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.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
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
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