Amazing!

     Leaning over the balcony - that same balcony pictured on the right side of this blog, I yelled, "What key are you in?"

    From nearly two stories below, a ramrod-straight bearded man shook his head, "I don't know."  Clad in a plaid pleated skirt topped by a white shirt, dark vest and over-the-shoulder scarf, he was surrounded by a dozen more skirted men, all wielding ancient wind instruments which hearkened back to battlefields of yore.


Scottish Bagpipe


     Forming a megaphone with my hands, I called, "Start playing the tune, so I can figure it out." He nodded. I climbed onto the organ bench and readied my fingers to hunt out the notes to play. 

     From downstairs rose a fascinating squeaky-like drone as the MacKenzie Highlander's Pipes & Drums' leader puffed out his cheeks and filled his bagpipe.  Sounds jabbed the atmosphere as if the piper were an entire orchestra warming up before a concert.  I focused on the main drone pitch, then matched it on my keyboard.  I mouthed OK to the piper.  We would be playing "Amazing Grace" in E flat Major - not that the pipers cared what key I played in. 

     The others pumped up their bags and joined in.  Our rehearsal for the next day's wedding somehow coalesced.  Like pied pipers leading their flock of one - me, they began marching up and down the aisles.  When I could catch sight of marching feet, I did my best to stay in rhythm.  The accoustics were so live - with a couple seconds' delay - that I couldn't just listen with my ears.  The delay would have caused me to fall behind the ensemble.  The rhythm had to be seen.

     I wonder if the invitations to that wedding suggested that guests bring (unwrapped) earplugs.  It must have been awesome, even shocking, to sit in the pews the next day,   The decibel level of a 76 rank (set of pipes) organ with 3,668 pipes in concert with a pipe band would be off the charts, even painful to some ears.  I grinned the whole time!  (No adequate example popped up in my searching, but this video will hint at the sound. Just multiply the volume times twelve. )

*     *     *

  

     Growing up in a small town traditional Presbyterian church, I never heard "Amazing Grace".  Searching through my hymn book collection, I can't find it until late 1970s editions. Were we influenced by changing society norms, what we termed consciousness-raising?  Is that why we began to include simple, sometimes campfire-like tunes, with inclusive language in religious services?  Folks songs, even kumbaya, found their way into Protestant and even Catholic hymn collections.  (I chuckled when I once observed Martin Luther's protest hymn, "A Mighty Fortress is our God" in a Roman church Sunday missal.  Though not a sing-along tune, it suggested that post-Vatican II Catholics didn't mind an occasional interfaith fling.)

    One's choice of appropriate hymns for church depends on his upbringing, philosophy and personal taste.  But, however you look at it, "Amazing Grace" is easy to sing - up and down a diatonic scale - and tells a feel-good story.  Who is not moved by the story of John Newton, the 18th century slave ship captain, who became an abolitionist minister?  Most Protestant churches now whip out this loved song when its theme of forgiveness and grace fits a service.  And mature musicians, trained in different times, hop on piano benches and lead congregations in heartfelt singing.  I love to play the first few verses in strict rhythm, then modulate to a slower last verse in a Southern Baptist rock,  encouraging the congregation to emote, really sing out.  Sometimes folks even clap afterwards - horrors!

Story of Amazing Grace 

*      *     *


     Somewhere in the Caribbean Sea, between Guadeloupe and Martinique in the French West Indies, the engines stopped.  Before there had been a rhythmic purring under foot; now we felt nothing. My husband and I looked at each other.  What happened?

     Just then, the loudspeaker interrupted our concern.  "Mates, all hands on deck.  All hands on deck". 

     Most of the hundred vacationing passengers, clad casually in shorts and shirts, clambered up the stairways to the vast upper deck of the 280' schooner, s/v Fantome.  The Captain and crew had kept their promise: they'd demonstrate that this big sailing vessel - an old lady built in the 1920s for the Italian Navy, but only used as a yacht - could actually sail.  When I'd registered for a Windjammer Barefoot Cruise, I thought we'd sail the whole week.   Once on board, I realized that keeping a schedule would be impossible if we depended only on wind power.  But, now, we were going to sail!

s/v Fantome

     The crew and a few gung-ho passengers wrestled the ropes and sails.  This beautiful vessel slowly began to  move as the canvas extended upwards.  All heads tilted and watched in wonderment to see what was for most of us a once-in-a-lifetime event. Yes, the old ship could  sail!

     Just when I thought it couldn't get better, the most amazing thing happened. The loud speakers burst to life and out came the haunting sound of "Amazing Grace" on bagpipe.  As the sun glinted off the water and the sails rippled in the breeze, my heart was filled with sadness and joy and, it seemed, all the human emotions one could feel.  To this day, it remains a key moment for me.

     The year was 1987.  Tragically, s/v Fantome and her crew were lost off the coast of Honduras in 1998 during Hurricane Mitch.  This wonderful chapter in windjammer history ended.  Fortunately, a former passenger has posted a tribute video.  Take a moment for a vacation trip to the West Indies. Grab your sailing clothes, take off your shoes and climb aboard the Windjammer s/v Fantome.

*    *    *

Naval Academy Mens Glee Club singing the Navy Hymn

Get me to the Church

     Ah, June – and weddings!  Blame it on the Romans and Juno, their goddess of marriage.

     Have you attended any church weddings lately?  So many people stage their festivities in other places these days - a beach, a hilltop, a back yard - where the logistics can be flexible, even casual.  But in a church wedding, especially one with numerous participants, the service must unfold with theatrical precision .

      A wise organist, the "loudest" yet often the most invisible member of the "cast", assures the smooth unfolding of the drama .  Before the ceremony begins, she will locate the minister-in-charge to check out the details.  Something like this:

     Organist: "How are you?  I want to confirm when you expect to start the service."
     Minister: "Two o'clock.  I've got another wedding later at the Lenox Hotel.  So we've got to move it along."
     Organist: "All right. I'll start the general preludial music about 1:40 - they agreed to Bach and some Brahms. Then I'll switch into the "mother's music" at 1:55. Exactly at 2:00, I plan to transition to the bride's processional, a trumpet tune by Purcell."
     Minister: "Sounds good. This couple has been very punctual for their marriage counseling sessions. I imagine things will go smoothly and on time."
     Organist: "That'd be nice... nothing worse than being stuck on the organ bench, doodling and improvising, long after the wedding should have begun. Don't forget to come tell me if there's a delay."
     Minister: "Of course."

                                                                        *     *     *

     Back in Buffalo one June day, I settled at the organ in an Anglican church's chapel (instead of the main sanctuary). Only a small four o'clock wedding, I'd been told; the chapel was large enough to accommodate the expected 125 guests.

     Trouble with the chapel is the placement of the organ console or keyboard.  Encased in its own "private room" in the chapel front right, the organ seems meant to be heard, but not seen.  An organist feels disconnected from the service, even ostracized.  What have I done in life to be relegated to this stuffy cubicle? And how am I supposed to see through this narrow opening?  What did they use, a floor grate? Well, at least there's a mirror.  Hope the bride is dressed in white so I can see her to start the processional.

     I never enjoyed playing in that space even though the pipe organ was grand.  One thing, that little room was private. One could knit during the sermon without being seen - not that I ever did.

     After completing my planned preludes, I started improvising.  Nice that I studied improvisation under Searle Wright, an adjunct professor at Union Theological Seminary, who was organist at St. Paul's Chapel at Columbia University.  Like exercising on a treadmill, his students learned to execute chord sequences over and over until the fingers played without much mental oversight.  Now all I have to do is push an imaginary button and, presto, out comes the music.  However, I do have to observe what my fingers want to do - can't let them slip into some pop tune!

     I glanced at my wrist watch.  4:15!  Where's the bride?  It's way past time.

     Just then, the minister tapped my shoulder.  "I'm sorry," he said.  "We received a call from the bridegroom.  His car broke down on the Thruway...it's fixed now.  He hopes to be here in half an hour."  In the days before cell phones, delayed communication was normal.

     Likely story, I couldn't help thinking.  Maybe the groom's got cold feet.  Or did he "kick up a rumpus" last night a la "Get me to the church on time"?  And now his "Fair Lady" bride is left cooling her heels?   As I climbed off the organ bench to wait in the anteroom, that tune stuck in my mind like a victrola needle grooving on an old record.
 
                                                                          *     *     *

     Delays would not be tolerated in an Anglican service in Great Britain.  Can you imagine the royals being late?  The April schedule for the Royal Wedding was enough to make an organist drool.

     Look at the fine tuning of the details.  For example, from 10:20 the Members of Foreign Royal Families were received at the Great West Door. At 10:42 Their Royal Highnesses...were received at the Great West Door. At 10:45 a fanfare was sounded. And so on. The musicians were never forgotten or left to improvise to fill time.  Get me to the church on time, indeed!

     By the way, that bridegroom finally showed for his wedding - one hour late.  Did I get paid overtime?  Oh, I can dream...

        Do you remember when springtime meant female college seniors prancing around like show horses displaying their prize rings? Collar that man before graduation or he'll get away.

     My college roommate at Carleton College knew how to plan. She and her long-time boyfriend married the day after graduation in the college chapel - with her roommate at the organ. (It was a tri-semester system, so graduation took place in June.) Their friends and family members were already on campus.  Wasn't that practical?   This month is the 49th anniversary of that occasion.  I doubt the quality of the wedding music had anything to do with this longevity, but you never know!  ;-)

Skinner Memorial Chapel, Carleton College, Northfield, Minnesota

      Been to any interesting weddings lately?  I've recently attended my niece's ceremony on a hilltop outside Nashville.  A friend is headed to Malibu in July for a "barefoot" one on the beach. 

The way it used to be

     I peek around the door to see if the coast is clear. A visiting hospital chaplain never knows what she'll find inside a patient's room. “Hello, may I come in?”

     “Sure.” A young woman, wearing a loose kimono, stretches out on top of the blanket. “Wanna see?”  She eases herself off the high institutional bed and leans over a bassinet. I look inside and see a tiny creature, bundled head-to-toe in a light flannel blanket.

     “Oh, you must be so proud.”

     The new mother nods her head. “Next, we're going to get a house.” She glances toward the end of her bed where a slight young man hangs back. He's leaving the talking to her.
     “And, if that works out, we're going to get married!”  (Yes, this is a true story!)

                                                            

     Times are always changing.  It's the nature of what we call life.  But an individual sets her measuring tape down at some point, usually when she leaves home to make her mark in the world - a time forevermore known as "the way it used to be"!  From that time forward, she can tell anyone where and how to hitch a horse.

                                                                     *     *     *

     Some of us set a tape down in the '60s. Bob Dylan's “The times they are a-changin" set the tone for a generation of people challenging the old ways. Pete Seeger's “Turn! turn! turn!”, sung by The Birds, hit the international scene in 1965, spreading a similar message to a wider audience. Both songs, based on lyrics influenced by the Book of Ecclesiastes in the Hebrew Bible, now represent the post-War II derailing of strict society norms about place - of family structure, of work, and of rights, civil and human.
     
     We take very little for granted any more.  The breaking down of society's rules has afforded freedoms, both to succeed as well as to fail,which many could not have foreseen. The orderly sequence of life events can no longer be assumed.   Still, nostalgia for old virtues grabs us when we observe some activity which seems out-of-sync or strange.  We seek a reminder that not all our benchmarks have vanished.

                                                                        *     *     *

     The Church of England wouldn't disappoint me.  When I tuned into the Royal Wedding on April 29th, I knew I could depend on viewing the ages-old ceremonial ritual of the Church.  My effort to rise early would be rewarded with wonderful music, dazzling pageantry and a sense of historic continuity with all the Saints, known and unknown.

     I'd read that Catherine aka Kate would not have to obey William.  That's as it should be: a woman isn't chattel, after all.  Since I set my measuring tape down, my consciousness has been raised.  I've suffered and benefited from the changing times.  I'll allow the Church to change things that affect human rights.  But don't touch the grandeur of worship services.  Leave those magnificent historic dramas alone.

     During the wedding telecast, I followed my downloaded copy of the service.  At the beginning, traditionalists had no cause for worry.  The celebrants, decked out in richly-colored heavy robes, paraded up the 300 foot aisle, accompanied by pipe organ flourishes. The marriage vows – except for the removal of “obey” – were “old church”.  The archbishop kept the ancient words when he addressed the congregation:

  FORASMUCH as William and Catherine have consented together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth either to other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving of a ring, and by joining of hands; I pronounce that they be man and wife together, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

     Man and wife! What?  I'm not comfortable with this language.  Did I somehow think William and Catherine would update their vows?  Haven't they shared a house for years?  Should Catherine not wed as a person rather than an “heir producer"? Keep the beautiful music and pageantry of a high Anglican service, but allow people to be "persons", not functionaries in "roles".  Obviously, I've been affected by the changing times.
                                              
      Then it was time for the Address by The Right Reverend and Right Honourable Dr Richard Chartres KCVO, Lord Bishop of London and Dean of Her Majesty's Chapels Royal.  With a title like that, I'd bet he's a traditionalist, I thought.  But Dr. Richard turned out to be a modern man.  He seems to have listened to Bob Dylan or The Birds. 

     He started out with gusto:  "Be who God meant you to be - and you'll set the world on fire!"  Interesting: how do you do that if you're just chattel?  Dr. Richard continued:  "In marriage, the husband and wife... So he "gets" it.  I'd like to chat with this fellow.  As he concluded the Address, he repeated this phrase several times: "We will transform - if we don't try to reform."  Hmm, full of nuances.  A bit of projection on his part, perhaps?  Something going on behind the scenes at the Abbey or in his personal life?  I know, I know: he meant it to be about accepting each other and the inevitable changes that happen in marriage.

     Maybe he was suggesting that the words, "the way it used to be" should be left at the hitching post and not carted around as standard bearers.

                                                                        *     *     *

     After the conclusion of a wedding where I'd helped out as organist, my minister friend and I were talking .  "I don't mind the rehearsals," he said, "though people certainly don't dress like they used to."

     "I know what you mean," I said.  "Would you ever have worn a T-shirt to church to practice the ceremony for your big day?"

     He chuckled.  "But," he said, "at least they're covered up.  What really gets me is the wedding.  The girls wear these off-the-shoulder dresses - and all I can see is their tattoos!"

                                                                        *      *     *
 

  http://www.horsecartvet.com/index.html

*     *     *

    It's that time of year.  Remember how I wrote about being retired - and writing essays instead of preparing choir rehearsals?  I will continue to upload essays, but not every Thursday.  It's summer in FL and time to move north to the cottage on Lake Erie.  I hope you've enjoyed my essays.  Send me a message on Facebook.

   Take good care of yourself. 

   Donna

A Seat in the Quire

From 10:30 am   The Choir of Westminster Abbey and the Choir of Her Majesty's Chapel Royal, St James's Palace, proceed to their places in Quire.  From the Royal Wedding program.

*     *     *

     Did you climb out of bed before daybreak to view the Royal Wedding telecast? What attracted you:  the royals, their fashions, the high Anglican service?  Being inside that wondrous Abbey in real time, even if virtually, motivated me to start my day on London time.

Big Ben

     A lifetime ago on my first trip to Europe, I queued up one August weekday morning at the Westminster Abbey. According to my copy of Arthur Frommer's "Europe on $5 Dollars a Day", visitors were welcomed during the Matins service (now called Morning Prayer) when the choir sang. After figuring out the London Underground maze and crossing busy streets with traffic going the "wrong way", I'd arrived at the Abbey's West Gate entrance doors in the heart of London near Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. 

                           *     *     *



      Why are so few people waiting to go in, I wonder.  Today's Tuesday; maybe most people are working.  But where are all the tourists? I expected crowds of folks. I hear sounds of locks or chains clanking - must be almost time.  The massive doors swing open.  An attendant pushes them back against the building.  Searching my purse for my head scarf - Arthur Frommer says women have to cover up in churches, I quickly drape it around my head.  Strange: men remove hats and women hide their hair.  I've seen the oddest items on women's heads like lacy handkerchiefs or found pieces of newsprint.

     "This way, ma'am," the man says.  And, then, I'm inside Westminster Abbey.  Westminster Abbey, The Westminster Abbey!    

*     *     *

     The excitement of arriving at that site of so much Anglo-Saxon history - where, ever since the founding of the Abbey in 960 CE (AD), the British Empire had held its state occasions! Like emerging out of a page of my school history books, I crossed the floor tiles of that Gothic structure where seventeen monarchs were buried!  How did a small town girl from western New York state get there?

     Back in 1953, I'd raced home from school to see the first-ever televised recordings of a coronation. Apparently the young Queen-to-be had persuaded authorities to allow cameras inside the Abbey, so non-royals could view images of the great event. I'd seated myself in front of the 13-inch Heathkit TV my father had built into the living room wall.

     Peering through the snowy black and white images, I almost felt the burden of that enormous crown when it was solemnly positioned on Queen Elizabeth's head. (Advance the video time to about 7:35 for the crowning ceremony.) She must have practiced walking with books on her head for weeks. What modern technology: I could view a Queen crowned on the very same day it happened!

                                                                            *     *     *

     Now I follow the usher through the Abbey's nave.  Dressed in a formal suit with tails, he sashays up the endless aisle. I swivel my neck and chin to take in the high arched ceilings. We continue to move forward.  I'm surprised; I imagined I'd be sitting way out in "left field" like at a baseball game. We're approaching the area with all the little lamps for illuminating choristers' sheet music.  Where are we heading?  Then, the "tails" stop and their wearer turns toward me.

The Quire

     "Ma'am," he says as his arm directs me.  "Please sit here.  We only have a few visitors today." 

     He bends slightly as if I am semi-royalty. I try to slide seamlessly into the pew, to look like it's nothing at all to be placed in the Quire in Westminster Abbey.  

     I sit in awe of my surroundings.  How beautiful this sanctuary is!  I finger the smooth wooden pew.  If the seats could talk!  I find the Matins service in the hymnbook.  

     The men and boys of the choir are filing in - and here I sit, right across the aisle from them.  Organ music creeps into my consciousness.  The choristers rise for the opening hymn.  The glorious organ sounds, seeming to swirl around me, lift me up. The hymn commences. My organist's heart strings vibrate as if in concert with souls, present as well as departed.  I don't want it to end.

                                                                         *     *     *

     As the cameras panned the seated guests in the Abbey last Friday morning, I watched keenly as those lucky folks seated in the Quire came into view.  Obviously, they were royalty or, perhaps friends of, related to, or, at least, influential enough to get wiggle space there.  I smiled as I noticed their smug, uplifted countenances. I understood how important they felt. 

     Life is, indeed, grand when you have a seat in the Quire.

Hear the bells ringing at Westminster Abbey - and see the street traffic!

*     *     *

      Ring some bells, just for the joy of it! 

    
     Donna



In memoriam

My beloved Ollie

left this earth

by accident

on April 20, 2011.



Words fail me.

Random Hallelujahs

     Any idea how many times you've heard, sung or directed the Hallelujah Chorus (HC)?  Why is it so popular?  A great work of art?  Tradition?  Historical - a reminder of our country's British roots?  Or is it part of what is labeled culture?

         "Messiah" by George Frideric Handel is perhaps the most recognizable classical choral music in the world. The HC is only a small part of the three hour long oratorio. Part I is the announcement of the coming Messiah – what we know as Advent and Christmas. Part II, which deals with the Messiah's  sacrifice, death, and resurrection, concludes with the HC.

    Why is the HC, part of the Easter section of  "Messiah", sandwiched into the Advent or Part I for a holiday sing? Is the same person who dreamed up those “Sing-along Messiah” get-togethers to blame?  But getting out of the house on a weekend afternoon to participate in an activity which encourages deep breathing, social interaction and mental stimulation can't be all that bad. Besides, clear consonant harmonies encourage long life, don't they?

     Do you detect a love-hate relationship with HC?  Many times I've struggled to fit parts of "Messiah" into a Sunday worship service. Oh, it wouldn't be Christmas/Easter without the Hallelujah Chorus, I've been told. But I was never comfortable. Why?   It's a difficult piece for the average choir; there are many passages with notes that jump octaves or demand instrumental-like flexibility.  Need I add that an organist-choir director is equally challenged to play an orchestral reduction while keeping the singers together?

     "Messiah"'s first performance in London was in a secular setting, not in a church. King George II attended that 1742 performance.  For some reason – he was tired of sitting? - the King stood as the first notes of the HC sounded. Naturally, his subjects rose.  So 269 years later, folks wonder if they should stand when they hear the start of the HC!

     Since the HC is performed worldwide, the Internet is jammed with examples. I've chosen a few for your consideration.

• HC 1   Here's an average rendition.  Energetic, operatic-sounding.  I do object to the Hallelu-JAHs. The way the lyrics are set to quick notes makes it difficult to sing a sustained choral sound.
• HC 2   Part of an evening's entertainment.  Notice the soloists' outfits.  The audience rises, just like King George II.  Andre Rieu appears to be following the ensemble rather than leading it.
• HC 3   Viewer discretion advised.  If you don't want to see/hear the iconic HC spoofed, don't open this link.
• HC 4   Professional choir at Trinity Church in New York City.  Musically, it's ordinary.  But I appreciate the singers' attempts to not leap off the JAHs.  Notice how some are even leaning forward to emphasize halle-LOO-jah instead of hallelu-JAH.
• HC 5  Random Act of Culture at Macy's with the Opera Company of Philadelphia and the glorious Wanamaker organ.  For pure sound and joy, you can't beat this one.  I'll go for sound over perfection any time.  Note:  the video will skip and buffer unless you adjust to a lower resolution.  On the lower right of the window, I adjusted mine down to 240p.

                                                                                *     *     *

     When my mother-in-law was ninety-five-years old, my husband asked her if we could accompany her to mass. We were on our semi-annual visit to Cambridge, MA and I liked attending Sacred Heart to hear their men and boy's choir.
     "No, I guess not,"  she replied.  "The priest says I don't have to go any more."

     Maybe like my mother-in-law, I've reached my "quota" of Hallelujah choruses. Or must I attain age ninety-five before I receive my dispensation?

     Wishing you a blessed week.  Hallelujah!

The Here-now

     On another sunny day in St. Petersburg, I'm outdoors at my favorite Starbucks (they greet me by name - yes, I know: it's good for business).  Cozied up in a shaded nook, enjoying my tall half-caf (half a cup of decaf, topped off with regular) coffee, I ponder this post.

     I'm jotting notes about the tension in churches between the so-called spiritual world and the physical world. Drive by a church building.  Solid, upright, above the fray, right?  However, inside that building, someone behind a desk is juggling the accounts, attempting to meet the costs of running that business.  Are the tithes paid and up-to-date?  Can that empty office space be rented? Will another fund-raiser be necessary this year? How do ministers and lay administrators walk the fine line between funding the "here-now” and delivering the “hereafter”?

     A long-haired blond 40-ish woman, clad in hip jeans ending in boots, settles at a table next to mine.
     “My grandfather worked his whole life for that money,” I overhear her declare into her cell phone. “Now it's gone. The church took it!”
     How can I concentrate on my work?  Did a character just walk into my musings?
     My neighbor tosses her hair, punctuating her words with swings of her crossed leg. “Rich people don't know what it is, y'know, to scrimp and save.”
     She listens before continuing, “You're right, I guess they're not slackers, but.....”
     I wish I could hear the other end of the phone.
     “I know, I know, the church is just the body.....” She swings her leg faster. “God, I wish I could live like Jesus, but...” She listens.
     She leans forward, freezes her body like she's holding her breath, and lowers the pitch of her voice.
     My right ear hones in.
     “My husband doesn't get it. He never had anything. He's saving for retirement. And now,” she throws back her hair and punches the air, “he says I want to give it all away.”
     She slings her purse over her shoulder, gets up and starts pacing the pavement, then turns toward the parking lot.
     Wait, I want to say, don't go.  How can you leave right now?

     I conjure up her story. Did her grandfather's church make eternal promises to him in exchange for his earthly assets?  Is she feeling torn between her husband's thrift and her own church's teachings?  Is her church walking that age-old tightrope: Give us your money in the here-now. We'll take care of you in the hereafter.
    
     My organ bench gave me a front-row seat to this drama when I was director in a prominent Anglican church, one with big bills not quite balanced by big hearts.  One Sunday, the "bricks and mortar" costs must have weighed heavy on the rector. It was Passion Sunday, the week before Palm Sunday. The choir, all professional singers well-trained by yours truly (of course), had presented sections of Johann Sebastian Bach's B Minor Mass.  Like a "Lessons and Carols" service at Christmas, the musical sections were interspersed with scriptural readings.

     Picture a gorgeous sanctuary, brass railings, two-story high, elegant stained glass windows, and filtered sunlight radiating mist-like overhead. The program had concluded with the choir's stirring “Crucifixus”, cadencing in a shimmering sotto voce which gradually evaporated into the heavens.

    I lifted my hands from the organ keys, feeling proud and satisfied, and looking forward to the rector's words, words of thanks and appreciation, which he would unfailingly extend to the choir members and their director for weeks of effort and commitment to the spiritual life of the parish.

The rector,

a lanky

six-foot-four inch

squash-playing

WASP,

walked

to the lectern

and,

 in his

very best,

high-pitched

squeaky

twang,

said,

“I want y'all to remember the White Elephant Sale.”

*     *     *

    “Nature’s great masterpiece, an Elephant. The only harmless great thing; the giant of beasts.”

                                                                                       John Donne in The Progress of the Soul

Language Barrier

                Fünf Wochen nach dieser Uraufführung schied er freiwillig aus dem Leben.

     Something puzzles me about this German sentence. I can pick out individual words.  But, all together, what is the meaning? Is my gut response correct?

     I didn't go looking for this sentence; it found me. When I riffled through my music closet last week - while writing about the Cleveland church fire, memories of my German experience came to mind.  What a cold, lonely Fulbright year I spent at the Schleswig Holstein Music Academy and North German School of Organ Music or, auf Deutsch, Schleswig-Holsteinische Musikakademie und Norddeutsche Orgelschule!  No central heating, limited hot water - only two hours a day, no television and no one who spoke English.  (Certainly this was better than tent-living in some desert.)  

     My German was so elementary, I didn't even know how to complain.  All I could do was send letters home and wait for return mail.  My mother recently handed me a stack of aerograms she'd saved.

Aerogram addressed to my parents, April 1966

     Out of curiosity now, I searched the Internet for the organ school's website. In the left-hand column, I selected staff. A window, displaying names going back to post-war years, appeared. There he was: my organ teacher, Manfred Kluge. I clicked on his name and his Wikipedia page opened, in German. First, I checked his birth date, 16. Juli 1928 - so he was only 37 years old when I met him. Then, his death date, 27. Februar 1971. Wait – that was less than five years after I returned to the US. He would have been only 42.

     My eyes raced to the bottom of the page: Fünf Wochen nach dieser Uraufführung schied er freiwillig aus dem Leben. I hi-lighted the text and right-clicked on 'Translate with Bing'. The German words changed to 'Five weeks after the premiere he retired voluntarily from the life'. Huh? I didn't want to believe what I was thinking. Bing is just a machine, I thought. Could it have missed some nuance?

     I googled "translation" and selected  “One Hour Translation” which advertised real humans at $.07 per word. I submitted six words, sheid er freiwilling aus dem Leben. Similar to Bing, the answer came back: he voluntarily departed this life. I emailed the translator: “Is this a euphemism – a polite way to talk about suicide?" You know the answer.

     I've been disturbed all week. There's so much about Herr Kluge's life I didn't know. How he had suffered during the war, how his father was killed, how he grew to want a better world full of peace and compassion. How the lyrics for his last composition – performed only weeks before his demise - included poetry about love and death.

     He left a wife and children.  I  remember meeting them when, one day after an organ lesson, he invited me to his home for supper.  Perhaps he felt sorry for me, having to return alone to my dormitory. I recall walking down a leafy lane to a house set in the woods like in a Gothic novel. Each room, built with its own fireplace, opened onto a central hallway. Moving around the house meant opening and closing doors as you went. We sat around a monastery-like wood table, sharing wurst on thin rye bread, and passing a bottle of rum.  Just a splash stirred into my tea with a spoon of sugar warmed me nicely.   I still like this concoction!

     Now I searched my book shelves and found this birthday greeting tucked inside a Luebeck photo book. Liebes Frauelein Donna Harris! Dated May 7, 1966. Just seeing his handwriting gives me goosebumps.

    I regret we never spoke in any depth.  But what could he have discussed with me?  All I knew revolved around music, family and school. Besides, my novice speaking ability further restricted any efforts to share ideas and aspirations. And Manfred did not speak English.  He must have felt impatient with me at times.  How do you teach complex concepts to someone without adequate language skills?  Fortunately, we both understood musical terms expressed in Italian, the international language for music.  

     I remember Herr Kluge's curiosity.  What was Amerika like?  He wanted to travel here. Why did he give up his dreams on February 27, 1971?  I'll never know.  How I wish I could have connected with the person behind the teacher.  At the end, he was organist-choirmaster at the beautiful St. Jacobi church.  Below is a photo of the organ pipe work.  He would have climbed narrow, winding stairs to the organ console on the second balcony.

        Listen to the St. Jacobi bells as they would have sounded throughout Luebeck on the day of Herr Kluge's funeral.

     RIP.  Donna

A Lament

                 From on high hath he sent fire into my bones, and it prevaileth against them; He hath spread
                 a net for my feet, he hath turned me back: He hath made me desolate and faint all the day.
                                                                                             Hebrew Bible, Lamentations 1:13
                                                                                             American Standard Version

Sometimes only an old word, an ancient one, will do.

     The trials and tribulations of the world come at me fast – and faster – these days. Ads for speedy Internet and wireless devices slide through my mail slot or pop up before my eyes. Seems like I'm not supposed to miss any Breaking News.  Is my broadband Internet access fast enough? Is my computer's speed sluggish? Do I need to update Adobe Flash Player for “superior HD video performance with hardware acceleration of video”?

     All this news disturbs my equilibrium. I remind myself how lucky I am – and vow not to complain about little things. The American Red Cross emails me graphics-enhanced browser windows describing international needs.  Oh, these poor people, I think, as I click Donate in the lower-right-corner box. Right out of my Inbox and, hopefully, out of my mind.

     But some events can't be dismissed so easily. Like Timothy Robson's church story. After I surfed last week to find an example for my post, Speaking Volumes, I continued reading his blog.  That's when a heart-wrenching post grabbed my attention, A Year Ago – EACC Fire Remembered.

     Timothy writes from Cleveland: “It was a year ago today in the early hours of the morning that fire destroyed Euclid Avenue Congregational Church of the United Church of Christ, which was my church home (and employer) for twenty-seven years. The fire began during a freak thunder and lightning storm late the night before.” After detailing the trauma, he tells how it occurred the week before Palm Sunday, a high point in the church year. Then he adds: “The impact to me personally was considerable, since the church’s organ was lost, as was the choir’s music library and much of my own personal organ music library.”

     The church's pipe organ – the hymnals and choir music – his personal music library! Stunned, I slumped in my desk chair. It was like being punched in the stomach. I related personally to his loss. How would I have coped?

     Several days later, I visited my music closet. I leafed through paper music editions which sit undisturbed for months now that I'm retired.  Piles of yellowed memories. The Cesar Franck's Trois Chorals pour Grand Orgue – I performed the A Minor Choral on my master's recital at the Church of the Heavenly Rest in New York City (aka The Church of the Celestial Snooze to students). The Liturgical Year: Orgelbuechlein by Johann Sebastian Bach. To hold my place at the practice organ at the Schleswig-Holstein Orgelschule, in Luebeck, Germany, I'd pencilled “Zueruck [back] in 5 Minueten” on the inside cover. George Frideric Handel's MESSIAH, an orchestral reduction score for organ,  a 10.5 x 14 inch monstrosity, impossible to flip pages and almost as impossible to play. It cost $16.95 in 1976. Probably priceless today.

     It's not just another hurricane, another earth quake, another accident when some one's tragedy hits home. It's not so easy to send off a donation, an email or even a written note. I hunt for proper words, but only find overused sentiments that don't seem appropriate - too limited, too shallow, too easy. That's when I seek the help of antiquity. What do the old books have to say?

     It is in the Hebrew Bible, what Christians used to call the Old Testament, that I find words that suit, poetry that digs into my worldly self, expressions that ring true. Especially in Lamentations, where the poet wrestles with the destruction of the Holy City of Jerusalem. How could God let that happen? Wasn't the Temple so sacred that it was forever protected?

     My contemporary self no longer accepts glib explanations from external authorities. I'm left to excavate my own layers of doubt, to sift through the accumulated silt of lectures, readings and sermons - to sink into the depth of my Self as Meister Eckhardt taught back in the early 14th century.

     In the end, I commune with the wisdom of the ancients.  The sadness I feel for Timothy Robson's loss leads me to the poetry of journeys lived in other times, in other places, in other unknowns. Here I find the ancient word that describes the human anguish at living in the mystery. The word leads me to the way of all shared loss and pain, historic and current. I lament.

Speaking Volumes

     Out of the corner of my eye, I see a full-figured elderly matron making her way up the center aisle, every step an exertion assisted by her cane. I'm half-curious where she's going, but force my eyes back to the organ's music rack. I'm in the middle of the Postlude at the end of the worship service. I need to pay attention to what my hands and feet are doing. (I once lost my focus when playing a familiar hymn – well, that's another story.)

     The Postlude is when organists literally pull out all the stops. Parishioners expect to hear their marvelous organ played by their marvelous organist as well as get their money's worth. Very few people play the organ, yet many donate to its maintenance and periodic improvements.  (Got a loose $100,000? )

     The matron is approaching the chancel stairs, close enough so I can see her jowled face, painted with dabs of rouge and lipstick. Her determined trudge seems to have one destination – me.  (Here's a similar Anglican edifice with a long aisle like my church.  Click for an idea of the atmosphere and acoustics.)

     As my fingers stretch and hold the final chord, my peripheral vision confirms that the matron is near. In fact, she's climbing the steps. Now she's so close I can hear her labored breathing. My heart pounds. She halts at the top of the marble stairs, faces me, and opens her mouth. "My dear, the organ is too loud."

     What did I respond? I hope my remarks were charitable, appreciative, and polite. Only thirty years old and new to this church job – I was too young to see any humor in the situation. And too recent to have a complete grasp of the building's acoustics or how sound acted in different areas of the nave. Was she right? When I hit the crescendo pedal to reach the climax of a toccata, were people covering their ears?

*     *     *

    The level of sound – the volume – is such an individual matter. The physics of sound  is daunting for most of us. Even a power point designed for youngsters is complicated. But here's a clue from that video under "The Facts of Sound". It reads: "Our ears take in sound waves and turn them into signals that go to our brains." That's it! Our brains store our ideas, so-to-speak, about the characteristics of sound.

     So my brain gives me varying messages. Take my neighbor's party music, for example. If I'm trying to sleep next door, I feel irritated. But if I'm dancing up a storm at that party, I enjoy the booming bass notes. Or if I'm going to the Crawfish Festival on the St. Petersburg waterfront with my knock-out date, I hardly hear the blaring decibels. But if I'm the proud owner of a pricey nearby condo, I'm reaching for ear plugs.

     What if I'm an elderly matron who's tithed to my church for decades - the same church which my mother endowed in her estate? What if I feel ignored by the young rector who doesn't speak to me by name? You bet I've got an opinion – and I'm going to deliver it to that kid organist.

* * *

     At the next staff meeting, I related the post-Postlude comment.
     "Oh, I think you're doing a great job," the rector said, "Good leadership on the hymns."
     "I hear only good comments," said the religious education director who is stuck with kids off in the dank basement during the 11 AM service.
     "You can't please everyone," said the janitor, who knows a thing or two about that subject.
    
     Even if I couldn't please everyone, I did assign myself a do-it-yourself class in pipe organ design. I studied the placement of the pipe chambers (rooms of pipes hung around the building) in the sanctuary - the Swell, Positive, Great and Antiphonal sets of pipes. I enlisted a volunteer to sit at the organ console and hold down chords using different combinations of pipes while I walked around, listening.

     In a sanctuary with empty pews, sound reverberates brightly. So I could only approximate the Sunday morning sound when pews full of human bodies soak up a portion of the overtones. In the end, I did not change my registrations.  I left those combinations of pipe sounds exactly as I'd previously set them up to my satisfaction - so I could transition from very soft to very loud by just hitting the different knobs or tabs as I rendered the music.

                                                                            *     *     *

     Some time later, perhaps a month, I'm nearing the end of Buxtehude's "Gelobet seist du, Jesu Christ" as worshippers file out of the sanctuary. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a familiar figure. Oh, no! The same woman! I continue playing, concentrating on making my fingers and feet strike the correct notes.

     As I reach the final cadence and toggle the organ switch to Off, I swivel on the bench toward my visitor. Hints of a smile poke through her uplifted jowls. I relax slightly as I greet her.
     Leaning on her cane and twisting her neck in my direction, she says, "My dear, I want you to know -  there's been a great improvement."

                                                                             *     *     *

     Sometimes, words speak louder than organs.  It's Grand Prix race week in St. Petersburg.  Time for earplugs!  Donna