I'm Joseph, but you knew that. Add Mac and Janice and you get the singing group Trillium (after the little woodland flower with three petals). Add Heather and you get Dogwood (because dogwood blossoms have 4 petals, geddit?). Add Jack and Jan and maybe others and you get Jellybeans because we're a mixed but flavorful lot. Add Mac & Janice's neighbors Kaylene & Richard and their friends and you get The Mormontarian Choir, famous in two congregations througout Northern Idaho.
Now that you know the players, you can know we had a great little sing last night, 9 voices in all. We sang lots of old favorites in 4-part a capella yumminess, including Angels We Have Heard On High, because it can't be Christmas without a few Excelsis Deos after all. My favorite was an even-more-haunting than usual arrangement of I Wonder As I Wander. Wow. Singing in the soprano section was Beth, Richard & Kaylenes daughter, a sophomore in high school. Beth not only did a passable job sight-reading the parts but, on a latin piece (Gaudete) asked, "are we using Italian or classic pronunciation?" thereby giving me hope for future generations. We'll all be doing a gig at the nursing home next week.
I shared the story of Jamie's "movie about us." Young Beth observed that, since it was dark outside, Jamie was probably seeing the reflection of herself and mommy in the car's windows, and it looked a lot like a movie on the TV. But of course! Less profound but still pretty darn cute.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Saturday, December 8, 2007
My Two-year-old, The Existential Philosopher.
A true dialog. Setting: driving home after sundown.
Jamie: It's dark in this movie.
KR: Yes, it is dark outside. But this isn't a movie, it's real life.
Jamie: It's a movie about us.
In other news, we went out and got a Christmas Tree today. In the woods! With our own saw! We saw some critter tracks in the snow, one squirrel track and plenty of deer.
I carried Jamie through the snow and showed her the tracks. "Look Jamie, deer tracks."
She looked at them and cuddled tight into my arms. "I'm worried about the deer."
"Why are you worried?"
"The deer might bite me."
The trip was also notable for things that didn't happen. Karl didn't fall through the ice into the creek. The car didn't get thrown into the ditch by crusty snow berms shoving the wheels in unexpected directions. No-one got frostbite. No one we passed openly laughed at us for driving a Toyota mini-van in the woods in winter. Edit: And most important, Jamie was not bitten by a deer.
We got the tree right around the center of this map. There's snow of course, about 6-8" frozen to a solid crust.
View Larger Map
Jamie: It's dark in this movie.
KR: Yes, it is dark outside. But this isn't a movie, it's real life.
Jamie: It's a movie about us.
In other news, we went out and got a Christmas Tree today. In the woods! With our own saw! We saw some critter tracks in the snow, one squirrel track and plenty of deer.
I carried Jamie through the snow and showed her the tracks. "Look Jamie, deer tracks."
She looked at them and cuddled tight into my arms. "I'm worried about the deer."
"Why are you worried?"
"The deer might bite me."
The trip was also notable for things that didn't happen. Karl didn't fall through the ice into the creek. The car didn't get thrown into the ditch by crusty snow berms shoving the wheels in unexpected directions. No-one got frostbite. No one we passed openly laughed at us for driving a Toyota mini-van in the woods in winter. Edit: And most important, Jamie was not bitten by a deer.
We got the tree right around the center of this map. There's snow of course, about 6-8" frozen to a solid crust.
View Larger Map
Friday, November 16, 2007
The most patient cat in the world
Here we have Jamie giving love and attention to Angel, the top-ranking cat in our house. Jamie has done this for as long as she has been able. The two young cats, Angel and Roppet, endure this with astoshing patience, and have only scratched her accidentally a handful of times, and very superficially at that. The Grand Dame Older Kat, Jezebelle, who is 105 years old by the traditional formula, goes to great pains to hide from Jamie, but she hides the same way from the rest of us too.
Jamie, incidentally, is revelling in the power of disrobement. Jamie Sez: "I've got the kitty! We're both naked!"
And why do we spend all that money?
You buy a spiffy new electronic piano for your kids and what do they want to do? Play in the box, of course. Here we have the box zombie lurching through the house.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Quick update
Golly, it's been a while.
Decluttering: Two truckloads to the dump in the last 2 weeks. Woot! Plus the sailboat is up for sale on Craig's List.
Mac Whacking: Proof of operation on older iBook. External monitor works fine, laptop monitor screen works, but its backlight is dodgy. Interestingly, I found a place on the body of the laptop (to the left of the touchpad and below the Ctrl Key) that I can squeeze to make the backlight go on and off. The fellows at iFixit.com say it might be a bad inverter cable... um, right. But I ordered the basic tools and I'll dig into the case to see if there's a simple loose connection.
Music: Trillium (that's my trio) has a gig for Monday before Thanksgiving at the rest home. We've got quite a following there. We're aiming to get into Spokane's Fall Folk Festival 2008. Oh, and I've applied to call contras at NW Folklife in Seattle next May, with my buddies Hands 4 from Portland area.
Decluttering: Two truckloads to the dump in the last 2 weeks. Woot! Plus the sailboat is up for sale on Craig's List.
Mac Whacking: Proof of operation on older iBook. External monitor works fine, laptop monitor screen works, but its backlight is dodgy. Interestingly, I found a place on the body of the laptop (to the left of the touchpad and below the Ctrl Key) that I can squeeze to make the backlight go on and off. The fellows at iFixit.com say it might be a bad inverter cable... um, right. But I ordered the basic tools and I'll dig into the case to see if there's a simple loose connection.
Music: Trillium (that's my trio) has a gig for Monday before Thanksgiving at the rest home. We've got quite a following there. We're aiming to get into Spokane's Fall Folk Festival 2008. Oh, and I've applied to call contras at NW Folklife in Seattle next May, with my buddies Hands 4 from Portland area.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Jamie's New Doggie
Jamie received a very sweet little dachsund stuffie from her Great Aunt Denise in the mail last week. It is now her favorite naptime companion.
Here we see Jamie settling down
for her nap at daycare.
for her nap at daycare.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Barn Dance!
Karl had his 4th grade barn dance today. Luckily I was in charge of Jamie and photos, so I got to skip the chicken dance and the macarena.
Elbow swing your partner... (whoosh!)
He doesn't look too sure...
Note the Naruto wristbands. No country swing dance outfit is complete without them.
Hey, that was fun!
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Choirs and windows and furnaces
Woot! My pal Janice called me this afternoon with extra tickets to see Ensemble Amarcord, an a capella group from Leipzig, Germany (Old JS Bach's stomping grounds). We have a terrific chamber music series here, bringing world-class chamber ensembles 4 or 5 times a year. Amarcord currently has 5 voices, all men who were formerly in the boy's choir at Leipzig.
The purity of their tones was amazing, and watching their mouths form their vowels so carefully was almost excrutiating. At least during the first half of the performance, they stood very stiffly, belying the liveliness and interplay of their voices. It's obvious these guys have been trained in formal singing since the age of 7.
They covered a lot of territory. First came some Elizabethan English works, Byrd and Tallis and such. It was a little weird hearing ecclesiastical Latin with German pronunciations... they don't use the same standards for Latin vowels or some consonants that we do. Then came a set of Romantic era art songs from their hometown of Leipzig. Next was a modern setting of 6 poems (French, German, English, Italian) commisioned by and written for them, very complex interplay of close harmony, dissonance, and, um, phonemes. At times the sounds just rippled accross the stage from one voice to another. The second half of the concert grew progressively lighter, and included some pop standards (King's Singers arrangements, some of them) and jazz pieces. Their last piece was Billy Joel's "For The Longest Time."
Meanwhile back at the house we're about to get some windows put in. One will be a picture window in the dining nook to hang our wondrously spiffy Mosaic Glass window in front of. The others will be upstairs to replace the ridiculously leaky old monstrosities in our bedroom. And in a couple of weeks we're getting new high-efficiency gas stoves in our upstairs and in the basement apartment. Cozy warmness and light is on its way.
Mac Whacking update: not much unfortunately. I finally tried booting the two laptops. One makes a pathetic mechanical moan when I try to start it. The fan came on once, and the screen turns grey like it has power, but that's it. The other makes a happy Mac "voom" chord when I power it up, but the screen stays dark. So I'll be connecting an external monitor to that one and see what's on board. Maybe, just maybe the screen from Mac A can migrate to the body of Mac B.
The purity of their tones was amazing, and watching their mouths form their vowels so carefully was almost excrutiating. At least during the first half of the performance, they stood very stiffly, belying the liveliness and interplay of their voices. It's obvious these guys have been trained in formal singing since the age of 7.
They covered a lot of territory. First came some Elizabethan English works, Byrd and Tallis and such. It was a little weird hearing ecclesiastical Latin with German pronunciations... they don't use the same standards for Latin vowels or some consonants that we do. Then came a set of Romantic era art songs from their hometown of Leipzig. Next was a modern setting of 6 poems (French, German, English, Italian) commisioned by and written for them, very complex interplay of close harmony, dissonance, and, um, phonemes. At times the sounds just rippled accross the stage from one voice to another. The second half of the concert grew progressively lighter, and included some pop standards (King's Singers arrangements, some of them) and jazz pieces. Their last piece was Billy Joel's "For The Longest Time."
Meanwhile back at the house we're about to get some windows put in. One will be a picture window in the dining nook to hang our wondrously spiffy Mosaic Glass window in front of. The others will be upstairs to replace the ridiculously leaky old monstrosities in our bedroom. And in a couple of weeks we're getting new high-efficiency gas stoves in our upstairs and in the basement apartment. Cozy warmness and light is on its way.
Mac Whacking update: not much unfortunately. I finally tried booting the two laptops. One makes a pathetic mechanical moan when I try to start it. The fan came on once, and the screen turns grey like it has power, but that's it. The other makes a happy Mac "voom" chord when I power it up, but the screen stays dark. So I'll be connecting an external monitor to that one and see what's on board. Maybe, just maybe the screen from Mac A can migrate to the body of Mac B.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Pretty Window: or, My Wife the Fantastic and Meticulous Artist
We are in the middle of an Art Project here. KR is in charge of making the artwork, while the kids and I are in charge of Staying Out Of Mommy's Way. We're also working on keeping the house in something less than total chaos without the mommy to help much.
She's working on a paper mosaic window.
Let me elaborate on that. It all begins at city hall. The city hall here is the former post office, one of those 3-story brick edifices from the early 20th century. Quite a handsome building, really. It leads a shadowy second life as an art gallery, at least in its hallways, under the auspices of town arts commission. The third floor was recently remodelled and instead of dumping all the old windows they sold them as a fundraiser for $40 each to anyone who wanted them.
Why buy an old window, I hear you asking? So you can turn it into an objet d'art and display it in the upcoming art show in the aforementioned art gallery in the current city hall and erstwhile post office.
KR has spent many the hour over the last month painstakingly cutting out bits of colored tissue paper and gluing them down to the window. It's been fun to watch. She made a cartoon first – you know what a cartoon is, don't you? – to lay under the glass, and has been consuming paper and X-acto knives at a terrific rate. There are also bits of colored thread and bitsy little glass beads for texture. The windows are due tomorrow, and the show opens Friday 26th. KR's piece is quite stunning. I'll get a picture up shortly.
Meanwhile our kitchen faucet has turned leaky in a pesky way. The cheap-a## faucet installed by the previous owners ("it's only a rental", garrrr) wasn't up to the mechanical strains of a portable dishwasher hookup, so now it leaks a bucketful each time we run the dishwasher. Saturday the kids and I did an expedition to Lewiston (The city without a nose) (How does it smell? Horrible!) and picked up a very nice new kitchen faucet from Home Depot, and also Stayed Out Of Mommy's Way.
This evening I sang with Mac & Janice, and the kidlings tagged along. We killed two birds with one stone there, since in addition to singing and playing we Stayed Out Of Mommy's Way. Trillium (Mac & Janice & I) should be doing a gig soon. I'll keep ya' posted.
She's working on a paper mosaic window.
Let me elaborate on that. It all begins at city hall. The city hall here is the former post office, one of those 3-story brick edifices from the early 20th century. Quite a handsome building, really. It leads a shadowy second life as an art gallery, at least in its hallways, under the auspices of town arts commission. The third floor was recently remodelled and instead of dumping all the old windows they sold them as a fundraiser for $40 each to anyone who wanted them.
Why buy an old window, I hear you asking? So you can turn it into an objet d'art and display it in the upcoming art show in the aforementioned art gallery in the current city hall and erstwhile post office.
KR has spent many the hour over the last month painstakingly cutting out bits of colored tissue paper and gluing them down to the window. It's been fun to watch. She made a cartoon first – you know what a cartoon is, don't you? – to lay under the glass, and has been consuming paper and X-acto knives at a terrific rate. There are also bits of colored thread and bitsy little glass beads for texture. The windows are due tomorrow, and the show opens Friday 26th. KR's piece is quite stunning. I'll get a picture up shortly.
Meanwhile our kitchen faucet has turned leaky in a pesky way. The cheap-a## faucet installed by the previous owners ("it's only a rental", garrrr) wasn't up to the mechanical strains of a portable dishwasher hookup, so now it leaks a bucketful each time we run the dishwasher. Saturday the kids and I did an expedition to Lewiston (The city without a nose) (How does it smell? Horrible!) and picked up a very nice new kitchen faucet from Home Depot, and also Stayed Out Of Mommy's Way.
This evening I sang with Mac & Janice, and the kidlings tagged along. We killed two birds with one stone there, since in addition to singing and playing we Stayed Out Of Mommy's Way. Trillium (Mac & Janice & I) should be doing a gig soon. I'll keep ya' posted.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Old Friend-O-Rama
What a Rockin' Weekend!
2 sets of old friends emailed us last week to say "Hey, we're coming your way next weekend, can we get together?"
And how. Saturday we saw Randy and Martha and their two sons. Up until, oh, 9 or so years ago we sat down to dinner with them on a regular basis. Then they moved to the Puget Sound region and, well, we just didn't keep up. So we all sat down and had dinner at our new house, and we all stepped back right into where we'd been as friends. Oh things have changed of course. Now each family has 2 kidlings, and we had lots of catching up to do, but it felt all comfortable and right. Yep, still same people, still same friendship. As a bonus Randy is doing very similar work to mine (and got there by nearly as roundabout a route). Swapping stories and hints was very rewarding.
Sunday we saw Ariel and Jerry and their daughter and their bun-in-the-oven. They lived around here too and moved away about the same time as R&M. We've managed to see A&J a few more times since then, and now they live only 90 minutes away. But it's still a delight to see them whenever we can.
(Jerry's a techie too. Humm. I wonder how many other old-friends-who-are-now-techies might show up?)
We're all doing well, and our kids are well-adjusted and happy and learning and growing, and it's just great to have seen them all again. Not riveting blog material I suppose, but it's the best things in life and that's where my life is.
Jamie's asleep on the couch now – a big weekend of visiting for her. I'd better haul her upstairs and get the boy out of the tub and headed toward bed.
2 sets of old friends emailed us last week to say "Hey, we're coming your way next weekend, can we get together?"
And how. Saturday we saw Randy and Martha and their two sons. Up until, oh, 9 or so years ago we sat down to dinner with them on a regular basis. Then they moved to the Puget Sound region and, well, we just didn't keep up. So we all sat down and had dinner at our new house, and we all stepped back right into where we'd been as friends. Oh things have changed of course. Now each family has 2 kidlings, and we had lots of catching up to do, but it felt all comfortable and right. Yep, still same people, still same friendship. As a bonus Randy is doing very similar work to mine (and got there by nearly as roundabout a route). Swapping stories and hints was very rewarding.
Sunday we saw Ariel and Jerry and their daughter and their bun-in-the-oven. They lived around here too and moved away about the same time as R&M. We've managed to see A&J a few more times since then, and now they live only 90 minutes away. But it's still a delight to see them whenever we can.
(Jerry's a techie too. Humm. I wonder how many other old-friends-who-are-now-techies might show up?)
We're all doing well, and our kids are well-adjusted and happy and learning and growing, and it's just great to have seen them all again. Not riveting blog material I suppose, but it's the best things in life and that's where my life is.
Jamie's asleep on the couch now – a big weekend of visiting for her. I'd better haul her upstairs and get the boy out of the tub and headed toward bed.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Little Baby Snotty Nose
Once upon a time there was a sweet little girl who had a cold. Everyone loved her, but because she had a cold, they called her Little Baby Snotty Nose. When she woke up in the morning her face was all crusty and her eyes were goobered shut. Her mommy and her daddy would get a warm washcloth and clean her up, but a few minutes later her nose and her face would be snotty again. When they went downstairs for breakfast her face would be snotty, and they would clean her up. When she played with her toys her face would be snotty, and they would clean her up. When they took her to her daycare they worried that her nose would be too snotty, but the very nice daycare ladies never said a word. The daycare ladies must have cleaned her up too, because if they hadn't, Little Baby Snotty Nose surely would have been covered in snot from head to toe.
After a few days, Little Baby Snotty Nose would shout "DOE! Don't keen be up!" and run away whenever she saw a kleenex coming towards her face. A washcloth wasn't so bad but she still didn't like it. And after a week she slowly got better, and one morning Little Baby Snotty Nose wasn't Little Baby Snotty Nose any more. She was just little Jamie like before. And Mommy and Daddy were happy, but not as happy as they might have been because they had turned into Dreary Mommy Sinus Hurts and Big Daddy Coughsalot.
After a few days, Little Baby Snotty Nose would shout "DOE! Don't keen be up!" and run away whenever she saw a kleenex coming towards her face. A washcloth wasn't so bad but she still didn't like it. And after a week she slowly got better, and one morning Little Baby Snotty Nose wasn't Little Baby Snotty Nose any more. She was just little Jamie like before. And Mommy and Daddy were happy, but not as happy as they might have been because they had turned into Dreary Mommy Sinus Hurts and Big Daddy Coughsalot.
Saturday, October 6, 2007
Mac Whacking
My pal Val had a great idea to help us keep singing while we is all other places than all the others is. Multitrack recording! It's, like, virtual ensemble work. I record a track, send it to you, you record a track to go with it, send it back to me.... I'd never contemplated doing that before with music.
I mean, I do that sort of thing regularly with text and other static works, but the idea of doing it with real-time music had simply never occurred to me. Now it's like, well, duh.
But I need the gear. Gotta be able to make those tracks in the first place. There's all sorts of digital-audio-studio-inna-box gadgets out there. But instead of getting a one-use gizmo I'm concentrating on getting a Mac iBook, which will do the audio thing fairly well (do a Google on GarageBand) and also do web browsing and play movies and make pretty pictures and be portable and make espresso with the optional USB-driven iCuppa attachment*.
I've always thought Macs were cool but never particularly wanted one until now. Back at Camp Singalot all the cool music nerds had 'em, and I could see they are much more handier for all-around music nerdiness than Windows machines are. And I want a laptop of my own that isn't 3 generations old anyhow. New Toy! Whee!
I'm still on a budget so I'll have to settle for an iBook of 1 or 2 generations ago. To that end my pal Nils here in Moscow has most generously availed me of two (count 'em, two!) sitting-on-the-shelf-gathering-dust iBooks he is no longer using on account of them being, like, not as new as the spiffy big fast ones he has now and they're also kind of broken. So maybe with some elbow grease and brain sweat I can fix one of these or even combine parts to make a working iBook and then I'll just need a decent microphone and a quiet room and then I'm going all Corsican and Shapenotey with Val and Megan and all. And I won't have to wait until the next Singalot. Whee! again.
They don't seem that hard to work with. Why, in a lull in the typing just now I took the keyboard off one of them just like this {pop oh shit oh shit there went the F12 key flying and I think it landed in the bin of the document shredder dang those things are small and it's the middle of the night and my glasses are upstairs where is it where is it aaaaagh! oh, found it whew}. Should be a fun project.
*Okay, not really. But you can get USB coffee-cup warmers.
I mean, I do that sort of thing regularly with text and other static works, but the idea of doing it with real-time music had simply never occurred to me. Now it's like, well, duh.
But I need the gear. Gotta be able to make those tracks in the first place. There's all sorts of digital-audio-studio-inna-box gadgets out there. But instead of getting a one-use gizmo I'm concentrating on getting a Mac iBook, which will do the audio thing fairly well (do a Google on GarageBand) and also do web browsing and play movies and make pretty pictures and be portable and make espresso with the optional USB-driven iCuppa attachment*.
I've always thought Macs were cool but never particularly wanted one until now. Back at Camp Singalot all the cool music nerds had 'em, and I could see they are much more handier for all-around music nerdiness than Windows machines are. And I want a laptop of my own that isn't 3 generations old anyhow. New Toy! Whee!
I'm still on a budget so I'll have to settle for an iBook of 1 or 2 generations ago. To that end my pal Nils here in Moscow has most generously availed me of two (count 'em, two!) sitting-on-the-shelf-gathering-dust iBooks he is no longer using on account of them being, like, not as new as the spiffy big fast ones he has now and they're also kind of broken. So maybe with some elbow grease and brain sweat I can fix one of these or even combine parts to make a working iBook and then I'll just need a decent microphone and a quiet room and then I'm going all Corsican and Shapenotey with Val and Megan and all. And I won't have to wait until the next Singalot. Whee! again.
They don't seem that hard to work with. Why, in a lull in the typing just now I took the keyboard off one of them just like this {pop oh shit oh shit there went the F12 key flying and I think it landed in the bin of the document shredder dang those things are small and it's the middle of the night and my glasses are upstairs where is it where is it aaaaagh! oh, found it whew}. Should be a fun project.
*Okay, not really. But you can get USB coffee-cup warmers.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Sometimes We Go For Walks, Too
It's strange what passes for newsworthy these days.
A month or two ago we got written up in the local paper for *gasp* not having any cable or broadcast TV in our house. The story got picked up in Boise and Salt Lake City, maybe elsewhere.
It's not the first time we've been in the paper for our odd way of life. We were interviewed a few years ago for our habit of cooking and eating dinner together at home on a regular basis. I'm not joking.
Apparently there's a market for this kind of thing. If we can get this much press for leading what feels to us like a normal life, maybe I should write a book...
Chapter 1: Start the day right: wake up and get dressed!
Chapter 2: Bathing, the forgotten principles.
Chapter 3: Reading for learning and pleasure.
Chapter 4: Tidying up the house.
etc.
etc.
A month or two ago we got written up in the local paper for *gasp* not having any cable or broadcast TV in our house. The story got picked up in Boise and Salt Lake City, maybe elsewhere.
It's not the first time we've been in the paper for our odd way of life. We were interviewed a few years ago for our habit of cooking and eating dinner together at home on a regular basis. I'm not joking.
Apparently there's a market for this kind of thing. If we can get this much press for leading what feels to us like a normal life, maybe I should write a book...
Chapter 1: Start the day right: wake up and get dressed!
Chapter 2: Bathing, the forgotten principles.
Chapter 3: Reading for learning and pleasure.
Chapter 4: Tidying up the house.
etc.
etc.
Friday, September 28, 2007
This War and That War
With the turn of the seasons I find myself in darker thoughts. Loneliness, loss, and death (not my own but death in general, but thanks for being concerned) occupy my thoughts much of the time. It's obviously time to pull out the SAD lights, but while I adjust and reach a new equilibrium I'm trying to harness my darker mood as a philosophical impetus rather than a simple life-sucking depression.
Ken Burns has produced another war documentary, something he vowed never to do after his masterpiece on the U.S. Civil War. Then a few years ago he woke up to the fact that U.S. veterans of World War II were dying at the rate of 1000 a day, and their stories were vanishing with them into the grave. But something more was happening. Some of the surviving old soldiers and sailors, after 50 years, were finally ready to tell their stories. Since our family doesn't have any TV reception we won't be hearing those stories right away, but the documentary has spawned some other stories on NPR that are touching and thought-provoking.
There are plenty of reasons for a country for go to war. I might say, "some good, some bad," but I have trouble imagining the act of going to war ever being good. It's an awful, horrible choice, most often driven by the assumption that a good life for my people can only be bought by taking resources from someone else, permanently. Peace and justice are the highest good, but I am a realist and sometimes the only way to them is through the war that is already upon you. I believe we're all one people but it can be tricky to argue that with an army marching straight at you. In that light, sometimes a country or people is the victim rather than the perpetrator, and in some circumstances war becomes the least bad choice they have.
For the U.S., World War II was a rare confluence of such circumstances. For the country as a whole and for individual citizens, entering the war seemed the right thing to do. Oh, not at first certainly. The horrors of World War I were not forgotten (and horrific as that war was for us, we paid much less dearly than our European allies). Up until Pearl Harbor, the debate against war was strong. But that "date which [lives] in infamy" drove home to the American people that like it or not, the war was coming to them.
It's been said the main reason a soldier kills in a war is to keep from getting killed himself. After that he fights to save his buddy next to him, then to protect the other guys in the army, and last for the people back home. But in World War II, you could truly argue, without hypocrisy, that our soldiers were fighting to make the world a better place than it otherwise might be, not only for us and our children but ultimately for our enemies and their children as well. The confluence of motivations made the supreme effort and sacrifice of the U.S. and our allies possible.
So our fathers and grandfathers went, and became killers, and some got killed themselves, and the ones who survived came home scarred to a world that was itself scarred forever by what they had done, but was better than the world would have been if they hadn't. And for the most part they didn't talk about what they did. They had done what they had to do and came home, put their lives and families back together as best they could, and got on with it. For all of that and more they've been called the greatest generation, an assessment I have to agree with.
Now thanks to their willingness at their life's end to share, and Ken Burns' and others' willingness to listen and sift and interpret, the stories are coming out to us. I am humbled and awed by what they managed to come through.
Today I look at our war in Iraq, and my heart weeps. Our soldiers are going through trauma just as severe as that suffered in WWII. They are killing and dying and if they come home they are maimed in body or soul, to families equally injured. Whether they come back alive or dead, they and their families will carry the burden of their sacrifice for the rest of their lives.
But what is it for? They fight for themselves, for their buddies, for their country. They truly believe in what they're doing, for the most part. They want to make their own country safer, and life for the Iraqi people better.
The difference is, in WWII we were justified, and we had reason to believe, based on clear evidence and experience, that what we were doing would work. Today we are unjustified, and we have nothing but the unfounded convictions of a cadre of fools in the White House for evidence that what we are doing will work.
In two generations we have gone from being a country reluctant for war but willing to do it well if we must, to a country spoiling for war and willing to do it poorly because we can. I am ashamed.
Please work for peace.
Ken Burns has produced another war documentary, something he vowed never to do after his masterpiece on the U.S. Civil War. Then a few years ago he woke up to the fact that U.S. veterans of World War II were dying at the rate of 1000 a day, and their stories were vanishing with them into the grave. But something more was happening. Some of the surviving old soldiers and sailors, after 50 years, were finally ready to tell their stories. Since our family doesn't have any TV reception we won't be hearing those stories right away, but the documentary has spawned some other stories on NPR that are touching and thought-provoking.
There are plenty of reasons for a country for go to war. I might say, "some good, some bad," but I have trouble imagining the act of going to war ever being good. It's an awful, horrible choice, most often driven by the assumption that a good life for my people can only be bought by taking resources from someone else, permanently. Peace and justice are the highest good, but I am a realist and sometimes the only way to them is through the war that is already upon you. I believe we're all one people but it can be tricky to argue that with an army marching straight at you. In that light, sometimes a country or people is the victim rather than the perpetrator, and in some circumstances war becomes the least bad choice they have.
For the U.S., World War II was a rare confluence of such circumstances. For the country as a whole and for individual citizens, entering the war seemed the right thing to do. Oh, not at first certainly. The horrors of World War I were not forgotten (and horrific as that war was for us, we paid much less dearly than our European allies). Up until Pearl Harbor, the debate against war was strong. But that "date which [lives] in infamy" drove home to the American people that like it or not, the war was coming to them.
It's been said the main reason a soldier kills in a war is to keep from getting killed himself. After that he fights to save his buddy next to him, then to protect the other guys in the army, and last for the people back home. But in World War II, you could truly argue, without hypocrisy, that our soldiers were fighting to make the world a better place than it otherwise might be, not only for us and our children but ultimately for our enemies and their children as well. The confluence of motivations made the supreme effort and sacrifice of the U.S. and our allies possible.
So our fathers and grandfathers went, and became killers, and some got killed themselves, and the ones who survived came home scarred to a world that was itself scarred forever by what they had done, but was better than the world would have been if they hadn't. And for the most part they didn't talk about what they did. They had done what they had to do and came home, put their lives and families back together as best they could, and got on with it. For all of that and more they've been called the greatest generation, an assessment I have to agree with.
Now thanks to their willingness at their life's end to share, and Ken Burns' and others' willingness to listen and sift and interpret, the stories are coming out to us. I am humbled and awed by what they managed to come through.
Today I look at our war in Iraq, and my heart weeps. Our soldiers are going through trauma just as severe as that suffered in WWII. They are killing and dying and if they come home they are maimed in body or soul, to families equally injured. Whether they come back alive or dead, they and their families will carry the burden of their sacrifice for the rest of their lives.
But what is it for? They fight for themselves, for their buddies, for their country. They truly believe in what they're doing, for the most part. They want to make their own country safer, and life for the Iraqi people better.
The difference is, in WWII we were justified, and we had reason to believe, based on clear evidence and experience, that what we were doing would work. Today we are unjustified, and we have nothing but the unfounded convictions of a cadre of fools in the White House for evidence that what we are doing will work.
In two generations we have gone from being a country reluctant for war but willing to do it well if we must, to a country spoiling for war and willing to do it poorly because we can. I am ashamed.
Please work for peace.
Friday, September 21, 2007
If Cars Ran On Windows: An Allegory
Our pizza store has 5 delivery cars. Most of the time 4 cars is enough but we have to have 5 on the weekend. Business is picking up generally so it's best to have all 5 cars fully functional for busy hours during the week, just in case. The drivers told me the other day that car #3 wasn't starting. I tried taking out the key and twiddled the battery wires, and then it started fine. I told the drivers to let me know if anything changed.
Today they reported it wouldn't start again, so I repeated the same routine, but the car wouldn't run. Well, it would run for 7 or 8 seconds, then all the lights on the dashboard would go out and the engine would die.
It still seemed like it might be an electrical problem so I tested the battery. Results were ambiguous, so I tried replacing the battery with one I knew was good. It got worse instead of better. Now the lights would come on but the starter would never crank. Just to check I put the first battery in and the starter still wouldn't crank.
To make a long story short, it turns out the battery was fine but the motor had to be replaced. Well, it didn't have to be replaced but new engines that supposedly meet the same specs are cheaper than the labor it would take to diagnose and fix the problem.
So I dropped a new engine in, hooked it all up, and double checked the mechanical and electrical connections. It all looked good, so I tried starting it. vroom! But the moment I put the car into gear the gas pedal and steering wheel stopped responding and a big blue light came on the dashboard, saying "STOP! Error 0x000000008b (0000000000 1089374019 10893710DF 4778392010). "
Since the car wouldn't go into gear I couldn't read its owner's manual, so I went and looked at the owner's manual on a similar car. It didn't say anything, so I called the help line for the manufacturer using the phone in the working car. They said the code meant the key couldn't talk to the spark plugs correctly. I cried, "but the engine was running, so the spark plugs were obviously working!" But that's all they would tell me.
On a hunch I flipped through the yellow pages looking for references to "Stop 8b". It turns out other people had had the same problem. I called a few of them, and they told me I needed to upgrade the key. The car was originally a 1999, so one choice would be to upgrade to a 2003 key, but if I did that I would have to take all the tires off and put them back on again, plus I'd have to pay a hefty upgrade fee, almost as much as I paid for the new engine. Upgrading to a 2007 key was completely out of the question because my tires aren't certified for a key that modern, and won't be until the first repair pack for 2007 keys comes out and is stable.
I spent way too many hours trying to get my key to work with the new engine, and was about ready to give up or spend the money on a 2003 key, as stupid as that seemed. I finally realized the problem was all the aluminum parts in the new engine. My key was made of brass. So I made a copy of my old key out of aluminum instead of brass, and TaDa! the car runs fine. I ended up having to rotate the tires anyways, but all the maps still work and I didn't have to spend money on a new key.
And that's what my 14 1/2-hour day at work was like today!
Today they reported it wouldn't start again, so I repeated the same routine, but the car wouldn't run. Well, it would run for 7 or 8 seconds, then all the lights on the dashboard would go out and the engine would die.
It still seemed like it might be an electrical problem so I tested the battery. Results were ambiguous, so I tried replacing the battery with one I knew was good. It got worse instead of better. Now the lights would come on but the starter would never crank. Just to check I put the first battery in and the starter still wouldn't crank.
To make a long story short, it turns out the battery was fine but the motor had to be replaced. Well, it didn't have to be replaced but new engines that supposedly meet the same specs are cheaper than the labor it would take to diagnose and fix the problem.
So I dropped a new engine in, hooked it all up, and double checked the mechanical and electrical connections. It all looked good, so I tried starting it. vroom! But the moment I put the car into gear the gas pedal and steering wheel stopped responding and a big blue light came on the dashboard, saying "STOP! Error 0x000000008b (0000000000 1089374019 10893710DF 4778392010). "
Since the car wouldn't go into gear I couldn't read its owner's manual, so I went and looked at the owner's manual on a similar car. It didn't say anything, so I called the help line for the manufacturer using the phone in the working car. They said the code meant the key couldn't talk to the spark plugs correctly. I cried, "but the engine was running, so the spark plugs were obviously working!" But that's all they would tell me.
On a hunch I flipped through the yellow pages looking for references to "Stop 8b". It turns out other people had had the same problem. I called a few of them, and they told me I needed to upgrade the key. The car was originally a 1999, so one choice would be to upgrade to a 2003 key, but if I did that I would have to take all the tires off and put them back on again, plus I'd have to pay a hefty upgrade fee, almost as much as I paid for the new engine. Upgrading to a 2007 key was completely out of the question because my tires aren't certified for a key that modern, and won't be until the first repair pack for 2007 keys comes out and is stable.
I spent way too many hours trying to get my key to work with the new engine, and was about ready to give up or spend the money on a 2003 key, as stupid as that seemed. I finally realized the problem was all the aluminum parts in the new engine. My key was made of brass. So I made a copy of my old key out of aluminum instead of brass, and TaDa! the car runs fine. I ended up having to rotate the tires anyways, but all the maps still work and I didn't have to spend money on a new key.
And that's what my 14 1/2-hour day at work was like today!
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Kid Talk
Today in the car as we approached Jamie's daycare:
Jamie: "I see it!"
Me: "What do you see?"
Jamie: "My class room with all the tiny people in it!"
On a recent morning, after removing her pacifier and putting it in her crib for safekeeping:
Jamie: "I put it in my baby cage."
Last week at the county fair, while deciding what to eat:
KarlaRose: "Of course we must have the obligatory elephant ear."
Karl: "Whoa! We'd better have the ceremonial elephant ear too!"
As luck would have it we were able to have both the obligatory and ceremonial elephant ears without additional expense. The teenager taking the cash at the 4H booth said, "These are small, take two." The ones we received were the size of hubcaps. Apparently for full value they should have been the size of the whole tire.
Jamie: "I see it!"
Me: "What do you see?"
Jamie: "My class room with all the tiny people in it!"
On a recent morning, after removing her pacifier and putting it in her crib for safekeeping:
Jamie: "I put it in my baby cage."
Last week at the county fair, while deciding what to eat:
KarlaRose: "Of course we must have the obligatory elephant ear."
Karl: "Whoa! We'd better have the ceremonial elephant ear too!"
As luck would have it we were able to have both the obligatory and ceremonial elephant ears without additional expense. The teenager taking the cash at the 4H booth said, "These are small, take two." The ones we received were the size of hubcaps. Apparently for full value they should have been the size of the whole tire.
Monday, September 17, 2007
White Socks are Evil
Or, A Laundry Epiphany.
I have too many clothes. This simply stated fact was driven home to me at Camp Singalot.
I had to pack light for the trip because I was riding in planes and other people's cars. Turning it into a design problem, my parameters were:
The real epiphany started when I was choosing clothes. I said to myself, "Self, you don't want to do two loads of laundry when one will do." So no whites. Luckily I have a half-dozen pairs colored cotton socks, including a couple pair of rainbow tie-dyes for those special occasions. Tighty-whitey underwear is a thing of the long past for me, not that you necessarily need to know that. A spare pair of jeans and a few shirts later, and I had a single load of laundry that would clothe me for over a week with one washing. I even had room for some nice trousers for the concert on the last day (which could be laundered with all the others if need be). No sorting, no hassle, almost no time needed to get it all laundered and taken care of.
What a contrast to life at home. I have a tall dresser and half a closet full of clothes, some of which I haven't worn in over a year, and many of which require special laundering. The other family members are also over-wardrobed to varying degrees, tho I shan't name names. Among the 4 of us we can easily go two weeks without doing any laundry, at which point we will suddenly realize we have 12 loads of laundry to do. Just gathering it and sorting it, just getting started, can take over an hour, let alone the time to clean, dry, and fold each carefully sorted load.
When my current batch of white socks wear out they are so not getting replaced. Every piece of clothing I acquire will be carefully considered in terms of, "How much of the rest of my life will I spend caring for this thing?" I'm paring down the clothes I already have in the same light. The dishes are next. After that the tool shed or the office. Goodwill won't know what hit 'em.
I have too many clothes. This simply stated fact was driven home to me at Camp Singalot.
I had to pack light for the trip because I was riding in planes and other people's cars. Turning it into a design problem, my parameters were:
- Carry all my gear alone through airports without needing a cart
- Stuff same gear and myself into an already-loaded car
- Have enough clothes to get me through 10 days of camp and still be wearing clean clothes on the trip home
- Bring my own bed linens
- Bring a pillow too (if I had read the fine print I would have seen the camp provided pillows but I like having two pillows anyways)
- Laundry machines were available at the camp
The real epiphany started when I was choosing clothes. I said to myself, "Self, you don't want to do two loads of laundry when one will do." So no whites. Luckily I have a half-dozen pairs colored cotton socks, including a couple pair of rainbow tie-dyes for those special occasions. Tighty-whitey underwear is a thing of the long past for me, not that you necessarily need to know that. A spare pair of jeans and a few shirts later, and I had a single load of laundry that would clothe me for over a week with one washing. I even had room for some nice trousers for the concert on the last day (which could be laundered with all the others if need be). No sorting, no hassle, almost no time needed to get it all laundered and taken care of.
What a contrast to life at home. I have a tall dresser and half a closet full of clothes, some of which I haven't worn in over a year, and many of which require special laundering. The other family members are also over-wardrobed to varying degrees, tho I shan't name names. Among the 4 of us we can easily go two weeks without doing any laundry, at which point we will suddenly realize we have 12 loads of laundry to do. Just gathering it and sorting it, just getting started, can take over an hour, let alone the time to clean, dry, and fold each carefully sorted load.
When my current batch of white socks wear out they are so not getting replaced. Every piece of clothing I acquire will be carefully considered in terms of, "How much of the rest of my life will I spend caring for this thing?" I'm paring down the clothes I already have in the same light. The dishes are next. After that the tool shed or the office. Goodwill won't know what hit 'em.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Memories of Singalot: Can't Keep Joseph out of the Kitchen
Joseph, Val
Originally uploaded by nitchwick
That's me and my new pal Val whipping up some Stroganoff in the kitchen. Did I mention the food totally rocked? We did all our own cooking, and Val was the food buyer and overall organizer of the camp.
Memories of Singalot: The view from my window (almost)
Friday, September 14, 2007
Haunted by an Onion
We went to the county fair last night. Karl took blue ribbons for both his entries: a Lego spaceship, and a ceramic butter dish he made at art camp this summer. I ate too much of a "Bloomun Onion", a grease-delivery mechanism whereby they slice a whole Walla Walla onion crossways almost to the root end making it blossom out like a chrysanthemum, dip it in batter, and deep fry it whole.
It tasted great last night but I'm still tasting it now and it's dreadful.
It tasted great last night but I'm still tasting it now and it's dreadful.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Wrapping it up
Hoo Boy.
Sorry for the radio silence there. The time got too short and the wireless service got too cranky. I mighta coulda hooked up at SeaTac Airport but $7.95 for an hour online seemed a little steep. Oh sure, I could have left the laptop running down by gate D10 at SeaTac and gotten my full 24 hours of connectivity but that seemed impractical, since I wasn't planning on coming back.
Camp just accelerated once Thursday came along. The Supra (Georgian Feast) Thursday night was a profoundly moving event. It was also a profoundly hangover inducing event. If you're ever invited to one, bring your hankies and your Tylenol.
Friday's afternoon frolics were a gas. The little lake we went to, Hidden Lake up above Cougar Reservoir, was a picture of serenity and majesty. It's surrounded by a preserved margin of old growth. Aficionados of the lake maintain a couple of rafts, comprising large blown-down logs and some cabling and sheets of plywood hauled in by hand. One large log, 3-4 feet in diameter and over 80 feet long, sticks straight out into the lake serving as a dock and basking site. The rafts are powered by swim fin. Some folks swam around quite a bit, some basked, some frolicked out on the raft.
I did a bit of each. The basking was the best bit. 6 or 7 of us were lined up on the basking log like so many turtles, or maybe sea lions is a more apt simile. My head was inches above the lake, and I watched the reflections of the grand old trees rippling in the water's surface. For variety I would move my eyes a few degrees and watch the sunlight reflecting off the ripples on the wild rhododendrons at the water's edge. Dragonflies the size of your fist would occasionally come by and, rumbling like army helicopters, hover in my face and check me out before concluding I was just a naked primate and not a food source.
I can't tell you how to get there. I spent much of the time on the way up listening to an Ipod recording of my solo for the Gushin Shvidni piece. Georgian music, windy roads, and a hangover. I did have to come up for air after a while.
After the lake we stumbled/crawled/clambered/bushwhacked back to the cars and caravaned to Terwiliger hot springs, just above Cougar Dam. Nice little place, maintained by the Forest Service so there's a $5 use fee. Worth it I think, keeps the partiers and stoners from trashing the place too badly. The little signs saying "Clothing Optional" depict a man's outfit standing around with nobody inside 'em.
The hot water at Terwiliger issues from a small cave midway down a ravine filled with rain-foresty lushness. The ravine has a cascading series of man-made pools, each a little cooler than the one above. Pick your temperature, and if you're the type go over to the stream that's been more or less diverted around the pools and douse yourself with some cold water. That'll let you know you're alive. By report the water has a little sulphur and a whole lot of lithium. Settles you right down, that water does.
Saturday was crazy busy, with cleaning up the facility, packing to leave, and getting our musical pieces into shape for performance all vying for our limited time. We had a (long exhausting) dress rehearsal that night, then performed 5 or 6 pieces after services at St. Benedict's Chapel Sunday morning. I only got about 4 hours of sleep Saturday night, on account of being up listening still more to Gushin Shvidni and then waking up early unable to sleep and deciding to spend the time packing and tidying my room.
Our first and last full performance was at the Mennonite church in Eugene. We had about 24 pieces, equal parts shapenote, gospel, South African, Balkan, Georgian, and Corsican. We totally, totally rocked.
Goodbye, goodbye, sniff, hug, stay in touch, goodbye, hug again, goodbye, dammit I was so not going to cry, 1st plane from Eugene to Seattle, sing Georgian music soto voce to the drone of the turboprop, bad fish and chips for dinner, 737 to Spokane, drive, drive, I'm still awake, drive, 2:30 I'm home, kiss me sweet Karla before I pass out, I miss my friends but it's wonderful to be home, thud.
Sorry for the radio silence there. The time got too short and the wireless service got too cranky. I mighta coulda hooked up at SeaTac Airport but $7.95 for an hour online seemed a little steep. Oh sure, I could have left the laptop running down by gate D10 at SeaTac and gotten my full 24 hours of connectivity but that seemed impractical, since I wasn't planning on coming back.
Camp just accelerated once Thursday came along. The Supra (Georgian Feast) Thursday night was a profoundly moving event. It was also a profoundly hangover inducing event. If you're ever invited to one, bring your hankies and your Tylenol.
Friday's afternoon frolics were a gas. The little lake we went to, Hidden Lake up above Cougar Reservoir, was a picture of serenity and majesty. It's surrounded by a preserved margin of old growth. Aficionados of the lake maintain a couple of rafts, comprising large blown-down logs and some cabling and sheets of plywood hauled in by hand. One large log, 3-4 feet in diameter and over 80 feet long, sticks straight out into the lake serving as a dock and basking site. The rafts are powered by swim fin. Some folks swam around quite a bit, some basked, some frolicked out on the raft.
I did a bit of each. The basking was the best bit. 6 or 7 of us were lined up on the basking log like so many turtles, or maybe sea lions is a more apt simile. My head was inches above the lake, and I watched the reflections of the grand old trees rippling in the water's surface. For variety I would move my eyes a few degrees and watch the sunlight reflecting off the ripples on the wild rhododendrons at the water's edge. Dragonflies the size of your fist would occasionally come by and, rumbling like army helicopters, hover in my face and check me out before concluding I was just a naked primate and not a food source.
I can't tell you how to get there. I spent much of the time on the way up listening to an Ipod recording of my solo for the Gushin Shvidni piece. Georgian music, windy roads, and a hangover. I did have to come up for air after a while.
After the lake we stumbled/crawled/clambered/bushwhacked back to the cars and caravaned to Terwiliger hot springs, just above Cougar Dam. Nice little place, maintained by the Forest Service so there's a $5 use fee. Worth it I think, keeps the partiers and stoners from trashing the place too badly. The little signs saying "Clothing Optional" depict a man's outfit standing around with nobody inside 'em.
The hot water at Terwiliger issues from a small cave midway down a ravine filled with rain-foresty lushness. The ravine has a cascading series of man-made pools, each a little cooler than the one above. Pick your temperature, and if you're the type go over to the stream that's been more or less diverted around the pools and douse yourself with some cold water. That'll let you know you're alive. By report the water has a little sulphur and a whole lot of lithium. Settles you right down, that water does.
Saturday was crazy busy, with cleaning up the facility, packing to leave, and getting our musical pieces into shape for performance all vying for our limited time. We had a (long exhausting) dress rehearsal that night, then performed 5 or 6 pieces after services at St. Benedict's Chapel Sunday morning. I only got about 4 hours of sleep Saturday night, on account of being up listening still more to Gushin Shvidni and then waking up early unable to sleep and deciding to spend the time packing and tidying my room.
Our first and last full performance was at the Mennonite church in Eugene. We had about 24 pieces, equal parts shapenote, gospel, South African, Balkan, Georgian, and Corsican. We totally, totally rocked.
Goodbye, goodbye, sniff, hug, stay in touch, goodbye, hug again, goodbye, dammit I was so not going to cry, 1st plane from Eugene to Seattle, sing Georgian music soto voce to the drone of the turboprop, bad fish and chips for dinner, 737 to Spokane, drive, drive, I'm still awake, drive, 2:30 I'm home, kiss me sweet Karla before I pass out, I miss my friends but it's wonderful to be home, thud.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
My Brain is REALLY Full
We're to hump day here at Camp Singalot. We counted up and we've done 26 new songs since Friday night. We might do one or two more this morning but that's it. And a good thing too. If tried to absorb any more music I think I'd blow up. Today we start fine-tuning (hah!) and preparing for performances Saturday night and Sunday afternoon.
However, it's not *all* music, just mostly music. Thursday night we will have a big Georgian Feast, a Supra. A long single table is set for everyone, and food is literally piled everywhere on the table on little plates. Everyone has a small plate to eat from and a glass of wine or grape juice. The grape is practically sacred in Georgia, and they have a not implausible claim to being the original home of the vine and therefore of wine.
The event lasts for hours and the master of ceremonies makes toasts to various subjects - Love, homeland, friends - all the important things of life. You only get to drink from your glass once for each toast. The rest of the time you're nibbling, talkig, singing, and responding to the last toast however your heart guides you. Politics is forbidden, because sincerity and truthfulness are mandatory. It'll be interesting to see what happens.
Friday we're skipping afternoon rehearsal and going out to play. There's a secluded lake and hotsprings somewhere nearby. I didn't think to bring a swimsuit but no one else seems to have either. hmmm..... I'm not skinny any more so can I still call it skinny-dipping?
However, it's not *all* music, just mostly music. Thursday night we will have a big Georgian Feast, a Supra. A long single table is set for everyone, and food is literally piled everywhere on the table on little plates. Everyone has a small plate to eat from and a glass of wine or grape juice. The grape is practically sacred in Georgia, and they have a not implausible claim to being the original home of the vine and therefore of wine.
The event lasts for hours and the master of ceremonies makes toasts to various subjects - Love, homeland, friends - all the important things of life. You only get to drink from your glass once for each toast. The rest of the time you're nibbling, talkig, singing, and responding to the last toast however your heart guides you. Politics is forbidden, because sincerity and truthfulness are mandatory. It'll be interesting to see what happens.
Friday we're skipping afternoon rehearsal and going out to play. There's a secluded lake and hotsprings somewhere nearby. I didn't think to bring a swimsuit but no one else seems to have either. hmmm..... I'm not skinny any more so can I still call it skinny-dipping?
Monday, September 3, 2007
Radical Singers
Boy, these people at camp sure are political. In a leftward-leaning way I entirely approve of, mind you, but still.
My favorite activist here at camp has been Sister John, but she’s not a camp participant. On Saturday a couple of campers were admiring postcards in the country store down the road. They looked at the back of the cards and saw the pictures were taken by a Sister John. “Sister John??” the said out load. An older woman nearby piped up, “That’s me!” She came to dinner with us and was a delightful guest.
She’s a nun who has lived in McKenzie Bridge for over a decade now. She’s 84 but doesn’t seem to be slowing down much. If you’re picturing Mother Theresa forget it. Sister John doesn’t wear the habit. When I met her she wore jeans and a t-shirt and is downright burly. In her everyday work she cares for neighbors, friends, recovering addicts and down-and-outers. In addition, she is one of the original protesters at the annual demonstration at School of the Americas, where the U.S. military and CIA train spooks and guerrillas for South American governments. Now the event draws thousands of people each year, but she was one of the first and she still goes every year. She has a never-ever-set-foot-here again letter, stemming from her trespass charges at an early protest, posted highest on her wall of honors. I doubt I’ll follow in those precise footsteps but I surely hope to be as active and vital in my life’s work and my community when I’m 84 myself.
Tonight we had a little song circle in the chapel. The seating was non traditional because usually song circles are in, well, a circle, and naturally enough all the pews were facing the front. But the acoustics were great so no complaints. We have quite a bit of solo talent here and people had a chance to show off a bit. A bunch of people hailing from the Seattle Labor Chorus (including Jim and Martha who gave me a ride) taught us the, and there were several other labor and mining songs in honor of Labor Day. I was joined by a couple of lads from Derby England in a rendition of Blackleg Miner. If you’ve never heard it, it’s a somewhat gruesome description of the fate of strikebreakers… It was very well received despite being a bit rough around the edges. We had all of 10 minutes to prepare it but we pulled it off.
A shout-out to Janice who arranged the parts – the two Derby lads sang the tune while I sang the bass line, and we left the upper harmony out completely. I heard several compliments on the arrangement!
I also did a solo rendition of John Barleycorn, and was well received there too. That brings up one of my favorite parts of this camp. Everyone is shouting out praise and applauding other people’s efforts all the time. The talent isn’t uniform by any means, but we’re all working hard and working together. No one’s afraid to say when something isn’t right, but they sure are enthusiastic when it is.
Beauty and truth surround us all here. That’s how life should be. Oh, and about Sister John’s name. She chose it because of her fondness for the Gospel of John, most particularly where Jesus says, “You shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”
Amen.
My favorite activist here at camp has been Sister John, but she’s not a camp participant. On Saturday a couple of campers were admiring postcards in the country store down the road. They looked at the back of the cards and saw the pictures were taken by a Sister John. “Sister John??” the said out load. An older woman nearby piped up, “That’s me!” She came to dinner with us and was a delightful guest.
She’s a nun who has lived in McKenzie Bridge for over a decade now. She’s 84 but doesn’t seem to be slowing down much. If you’re picturing Mother Theresa forget it. Sister John doesn’t wear the habit. When I met her she wore jeans and a t-shirt and is downright burly. In her everyday work she cares for neighbors, friends, recovering addicts and down-and-outers. In addition, she is one of the original protesters at the annual demonstration at School of the Americas, where the U.S. military and CIA train spooks and guerrillas for South American governments. Now the event draws thousands of people each year, but she was one of the first and she still goes every year. She has a never-ever-set-foot-here again letter, stemming from her trespass charges at an early protest, posted highest on her wall of honors. I doubt I’ll follow in those precise footsteps but I surely hope to be as active and vital in my life’s work and my community when I’m 84 myself.
Tonight we had a little song circle in the chapel. The seating was non traditional because usually song circles are in, well, a circle, and naturally enough all the pews were facing the front. But the acoustics were great so no complaints. We have quite a bit of solo talent here and people had a chance to show off a bit. A bunch of people hailing from the Seattle Labor Chorus (including Jim and Martha who gave me a ride) taught us the, and there were several other labor and mining songs in honor of Labor Day. I was joined by a couple of lads from Derby England in a rendition of Blackleg Miner. If you’ve never heard it, it’s a somewhat gruesome description of the fate of strikebreakers… It was very well received despite being a bit rough around the edges. We had all of 10 minutes to prepare it but we pulled it off.
A shout-out to Janice who arranged the parts – the two Derby lads sang the tune while I sang the bass line, and we left the upper harmony out completely. I heard several compliments on the arrangement!
I also did a solo rendition of John Barleycorn, and was well received there too. That brings up one of my favorite parts of this camp. Everyone is shouting out praise and applauding other people’s efforts all the time. The talent isn’t uniform by any means, but we’re all working hard and working together. No one’s afraid to say when something isn’t right, but they sure are enthusiastic when it is.
Beauty and truth surround us all here. That’s how life should be. Oh, and about Sister John’s name. She chose it because of her fondness for the Gospel of John, most particularly where Jesus says, “You shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”
Amen.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
The Tragedy and Triumph of Corsican Music
There are so many highlights each day it’s very hard to pick one and keep my entries short enough not to bore you, Constant Reader, out of your mind.
In one of today’s sessions we worked on pieces from the Corsican tradition. There’s a history behind them which is touching and sad, but with a proud and hopeful ending. I’m telling the story as it was told to me… I’ll check sources later and see if I messed anything up badly.
So, do you know where Corsica is? I’ll give you a second before I give away the answer…
Ready? It’s an island in the western Mediterranean, south of France and west of Italy. It’s very mountainous, with relatively small coastal areas. Think of a little chunk of the Balkan Mountains dropped into the sea and you won’t be far off. They were part of the Roman Empire, and Corsican is still very close to Italian linguistically.
Since the collapse of the Roman Empire, Corsica has been vied over by the nearby countries and city-states: Genoa, Pisa, France, etc. This was mainly for strategic naval reasons. The best potential agricultural land was also plagued by malaria until the 20th century. It’s not like anyone could build big cities or produce much for trade. They wanted the island for where it was, not what it was, and the Corsicans just lived there and loved it like anyone loves their home. They did live fairly prosperously in the interior, thanks to huge chestnut forests that provided practically everything they needed, but that’s another story.
So despite their island setting, the Corsicans don’t think of themselves as seafarers. Instead they are mountain people. Because of the remoteness of the villages they didn’t have regular priests. They had their main church where the traveling priest might hold services, but attached would be a chapel where lay services were held. A family of the village would hold the hereditary responsibility of singing the masses for the community, and each village had its own musical mass, handed down generation after generation among the men of the family. 3-part arrangements were the rule, with complex systems of ornamentation, all learned by rote. And it was men’s music. Women had very few situations where they could publicly sing either sacred or secular music.
Three things nearly destroyed the music. The first factor was indirect, when France finally beat out their Italian rivals and took Corsica for keeps. It’s still French territory, though I get the impression French isn’t highly regarded there even though it’s the official language. The second factor was the two world wars. Corsica wasn’t particularly important as a battleground. I honestly don’t know if there was any fighting there at all. But besides singing the masses (and folk songs), the men of Corsica had another tradition. There aren’t many high paying jobs in Corsica, but you can always get a job fighting in someone else’s army and send the money home… So even though Corsica may not have been directly involved, the losses of men fighting for someone else in two succeeding generations formed a huge gap in the tradition. The final nail in the coffin was, oddly enough, Vatican 2. When the order came down to perform masses in the vernacular, the Corsican churches had to convert their masses to the official language, French.
The story could have ended there but thankfully didn’t. The worldwide folk revival begun in the 50’s and 60’s finally caught up to Corsica in the 70’s. At that time only 2 complete masses out of dozens were still extant. The rest were in fragments or were simply lost. But a handful of dedicated people recorded and revived what was there, and some even took on the task of reconstructing missing pieces from the partial masses. Sometimes they would only have one or two of three parts, and would painstakingly reconstruct the remaining part(s) from known principles. Then they would take it back to the surviving little old ladies of the village and say, “Does this sound right?” Sometimes the ladies would say, “hmm, I think this section went more like this,” and sometimes they would simply weep as they heard songs they hadn’t heard in 60 years and thought no one would hear again. Now the tradition is back on its feet, and there are new compositions and singing competitions and great pride amongst the Corsicans. Along the same time Corsican patriots fought for and won the right to use their languange have it taught and used in the schools.
So, today at Camp Singalot we started work on two Corsican songs. One was an Agnus Dei from, oh heck I don’t know which village’s mass and my music is downstairs and it’s late. This ain’t your artsy-fartsy middle-ages holy music here. It’s bold, vibrant, and very direct. At its best the three parts are working together very collaboratively. The middle part (Secunda) has the lead, and will stretch and push the notes, adding ornamentation and creating a great deal of energy and tension at times. The basses (Bass, actually) follow with their line, not with them but letting the Secunda have the note or syllable for just a moment before starting to build the next chord. The high voice (Terza) follows last, rounding out the chord, which lasts for a moment before the Secunda lead on again. The resulting sound is like a cataract of water, with occasional pools of clear brilliance as the choir settles on a bright chord, then the Secunda plunges into the next cascade of notes. The 3 parts are usually a large group of bass voices, plus two solo leads, middle and high. We’re splitting all the women between the two high parts, not traditional but what the hey we’re only here for a week and everyone wants to sing, that’s why were here eh? I’m just growling out the low bits with the other guys on that one, but keeping half an ear out for the leads in case I might want to bring the piece home to share. Ditto for the other song, which is not part of a mass but a folk song. It’s based on a little rhyme about a boy who sees a girl he likes, praying like the nuns in church... and he complains that seeing her like that makes him say things offensive to God. (He seems to have a personal stake in her not entering holy orders.)
That’s all for tonight. If anyone’s reading this let me know. Not that I’ll stop writing or anything if you aren’t.
In one of today’s sessions we worked on pieces from the Corsican tradition. There’s a history behind them which is touching and sad, but with a proud and hopeful ending. I’m telling the story as it was told to me… I’ll check sources later and see if I messed anything up badly.
So, do you know where Corsica is? I’ll give you a second before I give away the answer…
Ready? It’s an island in the western Mediterranean, south of France and west of Italy. It’s very mountainous, with relatively small coastal areas. Think of a little chunk of the Balkan Mountains dropped into the sea and you won’t be far off. They were part of the Roman Empire, and Corsican is still very close to Italian linguistically.
Since the collapse of the Roman Empire, Corsica has been vied over by the nearby countries and city-states: Genoa, Pisa, France, etc. This was mainly for strategic naval reasons. The best potential agricultural land was also plagued by malaria until the 20th century. It’s not like anyone could build big cities or produce much for trade. They wanted the island for where it was, not what it was, and the Corsicans just lived there and loved it like anyone loves their home. They did live fairly prosperously in the interior, thanks to huge chestnut forests that provided practically everything they needed, but that’s another story.
So despite their island setting, the Corsicans don’t think of themselves as seafarers. Instead they are mountain people. Because of the remoteness of the villages they didn’t have regular priests. They had their main church where the traveling priest might hold services, but attached would be a chapel where lay services were held. A family of the village would hold the hereditary responsibility of singing the masses for the community, and each village had its own musical mass, handed down generation after generation among the men of the family. 3-part arrangements were the rule, with complex systems of ornamentation, all learned by rote. And it was men’s music. Women had very few situations where they could publicly sing either sacred or secular music.
Three things nearly destroyed the music. The first factor was indirect, when France finally beat out their Italian rivals and took Corsica for keeps. It’s still French territory, though I get the impression French isn’t highly regarded there even though it’s the official language. The second factor was the two world wars. Corsica wasn’t particularly important as a battleground. I honestly don’t know if there was any fighting there at all. But besides singing the masses (and folk songs), the men of Corsica had another tradition. There aren’t many high paying jobs in Corsica, but you can always get a job fighting in someone else’s army and send the money home… So even though Corsica may not have been directly involved, the losses of men fighting for someone else in two succeeding generations formed a huge gap in the tradition. The final nail in the coffin was, oddly enough, Vatican 2. When the order came down to perform masses in the vernacular, the Corsican churches had to convert their masses to the official language, French.
The story could have ended there but thankfully didn’t. The worldwide folk revival begun in the 50’s and 60’s finally caught up to Corsica in the 70’s. At that time only 2 complete masses out of dozens were still extant. The rest were in fragments or were simply lost. But a handful of dedicated people recorded and revived what was there, and some even took on the task of reconstructing missing pieces from the partial masses. Sometimes they would only have one or two of three parts, and would painstakingly reconstruct the remaining part(s) from known principles. Then they would take it back to the surviving little old ladies of the village and say, “Does this sound right?” Sometimes the ladies would say, “hmm, I think this section went more like this,” and sometimes they would simply weep as they heard songs they hadn’t heard in 60 years and thought no one would hear again. Now the tradition is back on its feet, and there are new compositions and singing competitions and great pride amongst the Corsicans. Along the same time Corsican patriots fought for and won the right to use their languange have it taught and used in the schools.
So, today at Camp Singalot we started work on two Corsican songs. One was an Agnus Dei from, oh heck I don’t know which village’s mass and my music is downstairs and it’s late. This ain’t your artsy-fartsy middle-ages holy music here. It’s bold, vibrant, and very direct. At its best the three parts are working together very collaboratively. The middle part (Secunda) has the lead, and will stretch and push the notes, adding ornamentation and creating a great deal of energy and tension at times. The basses (Bass, actually) follow with their line, not with them but letting the Secunda have the note or syllable for just a moment before starting to build the next chord. The high voice (Terza) follows last, rounding out the chord, which lasts for a moment before the Secunda lead on again. The resulting sound is like a cataract of water, with occasional pools of clear brilliance as the choir settles on a bright chord, then the Secunda plunges into the next cascade of notes. The 3 parts are usually a large group of bass voices, plus two solo leads, middle and high. We’re splitting all the women between the two high parts, not traditional but what the hey we’re only here for a week and everyone wants to sing, that’s why were here eh? I’m just growling out the low bits with the other guys on that one, but keeping half an ear out for the leads in case I might want to bring the piece home to share. Ditto for the other song, which is not part of a mass but a folk song. It’s based on a little rhyme about a boy who sees a girl he likes, praying like the nuns in church... and he complains that seeing her like that makes him say things offensive to God. (He seems to have a personal stake in her not entering holy orders.)
That’s all for tonight. If anyone’s reading this let me know. Not that I’ll stop writing or anything if you aren’t.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
My Brain is Full
We learned another Zulu song tonight, Nkosi mdali wethu, a 4-part church chorus. I could imagine it being used at the close of services, like Dona Nobis Pacem or Go Now in Peace at the end of services at MUWOAUU[1] Church. But this is in a rollicking call-and-response mode. The sopranos take the first lead, twice through, then the tune morphs and the basses belt out a big lead. It can go on as long as you want.
Like about half the music (and we’ve done a lot more than I’ve listed yet), this one was learned by rote. The melodic sequences of the lines are different and sound, well, African. Plus there are sounds that don’t exist in English, including various tongue clicks (we’ve learned 3 different types). It was the last song of the evening, and my brain was hurting.
Other songs we covered today:
- Almost Home, by Ralph Stanley. You’ll know him as the fellow who sang “Oh Death” in the “Oh Brother Where Art Thou” soundtrack. Patty has “lightly arranged” it for four voices. The altos get the lead this time, and there is a call-and-response chorus. Kinda loosy-goosy in a improvisational style, hard to write down so the written notes are just an approximation.
- Roll, Jerden (not a typo). A Fairfield Four piece, a little barber-shoppy.
- Bohang seema. A North Sotho church hymn. This is a great song. We start with a protestant hymn translated into Sotho, very familiar-sounding and churchy to western ears. It morphs into a call-and-response African hymn, and then further into a chant-like chorus. The arrangement illustrates the assimilation of European christian hymns into South African regional vernacular traditions.
- Cabin Hill, by Don Jamison. Don is a contemporary composer continuing the New England shapenote tradition but not ignoring modern compositional influences. Ira from Seattle put it succinctly, “The individual chords are ordinary but the whole piece is really powerful.” This one is definitely a keeper. I think it needs a certain mass of voices, so I could imagine the Mormontarians doing it.
- Providence, a 4-part shapenote by the venerable Isaac Watts.
Is that it? I think so. Good night.
[1] Mildly Uncomfortable With Our Affluence Unitarian Universalist
Like about half the music (and we’ve done a lot more than I’ve listed yet), this one was learned by rote. The melodic sequences of the lines are different and sound, well, African. Plus there are sounds that don’t exist in English, including various tongue clicks (we’ve learned 3 different types). It was the last song of the evening, and my brain was hurting.
Other songs we covered today:
- Almost Home, by Ralph Stanley. You’ll know him as the fellow who sang “Oh Death” in the “Oh Brother Where Art Thou” soundtrack. Patty has “lightly arranged” it for four voices. The altos get the lead this time, and there is a call-and-response chorus. Kinda loosy-goosy in a improvisational style, hard to write down so the written notes are just an approximation.
- Roll, Jerden (not a typo). A Fairfield Four piece, a little barber-shoppy.
- Bohang seema. A North Sotho church hymn. This is a great song. We start with a protestant hymn translated into Sotho, very familiar-sounding and churchy to western ears. It morphs into a call-and-response African hymn, and then further into a chant-like chorus. The arrangement illustrates the assimilation of European christian hymns into South African regional vernacular traditions.
- Cabin Hill, by Don Jamison. Don is a contemporary composer continuing the New England shapenote tradition but not ignoring modern compositional influences. Ira from Seattle put it succinctly, “The individual chords are ordinary but the whole piece is really powerful.” This one is definitely a keeper. I think it needs a certain mass of voices, so I could imagine the Mormontarians doing it.
- Providence, a 4-part shapenote by the venerable Isaac Watts.
Is that it? I think so. Good night.
[1] Mildly Uncomfortable With Our Affluence Unitarian Universalist
Pretty Trees
What a beautiful setting. I'm sitting out behind the dining hall with my laptop, because it's the only place in reach of the wireless hub in Father Tom's house (short of camping out in his living room). There's a 100-foot Douglass fir above me, and I can hear the McKenzie river rushing over rocks just beyond the rhododendron bushes.
The main buildings are three long A-frame style lodges, with bedrooms above and common areas below. They are set in a U-shape with simple lawn in the middle. The bedrooms are literally monastic cells. The facility was originally built as a summer retreat for brothers of the Western Dominican province. Simple but comfortable is the rule.
We just got done with our second singing session of the day. The first song we tackled this afternoon was a medley of 3-part shape-note tunes, which I will bring back to my friends Mac and Janice to sing in our trio. Then we spent over an hour on a Georgian folk song about 7 brothers who went out hunting. Each brother took seven shots at the big white stag and missed. Old grandpa took it down in one shot. I and 3 others will get a solo, while all the other people drone the choruses in between. Polyphonic singing is very ancient in Georgia. The ancient Greek historians wrote about Georgian soldiers singing in harmony as they marched into battle.
I've got an hour until dinner. Time for a nap.
The main buildings are three long A-frame style lodges, with bedrooms above and common areas below. They are set in a U-shape with simple lawn in the middle. The bedrooms are literally monastic cells. The facility was originally built as a summer retreat for brothers of the Western Dominican province. Simple but comfortable is the rule.
We just got done with our second singing session of the day. The first song we tackled this afternoon was a medley of 3-part shape-note tunes, which I will bring back to my friends Mac and Janice to sing in our trio. Then we spent over an hour on a Georgian folk song about 7 brothers who went out hunting. Each brother took seven shots at the big white stag and missed. Old grandpa took it down in one shot. I and 3 others will get a solo, while all the other people drone the choruses in between. Polyphonic singing is very ancient in Georgia. The ancient Greek historians wrote about Georgian soldiers singing in harmony as they marched into battle.
I've got an hour until dinner. Time for a nap.
Joseph’s Excellent Musical Adventure
Village Harmony Camp Journal
August 31, 2007
Well, I suppose I could have got here a bit sooner but I paid for an easier journey home with a harder journey here.
Let me back up.
I’m at the fall 2007 Village Harmony singing retreat. That’s the event anyways. Venue-wise I’m at St. Benedict’s Lodge, a Dominican retreat center on the McKenzie River in the mountains of western Oregon. The key fact is I’m going to be singing my heart out for the next 10 days with 40-odd like-minded musical fools. We’ll be singing, and doing int’l folk dancing, maybe a little contra dancing, hiking and gallivanting and drinking wine and singing some more for the next 9 days, culminating in a concert or two in Sisters and Eugene next weekend.
Back to the journey here. The drive here from Moscow would have been manageable, I suppose. Had I left and driven straight here, let’s see… from Moscow to McKenzie Bridge is probably about 8-10 hours. But our final concert on Sunday 9th in Eugene ends at 5:00 pm and I wouldn’t relish the drive home that late.
It sounds like a script for a John Candy movie, but instead of driving the whole way here all on my lonesome I opted to contact other participants and hitch a ride. So this morning I drove to Spokane Airport, hopped a Horizon shuttle from there to SeaTac, and was picked up by Martha and Jim who were also heading to the camp. 9 hours[1] later we arrived. Check-in was officially from 4-6 but oh well, they saved dinner for us and no singing happened until we arrived (not that they were waiting for us). The payoff will be next Sunday evening when I go to Eugene Airport, 10 miles from our concert venue, and catch a flight back to Spokane via Seattle. I probably won’t get home much sooner but I’ll only have to drive the last 2 hours instead of all 9+ hours.
My ride was with Martha and Jim of Seattle. Martha works as director of interpretive services for King County courthouse in Seattle. I would guess her to be 50ish. Her job sound fascinating. Since she started the job (really creating the whole service from the ground up) in 1992 they’ve interpreted 121 languages for people involved in the court systems of King County. For avocation she’s a singer though. She’s active in two choirs, the Seattle Labor Chorus and the Police Chorus. Oh, and she’s involved in the Seattle Peace Chorus as well, though maybe I’m confusing that with the Labor Chorus. At any rate she’s very concerned with peach and social justice and expresses that through music. The Peace Chorus has toured several countries that are for one reason or other at odds with the US in an effort to counter the bad feelings between the countries. They’ve been to Cuba twice(!).
Jim is a bit of an enigma. He is a late bloomer as a singer, having taken a “Singing for shy people” class 8 or 10 years ago, and is now in the Seattle Symphony chorus and does other singing as well. For avocation he’s an avid rower (sculling in singles, pairs, and quads). He’s also recently become a referee for rowing events. I suppose he has a job but he hasn’t said anything about it.
I had a good time visiting with Jim and Martha, but was pretty zoned out for much of the way on account of only 3 hours of sleep last night. I put in 14 hours at work Thursday (and into the wee hours Friday morning) getting all my ducks in a row at the food co-op. Hopefully there won’t be any panics while I’m gone.
Musical highlights:
Tonight we started working on two pieces. The first was a Zulu folk song:
Indongo se Jeriko
Iwe, indonga se Jeriko, sadiliga!
Iyo, sadiliga!
Siwe, se’ndonga, se Jeriko, sadiliga!
The walls of Jericho are falling!
The piece is in 8/8 time, not 4/4 mind you but 8/8. The rhythm is ^vv^v^vv. Rich bold harmonies. The basses lead off with a rolling, happy foundation, and then the parts join in by turns. Then there’s a little improv and showing off for some of the parts (bass, 2nd alto and soprano). We tenors and first altos just have a groove that anchors it all. Patty Cuyler led that one.
The other piece was a New England shape-note piece from the early 1700’s, “Providence”, led by Larry. Slow and rich and sonorous, and very minor. It’s written in A minor but the G is sometimes sharped to give a leading tone. We tenors have to be especially on our toes, because we often have that middle note of the chord our G alternates almost every time between a natural and sharp.
Good lord, its 12:15. I’d better hang it up for the night. Breakfast at 8:00, dancing at 9:30, then singing at 10:30 for two hours. Lather, rinse, repeat, with 6 hours singing planned for the day. Have I died and gone to heaven?
[1] With stops for snacks and boxes of wine to share with our fellowlushes erm, singers.
August 31, 2007
Well, I suppose I could have got here a bit sooner but I paid for an easier journey home with a harder journey here.
Let me back up.
I’m at the fall 2007 Village Harmony singing retreat. That’s the event anyways. Venue-wise I’m at St. Benedict’s Lodge, a Dominican retreat center on the McKenzie River in the mountains of western Oregon. The key fact is I’m going to be singing my heart out for the next 10 days with 40-odd like-minded musical fools. We’ll be singing, and doing int’l folk dancing, maybe a little contra dancing, hiking and gallivanting and drinking wine and singing some more for the next 9 days, culminating in a concert or two in Sisters and Eugene next weekend.
Back to the journey here. The drive here from Moscow would have been manageable, I suppose. Had I left and driven straight here, let’s see… from Moscow to McKenzie Bridge is probably about 8-10 hours. But our final concert on Sunday 9th in Eugene ends at 5:00 pm and I wouldn’t relish the drive home that late.
It sounds like a script for a John Candy movie, but instead of driving the whole way here all on my lonesome I opted to contact other participants and hitch a ride. So this morning I drove to Spokane Airport, hopped a Horizon shuttle from there to SeaTac, and was picked up by Martha and Jim who were also heading to the camp. 9 hours[1] later we arrived. Check-in was officially from 4-6 but oh well, they saved dinner for us and no singing happened until we arrived (not that they were waiting for us). The payoff will be next Sunday evening when I go to Eugene Airport, 10 miles from our concert venue, and catch a flight back to Spokane via Seattle. I probably won’t get home much sooner but I’ll only have to drive the last 2 hours instead of all 9+ hours.
My ride was with Martha and Jim of Seattle. Martha works as director of interpretive services for King County courthouse in Seattle. I would guess her to be 50ish. Her job sound fascinating. Since she started the job (really creating the whole service from the ground up) in 1992 they’ve interpreted 121 languages for people involved in the court systems of King County. For avocation she’s a singer though. She’s active in two choirs, the Seattle Labor Chorus and the Police Chorus. Oh, and she’s involved in the Seattle Peace Chorus as well, though maybe I’m confusing that with the Labor Chorus. At any rate she’s very concerned with peach and social justice and expresses that through music. The Peace Chorus has toured several countries that are for one reason or other at odds with the US in an effort to counter the bad feelings between the countries. They’ve been to Cuba twice(!).
Jim is a bit of an enigma. He is a late bloomer as a singer, having taken a “Singing for shy people” class 8 or 10 years ago, and is now in the Seattle Symphony chorus and does other singing as well. For avocation he’s an avid rower (sculling in singles, pairs, and quads). He’s also recently become a referee for rowing events. I suppose he has a job but he hasn’t said anything about it.
I had a good time visiting with Jim and Martha, but was pretty zoned out for much of the way on account of only 3 hours of sleep last night. I put in 14 hours at work Thursday (and into the wee hours Friday morning) getting all my ducks in a row at the food co-op. Hopefully there won’t be any panics while I’m gone.
Musical highlights:
Tonight we started working on two pieces. The first was a Zulu folk song:
Indongo se Jeriko
Iwe, indonga se Jeriko, sadiliga!
Iyo, sadiliga!
Siwe, se’ndonga, se Jeriko, sadiliga!
The walls of Jericho are falling!
The piece is in 8/8 time, not 4/4 mind you but 8/8. The rhythm is ^vv^v^vv. Rich bold harmonies. The basses lead off with a rolling, happy foundation, and then the parts join in by turns. Then there’s a little improv and showing off for some of the parts (bass, 2nd alto and soprano). We tenors and first altos just have a groove that anchors it all. Patty Cuyler led that one.
The other piece was a New England shape-note piece from the early 1700’s, “Providence”, led by Larry. Slow and rich and sonorous, and very minor. It’s written in A minor but the G is sometimes sharped to give a leading tone. We tenors have to be especially on our toes, because we often have that middle note of the chord our G alternates almost every time between a natural and sharp.
Good lord, its 12:15. I’d better hang it up for the night. Breakfast at 8:00, dancing at 9:30, then singing at 10:30 for two hours. Lather, rinse, repeat, with 6 hours singing planned for the day. Have I died and gone to heaven?
[1] With stops for snacks and boxes of wine to share with our fellow
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)