "Bright Morning Stars" at the University of Chicago festival, ages ago. It 'twas in this same academic atmosphere that I discovered a traditional folk instrument to loathe.
Some folks cant abide banjos
Many people run from hammer dulcimers
Drummers get a bad rap regularly
Bagpipers are expected to keep moving to be less of a target.
More loathsome than all of these is the bazooka.
Bazooka's not a folk instrument, you say? Well... it sounds a bit like bouzouki, but I'm talking about acoustic mouth driven bazooka bubble gum. Lawd, oh lawd, there was a lad who could pop his gum at a heretofore unimaginable volume. It CRACK! sounded like someone clapping CRACK! once, at random intervals. You never quite knew CRACK! when he'd pop his gum again. People craning their necks to see who was the perpetrator CRACK! and their annoyed glares phased this guy not at all. CRACK! I have to admit, this is one of my least favorite things that people can do in public, but this was above and beyond. Too much CRACK! spoils the craic, sez I.
The Fez Monkeys did a Jug band workshop with the stated intent of having the participants be part of their mainstage appearance that evening. Kazoos were passed out. Small jugs were loaned. Percussion instruments were put into willing hands. One guy came with a totally Fez Monkeyish washboard with...er... attachments (cowbell, cymbal, bike horn, bells, cans) Fun, silliness, music, noise & sent on our way chuckling.
A real joy in a new festival in a new area is you don't know the local talent, or what they do, and it's all gloriously fresh. The COFF program had descriptive biographies, and even more welcome writeups about each of the workshops to help make decisions (5 tents, 2 side stages, one main stage - LOTS of decisions). I made some good choices, some eh choices, and some timeslots just had nothing that interested me, a permanently lap dulcimerless lass. It gave me time to talk with a number of interesting folks, including already seen performers who impressed me, look at the recordings and instruments and "stuff" on sale, and get some food now and then.
I'd hauled along serious instrumentation, but with how cold it was, didn't worry 'bout leaving them in the car. It's terribly unwieldy to haul folding chair, autoharp, bowed psaltery, concertina and a tote bag everywhere you go. Eventually, I stocked up my lovely folding chair (with multiple side pockets) with my tea bottle, program, and stuck other necessities in my wee bag worn bandolier style. I took along a blanket with the chair to go to the evening concert. First up were the Fez Monkeys, and I knew we'd be joining them the second half of their set. As I sat there I panicked - I'd left my Fez Monkeys OFFICIAL kazoo in my tote bag in my trunk, oh no!!!! Then I relaxed, realizing I still had my Mud-in-yer-Eye April Fool's dance kazoo in the side pocket of the chair. Before I could relax entirely, I had the horrific realization that I'd left the car keys hooked into the tote bag - in the trunk of the car. I went bolting out of the tent and scared up a park ranger to deal with the problem while there was still daylight. I fruitlessly looked into my wee purse, but I knew the keys weren't there. Bless those Park Rangers - they'd have a great career in car theft - he had the window shimmied and my car open with no scratch or dent in about 3 minutes. I got back to the main stage audience in goodly time to see the bulk of the Fez Monkeys' set and get up and be part of the festival pick up band. Grand fun. I know there was video recording of it all, but no idea where those recordings go.
It was immensely gratifying to see that Mustard's Retreat are highly valued and frequent visitors to the Columbus Area. Here, they'd performed their first show in my living room back in the late 80s, had a couple other shows, but nowhere NEAR the repeat audience who can sing along on all their songs. Life hasn't been easy for David in the last decade or so, and seeing such a solid fan base there pleased me to no end. Their group of friends in the Yellow Room Gang reflected the same kind of joy, intelligence, wonderful musicianship and incredible wordsmithing that I'd come to love of David and Michael - what a joy to see!
James Keelahagn - I wouldn't have recognized on the street unless I heard his voice, it's been so long. He'd recently returned from a trip to Australia, in particular a section that had been devastated last year by fires. He talked about the resonance of his song "Cold Missouri Waters" to the experiences of friends there in losing their houses to fires flashing through in moments. His story songs continue to be brilliant points of light on his chosen topic. I brought his "House of Cards" album home along with a couple Mustard's Retreat albums they'd produced since I saw them last.
Saturday night retreating to a WARM hotel room and HOT shower was extraordinarily welcome. Sunday dawned warmer & as the day went on, warmer still. I was able to wear not so many layers, and even shed some, though it never got all THAT warm. I had a chance to spend time with some of the performers who were known to me. Bill Schilling was giving a workshop most of the time, from what I could gather - some of it filling in for some no-shows. I sat in on his Bowed Psaltery workshop. I was intrigued by a man who'd built his himself from plans he "found online" as a sort of warm up exercise to building himself a hammer dulcimer. His psaltery range was from C to C- which I'd never seen before. I had a good case of WANT. I've still got the plans for my alto psaltery - wonder how hard it'd be to do another one with a change of range? Marge Diamond was being her cheerful dulcimer playing self. I was most surprised by a trio made up of folks from the Akron/Kent area I've known for years - but not as a trio. Ed Bray and his wife Elaine joined up with (known mostly as a bass player) Barb Withee. All three of them multi instrumentalists, and all three doing vocals. I don't know that I've ever heard Barb sing like that before, and I was delighted. I was fond of the repertoire they were performing and hope to get a chance to sing with them later this year. Their set was the last thing I was able to attend. Matt Watroba was leading a song circle till later in the day, but I had to head home for a band rehearsal Sunday night - going directly from festival to rehearsal.
It was peculiar to be at a festival where I had no job/responsibility & could roam freely and only have to worry about getting to what I wanted to see on time. Of the dozens of festivals I've been at, I think this was perhaps only the third or fourth time that'd been the case. I was surpised at how much I didn't miss the responsibilty part, possibly because it was a new-to-me venue. Or, it's one more sign of leading a very different sort of life in this decade.
Thursday 31 December 2009
In the dark of a dark year
When the sun goes pale
And the earth turns cold
Let us do as our foremothers did of old
Gather round the fire with our stories and songs
And dance in the dark of the year.
(Margaret Nelson & Susan Urban)
In years gone by, I'd have been out dancing the new year in with the contra community. Now I can't dance, though I'm frequently part of the band, though not tonight. Instead I try to get a last word in on a blog I've not put a first word in yet this year.
I found it hard to write about, for 2009 was a year of nearly unrelenting sadness, grief and wrenching change. Some of the big changes were winding up even before last January - the change from part time camp director to full time office worker was a seismic shift in my universe. It was the end of thinking of my self primarily as an art teacher. Though I shan't catalog it month by month, the first big hit was April 15 (as if the omens weren't bad enough)- The death of my last dog, Kipling, He was a very good dog- the merriest most joyful thing on four paws through most of his life, running and barking so happily through the world that it became his name: Runyard Barking Kipling. the world's smallest good looking sheltie. His size and cat-like scrumpty dog noises that subbed for purring endeared him to people who were more cat than dog oriented. Those who live alone understand how having a critter in the house takes on additional significance, and how fierce that loss can be. I was far from the only one of my circle who lost beloved pets this year. We shared how the span of this dog's life or that cat's life defined an era of our own lives
Through spring I watched the decline and ultimate failure of the newsletter and folk group I'd poured so much energy into. Ruth's "just let it go..." while sage advice, was bitter to follow.
In the natural course of things, death comes to our parents. I've lost all of mine decades ago. but friends are now coming to that stage in their life, and it's difficult to be a party to this grief. In situations where I've known parents as their own persons, its harder still. Half a dozen folks I'm close to grieved parents lost. Several widows mourned their partners of half a decade and more. But it wasn't only those rich in years who were lost this year. There were children, and grandchildren, beloved cousins, brothers, sisters, all lost to people I hold dear. Horrid illness, heartrending accident, shocking suicide. Holding the hands of friends wracked with grief happened over and over this year, like no other I can recall. Even the year both my Father and my husband died was not plagued like this.
The death that cut closest to the bone for me was Mary, in June. She had been my example of "miracles can happen" -to have her chemo drugs' bad effects come back and take her out was devastating, horrible and shocking. The wonderful times we'd shared in the spring when her vitality had her coming to dance to a band I play in made the shock more intense. The benefit concert we'd had for her, in retrospect, like a wake with her there to enjoy herself, in good heath, full of joy and hope.
From church - the loss of old and dear souls, and a pastor leaving, with but a few weeks notice. Loss of pastoral leadership there and at work at the same time was vrey unsettling.
Summer came, and there were no little girls to teach. Felt most peculiar, though I did not miss the hard physical work of dragging stuff in to school, nor did I miss the stress that dealing with all the details caused. I went through the house, ridding myself of things to do with teaching that I'll not be needing & had a huge garage sale. Looking at decades of "stuff" collection and feeling an uneasy blend of relief to be clearing out things and dismay that I really won't be needing them.
My annual trip to the Fox Valley was marked with huge changes - long time favorites changing lineups, retirements, performers and groups I know I won't be seeing again... and people who usually are there, who weren't. In all that change, it would be fair to say there were some happy events, joyous fun, grand music made, but the tradition, it's a-changing. At Fox Valley some of the losses that hit the folk world were observed, discussed, mourned. The litnay of loss to the folk world I inhabit was striking in how many who've been sources are gone: Sandy Paton, Mike Seeger,Mary Travers, Tommy Makem, Tim Hart among others. The repertoire of what I sing, how I sing it and how I know about the songs would be so very different without these folks.
I know so much of it is the age I'm getting to when Friends prepare to retire, move away, shift their lives. With my peers, I prepare to become "the older generation." but I thought it would be a more gradual shift, and not knocked silly by grief and loss so much all at once. I'm praying for a different sort of year in 2010, where change is for the better, grief is not the keynote.
And the earth turns cold
Let us do as our foremothers did of old
Gather round the fire with our stories and songs
And dance in the dark of the year.
(Margaret Nelson & Susan Urban)
In years gone by, I'd have been out dancing the new year in with the contra community. Now I can't dance, though I'm frequently part of the band, though not tonight. Instead I try to get a last word in on a blog I've not put a first word in yet this year.
I found it hard to write about, for 2009 was a year of nearly unrelenting sadness, grief and wrenching change. Some of the big changes were winding up even before last January - the change from part time camp director to full time office worker was a seismic shift in my universe. It was the end of thinking of my self primarily as an art teacher. Though I shan't catalog it month by month, the first big hit was April 15 (as if the omens weren't bad enough)- The death of my last dog, Kipling, He was a very good dog- the merriest most joyful thing on four paws through most of his life, running and barking so happily through the world that it became his name: Runyard Barking Kipling. the world's smallest good looking sheltie. His size and cat-like scrumpty dog noises that subbed for purring endeared him to people who were more cat than dog oriented. Those who live alone understand how having a critter in the house takes on additional significance, and how fierce that loss can be. I was far from the only one of my circle who lost beloved pets this year. We shared how the span of this dog's life or that cat's life defined an era of our own lives
Through spring I watched the decline and ultimate failure of the newsletter and folk group I'd poured so much energy into. Ruth's "just let it go..." while sage advice, was bitter to follow.
In the natural course of things, death comes to our parents. I've lost all of mine decades ago. but friends are now coming to that stage in their life, and it's difficult to be a party to this grief. In situations where I've known parents as their own persons, its harder still. Half a dozen folks I'm close to grieved parents lost. Several widows mourned their partners of half a decade and more. But it wasn't only those rich in years who were lost this year. There were children, and grandchildren, beloved cousins, brothers, sisters, all lost to people I hold dear. Horrid illness, heartrending accident, shocking suicide. Holding the hands of friends wracked with grief happened over and over this year, like no other I can recall. Even the year both my Father and my husband died was not plagued like this.
The death that cut closest to the bone for me was Mary, in June. She had been my example of "miracles can happen" -to have her chemo drugs' bad effects come back and take her out was devastating, horrible and shocking. The wonderful times we'd shared in the spring when her vitality had her coming to dance to a band I play in made the shock more intense. The benefit concert we'd had for her, in retrospect, like a wake with her there to enjoy herself, in good heath, full of joy and hope.
From church - the loss of old and dear souls, and a pastor leaving, with but a few weeks notice. Loss of pastoral leadership there and at work at the same time was vrey unsettling.
Summer came, and there were no little girls to teach. Felt most peculiar, though I did not miss the hard physical work of dragging stuff in to school, nor did I miss the stress that dealing with all the details caused. I went through the house, ridding myself of things to do with teaching that I'll not be needing & had a huge garage sale. Looking at decades of "stuff" collection and feeling an uneasy blend of relief to be clearing out things and dismay that I really won't be needing them.
My annual trip to the Fox Valley was marked with huge changes - long time favorites changing lineups, retirements, performers and groups I know I won't be seeing again... and people who usually are there, who weren't. In all that change, it would be fair to say there were some happy events, joyous fun, grand music made, but the tradition, it's a-changing. At Fox Valley some of the losses that hit the folk world were observed, discussed, mourned. The litnay of loss to the folk world I inhabit was striking in how many who've been sources are gone: Sandy Paton, Mike Seeger,Mary Travers, Tommy Makem, Tim Hart among others. The repertoire of what I sing, how I sing it and how I know about the songs would be so very different without these folks.
I know so much of it is the age I'm getting to when Friends prepare to retire, move away, shift their lives. With my peers, I prepare to become "the older generation." but I thought it would be a more gradual shift, and not knocked silly by grief and loss so much all at once. I'm praying for a different sort of year in 2010, where change is for the better, grief is not the keynote.
Sunday 30 November 2008
There's no tradition like NO Tradition
Thanksgiving gets an incredible amount of hype for being everyone's shot at a yearly Norman Rockwell moment.Coming from an unconventional family, and living a life that would make soap opera writers say "not bloody likely" I've had more unique Thanksgivings than I've had traditions.
As a kidlet, we did our Rockwell approximation, in my oddly assorted family. The ratio of 5 adults: 1 kid meant 5 opinions on how to not spoil me. Thanksgiving WAS however one of those "state occasions" where the folks would get all lahdidah and get out the etched crystal wineglasses and my uncle would pop the cork, my aunt would wrap the bottle, and we'd all get poured minuscule glasses of...Cold Duck. (be nice, this was the early 60s, suburbia had few wine snobs then)
As I got into the double digit age range, and more portable, we'd trek up to the shirt-tail cousin's place in Farmington Michigan, where their tract ranch house backed onto some lovely woods with plenty of room for kid exploration - a sand bank over a crick with a swing rope over it, trails to follow, secret places to discover. It's amusing to think of those squabbling siblings now - one's a bank lawyer, one a large animal vet, one an Engineering professor at a big name school, and one of some significant rank in the Air force - a very successful family, all in all.
The first Thanksgiving that hit me hard was 1976. I was working full time retail in a do it yourself bead counter at a May Company. A part of Thanksgiving I'd appreciated (and still do, in retrospect) is how magical it seemed to have stores go from 'normal' to 'full Christmas' overnight on Thanksgiving. I knew it was expected of me to be in late Wednesday and all day Friday (I don't think they were calling it "black Friday" back then). The harsh part of reality and the cruddyness of working retail came smashing together when my uncle, the head of the house, had a heart attack while bowling the Thursday before. Retail bosses were unwilling to reconcile "this IS immediate family" with the term "uncle" and quite unwilling to give me time off. Uncle Paul died on Thanksgiving morning. A shipment of beads from China had to be priced and set out on Friday. China had just reopened for trade and this was all a big deal then. I can still remember EXACTLY where that counter was and how much like a zombie I felt putting those incredible beads out. When I was done, I told 'em I had a funeral to help plan and let them decide if they wanted to fire me - I didn't care at that point.
Where I got wrapped up in a TOTALLY Rockwellian Thanksgiving was the year I was engaged to John. Both his parents came from a small farming town downstate & the expected thing was to go over the freeways and through the woods to Grandmother's house. It was a HUGE Victorian farmhouse with multiple porches, wood burning stoves built in fireplaces in the upstairs bedrooms, ceilings so high there were transoms over the doors, a bay window big enough for a grand piano, and a table big enough for the whole extended family - perhaps twenty folks there. The kitchen was the biggest I'd ever seen, obviously designed in an era of putting by large crops of produce and feeding large numbers of farm workers. I didn't join that family, but I've fond memories of temporarily being part of a more traditional family group.
The one I DID marry - our first Thanksgiving together was a wild weekend in California. He was in grad school at Cal Tech, I was in art school in Cleveland. I flew out there after Wednesday class. Knowing the logistics, I'd sewn myself two duffel bags I could wear bandolier style, and had my first view of LA freeways from the back of "Shadofax" his orange motorcycle. Thanksgiving day, we went farther down the coast to Orange county, where we dined with the family of a high school girlfriend of HIS. (He always did have a way of staying friends with exes parents). It was a merry weekend, culminating with a decision TO get married in the spring. I took the redeye back to Cleveland and went from the airport to the rapid, to University circle station, to the greenie bus to class.
Thanksgivings after that tended to be with his family, out in the country. His mother's cooking had deteriorated over the years. The time she tried to serve us mostly raw and unthawed on the inside turkey may well have been the key thing to turning my sister in law into a vegetarian.
Then he got sick... very. A summer and fall of battling cancer was a roller coaster of hope and horror. I'm not even sure particularly WHY but that year we decided to spend Thanksgiving day with my art ed professor and other students out at the "Pink Pig" (a farmhouse out in the country belonging to the university) we dined well, watched movie shorts (black and white "claymation" and such). Mark was well enough that we walked in the stubble fields of the farm there and talked. It stays sharp in the memory, for all the mellowness of the day.
The next year, he was gone. Thanksgiving was at my house, and an emotional struggle, trying to be family when the link that joined us was gone. I look at pictures and see the dark circles under the eyes. I also see the delight of my wee niece eating my ginger ice cream - the closest thing to a Thanksgiving tradition I have.
By 85 I was in Illinois, in grad school, and not coming back to Cleveland until Christmas break. An invite from my grad school mentor, Renie, was gladly accepted and I became acquainted with her husband David, the Rutabaga King. Now, I don't think I'd ever eaten a rutabaga before. I was told this would be required of me. Fair 'nuff, sez I, though I did wonder...y'see I'd been listening to WCLV Saturday Night (and/or Saturday Night on Wednesday Afternoon) which included a bit called Marginal Considerations written and performed by a very witty Jan Snow. Her pieces of observational humor had been compiled into a book "On the Non-Existence of Rutabagas and other Marginal Considerations". I was delighted to find out not only did rutabagas EXIST, but they were quite tasty mashed up with great lashings of butter. Admittedly, butter can even make snails SEEM edible... When I went home at Christmas, I arranged for a copy of Jan's book inscribed to David the Rutabaga king for him.
Ten years ago, sorrow and joy were all wrapped up in the (by then) usual invite to a friend's parents house. Ruth was engaged, and her mother in law to be had a bad-and short- health outlook, so three weeks before Thanksgiving, they decided that "the family was all going to be together, friends in town, let's get married while she can still enjoy it" They did, she did, and it was beautiful, small, and lasting. Thanksgiving at her parents has held that loving connotation ever since. Last night they gathered friends at a Cajun cafe to help them celebrate those ten years together and we drank to their good taste in picking each other.
But there are others I love, too. When my best friend Chuck was moving into his first house from a cosy nest of an apartment, with Thanksgiving being the final weekend, I agreed to come down and help. It was a peculiar bit of midwestern weirdness. He's no cook and had planned for a grocery store precooked turkey and stuffing, and relied on me to do the other stuff. I made some yeast rolls, turned the turkey carcass into soup stock and later made hand rolled noodles for the soup. Now helping a gay guy who is a clutterbug set up house is an interesting experience. I had to fight with him and lay down some rules:
- If a towel has holes or is shaggy on the ends IT IS A RAG. (this made the linen closet closer to manageable)
- No more than THREE candles on any one flat surface.
- you can NOT hang up EVERY framed thing you own.
Part of the frisson of the move was making the place an "our" place for them as a couple with VASTLY different tastes. His partner at the time was from a very rural area, and when his family came to Thanksgiving dinner it was the closest I've ever come to a nascarkmartredneckhillbilly world. Very educational. Some of the contrasts just puzzled me. While the brother thought nothing of slaughtering a pig and cutting up parts, making sausage and the like "how many pork chops do you want for your freezer?" he was completely astonished that someone would/could/should make turkey soup stock. We took some soup to their mother in the hospital the next day and I think it was the first home made soup she'd had in decades.
This year, due to the conflict of my being marginally sick and Ruth's dad being major sick and at risk from my coughing, I uninvited myself. I was fortunate enough to be invited to dine by a dance friend. It was a lovely meal with fun people followed by the mind candy of an Indiana Jones movie. Most peculiarly, neither invite had included turkey. The community meal on Saturday at church that's usually been turkey for November was... mac and cheese. I'm in turkey deficit and have decided to have a "Still Thankful" meal this week with some friends from church and the INCREDIBLY heavy turkey I hauled home from work that I'll have to start thawing tomorrow. I can't wait for February to make this one OR to have the room in my freezer.
As a kidlet, we did our Rockwell approximation, in my oddly assorted family. The ratio of 5 adults: 1 kid meant 5 opinions on how to not spoil me. Thanksgiving WAS however one of those "state occasions" where the folks would get all lahdidah and get out the etched crystal wineglasses and my uncle would pop the cork, my aunt would wrap the bottle, and we'd all get poured minuscule glasses of...Cold Duck. (be nice, this was the early 60s, suburbia had few wine snobs then)
As I got into the double digit age range, and more portable, we'd trek up to the shirt-tail cousin's place in Farmington Michigan, where their tract ranch house backed onto some lovely woods with plenty of room for kid exploration - a sand bank over a crick with a swing rope over it, trails to follow, secret places to discover. It's amusing to think of those squabbling siblings now - one's a bank lawyer, one a large animal vet, one an Engineering professor at a big name school, and one of some significant rank in the Air force - a very successful family, all in all.
The first Thanksgiving that hit me hard was 1976. I was working full time retail in a do it yourself bead counter at a May Company. A part of Thanksgiving I'd appreciated (and still do, in retrospect) is how magical it seemed to have stores go from 'normal' to 'full Christmas' overnight on Thanksgiving. I knew it was expected of me to be in late Wednesday and all day Friday (I don't think they were calling it "black Friday" back then). The harsh part of reality and the cruddyness of working retail came smashing together when my uncle, the head of the house, had a heart attack while bowling the Thursday before. Retail bosses were unwilling to reconcile "this IS immediate family" with the term "uncle" and quite unwilling to give me time off. Uncle Paul died on Thanksgiving morning. A shipment of beads from China had to be priced and set out on Friday. China had just reopened for trade and this was all a big deal then. I can still remember EXACTLY where that counter was and how much like a zombie I felt putting those incredible beads out. When I was done, I told 'em I had a funeral to help plan and let them decide if they wanted to fire me - I didn't care at that point.
Where I got wrapped up in a TOTALLY Rockwellian Thanksgiving was the year I was engaged to John. Both his parents came from a small farming town downstate & the expected thing was to go over the freeways and through the woods to Grandmother's house. It was a HUGE Victorian farmhouse with multiple porches, wood burning stoves built in fireplaces in the upstairs bedrooms, ceilings so high there were transoms over the doors, a bay window big enough for a grand piano, and a table big enough for the whole extended family - perhaps twenty folks there. The kitchen was the biggest I'd ever seen, obviously designed in an era of putting by large crops of produce and feeding large numbers of farm workers. I didn't join that family, but I've fond memories of temporarily being part of a more traditional family group.
The one I DID marry - our first Thanksgiving together was a wild weekend in California. He was in grad school at Cal Tech, I was in art school in Cleveland. I flew out there after Wednesday class. Knowing the logistics, I'd sewn myself two duffel bags I could wear bandolier style, and had my first view of LA freeways from the back of "Shadofax" his orange motorcycle. Thanksgiving day, we went farther down the coast to Orange county, where we dined with the family of a high school girlfriend of HIS. (He always did have a way of staying friends with exes parents). It was a merry weekend, culminating with a decision TO get married in the spring. I took the redeye back to Cleveland and went from the airport to the rapid, to University circle station, to the greenie bus to class.
Thanksgivings after that tended to be with his family, out in the country. His mother's cooking had deteriorated over the years. The time she tried to serve us mostly raw and unthawed on the inside turkey may well have been the key thing to turning my sister in law into a vegetarian.
Then he got sick... very. A summer and fall of battling cancer was a roller coaster of hope and horror. I'm not even sure particularly WHY but that year we decided to spend Thanksgiving day with my art ed professor and other students out at the "Pink Pig" (a farmhouse out in the country belonging to the university) we dined well, watched movie shorts (black and white "claymation" and such). Mark was well enough that we walked in the stubble fields of the farm there and talked. It stays sharp in the memory, for all the mellowness of the day.
The next year, he was gone. Thanksgiving was at my house, and an emotional struggle, trying to be family when the link that joined us was gone. I look at pictures and see the dark circles under the eyes. I also see the delight of my wee niece eating my ginger ice cream - the closest thing to a Thanksgiving tradition I have.
By 85 I was in Illinois, in grad school, and not coming back to Cleveland until Christmas break. An invite from my grad school mentor, Renie, was gladly accepted and I became acquainted with her husband David, the Rutabaga King. Now, I don't think I'd ever eaten a rutabaga before. I was told this would be required of me. Fair 'nuff, sez I, though I did wonder...y'see I'd been listening to WCLV Saturday Night (and/or Saturday Night on Wednesday Afternoon) which included a bit called Marginal Considerations written and performed by a very witty Jan Snow. Her pieces of observational humor had been compiled into a book "On the Non-Existence of Rutabagas and other Marginal Considerations". I was delighted to find out not only did rutabagas EXIST, but they were quite tasty mashed up with great lashings of butter. Admittedly, butter can even make snails SEEM edible... When I went home at Christmas, I arranged for a copy of Jan's book inscribed to David the Rutabaga king for him.
Ten years ago, sorrow and joy were all wrapped up in the (by then) usual invite to a friend's parents house. Ruth was engaged, and her mother in law to be had a bad-and short- health outlook, so three weeks before Thanksgiving, they decided that "the family was all going to be together, friends in town, let's get married while she can still enjoy it" They did, she did, and it was beautiful, small, and lasting. Thanksgiving at her parents has held that loving connotation ever since. Last night they gathered friends at a Cajun cafe to help them celebrate those ten years together and we drank to their good taste in picking each other.
But there are others I love, too. When my best friend Chuck was moving into his first house from a cosy nest of an apartment, with Thanksgiving being the final weekend, I agreed to come down and help. It was a peculiar bit of midwestern weirdness. He's no cook and had planned for a grocery store precooked turkey and stuffing, and relied on me to do the other stuff. I made some yeast rolls, turned the turkey carcass into soup stock and later made hand rolled noodles for the soup. Now helping a gay guy who is a clutterbug set up house is an interesting experience. I had to fight with him and lay down some rules:
- If a towel has holes or is shaggy on the ends IT IS A RAG. (this made the linen closet closer to manageable)
- No more than THREE candles on any one flat surface.
- you can NOT hang up EVERY framed thing you own.
Part of the frisson of the move was making the place an "our" place for them as a couple with VASTLY different tastes. His partner at the time was from a very rural area, and when his family came to Thanksgiving dinner it was the closest I've ever come to a nascarkmartredneckhillbilly world. Very educational. Some of the contrasts just puzzled me. While the brother thought nothing of slaughtering a pig and cutting up parts, making sausage and the like "how many pork chops do you want for your freezer?" he was completely astonished that someone would/could/should make turkey soup stock. We took some soup to their mother in the hospital the next day and I think it was the first home made soup she'd had in decades.
This year, due to the conflict of my being marginally sick and Ruth's dad being major sick and at risk from my coughing, I uninvited myself. I was fortunate enough to be invited to dine by a dance friend. It was a lovely meal with fun people followed by the mind candy of an Indiana Jones movie. Most peculiarly, neither invite had included turkey. The community meal on Saturday at church that's usually been turkey for November was... mac and cheese. I'm in turkey deficit and have decided to have a "Still Thankful" meal this week with some friends from church and the INCREDIBLY heavy turkey I hauled home from work that I'll have to start thawing tomorrow. I can't wait for February to make this one OR to have the room in my freezer.
Gales of November Remembered
And the blizzards...and this year, the election day Flu-that-would-not-die. Being sick for the best part of the month is my main excuse not commenting in a timely manner. Being sick in bed on the last two glorious days of fall before the rotten weather came to stay doesn't seem to stack up with the disasters this month can visit on the Great Lakes area, but while being miserable I was thinking about folks who were in more misery than I hope to ever see.
Comes to November, many folks think first (and last) of Gordon Lightfoot's grand song about the Edmund Fitzgerald. What I found myself wanting to hear is the lovely "It's quiet where they sleep" sung by my friend Katy Early. Being easily musically distracted, I found myself on a fruitless quest - it wasn't to be had in my house - and so the liner notes are only in my head at this point - the song was a poem written by a diver in the team that found the remains of the Edmund Fitzgerald at the lake's bottom, later put to a haunting tune. The images it conjures are kin to the views of the Titanic wreck that were shown in the last movie about that ship. Now I've got to get m'self a replacement copy of Cooper, Nelson & Early's "Love and War" album so I can listen to it again (and keep my CNE collection intact, egad!)
In the interim, I found m'self listening to another friend's music that Great Lakes lore - heavy on the shipwrecks and ship ghost stories - Lee Murdock. That had me digging out a long ago borrowed book Ghost ships of the Great Lakes (sorry, Chuck!)by Dwight Boyer. Lee sings of ships like the Bannockburn and Fitzgerald and all the exotic sounding place names scattered through the lakes from the Keweenaw Penninsula to all the familiar sounding port names on Lake Erie. If there's a good month to be home sick, tucked in a warm bed, this just might be it.
Comes to November, many folks think first (and last) of Gordon Lightfoot's grand song about the Edmund Fitzgerald. What I found myself wanting to hear is the lovely "It's quiet where they sleep" sung by my friend Katy Early. Being easily musically distracted, I found myself on a fruitless quest - it wasn't to be had in my house - and so the liner notes are only in my head at this point - the song was a poem written by a diver in the team that found the remains of the Edmund Fitzgerald at the lake's bottom, later put to a haunting tune. The images it conjures are kin to the views of the Titanic wreck that were shown in the last movie about that ship. Now I've got to get m'self a replacement copy of Cooper, Nelson & Early's "Love and War" album so I can listen to it again (and keep my CNE collection intact, egad!)
In the interim, I found m'self listening to another friend's music that Great Lakes lore - heavy on the shipwrecks and ship ghost stories - Lee Murdock. That had me digging out a long ago borrowed book Ghost ships of the Great Lakes (sorry, Chuck!)by Dwight Boyer. Lee sings of ships like the Bannockburn and Fitzgerald and all the exotic sounding place names scattered through the lakes from the Keweenaw Penninsula to all the familiar sounding port names on Lake Erie. If there's a good month to be home sick, tucked in a warm bed, this just might be it.
Saturday 1 November 2008
It rains AND it pours
It didn't rain today. It was actually quite delightful light sweater weather for the trick or treaters tonight. Snow and heavy outerwear with costumes was more the norm when I was of trick or treating age on these same streets. What was more surprising was getting to Playhouse Square twice this week. On Monday the witty and erudite JanC and I went to see the road show of Vinyl Cafe with Stewart McLean. I find myself enjoying this lovely import from the CBC on my NPR station on Sunday afternoon with considerably more pleasure than Prairie Home Companion on Saturday nights. McLean's gentle humor is delivered in a voice that reminds me very much of Jimmy Stewart. By comparison, he makes Garrison Keillor look jaded, cynical and somewhat edgy. I rather think that both of 'em would be happy with that assessment.
Last night, while at church music rehearsal, I'd not turned my phone off (bad girl, but I'm not going to hell for it...) and so took the call from Ruth's mother Madam (that IS what the family calls her) offering me two tickets to Ohio Opera's Hansel & Gretel . By this morning I was able to get a PERFECT companion to go with me: Peggy had been having a foul week dealing with plumbers working on her sewer lines, and like me, she hadn't been to an opera in a vastly long time. We had a grand time, zooming off just after my trick or treat candy gave out, and getting to our seats in enough time to take a deep breath before the music started. This was opera for those who are scared of opera - in English WITH the lyrics projected on a screen at the extreme top of the stage. I came to it cold, not even knowing it was to be in English, just ready to be entertained, and that we were. I was surprised at the overtly religiously centered morals in the tale - nothing the Brothers Grimm would have outlined - prayers, visions of angels, along with a supernatural sandman and a (how DID she manage to sing...?) Dew Drop fairy who hovered over the stage AND sang. Other elemements I don't recall are the witch's cooking turning people into gingerbread persons, and her death turning them back to living humans, with Hansel & Gretel being saviours of a couple dozen folks (made for a good grand finale chorus, that!) It was silly, charming, and had utterly gorgeous singing and sets that were a visual treat - especially the birch forrest.
While looking at the Playhouse Square website, I glanced through the up coming events and saw this one for this Sunday that'd have made three in a week, but it was just way, way WAYYYYYY too weird to contemplate, so I shan't go, though I may forever remain curious of what Eddie asked our Favorite Flaky Democrat:
Eddy Izzard interviews Dennis Kucinich
Srsly. I kid you not.
Last night, while at church music rehearsal, I'd not turned my phone off (bad girl, but I'm not going to hell for it...) and so took the call from Ruth's mother Madam (that IS what the family calls her) offering me two tickets to Ohio Opera's Hansel & Gretel . By this morning I was able to get a PERFECT companion to go with me: Peggy had been having a foul week dealing with plumbers working on her sewer lines, and like me, she hadn't been to an opera in a vastly long time. We had a grand time, zooming off just after my trick or treat candy gave out, and getting to our seats in enough time to take a deep breath before the music started. This was opera for those who are scared of opera - in English WITH the lyrics projected on a screen at the extreme top of the stage. I came to it cold, not even knowing it was to be in English, just ready to be entertained, and that we were. I was surprised at the overtly religiously centered morals in the tale - nothing the Brothers Grimm would have outlined - prayers, visions of angels, along with a supernatural sandman and a (how DID she manage to sing...?) Dew Drop fairy who hovered over the stage AND sang. Other elemements I don't recall are the witch's cooking turning people into gingerbread persons, and her death turning them back to living humans, with Hansel & Gretel being saviours of a couple dozen folks (made for a good grand finale chorus, that!) It was silly, charming, and had utterly gorgeous singing and sets that were a visual treat - especially the birch forrest.
While looking at the Playhouse Square website, I glanced through the up coming events and saw this one for this Sunday that'd have made three in a week, but it was just way, way WAYYYYYY too weird to contemplate, so I shan't go, though I may forever remain curious of what Eddie asked our Favorite Flaky Democrat:Eddy Izzard interviews Dennis Kucinich
Srsly. I kid you not.
Friday 31 October 2008
A Wee Drappie o’t
This life is a journey we all hae to gang,
And care is the burden we carry alang,
Though heavy be our burden and poverty our lot,
We’ll be happy a’thegither o’er a wee drappie o’t
O’er a wee drappie o’t, o’er a wee drappie o’t
We’ll be happy a’thegither o’er a wee drappie o’t
The trees are a’ stripped o’ their mantles sae green.
The leaves of the forest nae langer are seen,
For winter is here wi’ it’s cold icey coat,
And we’re all met thegither o’er a wee drappie o’t.
O’er a wee drappie o’t, o’er a wee drappie o’t
And we’re all met thegither o’er a wee drappie o’t.
Job in his lamentations said that man was made to mourn,
And there’s nae such thing as pleasures from the cradle to the urn,
But in his lamentations he surely had forgot
A’ the pleasure man enjoys o’er a wee drappie o’t
O’er a wee drappie o’t, o’er a wee drappie o’t
A’ the pleasure man enjoys o’er a wee drappie o’t
I first heard this sometimes participatory drinking song from the stage of Orchestra Hall in Chicago, during a benefit concert for the Old Town School of Folk Music. The singers - and drinkers- were Win Strache, one of the OTSFM founders, and the one, only and forever. Studs Terkel. At each "o't" (as in "a wee drop of IT, the pure" one or t'other or the both of them would take a drink. As the song went on, the pauses to drink were longer and longer. I do wonder what folks who only heard it broadcast over the radio were thinking; they were taking the singing and drinking equally seriously, they were.
Studs Terkel died today at 96, after a life filled with ideas, people, issues and music. I raise a wee drappie o't to the glorious life of a splendid man.
And care is the burden we carry alang,
Though heavy be our burden and poverty our lot,
We’ll be happy a’thegither o’er a wee drappie o’t
O’er a wee drappie o’t, o’er a wee drappie o’t
We’ll be happy a’thegither o’er a wee drappie o’t
The trees are a’ stripped o’ their mantles sae green.
The leaves of the forest nae langer are seen,
For winter is here wi’ it’s cold icey coat,
And we’re all met thegither o’er a wee drappie o’t.
O’er a wee drappie o’t, o’er a wee drappie o’t
And we’re all met thegither o’er a wee drappie o’t.
Job in his lamentations said that man was made to mourn,
And there’s nae such thing as pleasures from the cradle to the urn,
But in his lamentations he surely had forgot
A’ the pleasure man enjoys o’er a wee drappie o’t
O’er a wee drappie o’t, o’er a wee drappie o’t
A’ the pleasure man enjoys o’er a wee drappie o’t
I first heard this sometimes participatory drinking song from the stage of Orchestra Hall in Chicago, during a benefit concert for the Old Town School of Folk Music. The singers - and drinkers- were Win Strache, one of the OTSFM founders, and the one, only and forever. Studs Terkel. At each "o't" (as in "a wee drop of IT, the pure" one or t'other or the both of them would take a drink. As the song went on, the pauses to drink were longer and longer. I do wonder what folks who only heard it broadcast over the radio were thinking; they were taking the singing and drinking equally seriously, they were.
Studs Terkel died today at 96, after a life filled with ideas, people, issues and music. I raise a wee drappie o't to the glorious life of a splendid man.
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