An Engaging Topic

My husband and I were living it up in Vancouver, celebrating our wedding anniversary. We had spent the night at a guest house after indulging in a grand meal at the sort of restaurant people like us only go to once in a blue moon, and decided, for nostalgic reasons, to go for brunch at Sophie's Cosmic Cafe, a Vancouver institution, before heading home. Sophie's is chock-a-block with vintage chachkies and brightly coloured walls, and serves old-school breakfasts. V ordered an egg and sausage platter, and I ordered the French toast. We drank coffee (my half decaf Americano was actually kind of awful, but I didn't complain because the food was so good) and tucked into our meals. 

Like many restaurants, Sophie's had music playing at a good volume through the speakers. I noticed as we ate, that the playlist was vintage, like the restaurant and its contents (and some of its patrons). I hummed along to the tunes while V and I enjoyed our brunch experience, my mom's voice in my head saying "No singing at the table" silenced. A song came on that I had loved as a kid, "Don't Bring me Down" by ELO (Electric Light Orchestra). I had finished my breakfast and was sipping my bad coffee, alternating with ice water, and started singing along quietly. Suddenly, I heard a voice in the booth behind me, also singing along quietly. We both noticed each other singing at the same time and turned around to see to whom the other voice belonged. The chorus came up and we sang to each other, just a little louder,  

                    Don't bring me down

                    No, no, no, no, no

                    Ooh-ooh-hoo

                    I'll tell you once more before I get off the floor

                    Don't bring me down

People near us started staring. We didn't care. We sang the whole song together. Songs you knew when you were young tend to stay locked in your brain forever. I remembered most of the lyrics, even singing 'Don't bring me down BRUCE' instead of 'groos' as it's supposed to be, because I had never learnt the original version of the line. When the song was over we shook hands and introduced ourselves. Turns out the man I was singing with was celebrating his seventieth birthday, and sharing brunch with some good friends who had flown in for the occasion from Winnipeg. We all chatted for a bit in a jovial manner befitting a birthday celebration, and the man thanked me for singing with him - said I had made his day. He invited us to his birthday party (I'm not sure he really meant it), but we said we had to be going home.  

The experience I had at Sophie's brought to the fore some thoughts I have had lately, about how people these days engage (or don't) with the world. I grew up in a boisterous family in a small town where we knew almost everyone. Most of my siblings will still talk to anyone, anywhere. I am a bit more reserved than some of my family, but in the right moment and mood I can have great interpersonal exchanges with strangers. People often talk about how unfriendly Vancouverites are, but I have found that you often get what you give. My experience at Sophie's is a perfect example. Sure, I don't do impromptu karaoke in restaurants on a regular basis, but I tend to have friendly exchanges with people more often than not if I begin the exchange by being open and friendly towards them. I have to say, this happens more often with people who are my age or older. The pre-cellphone generations are much more used to greeting each other and initiating conversation. I find, even in my own mid-sized home city, that young people rarely make eye contact with me if I am walking down the street. It's like they are trained not to. When I do get a greeting or a smile I am pleasantly surprised. I do not want to harp on the younger generations. It's not their fault. They are a product of the society they grew up in. But, I do want to encourage them to engage more outside of their social bubble. As you get older life can often get decidedly lonelier. We are more isolated than ever before. If you don't believe me, Google the subject. There are a thousand articles proving my claim and warning of the dangers prolonged social isolation can wreak on one's mental health. 

There is a passage in a book I am reading by Ann Cleeves, the great mystery novelist, that reads: 

"When Jen got home, the kids were holed up in their rooms again. They answered when she shouted up at them, but they didn't come down. There was evidence that they'd scavenged for food. She thought that prison wouldn't be any sort of deterrent for this generation, as long as they were allowed cell phones and internet access in their cells." 

Makes you think, doesn't it? God, I hope it does.

I also have to work on reaching out more. After going through burnout a few years ago, I isolated myself to a great degree, just to get some rest. I had been an incredibly social person who tended to attract similar friends. When I think back to my 30's and 40's I was rarely alone. Now I am alone a lot of the time. I don't generally mind because I have learned to like my own company and a quieter life than before, but I know I need companionship so I make the effort to engage when I am out and about. I greet people, especially elderly people, I make small talk with sales people and servers, and I compliment young parents on their cute children if they'll let me. While I hope I am brightening their day, I am the one who benefits most. And, if I can 'make someone's day' like the man in Sophie's Cosmic Cafe, then I get an extra-big boost of serotonin. Engaging is good for me, and I will argue that it is good for you, too. 

https://youtu.be/z9nkzaOPP6g?si=K2URmgx1QohGifRE

                   

'Til next time, 

Rebecca

Moms: Grief and Gratitude

Last week was a tough week. Nothing outwardly calamitous happened to me, it was just a week of reminders and anniversaries of not so great things. 

My mom died on October 20, 2021. I had been thinking about her, and our relationship, as I do when something like her birthday or Mothers Day comes around. About ten years before she died I felt her pushing me away a bit. She didn't want to answer tough questions or talk about difficult subjects anymore. I resorted to simple, low stakes conversations about my kids, my work, her retirement activities, etc. in order to connect with her. When she developed full blown dementia, four years before she died, I couldn't help feeling ripped off. I still had so many questions to ask her, so many things I would have liked answered. Now, when I look back on my perception of her pushing me away, I recognize it, along with some other indicators, as the beginnings of the slow cloud of dementia starting to cover her thought processes. She simply lacked the capacity to 'go deep' with me any longer. 

I loved my mom. She was a good mom for the most part, and I miss her. I wish she had been tougher on me, and fought for me a little harder. I gave up on things too easily, was too flighty. Maybe she had her reasons, but I could have done with a bit more coaching. I took that into my own practice of motherhood, and perhaps I overdid it a little with my own kids. (Violin practice was almost the death of my son and me a few times.) I was a fairly typical GenX hippie kid,  left to my own devices and allowed to honour my whims for the most part. My family went through some really tough times during my upbringing, and I think I paid a bit of the price for that. My mom was a hard worker, an intellectual, a philosophical person and somewhat of a local celebrity. She was a lot to live up to, and thinking about her often leads me to facing stuff about myself and becoming conflicted. Still, we were close, and she was great in so many ways that I forgive her for any and all shortcomings she may have demonstrated in mothering me. On our last visit together, when she was able to walk downtown with me, I took her to a lovely craft store full of handmade, artistic creations. We walked around the store hand in hand, looking at pottery, jewelry, woodwork, ironwork, and fiber arts. She couldn't say much, but I could tell she was enjoying looking with me, and holding my hand. We held hands a lot on that visit, and I hold on to that memory when I am missing her most. 

There are other ways the week was a tough one, but I won't go into that now. When some personal hard things are in progress, we prefer to talk about them only once they are resolved.

Saturday night my husband and I had tickets to a band we have seen several times, The Paperboys. After a hard and emotional week, I was ready to let my hair down and have a good time. Our son had given us a gift certificate to the local Greek restaurant months before, so we decided to go all out and go out for supper as well. Mojitos go well with Greek food, I found out. After supper we quickly took the leftovers of our generous 'Greek Platter for Two' home and put them in the fridge. We drove to the hall where the concert was to take place and quickly found a table at the back. We were soon invited to sit with some friends who were seated closer to the stage, which would be less of a trek to and from the dance floor. After a couple of songs, my husband and I, and one of our good friends, got up to dance. The Paperboys' music is an enticing blend of Celtic-inspired Folk, Rock, Jazz, with Latin roots - very danceable. We only sat down for the ballads to catch our breath and quench our thirst. At one point, Tom Landa, the band's leader for all of their thirty years as a group, introduced his mother. He said she had been coming to their gigs and supporting them unequivocally for all of those thirty years. "If you want to know what support looks like, she is it," he said to an appreciative crowd. Tom's mom looked about eighty, but she danced all night. After the encore, because of course there was an encore, we were all cheering our hearts out. Tom's mom was right next to me. She caught me up in a surprise hug, and I was so honoured. I suppose she could see how much we were enjoying the band, and her son, and wanted to share the moment with us? I'm not sure, but it felt great. We chatted for a minute or so, and I thought how lucky she was to have a son like Tom, but also how lucky he was to have a mom like her. I remembered how my mom and I used to go dancing to my brother's band back in the late 1980's.

Motherhood is a journey, that's for sure. Most of us do our best and we still screw it up sometimes. We can also be hard on our moms, but, I think as we get older and have our own kids and our own trials as moms, we understand our own mothers just a little bit better. We may even feel a kind of solidarity with them. I heard it said in a movie once: "Even people who hate their mothers love their mothers". I certainly didn't hate mine, and I am eternally grateful for all the support she gave me over the years. 

Until next time, 

Rebecca

Will Elvis Leave the Building for Good?

When the current elderly generation expires, will Elvis Impersonators be out of a job? 

The above question occurred to a friendly acquaintance and me, pretty much at the same moment the other evening, at a 50th wedding anniversary party we attended with our respective husbands. 

I was so tired. I had been away working all week and driven home in the dark the night before - an hour plus of scanning the road for wildlife with exhausted eyes and a throbbing head. When I got home my husband reminded me about the party, which was on our schedules for the next evening. "Noooo!" or maybe some curse words escaped my mouth. I can't remember. Cancelling was not really an option for this particular event, though. I decided not to think about the party, brushed my teeth, and fell into bed, sleeping hard all night.

The next morning I woke up, still tired. I managed a half-hearted shuffle around the lake, had lunch and then, a nap. The party was back down in the valley, and was to go from 4:30 to 9:00 pm. At least it won't be a late night, I told myself. The theme for the party was the 1970's, in honour of the decade our hosts were married in, and also, we found out later, the decade in which they saw Elvis live in Las Vegas for ten bucks a ticket (and that included two drinks! said our host, enthusiastically).We had been invited to wear costumes. 

We arrived at the venue and changed into our costumes in the truck. I went for a 'Rhoda from Mary Tyler Moore' look, while my husband wore fake leather pants and a polyester satin shirt for a 'disco sleezeball' look. We had found our costumes at Value Village a couple of weeks prior. While we began to get into the spirit of the event I knew we both needed a drink. We opted for rum and cokes. We both needed the caffeine boost. 

The majority of the crowd were elderly peers of our hosts, but a small group of 50-somethings and assorted younger relatives rounded out the group. After drinks and mingling to the best of our ability (I admit to sitting down and posting photos on my phone after an hour of standing around making small talk), dinner was served. Our small table of four shared a bottle of wine and waited our turn at the buffet.

The evening's entertainment began after dinner. A local Elvis impersonator in a gold jacket entered the room and began his performance. While our table had misgivings about what to expect, none of us being Elvis fans, we soon had to admit our entertainer was a pro. He soon had the room singing along with the golden oldies, and a few couples, including the anniversary couple, got up to dance in the old way. 'Elvis' sang well and interspersed his Elvis material with some Neil Diamond. Roy Orbison, and Louis Armstrong, but it was his rendition of CCR's 'Proud Mary' that got us 50-something women on the dance floor. The alcohol and food had worked its magic and energized me briefly. A couple of spry older women were inspired to join us. The elderly folks unable to dance themselves, enjoyed watching us. We became part of the entertainment. 

After the cake, made to replicate the original two-tiered wedding cake, was served, my husband and I said our goodbyes. As we made our way through the crowd after stopping at the head table, an elderly woman grabbed my hand. "You all looked great!" she said, smiling widely. I covered her hand with both of mine, holding them for a moment, and said thank you. It made me glad to know she'd enjoyed herself so much.

The party, although I had approached it that night with a 'grin and bear it' kind of attitude, ended up being fun. I observed and appreciated how the Elvis impersonator had figured out his evolving audience needed more than the dated Elvis material (sorry, fans) to be entertained. In fact, he didn't really sound much like the original Elvis to me, just did his hair like him, danced a bit like him, and drove a pink 1970's Cadillac. He told us he was going to be performing at a big classic car show the next day. 

I also concluded I am very much in favour of parties starting early and ending at 9 pm, especially when the drive home is over an hour on a dark, curvy mountain highway. 

On the Van Fleet Bandwagon

I have been having a bit of a laugh at myself lately. Here I am, nearly fifty years old and I am regularly rocking out to a band of four kids in their early twenties. By rocking out I mean downloading their music on Spotify and listening to it when I go for evening or afternoon walks, playing it on the TV through Chrome casting from my phone while I cook supper, hoping I am not bothering the neighbours. While they are not the only music I am listening to these days, I am fascinated with my fascination with this new band. I've been watching interviews online with them, reading reviews about them, both the favourable and the unfavourable, which I probably should do less of since other people's negative opinions about things usually worm their way into my heart and threaten to taint my opinion of something I was previously enjoying without reservation. The band in question rarely reads the press about themselves. They say doing so will affect their artistic process, so they purposely avoid reading the widely varying opinions about their music. I applaud that approach, especially for this young band which is attracting a huge fan base from all over the world, and have been touted as both 'the saviours of rock' and 'derivative and boring'. In just two years Greta Van Fleet has gone from playing for bikers in the bars and basement venues of their small hometown of Frankenmuth, Michigan to arenas and sold out shows at festivals like Coachella and Lolapalooza. They have two EP's, one album, and a Grammy under their belt.

I have read that a lot of people my age are into Greta Van Fleet because they write the kind of pure, guitar-driven progressive rock and roll songs we grew up on. The comparisons of front man Josh to Robert Plant and their music to Led Zeppelin are everywhere and obvious when one listens to their hit songs 'Highway Tune' and 'Safari Song'. They draw upon their upbringing (Three of the band mates are brothers: Josh and Jake are twins, and Sam is the little brother they had to drag away from his homework after school to play bass for them. The drummer is a family friend, Dan.) in a musical and intellectual household for inspiration, and cite blues, jazz and world music as influences. Oddly enough, I was not a big Zeppelin fan. Their heyday was a bit before my time, and, thanks to my brother and his massive record collection, I really only tuned in to Robert Plant's voice during his Honeydrippers project. Along with most kids in my junior high school I was listening to a lot of Van Halen, Judas Priest, and The Scorpions in Grade 8, but quickly moved on to more alternative types of music along with the ever-present catchy New Wave of video-promoted pop music of the 80's, so I am wondering what it is about Greta Van Fleet that I find so attractive now.

If I were to critique them I would say I don't think Josh, the lead singer, does everything right. He has some weird vocal techniques honed in the days when the band used to practice in a barn on their family's property and he had to find a way to be heard above the amplifiers, but I don't really care because there is no denying this kid's huge talent. I know he will grow and evolve like every artist before him. I think what I appreciate about these guys is their energy, their youthful purity of intention, and their sheer willingness, in the words of The Magic School Bus' teacher Ms Frizzle, to 'take chances, make mistakes, and get messy' together in order to serve the music they feel compelled to offer the world. Their music feels honest to me, and although their lyrics aren't particularly deep, they reflect their age and experiences thus far. They aren't trying to be something they're not. They're just doing what they think is right and they carry the idealistic notion that a rock band can promote Peace and Love through their music. I don't expect anyone else I know to like them or appreciate what they are trying to do. Music hits us all in such different ways. I simply wish to give them a shout out for giving some of us older music-loving folks hope for the future.

In closing I will share a little conversation I had with my seventeen year old daughter, also, like two of her three siblings, a performer who happens to share many of the character traits I appreciate about the band:

Me: I just watched this interview with Greta Van Fleet. I just loved their answers to the questions asked of them. They are so young, but so smart. I hope they can stay the course.

Daughter: You should go see them live and meet them.

Me: Yeah, and then I will put them in my pocket, take them home and feed them supper.

Daughter: You want to be their mom.

Me: No, they have a mom already and she wouldn't like that. I will settle for a kind of adopted aunt role.

Hey, Josh, Jake, Sam and Dan, the invitation stands.

Highway Tune, live in Toronto

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

I know it has been an age since I posted something on this blog. Life has been rather full of late and although ideas and a desire to post have floated around incessantly in my head I have not had time to sit down and get to it. A couple of Saturday mornings ago I sat in my favourite coffee shop and wrote the draft of a post in my notebook. Did it get typed and posted? No. I have done this twice now. Like Charlie Brown I can't quite get it together. 'Good grief!'

I do have at least one rather good excuse, though. Some of my regular reader friends will remember I began working on a novel on November 1st, 2013. I am happy to report that my novel's first draft was completed on November 25th of this year. I was, needless to say, relieved and delighted. When I originally wrote about completing NaNoWriMo (see linked post above for an explanation) I thought I only needed to write about another third to complete my draft. I was wrong. My word count ended at 103,000 words, more than double what I had written as part of National Novel Writing Month. Still, I was happy with the outcome and look forward to the editing process. I have been advised by an editor friend to let the manuscript rest for a while so I can look at it with fresh eyes. Completing my first draft was a Christmas gift to myself, I suppose, and one I was happy to unwrap early, for now I can concentrate on making the house clean beautiful and the upcoming Season as delicious as possible for my family and friends. My husband also just started three weeks of holidays from work so I know much will be accomplished in the way of tedious long-neglected tasks around here. My three living-away kids will be home for varying lengths of time for the Holidays and even though I will be spending a lot of time ferrying my youngest daughter to her rehearsals for the production of the Addams Family Musical to take place in January, I will enjoy every minute of having a full house once again.

The first Christmassy thing I do every year is bake fruitcakes. In the early days only my husband and I enjoyed eating these boozy, rummy fruit and nut cakes. Then, I began sending my parents one, too and they asked for the recipe. This year I received a message from our twenty year old son which said, "I am looking forward to eating Christmas cake with a glass of port." My eldest daughter now enjoys the cake as well, so it looks like we will have no trouble consuming the two large and three small cakes I have baked this year. Today I will bathe the cakes in rum and rewrap them in cheesecloth to marinate for another week when I will bathe them in rum again. They end up very well preserved by Christmas week. I have also already made a double batch of another family favourite: cheese ball. I coat the cheese balls in chopped walnuts harvested from the tree in our back yard, and serve it with a variety of crackers. We have already attended two events at which cheese ball was our contribution to the food table; we are becoming rather predictable at parties.

Christmas is not Christmas in our family without certain food related traditions, but new additions are always welcome. Last month, my youngest daughter and I made Maple Toffee Popcorn for the first time. It was absolutely delicious and would make a great gift for gluten-free friends. We will be making a big batch again. I will make fruit and nut chocolate bark as well, but I will leave the rest of the baking to my husband and daughter who has been away at college and surviving on stove-top cooking. She is longing to bake when she comes home next weekend.

Last Friday we and our eldest daughter attended the year-end concert at our son's university. He is in his second year studying violin in the Orchestral Performance program and we are always happy to go to any concert in the university's beautiful concert hall. Our son had worked very hard to get a top seat in the orchestra for the second half of the concert when they would perform Shostakovitch's Symphony No. 5. Shostakovich is one of his favourite composers and the piece is also a favourite. The first half of the concert featured an extremely accomplished young pianist performing Mozart's Piano Concerto No. 23, but it was the second half which earned a standing ovation - or perhaps a cumulative effect was the cause. Either way, the concert was wonderful and we and everyone else in the packed house were so proud of all the young musicians up on the stage in front of us. When we came out of the hall at the end of the concert snow was falling in earnest. A group of students had run outside to play in the snow and were visible from the floor-to-ceiling windows in the lobby. I love snow, too, but driving in it is not my favourite activity. After dropping off our son at his dorm building we drove to our eldest daughter's apartment and said goodbye to her. We made our way slowly and carefully all the way to Langley where the snow had come and gone already leaving the roads bare for the rest of the journey home.We munched on chips and listened to the radio to keep ourselves awake, arriving at home well past midnight, but we both felt it had been worth it.

Speaking of fine young musicians, I am a new fan of twenty-six year old pianist Yuja Wang. I am happy to share a video of her playing one of my (and her) favourite composers, Chopin. Have a listen during this month of hustle and bustle of the Holiday season, and I guarantee it will help you catch your breath. Until next time, enjoy December as it speeds by at its customary alarming rate. I know I am.

Handsome is as Handsome Does

Occasionally, as I was growing up, I heard my mother describe a young man of our acquaintance as a ‘wolf’.  A ‘wolf’, my mother explained, was someone with a predatory nature, particularly toward young, innocent girls (Little Red Riding Hood anyone?), and once identified, a ‘wolf’ was to be avoided at all costs by my three sisters and me.  Wolves came in many different styles of sheep’s clothing, but the costume of which I believe my mother was most wary was of the smooth-talking, preppy frat boy type.  Interestingly enough, she distrusted a guy with a squeaky clean appearance, and often for good reason; after all, she was a teenager in the 50’s and knew this type very well.  She knew these boys could be very crafty wolves - the type to flatter a girl’s parents and then take her out, get her drunk and take advantage.  But, as everyone knows, teenagers often rebel against their parents’ ways and wishes, if only to assert a certain amount of independence, and I was no different.  In high school I developed a crush on a boy of the preppy frat boy type which seemed to resurface in the 80’s.  He was the kind of boy featured in teen magazines, the type to make young, otherwise intelligent girls act silly.  He wore name brand polo shirts with the collar turned up in various shades of pastel, leather loafers, and sported spiky, gelled hair. To my mind he had the face of an angel, and I pointed him out to my mom one day.

“He’s very ‘pretty’, isn’t he,” she said with a curl of her lip.
“He’s not pretty, Mom, he’s handsome,” I protested.
“Handsome is as handsome does,” was her short but pointed reply.

A Very Handsome James Spader as the preppy jerk in Pretty in Pink
-definitely a wolf

To my utter bewilderment at the time, the boys my mom generally favoured were the long-haired rocker types, especially if they played an instrument.  I’m not sure why - perhaps she felt they held an honest disregard for convention.  I had five older siblings with many types of friends, maybe all the rocker kids she knew were just really nice people.  At my high school these kinds of boys were called ‘head bangers’. They usually went around with girls who sported similar rocker hairstyles ornamented with feathered roach clips and head bands.  They tended to answer teachers’ questions in monosyllables and didn’t usually top the academic charts.  Some were even classified as ‘stoners’, an even less desirable label in the upper echelon of my school.  Though friendly with some of the head bangers, I was certainly not their type and, admittedly, they were not mine.  I continued to develop crushes on the ‘wrong’ sorts of boys, often preppy jocks who usually weren’t interested in me beyond a nod in the hallway or as someone’s little sister. My preference for that certain type of boy continued until, as often happens when we begin to grow up, something came along to widen my view of the world.

I took piano lessons until I was fifteen, and in my last year I once again participated in the local music festival. My piece was very difficult and I could not get it right, no matter how hard I practiced.  On the day of the festival, thirteen young pianists assembled on the front pew of the Nelson United Church.  The lights were dim, except for on the stage, and at the desk of the adjudicators, making them look like pale distant ghosts owning only heads and pen-holding hands.  I was extremely nervous but glad to be in the middle of the pack, not at the front.  Sitting next to me was a boy I had never seen before.  He had long, blonde hair, an Iron Maiden t-shirt, and jeans on – mom’s type.   “This should be interesting,” I remember thinking to myself as he approached the bench when they called his name.  I fully expected to hear a less than stellar performance, maybe a laboured rendition of that Leila Fletcher classic ‘My Little Birch Canoe’, or at best, a choppy interpretation of Beethoven's 'Fur Elise'.  I do not remember what he played, maybe Chopin, maybe Rachmaninoff, but it was a shock to see and hear this long-haired dude blast his way through his challenging piece with such skill and confidence. I was dumbfounded, and after the thunderous applause died down, I was *gasp!* next. As I rose to go up to the stage I could hear people whispering about the long haired pianist:  “Who is he?”  “Where is he from?” Then I heard someone say, “He’s ___ ___ from The Valley.  His family is so talented”.   I was really nervous now – rattled, actually.  My pre-conceived notions had just been turned upside down.  How could I possibly follow Rocker Valley Boy's performance!  I sat down on the bench.  I started to play.  I stopped after a few bars and started again. I stopped again, and started again.  I screwed up so badly the adjudicators took pity on me and allowed me to get my music, even though we were supposed to have memorized our pieces.  I got through my nasty piece somehow and with a limping heart and downcast eyes I returned to my seat.  Mortified, and afraid to look at my mom and sister in the audience, let alone at the blonde piano star beside me, I kept my gaze downward.

Quietly, from beside me Rocker Valley Boy spoke.  “Hey, that was pretty good,” he said.
“No, it wasn’t, and you know it,” I managed to whisper.
He turned to look at me.  I finally looked up at him, barely meeting his eyes. “Yeah, it was,” he said, smiling encouragingly.  “Don’t worry about it.”
I was immediately cheered by his friendly and generous words. I could breathe again.  He wasn’t lying either, so I couldn’t accuse him of mere flattery: later, the adjudicator even praised the bits between the screw ups.

I developed a sort of admiration for Rocker Valley Boy out of appreciation for what he did for me that festival day.  On rare occasions I would see him in town and feel a little flutter of the heart.  There is no telling when the words of our mothers will come true.

A Christmas Carol Day

I did not want to go with the school choir on their day tour of senior's care homes. I did not. I was tired and had a list of chores and errands to do before hosting Saturday evening's dinner party. The acappella group I sing with had worked hard for weeks to prepare for our own performance at the previous evening's choral festival. Our performance had gone well, but all during the night, my mind had sung our carol over and over without my permission:

Gaudete! Gaudete Christus est natus
Ex Maria, virgine. Gaudete!

That is always the way after a performance. Nevertheless, I had woken up feeling like something the cat dragged in. Ugh.

I had told my daughter's music teacher that I would come along on the tour only if not enough parents stepped forward, that I was really busy. She phoned me the day before the tour and asked me to come. I couldn't say no. The next day, Katie and I got up a bit earlier than usual, made our lunches for the day, and packed our bags with some activities to do on the bus between care homes. When we arrived at the school's music room we learned there had been a mix-up with the buses so we would have to walk to our first care home. It was a sunny, windless, brilliant day with frost on the rooftops and lawns, so I welcomed the walk of several blocks, and I think it was a good way to start the day for all the children, too.  With one of the parents carrying the keyboard, we paraded down the street in a long, jolly line. The first care home was brand new and quite elegant with chandeliers and Victorian furniture, high ceilings, sweeping staircases and lush carpeting. The choir performed a half hour set for a large group of residents in varying states of awareness and several cheerful and attentive staff members, and then it was time to leave for the next town. A bus had appeared out of thin air, it seemed, and we were off.

We visited three more care homes that day, none as fancy as the first. The children had been informed of the kind of audience they could expect, and were asked, instead of shaking hands with the seniors who were vulnerable to the kind of germs children are bound to carry, to go around and wish them a good day and a Merry Christmas after the set of carols. The choir did their best, but by the third care home the kids were visibly drooping. The rooms were overly warm, the air stuffy and they had sung the same set of songs all morning. The other parents and I made hand signals from the back of the room in an effort to encourage the kids to sing out, and at least cover their mouths when they yawned. Fortunately, the next item on the iternarary was lunch and a runaround in a nearby playground, which was most welcome for all of us.

I was moved several times that day by the reaction of many of the elderly audience members. While most of them merely listened or slept through the performance, there would always be a few singing along, usually quietly, but with sweet enjoyment. Most of the songs the choir sang were fairly typical choral arrangements of songs written for school choirs and not immediately recognizable to most people, but there were a few familiar verses like The First Noel, which the director would invite the seniors to sing. On the bus between care homes, the kids would belt out Santa Clause is Coming to Town, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, Jingle Bells, and all those old favourites, but by the third care home their enthusiasm was waning for their prescribed set list. Another mom suggested to me that maybe the choir should mix in some fun carols with their set list. She must have said something to the choir director, too, because that is exactly what they did. The kids were delighted to mix up their last set with some new/old songs, and the seniors loved it, too. I particularly recall two elderly residents, who sang at the top of their voices whenever something familiar was sung by the choir. One was a lady who would sing loudly in between efforts to attract the attention of a rather severe looking care aide who would instruct her to 'sit down!', and the other was a tall gentleman in a reclining wheel chair. With his head dropped down on his chest and his eyes closed, he sang with the voice of someone much younger. Even during the unfamiliar songs he would find a single, repeated word and sing that word out whenever it came up. It was hard not to develop a few tears at such an endearing sight, and I found I was glad I had put aside my relentless to-do list and come.

There was something Dickensian about touring those care homes and singing Christmas carols (the parents sang too) for the elderly and infirm. I sensed a warning to look after myself and my family well, to never forget that I, and my husband too, would eventually grow old and dependant upon others. I thought how important it was to treat others as I wished to be treated, and to always remind my children to be kind, caring, generous, tolerant and considerate of others. I am hardly an Ebenezer Scrooge, but I can learn, as he did, and pledge to "honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach."

"God Bless Us, Every One!"

The above photo was found at Victorian-Era.org. The above is a re-post of one I wrote last year. I wanted to share it again, because its message still rings true for me this year. Merry Christmas to all. 

Now they're Jamming in Heaven

Not only am I pressed for time this week, what with working at the annual Tulip Festival and rehearsing with the women's quartet for our upcoming performance at the local Earth Day mini film festival, I am typing with less fingers due to a sprain in the middle finger of my right hand which is now taped to the ring finger. Needless to say, this post will be brief.

I will take the opportunity to pay tribute to a musical gift to the world, Levon Helm, who died of cancer in New York City yesterday afternoon. I grew up with Levon and The Band as part of the general soundtrack of our family life. We listened to their records and sang their songs with harmony on the chorus at get-togethers in our home, and around the campfires of our youth, as so many people did. Levon's voice is forever recorded in my heart, and I can still hear his, as well as the voices of all the people I knew who sang the iconic song 'The Weight':

 Take a load off Annie.

 Take a load for free.

 Take a load off Annie,

 and put the load, put the load,

right on me.

The following video is a performance by The Band of 'The Weight' from the film/documentary The Last Waltz. Levon Helm was the drummer, one of the main vocalists, and the only American in the Canadian band who backed up Bob Dylan before becoming their own act.

May you live on forever in peace and continued harmony with all the greats who have gone before you, Mr. Helm.

(This is my 150th post.)

Knopfler and Me

I grew up in a house where music was as important as what's for dinner. As a baby, I could be found rocking back and forth in my bed to the amplified sounds of the Rolling Stones' Let it Bleed album. The songs of Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, J.J. Cale, The Band and several others, including Classical, Jazz, Folk, and Bluegrass artists entered the hearts and minds of we six children, rocking us through good times and bad and nurturing us into young men and women with varying tastes but equal love for music. My eldest brother Francis, when he was working at his well-paying job at Overwaitea Foods would buy records every payday. My sisters began buying albums on a regular basis, too, and soon our collection was expanded to include Pink Floyd, Van Halen, The Police, The Scorpions, The Cars, an Abba album or two, Billy Idol, U2, The Pretenders, Red Rider, The Who, and a band called Dire Straits.

I remember wiling away the hours listening to music in the living room. Listening, dancing, drawing, sewing, reading and doing homework with music playing. Sometimes my brother would even ask me what I would like to listen to. The answer was often "Dire Straits". Something about their sound moved me, comforted me. I felt at home in it. I didn't understand what they were singing about and frankly, wasn't interested in lyrics at that age, and I liked a lot of the other albums my siblings and parents brought home, but the singer and lead guitarist of Dire Straits, Mark Knopfler, seemed to sing to me - or something in me.

As I grew older I began my own record collection, and I will admit it was greatly rooted in what I had been fed, musically, since I was knee-high to a grasshopper. As my eldest brother's tastes began to lean more toward blues, rockabilly, jazz and folk, music he made his living playing, I traded babysitting his little boy for records from his older collection - although he never gave up any Dire Straits albums. In 1985 Dire Straits released their phenomenal hit record Brothers in Arms. I can't remember who in my family bought the album, but I believe we listened to it every single day for a year. During the 80's music videos were the portal into the music world for many people, as well as a way for artists to express their songs visually. I remember the animated 'Money For Nothing' video: working class delivery truck drivers complaining about the 'easy lives' of musicians.

Look at them yoyo's, that's the way you do it,
You play the guitar on the MTV.
That ain't workin' that's the way you do it
Money for nothin' and chicks for free

That song made a great impact on me. It was satirical. It was a statement. It had Sting singing at the beginning. Remember? "I want my, I want my, I want my MTV....." and then that great gritty Knopfler guitar lick took over from there. Pure magic. And then there was the last song on the album, 'Brothers in Arms', which is, essentially, a genuine folk song. Haunting and lyrical, with a message for the ages steeped in centuries of history, 'Brothers in Arms' was a sign of what was to often come from Mark's pen from then on:

Now the sun's gone to hell
And the moon's riding high
Let me bid you farewell
Every man has to die
But it's written in the starlight
And every line on your palm
We're fools to make war
On our brothers in arms

Since Brothers in Arms, I have bought ever Dire Straits album and every Mark Knopfler solo album. In the lonely depths of winter, on car trips in summer, Mark Knopfler is there as a soundtrack to our lives. His voice cuts through my worries and his guitar playing knows no bounds. Back in 2005 I began a brand new journal, a gift from a dear friend, with a paragraph about Knopfler and me:

"I'm listening to my new Mark Knopfler CD - Ragpicker's Dream. I love him. His music and voice are so soothing. I think, too, he is like me, or his music is - lots of words and stories, a thinker and satirist, and observer of human nature. He's mellow, but ocasionally rocks out."

One day I played 'Sultans of Swing' for my son, Ian who was working hard at learning the guitar. While I only intended to inspire Ian, he became determined to learn the song from start to finish. Learn it he did, note for note. I found this video of Dire Straits playing their first hit single from 1978, 'Sultans of Swing,' the song that hooked me in the beginning and has, I know, inspired a couple of generations of guitarists including my dad, my brothers and my son.

And here's a more recent one of Mark, playing another of my favourites.

Have a great weekend, friends! And if you're out there, Mark, thank-you. If it is possible to have a friend you've never met, then you are a good one.

The photo appears courtesy of The Guardian

Shrinking the Generation Gap, Part Two

My son Galen loves to play for people, and he thoroughly enjoys playing with other musicians. To my continued amazement he thinks nothing of getting up in front of a large audience and performing whatever he has been rehearsing. He plays with a local orchestra and recently took part in a performance of Handel's Messiah with a youth ensemble. Practicing his violin is a daily solo effort, so he relishes the chance to get together with other like minded people to do what he loves best.

When our friend Diane asked him if he would consider playing some duets over the Holidays with her 95 year old friend and neighbour, Ella, the answer was "Sure!" Galen had heard me exclaim over Ella's talent and continued abiltity at the piano, and he had no reason to disbelieve me. Ella, on the other hand, had been informed of Galen's talent but it was clear she wasn't holding her breath. She had been sent musical partners recently and had been disappointed. She, however, agreed to give him a try and after a few more calls back and forth, a date was set for their musical meeting.

It was agreed that Galen and Ella would meet at her home at 2:00 p.m. the following Thursday for a one hour session. Diane and Jim would be away that day, but they were to leave me a key so I could go in their house for a cup of tea after letting out the chickens and herding the ducks into the garden. My youngest daughter Katie came with us and after we had dropped Galen off at Ella's, Katie and I went off to do our farm chores. The rest of the hour passed quickly with me stoking the fire in the kitchen wood stove and enjoying some tea, and with Katie discovering a Garfield comic book in the house.

We pulled the car around the circular driveway in front of Ella's and peeked in the living room window. Ella and Galen were in the middle of a piece and so, not wanting to disturb them, Katie and I stayed outside to listen. From where we stood the duo sounded great and we let them finish. They noticed us but started another piece at Ella's request. Katie and I continued to stand awkwardly outside the window, enjoying the sounds coming from inside and the view of Ella's diminutive, incredibly animated form at the Steinway grand piano. The hour was stretching by the minute and fearing that Ella would soon grow tired I knocked on the door at what I thought was an appropriate moment.

The door was opened and we entered the foyer. Ella's face was full of excitement. She clapped her hands together and exclaimed, "I had heard Galen was good, but not this good! I made so many mistakes. I was so amazed I just wanted to stop and listen to him. So much talent! How? Where? From whom did he get such talent?" she demanded.

"I do have a very musical family," I said.

"My goodness. And you! Don't you play the piano?" she asked.

"Yes, but not very well. Let's just say I have a nice touch." I said. "He gets his discipline and goal-driven determination from his father."

Ella continued to talk about the session in a disjointed way; I think she was rather stunned by how it had gone. I do not think she ever expected Galen to be so accomplished, not at his age, not of his generation, perhaps. She also questioned Katie about her piano lessons and encouraged her to carry on.

"I'm sure Galen would like to play with you again, if you would like to," I said.

"Do you?" she said. "I would think he might not after all the mistakes I made. I'm afraid I was not very good today." She laughed and abashedly put a wrinkled but fine hand over her mouth.

Galen assured her that he would like to, and we all left it at that.

We have not heard from Ella since that day, but I do hope she will give playing with Galen another try. During a phone call the next day, Diane and Jim assured us that Ella had indeed been delighted with the session, and that she probably needs some time to let the experience sink in.

At the very least, even if she decides not to invite Galen for another session, I hope this disappointing world appears just a little bit brighter since that afternoon.
I leave you with another great Victor Borge clip, this time another unlikely but successful duet. Enjoy!
Wishing you a wonderful weekend.

The Friendly Beasts around Him Stood

I've always felt connected to the land. I am no great gardener, but I am a lover of trees, of the natural world, and of the simple miracle of how a huge sunflower grows from a tiny little black seed planted in soil. Now that I live in farm country, this connection to the land inevitably includes a certain affinity for animals. Growing up in a small city in the mountains I was not used to being up close and personal with any breed larger than a medium-sized dog (Shag) or a cat (Kiko). Through my daughter, however, I have become fairly comfortable around horses, and by embracing my farm country life, I have been introduced to cows, goats, chickens and donkeys. Although, admittedly, I don't think I have what it takes to become a farmer myself, I have great respect for my friends and neighbours who are.

This past Saturday, I took part in a live pageant called 'A Journey to Bethlehem'. This annual event is made possible by some wonderful local people. Farmer extraordinaire George, an ex-pat Yorkshireman and his wife Deborah, a Swiss-trained cheesemaker put their skills to work creating a business which has created award-winning cheeses and continues to draw weekenders from all over the Lower Mainland. Using their outbuildings, their animals, and several of their friends and family members, George and Deborah create a memorable experience which recalls Mary and Joseph's search for a room during the Roman census taking place in Bethlehem. We all know where that room ended up being, in a stable kept warm by the breath and body heat of animals.

Two re-enactments of the Journey to Bethlehem were presented, one in the afternoon to a medium sized crowd of families, and an evening one to a very large crowd. I am one of four in an a-cappella quartet, and we were invited to play the angel chorus for the pageant. I had not worn an angel costume since playing one in a pageant in high school. We were a group of rather puffy looking angels with white robes worn over our vests and scarves. We had four places along the route where we were to appear to have arrived like real angels and sing. Our first location was by the cow barn where Mary and Joseph appeared from around the building, Mary riding a real donkey. I wonder if the real Mary and Joseph's donkey was that stubborn - it took all of Joseph's strength to keep him on task.

We couldn't edit that gleam out of Marilee's eyes.

While Mary and Joseph toured the farm's outbuildings looking for a room, they encountered several people:  a woodcutter with a German accent and a spinning woman with a British one, several inn owners with children shouting 'no room' to the amusement of the crowd. We angels hummed the tune of 'What Child is This' while it became clear that there was indeed no room that night for Mary and Joseph anywhere in Bethlehem. While the crowd was directed to another location by the narrator with a megaphone, we angels sneaked around the back of the building and climbed up a ladder to a hayloft from where we sang to the shepherds keeping watch over their sheep in the fields:

When the shepherds left their field to search for the 'babe lying in a manger' we angels climbed back down the ladder and snuck around the back of the stable where the Clydesdale draft horses live, ducked under a railing and met the shepherds, goats, a calf and three wise men at the manger where Mary and Joseph now resided with the swaddled baby doll Jesus. Gathered behind the Holy Family we sang 'Joseph Dearest, Joseph Mine' while crowds of thirty or so people at a time visited the final scene in the pageant. Children scooped up barn kittens and oohed and aahed at the sweet baby goats and the calf which were near enough at hand to pet.

Only three of us angels could make it to the evening performance.
The fourth had to keep watch over a birthday party.

When we had finished singing and the crowds were moving on to the pine huts where vendors served hot chocolate, spiced apple cider and cookies we climbed out of the manger. There were still some people milling around visiting with the animals in the goat barn. While I climbed out, a little dark haired girl looked at me in amazement. "You're wearing BOOTS?" I suppose most angels are able to go without something so earthly as mud-proof footwear.

Every Christmas there is something with a bit of magic in it. The Farmhouse Cheese pageant was one such event, for me at least. In the hustle and bustle of trying to help make Christmas special for my family, and with all the shopping and the baking, the recitals and the concerts, it can be easy to get caught up in the whirwind of the Season. I so enjoyed going back to the simple, beautiful roots of it, beasts and all.



Thanks to my daughter for taking photos that night.

I tried to find Peter, Paul and Mary's version of The Friendly Beasts, but I found this one instead, which will do nicely, I think, and reminds me of Christmas singalongs from my childhood. Have a magical week, all!

Rebecca

I'm Wearing Green Today!

shamrock boutonierre from marthastewart.com

I had another idea for this post, but I will put that aside for St. Patrick's day, put on the green and celebrate my deep Irish heritage.  By deep, I mean I have to dig a little deeply to find my bit of Irish heritage.  Nevertheless, I have always felt an affinity for the Gaelic territory of my Irish ancestor, my mother's grandmother on her father's side. 

My great-grandmother Mary was born some time around 1881 (my sister reminded us all in the family in an email this morning) in the city of Letterkenny, which is in County Donegal in the Ulster Province of Northern Ireland. 



Letterkenny in 1910

Mary married my great-grandfather, a Scotsman, and they emigrated to Canada.  This great grandmother is the only Irish ancestor on both sides of my parents' families that I know of, and even her ancestors were originally from Scotland.  Even so, she was Irish and it is due to this strand of lineage that I feel justified in celebrating this day, as I always have.  (Incidentally, the unique shape of mine and my mother's nose came from that Irish/Scotch branch of the family, as I found out when my mom showed me photos of my great-grandparents.)

Usually I like to celebrate St. Patrick's day by going to a dance.  A couple of weeks ago, my husband and I spent the night dancing our socks off to the Gaelic/Latin/Funk band The Paperboys, and since we didn't make it to hear the fiddler April Verch last Friday night, I have decided that The Paperboys dance was my official St. Patty's day dance, albeit early.  Today, I am wearing green and very much looking forward to the landscape around me doing the same.  St. Patrick's day is always a wonderful sign of the fullness of the spring to come. I present the following ten reasons to love the Irish by way of tribute to this day which has been embraced by people in many corners, even by the orthodontic office where my daughter had her braces re-tooled this morning.  It was decorated with shiny foil shamrocks all over the place.

One Canadian's Top Ten Reasons to Love the Irish  (in no particular order)

1)   The Commitments soundtrack (I think the D.J. played 'Mustang Sally' every night at the night club where I danced with my friends in the 1980's)

2)  Guinness stout.  Mmmmmmm.....although I didn't appreciate it until about ten years ago

3)  U2  (see here for an account of the time I finally saw the band live after being a fan since 1984)

4)  The Humble Shamrock.  St. Patrick used the shamrock to illustrate the concept of the three-in-one Holy Trinity when bringing Christianity to the Irish.  I believe the shamrock is also a symbol of the luck o' the Irish, at least here in Canada.

5)  Irish Film.  There is something magical and mystical about the Irish films I have had the pleasure to see.  Some of my favourites include Once, Three Boys (and girl) from County Clare and Into the West, and as I stated above The Commitments.  A rich sense of humour, and often plenty of swearing, is also evident in these films.

6)  Fr. Ted.  We love this show about three very unlikely priests from Craggy Island. 

7)  Irish music.  When I'm in the mood I love to listen to some good, traditional fiddle and harp-centric music.  The Chieftains are a favourite, as well as the grittier, more modern sounds of The Pogues and The Waterboys.

8)  Irish history.  Often sad and full of conflict...but fascinating!

9)  The Irish accent.  It is lilting and musical and probably one of the most fun accents to attempt to imitate.

10)  St. Patrick's Day!

Erin go bragh! 

I cannot seem to find a source for the photo above of Letterkenny in 1910.  I just found it on Google images.  I apologize to whomever it is credited.

Running on Empty

Last week was one of those weeks.  I had a million things on the go and was starting to get bogged down in the details.  Despite the fact that I listened intently to the news from Libya at least twice a day, news of a whole country in crisis, a life and death situation for its people, I couldn't seem to get past my own tribulations.  I'm like that sometimes, caving inward, obsessing over things I can't control, like the weather report or the ever present possibility of an outbreak of headlice at my daughter's school, all the while knowing I'm being ridiculous, praying for deliverance and trying desperately to look at the bigger picture to gain some perspective for crying out loud. Finally, after a few days of struggling to be heard my inner voice of reason spoke up.  She said firmly, "Sit down, pick up an absorbing book and start reading.  Do it now!"  I obeyed, and as my hamster wheel of a mind slowed down and focussed on something outside myself, I gradually started to regain my sanity and an overall sense of calm.

I am a mother of four, a volunteer, an event coordinator and a writer.  My mind is usually going a mile a minute and I'm putting out energy left, right, and center all the time.  Some weeks, like last week, are particularly packed and by the end of it I've really got nothing left.  The tank is running on empty, and beginning to consume itself.  If I don't put some fuel in the tank my mind is left to its own destructive tendencies and things can go from bad to breakdown.  But what exactly is my fuel?  I think everyone has their own fuel.  For some people it's a good bottle of wine shared with a spouse over dinner or a weekend getaway.  Those are both fine options but can get a bit expensive.  My fuel is more readily available and budget friendly.

Yesterday I took much of the day 'off'.  By that I mean I took one day to just relax and not expect too much productivity from myself. I spent the whole morning watching a DVD I'd borrowed from the library and had not yet made time to watch.  I had tried to renew it online but was prevented by the fact there was a hold on it.  The DVD, a three hour and twenty minute BBC production of George Eliot's beautiful story Daniel Deronda literally did take my whole morning, and I enjoyed every minute of being able to watch it without interruption (apart from the breaks I took to make a cup of tea and visit the bathroom). No one even phoned which was real luxury.  After lunch I went for a walk downtown to pick up some buns to go with the leftover chicken soup I had made the day before - so I didn't even have to make supper.  After supper my husband and I did the few dishes there were and then settled down again in front of the television as the weather was too nasty for an evening walk.  The Washington State PBS channel had a great show on about The Troubadour - a Los Angeles club where basically all the big names in the 1970's singer-songwriter genre got their start.  James Taylor, Carole King, Jackson Browne, Eagles, Crosby Stills Nash and Young and even a twenty-three year old Elton John were all in that L.A. music scene in the early '70's.  They were also all part of the soundtrack of my childhood so I watched the program with special interest while my mind kept drifting back to my parents' pine panelled living room with its record player and hundreds of records. (We also noted that Jackson Browne had exactly the same hair style back then as our eldest son has now.) After the program I had my customary evening soak in the tub, read my absorbing murder mystery novel and went to bed.

This morning I woke up ready to take on the world once again.  I had no idea what I was going to blog about this week but I sat down at the computer and immediately thought of Jackson Browne's song, "Running on Empty".  I typed that in to my title box and started writing this post.  I wrote a bit, then went to have my weekly coffee out with friends.  After coffee I put up posters around town for the annual Writer's Workshop and 'Open Mike' evening I organize with my friend The Librarian and walked home for lunch.  The warm sun was breaking through the clouds.  The birds were rioting in the trees and the hope of spring coming at last was visible on the faces of almost everyone I met.  I noticed that the snow from the last two snowfalls was melting fast and had revealed, to my great relief, that my snowdrops, which had begun to bloom weeks ago, had survived. 

My tank runneth over.

Here's Jackson Browne performing Running on Empty in 1978.  David Lindley, whom we saw perform last summer at our local music festival plays the great slide guitar solo near the end.  Enjoy! 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2O_1plEd3i4