Memorial Day in song

In my teens, Memorial Day weekend meant the start of the summer, celebrated with D's family at their cottage at Put-in-Bay. We'd go swimming for the first time of the year, frigid though Lake Erie might be. It was the 70s then, and "Veterans" tended to be our father's generation who'd seen service in the Second World War. Looking back now, I think how odd this was, because D's much older brother had been a Marine in Korea. Art school had not prepared him well for this, and he didn't deal with the world too well when he came home. PTSD is how they might diagnose him today, were he still alive.

Older now, I see Memorial Day in it's serious context, a day established to honor American Veterans, particularly the fallen ones. For a number of years, I've thought to do a 'play list' of songs I find appropriate for the day. My highly subjective choices tend to be mostly considered folk songs. The traditionalist in me takes note of Memorial Day being instigated in the aftermath of the American Civil War (show that I'm a Yankee by that title, don't I?) and has me start with songs from that era: Paddy's Lamentation/ By the Hush - fine advice for the lads back in Ireland to miss being drafted for the war between the states.
Tenting Tonight - captures the camp beside the battlefield spirit.
Richmond on the James - Anne & Cindy's finely wrought version of this lament for loss moves me.

My personal taste in songs tends toward the Anglo/ Irish/ Scottish continuum, and their wars had a wider geograpic range. The pride of a solider is represented well in a couple songs. The Minstrel Boy - I've always had a very eccentric vision of what that "wild harp slung behind him" would be, yet this is a song that covers the whole gamut of feelings about soldiering with a surpassingly beautiful melody. Green Hills of Tyrol - a lament for a Scottish soldier while The Flowers Of The Forest - played as a tune for military funerals as well, as well as being a song for lament. In

The Bantry Girl's Lament the possible loss of a significant member of the community - at least to the womenfolk- in battle, is a thing contemplated. Of the Irish, though of the same vintage as the American Civil war, is Johnny I Hardly Knew Ye, the most potent scream of anguish at the return of a wounded veteran I've ever heard. The American version, When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again (hurrah, hurrah) is so very sprightly, and another thing entire. I once heard the opera singer Ben Luxon sing Johnny I Hardly Knew Ye nearly acapella, when he was performing folk songs from both sides the Atlantic with the late Bill Crofut. Bill did a bit of percussion on his banjo head, and Ben's baritone nearly shrieked the last verse "You haven't an eye, you haven't a leg, you're an eyeless boneless chickenless egg, and you'll have to be put with a bowl to beg..." every hair on my body stood at attention.

My father was a veteran who was wounded before seeing action, but did sing songs of his time in the army:
Oh, how I hate to get up in the morning - Irving Berlin's charming gripe, which he paired with:
Gee, Mom I want to Go Home - in a similar vein.
There's a feel to WW2 vintage songs that tends to be a bit more flippant, even when serious. a couple I'm fond of that refer to who does, or doesn't do the work in a war: Hanging on the Old Barbed Wire and D-Day Dodgers

In thinking it over, many of the songs that come to my mind are actually about after the wars, how the survivors deal, veteran or civilian, and sometimes how they don't. Eric Bogle, of Australia has written several songs from a retrospective, thoughtful viewpoint: And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda about the Anzac veterans, and a song many think is Irish: No Man's Land (aka often as Green fields of France or Willie McBride). That's just his top two, there are more. While Bantry Girl's Lament wonders what they'll do without the lad who won't come home, Dancing at Whitsun describes how tradition goes on without the menfolk, after the war, while honoring their memory.
Huw Williams' song Rosemary's Sister is a concise vignette of how survivors of the Blitz carry scars. While not soldiers, they were most certainly particpating in the war in a way the American population didn't have to.

From wartime in my generation comes Pete Seeger's Where have all the Flowers gone (with the last verse by Joe Hickerson that turns it into a circular song). For my generation, it's a touchstone of a song for those who opposed "the war" (which in those days only meant Vietnam) and those who fought in it. I like to think it gives respect to the mourned dead. A duo of songs I learned from the singing of Phil & Margaret I sing as a paired set: Richard Thompson's How will I ever be simple again? and Margaret Nelson's wistful Died in the War. Phil sings John Prine's Sam Stone as a modern version of the tragic ballad genre. Years ago, in an introduction to Don't Let Me Go Home a Stranger Robin & Linda Williams talked about how it brought to mind a relative who was a Vietnam era Veteran, struggling with life. That thought comes to me every time I sing it.

A pleasure of songs, even when it's a pleasure tempered with sorrow, is how it can evoke memory and make one contemplate the subjects as you sing or listen.

Cut my cote, literally & proverbially

While researching square cut garments for classes this summer, my first thought was the classic Dorothy Burnham book Cut My Cote that was a revelation to weavers in the 70's and continues to be a starting point, reference and touchstone for medieval recreationsts like the SCA. I believe square cut garments to be the basis of the early Folkwear Patterns though the company progressed to more and more tailored garments.

An online search of the phrase "cut my cote" brought me to the name of John Heywood (c. 1497 - c. 1580) , an early compiler of proverbs. Like me, many will be more familiar with his grandson John Donne. I'd been thinking about proverbs & "family sayings" after a discussion at Mudcat Cafe, and was struck by how many proverbs that had their first documented airing in the collection of John Heywood were a part of my education, though in updated English, for the most part:

To keep the wolf from the door.
A peny for your thought.
Beggars should be no choosers.
Haste maketh waste.
Look ere ye leape.
No man ought to looke a given horse in the mouth.
One good turne asketh another.
One swallow maketh not summer.
Set the cart before the horse.
She frieth in her owne grease.
Small pitchers have wyde eares.
The rolling stone never gathereth mosse.
To robbe Peter and pay Poule.
Two heads are better then one.
When all candles bee out, all cats be gray.
When the sunne shineth, make hay.
Would yee both eat your cake and have your cake?

I'm going to think of this, the next time someone asks me "why are you interested in all that old stuff?" Age doesn't dim relevance. There's my proverb for the day.

The Mother's day thing

On Mother's Day I feel something that's akin to being Jewish on Christmas, I guess. It's not that I was hatched, but any experience of being cared for by my mother did not last as a memory past her death when I was two. One Sunday after church, when the subject of mothering instinct came up, I replied I hadn't any - I was raised by my adult version of a tomboy aunt - but I had a very good "aunting instinct." The older women who were part of this conversation all launched into variations on "ooooh, my aunt was the joy of my young life, she did all the things my mother wouldn't..." Yet there was always a want and need for someone motherly for me. Over my lifetime, I've been very fortunate that many friends have shared their mothers, and those mothers have shared their generous nature with me.

Betty - "big" Joanne's mom, who did all the coolmom things my aunt didn't have a clue about, from dolls to theme birthday parties to my first lipsticks.

Dorothy's mother Fran - who was my "loco parentis" when we'd go to their cottage on Put in Bay - particularly the crazy years when we were dating maniacs there. My first images of a kitchen full of baking cookies was sitting at her kitchen table watching and being shooed away from the rumballs. She taught me about plants, birds, some cooking, and let us listen to Tom Lehrer. One of my favorite folk music reference books, I first saw on her piano. A taste for things Scottish certainly started there. Always there, from tricycles to weddings, in a most momlike way.

Nonnie's mom, Anne. I'd watched her be a wonderful mother for years before she realized I was a wonderful young'un. I think it was when I married the guy they'd been thinking Nonnie would, that she and Dolor decided I must be a bit of all right. Then she made it her mission to teach me the things she felt were lacking in my education. I ate it up, as we used to tease her Betty Crocker Homemaker of the Year physics student daughter about being "Little Nonnie Homemaker." I still cherish things she gave me. Ya ever see me using an oh-so-70s orange mushroom embroidered hot pad, you know it's a special occasion because I'm using her gift to honor her memory in my kitchen.

Millie, the mom next door. I fall in the generation between her and her kids, but Millie mothers everyone, and everyone's pets. Her generosity is only limited by time and energy. All the practical help she can give, she does, as well as a great line in tea and sympathy & being a great sounding board. Her indignation on behalf of those she loves is gratifying in the extreme. Her strong sense of what is right, the effort she puts out into keeping the world around her on an even keel are among the best things a mother can give.

In the last dozen years of my life, I've had the unmitigated delight in being enfolded in Madam's extended family. Ruth's mom really is called Madam by all but the wee grandkids. It's quite an adventure for a Catholic-turned-Episcopalian to have acquired a Jewish mama late in life, but I highly endorse it! Her zest for living, her generosity with food and encouragement, her incredible storytelling and infectious laugh, are all delivered with incredible panache. She's the only one who could convince me to try eating chopped liver, and perhaps the only one who makes it so well that I now look forward to it. AND she let me wear her Mrs Senior Ohio tiara for my 50th birthday. What more could one ask?

I give thanks for all the wonderful women who've shared their capabilites in the mothering department with me. I give thanks for all the other mothers-of-friends I've come to know and enjoy as an adult. I give thanks for all the friends I have who are superb mothers: I look at their children and think how lucky they are to have such a life! I know how lucky I've been to have these women in my life. Happy mother's day, whoever ya are.

Coffee has it's place...

This is for William, whose warped sensed of humor used my blog name to title an entry of apalling bizzareness. He thinks coffee drinkers deserve equal time. I'll spare you, gentle hyperlink cliker. You didn't want to see white guys rap about their peculiar enthusisam for tea, did you?

I didn't think so.

So Farewell unto ye...

A recent national program on the local NPR station - Weekend America - about Forclosure Bus Tours had me absolutely apalled when they signed off "reporting from Cleveland" The slideshow on the Weekend America site starts with Shaker Heights, the next burb over from me.

Often, when meeting people and describing my passion for folk music, those who don't listen to it will say things like 'that may have been relevant in the 60s, but not anymore.' True, ya don't tend to hear Kumbayah much today, but that's nae hardly the whole story! I've been going through my repertoire of songs that start out with variations on"'one morning in May..." and was struck by the parallels;

SLIABH GALLION BRAE

As I went a walking one morning in May
To view yon fair valleys and mountains so gay
I was thinking on those flowers all doomed to decay
That bloom around ye bonny, bonny, Sliabh Gallion Braes

How oft in the morning with my dog and my gun
I roamed through the glens for joy and for fun
But those days are now all over and I must go away
So farewll unto ye, bonny, bonny, Sliabh Gallion Braes.

How oft of an evening and the sun in the West
I roved hand in hand with the one I loved best
But the hopes of youth are vanished and now I’m far away
So farewll un to ye, bonny, bonny, Sliabh Gallion Braes.

It was not for the want of employment at home
That caused all the sons of old Ireland to roam
But those tyrannizing landlords*, they would not let us stay
So farewll un to ye, bonny, bonny, Sliabh Gallion Braes.

For the rents were getting higher, and we could no longer stay
So farewll un to ye, bonny, bonny, Sliabh Gallion Braes.
(as sung by The Gaping Maw, long disbanded, still loved)
*predatory lenders would scan fairly well in that line

Maypole Mayday!

I couldn't resist the chance to dance the maypole for the first time in quite a few years. One of the regular dancers had finagled the Sunday Waltz for May to celebrate her birthday, launching it with a maypole dance beforehand.

My serious dancing days have been curtailed by painful bonespurs and unhappy joints in both knees, but dancing the maypole is so untaxing, and this situation was full of folks who'd never done it before, so the pace was even slower. Dancing, perse didn't really happen so much as we moved around the pole with music going on in the background.

The day was gorgeous, with lilacs in full fragrant bloom, and the maypole outside. She'd made a truly gorgeous maypole with thick grossgrain ribbons, provided a fine accordionist and instructed the group well. We got o'erly photographed, videoed and whatnot. I hung about for awhile when the action moved inside to waltz, and had a most gratifying afternoon. The rest of the piano player's band didn't show up - a scheduling mixup - and she didn't want to play alone. I play with her in another band, so she's familiar with me. I zipped home, gathered up autoharp, waltz music books, a tinwhistle and harmnonica for Dale and dashed back. The accordion player was willing and very very able to play whatever we had music for, so we played. I'm most fond of 3/4 time anyhow, I knew most of the tunes we did, stumbled only minimally, and enjoyed myself immensely. It didn't cross my mind that I'd get paid, being a last minute addition: THAT was a huge, and welcome surprise. (and of course, goes in my 'get a concertina' fund). A lovely thing to be so directly rewarded for helping out. Lovelier still, that I as able to do so, playing the music that fills my heart.

On the first day of May you'll see...

Some schoolgirls dancing the Maypole. Sanitize the concept all ya want, it's still a fertility ritual. I've danced the Maypole myself in years past with the English Country dance group here. I love the patterned braid that the dancers make 'round the pole as they dance.

I'd be remiss if I didn't note May Day, where around the world Morris Dancers danced up the sun, hankies waving, bells chiming, sticks whacking. So many folksongs start out on a morning in May, and things tend to get rollickingly, ruttingly randy from there on in. One of my favorites in this genre is a sweet lovesong with a happy ending, something rather rare in my repertoire!

CUCKOOS NEST

As I was a walking one morning in May
I met a pretty fair maid and unto her did say
I'll tell you me mind, it's for love I am inclined
An me inclination lies in your cuckoo's nest

Me darling, says she, I am innocent and young
And I scarcely can believe your false deluding tongue
Yet I see it in your eyes and it fills me with surprise
That your inclination lies in me cuckoo's nest

Some like a girl who is pretty in the face
and some like a girl who is slender in the waist
But give me a girl who will wriggle and will twist
At the bottom of the belly lies the cuckoo's nest

Me darling, says me, if you can see it in me eyes
Then think of it as fondness and do not be surprised
For I love you me dear and I'll marry you I swear
If you'll let me clap my hand on your cuckoo's nest

Me darling, says she, I can do no such thing
For me mother often told me it was committing sin
Me maidenhead to lose and me sex to be abused
So have no more to do with me cuckoo's nest

Some like a girl who is pretty in the face
and some like a girl who is slender in the waist
But give me a girl who will wriggle and will twist
At the bottom of the belly lies the cuckoo's nest

Me darling, says me, it's not committing sin
But common sense should tell you it is a pleasing thing
For you were brought into this world to increase and do your best
And to help a man to heaven in your cuckoo's nest

Me darling, says she, I cannot you deny
For you've surely won my heart by the rolling of your eye
Yet I see it in your eyes that your courage is surprised
So gently lift your hand into me cuckoo's nest

Some like a girl who is pretty in the face
and some like a girl who is slender in the waist
But give me a girl who will wriggle and will twist
At the bottom of the belly lies the cuckoo's nest

This couple they got married and soon they went to bed
And now this pretty fair maid has lost her maidenhead
In a small country cottage they increase and do their best
And he often claps his hand on her cuckoo's nest

From the album "Morris On"