Yesterday the world was glorious. It’s not so bad today. In fact, for the last few weeks there have been days when I just wanted to be outside doing anything but heading back indoors. I have been working on the planters in the front of the house, much to the delight of my neighbors. There are ranunculus, pansies, petunias, geraniums, violas, and a strain of dianthus that I hope decides to take over the whole front yard. I do not know how many hours I have spent on the three planters, but I know that I am well into double digits. Yesterday I started about two o’clock in the afternoon and did not finish until well after 7:00. Afterwards, I was as sore as a boil. The shower and clean clothes helped, but it was when I finally went back outside and sat in the glider on the front porch that I finally found out what I had been doing.
The sun was setting, far to the west. There were little pinks and blues still bidding for sky-time, but I closed my eyes to listen to the wind. Across the street, Gordon has a stand of musical river birches that catches the wind and fondles it until it moans. Next door Ron has a large conifer that does the same. Down the street my friend Vaughn has an elm that is tall enough to obscure thirty percent of the horizon and sways in rhythm with every whisper of a breeze. I cannot bear to be indoors when the wind is blowing.
Whenever I sit by myself out there with all of those natural instruments in play, I cannot help but think of one of the final scenes in the John Travolta movie, “Phenomenon”. George, the character that has been deeply affected by an unidentified power, spends his down-time listening to and watching the wind in his trees. If I recall correctly, he says that he is listening to the earth breathe. I think that he also tells his love interest that when he is gone, that is, when he dies, that he will be like the wind, that he will always be with her. Again, I am probably remembering this poorly, but I think that the final scene features the girl, Lace, sitting with her two children on the front porch, watching and listening to the wind. If the movie didn’t end that way, it should have.
I thought about my experience last night and said to myself, “Well, if the movie was that memorable, particularly on a visceral level, the soundtrack must have been marvelous”. So, I went on-line to see what I could find.
Thomas Newman, one of the sons of Alfred Newman the composer, wrote the original score for the movie. Among many others, he also wrote the scores for “Reckless”, “Finding Nemo”, “Wall-E”, “Pay it Forward”, “Little Women” and “Shawshank Redemption”. For the last two movie scores, in 1994, he received a double nomination for an Academy Award, the only double nomination that year. He did receive an Academy Award in 2004 for “Finding Nemo”. When I finally located the soundtrack CD, I listened to all of the cuts trying to find one that had something of the spirit of the movie in it. There were pieces by Jewel, Peter Gabriel, Taj Mahal, Marvin Gaye, The Iguanas, and several others. I said to myself, “When did these come into the plot? I don’t remember any of this stuff. I hate this stuff!” I could not find anything composed by Thomas Newman for the movie, but I did find something that seemed to come close to the spirit of the film: “The Farm” from “Road to Perdition”.
Having dissed the rest of the non-Newman soundtrack, I have to say that there was for me one song that I liked: Eric Clapton’s “Change the World”. It does not and did not contribute to my enjoyment of “Phenomenon”, but it has a nice sentiment and his guitar work is wonderful. I will try hard to think of Clapton’s piece as I sit on the front porch tonight, trying to see if I can make it fit the birches, pines, and elms. I probably will not think about it long, even though I am trying to do that very thing he sings of. Sorry Eric......
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Thursday, April 9, 2009
I'll Go Where You Want Me to Go
I had a jolt this morning as I sat at my computer. The phone rang and when the caller ID came up I said to myself, “Hmmm… That’s a little odd. Who would be calling me from there at this hour?”
When I picked up the phone a sweet voice said, “Hello. Is this Paul N. Hyde? This is Kristie calling from President Thomas Monson’s office. Do you have a minute or two?” A thousand things went through my mind in the nano-second before I responded in the affirmative. The real reason why anyone from the President’s office would be calling me never occurred to me; I had forgotten all about it. I wrote a letter last Sunday morning.
5 April 2009
Dear President Monson,
When I came home last night from the Priesthood Session of General Conference, my wife Pat asked me how it was. I said, “Let me tell you about the closing hymn…..”
My branch of the Hyde family joined the Church in Freedom, New York, in 1834, at the time Joseph Smith and Parley P. Pratt were recruiting members for Zion’s Camp. They eventually moved from that little valley to Kirtland, Ohio, and from thence to Missouri, Nauvoo, the Salt Lake Valley, Kaysville, Logan, and finally, Auburn, Wyoming. My wife’s family in the Church travelled half way around the world from England to Utah, with several stops along the way, eventually ending up in Beaver, Utah. During the Great Depression, my Grandfather, his wife, and his youngest son moved to Southern California. Just before World War II, that Star Valley boy met a girl whose immediate ancestors hailed from Missouri and Minnesota. They married in the fall of 1941; I was born into that inactive part-member family in July of 1942. About that same time, the Girl from Beaver met a fellow from Duluth, Minnesota, a French Canadian Swede, who swept her off her feet in Seattle, Washington. My wife was born into that inactive part-member family in August of 1945. Although I would stay in California for most of my childhood, Pat’s peregrinations would take her from Washington to Nevada, and finally to northern Minnesota where I met her during my tour of duty with the Air Force in 1963. After my mission to southern Mexico, Pat and I married in the St. George Temple; the officiator was her grandfather, David Heber Edwards. “I’ll go where you want me to go……”
I guess that I have always wanted to be a teacher, even from the time I was a child. I learned in school so that I could share with others the knowledge I had acquired. As a result of the inactivity of my father’s little part-member family, I was not taught that I should be baptized at age eight, but I was given rather extraordinary opportunities to learn about the Savior, his life and ministry, that were not part of the established curriculum of the Primary, the Sunday School, or the Mutual Improvement Association. Eventually, the members of the Church sought me out, and on the 4th of April 1959, I was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. My wife experienced a similar childhood in Minnesota, except that her faithful mother was the instrument by which she learned the fundamental principles of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. She was nine years old when she was finally baptized, but still had but limited access to the formal organization of the Church until she graduated from High School. Before we were married, both Pat and I were fervent in our studies of the doctrines of the Kingdom, her library being as extensive as my own. I spent three years of my tour with the military actively preparing myself for my mission to Mexico. By the time that I left for Veracruz, I had read almost every LDS book in print, including the various Histories of the Church, the writings of the Presidents of the Church, and other Brethren of the General Authorities of the Church. From 1961 to 1964, I hitch-hiked from Duluth, Minnesota, to Salt Lake City, in both April and October, so that I could attend General Conference. There was a special place in the Tabernacle set aside for men in uniform. I sat there during every session taking notes, being uplifted. After those sessions I had the opportunity to shake hands with the likes of N. Eldon Tanner, Gordon B. Hinckley, Marion D. Hanks, and, yes, even Thomas S. Monson. I shared the insights that I had in Conference with those around me in Duluth. From August of 1964 to November of 1966, I shared those things, and many others, with my companions and the people of southern Mexico, having to learn another language altogether in order to do the latter. I found out about the Church Educational System while on my mission; I had never heard of the Seminaries and Institutes before then. I determined that that was what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. I attended BYU, taking classes in Spanish and English Literature (a double major) and in the process picked up 30 hours of religion classes from the likes of Ivan J. Barrett, Robert J. Matthews, and many others on the faculty in the Religion Department. I began teaching Seminary in the fall of 1969 at Bountiful High School Seminary. Shortly thereafter, I was asked to teach Institute classes at Cypress College in Buena Park, California. During my 35 years with CES, I taught students at Purdue University, UCLA, USC, the University of New Mexico, and finally at Utah Valley State College. In all of this, my wife and I have tried to teach the Gospel of Jesus Christ as revealed in these latter days to the servants of God. “I’ll say what you want me to say….”
From the time that Pat and I became formally active in the Church, first as young single adults and then as a married couple, we have willingly accepted the various callings that have come to us by revelation and the laying on of hands. Pat has served in almost every capacity in every auxiliary in the Church; I have been blessed to serve in various callings in the Wards and Stakes in which we have lived. Each of the callings has required us to be better people than we were before we were called. For the most part, we rose to each occasion. As we have learned the principles and ordinances of the Gospel, we have tried to apply them directly to our daily walk and talk. Wherein we have been successful, we have been fundamentally changed, laying aside a portion of the natural man and slowly but surely partaking of the divine nature. We are not perfect by any means, but we have improved and are still improving. We have tried to raise our children in righteousness and in the attempt have become better ourselves. We have served the living and the dead, and we think that no matter where we may find ourselves, in this world or in the next, we will be somewhat comfortable with those who are like-minded, those who are trying to please God the Father. “I’ll be what you want me to be…..”
Last night I was silently celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of my baptism. I wanted the day to be a little different from the rest because I wanted to be a little different as a result of it. As I sat in the Stake Center waiting for the session to begin, I prayed that I might be particularly edified by what was said and done, that I might be more determined, more committed to the Gospel of Jesus Christ, his Church and Kingdom here upon the earth. The speakers were wonderful; I might easily flatter you and your counselors. But the singular moment came, the capstone of the meeting, when the young men from BYU-Idaho sang the closing hymn. I like the sentiments of the song, but I have never really enjoyed the music for some reason. I will sing it when called upon, but I would not choose it if left to my own devices; I much prefer “Ye Elders of Israel”, written by my great-great grandfather, Cyrus H. Wheelock. But whoever did the arrangement of “I’ll Go Where You Want Me to Go” somehow got inside of the hymn; it was transformed into something glorious. The sentiments and music amplified each other and I could not have wished for a greater blessing than to have heard that hymn sung that way. If I may say so without being misunderstood, it was as if the entire Church were singing “Happy Birthday” to me last night. I came home a better man, or at least a man who more than at any other time in his life wants to “go”, to “say”, and to “be”, what the “Dear Lord” desires of me.
This has been a long letter. I hope that you have arrived at this point without having been wearied by my pile of words. But I do have a request to add, if it is not too unseemly. Would it be possible to communicate my feelings to the one who arranged the closing hymn last night and to the choir itself for their performance? I don’t know how I would go about doing that myself. I would appreciate any effort in that direction.
Today I will watch the Sessions of Conference with anticipation. It was fifty years ago to the day that I was confirmed a member of the Church. I remember standing in my first Fast and Testimony meeting, begging the saints in the Chino California Branch of the Church to forgive me for anything that I might have done during the first sixteen years of my life that might have brought embarrassment to them, that they might forgive me my weaknesses and follies. I believe that they did. I feel the same way today, that I might be at home with the people of the Lord, that I might not be a stranger or a foreigner to the Kingdom of God, but a fellow citizen every whit. I am grateful for those around me who have my best interests at heart, who love and cherish me as a member of their eternal family. I treasure the friendships that I enjoy in the quorums of the Priesthood, for the spirit of brotherhood that only those quorums can provide.
Know, President Monson, that Pat and I love you, and are willing to follow your righteous counsel, wherever it may take us, whatever we are required to say, whatever we may become as a result.
Sincerely,
President Monson’s secretary had called me to ask if it would be all right for him to send a copy of the letter to the two men in Rexburg, Idaho, who had been responsible for the arrangement and the performance of the hymn. I said that it would be perfect in my eyes to do so. What a delightful thing to have happen as the result of a singular five minutes on a Saturday night in April! Little connections of joy and happiness, a little moment that changed my life and perhaps the lives of others. What could be better than that?
When I picked up the phone a sweet voice said, “Hello. Is this Paul N. Hyde? This is Kristie calling from President Thomas Monson’s office. Do you have a minute or two?” A thousand things went through my mind in the nano-second before I responded in the affirmative. The real reason why anyone from the President’s office would be calling me never occurred to me; I had forgotten all about it. I wrote a letter last Sunday morning.
5 April 2009
Dear President Monson,
When I came home last night from the Priesthood Session of General Conference, my wife Pat asked me how it was. I said, “Let me tell you about the closing hymn…..”
My branch of the Hyde family joined the Church in Freedom, New York, in 1834, at the time Joseph Smith and Parley P. Pratt were recruiting members for Zion’s Camp. They eventually moved from that little valley to Kirtland, Ohio, and from thence to Missouri, Nauvoo, the Salt Lake Valley, Kaysville, Logan, and finally, Auburn, Wyoming. My wife’s family in the Church travelled half way around the world from England to Utah, with several stops along the way, eventually ending up in Beaver, Utah. During the Great Depression, my Grandfather, his wife, and his youngest son moved to Southern California. Just before World War II, that Star Valley boy met a girl whose immediate ancestors hailed from Missouri and Minnesota. They married in the fall of 1941; I was born into that inactive part-member family in July of 1942. About that same time, the Girl from Beaver met a fellow from Duluth, Minnesota, a French Canadian Swede, who swept her off her feet in Seattle, Washington. My wife was born into that inactive part-member family in August of 1945. Although I would stay in California for most of my childhood, Pat’s peregrinations would take her from Washington to Nevada, and finally to northern Minnesota where I met her during my tour of duty with the Air Force in 1963. After my mission to southern Mexico, Pat and I married in the St. George Temple; the officiator was her grandfather, David Heber Edwards. “I’ll go where you want me to go……”
I guess that I have always wanted to be a teacher, even from the time I was a child. I learned in school so that I could share with others the knowledge I had acquired. As a result of the inactivity of my father’s little part-member family, I was not taught that I should be baptized at age eight, but I was given rather extraordinary opportunities to learn about the Savior, his life and ministry, that were not part of the established curriculum of the Primary, the Sunday School, or the Mutual Improvement Association. Eventually, the members of the Church sought me out, and on the 4th of April 1959, I was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. My wife experienced a similar childhood in Minnesota, except that her faithful mother was the instrument by which she learned the fundamental principles of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. She was nine years old when she was finally baptized, but still had but limited access to the formal organization of the Church until she graduated from High School. Before we were married, both Pat and I were fervent in our studies of the doctrines of the Kingdom, her library being as extensive as my own. I spent three years of my tour with the military actively preparing myself for my mission to Mexico. By the time that I left for Veracruz, I had read almost every LDS book in print, including the various Histories of the Church, the writings of the Presidents of the Church, and other Brethren of the General Authorities of the Church. From 1961 to 1964, I hitch-hiked from Duluth, Minnesota, to Salt Lake City, in both April and October, so that I could attend General Conference. There was a special place in the Tabernacle set aside for men in uniform. I sat there during every session taking notes, being uplifted. After those sessions I had the opportunity to shake hands with the likes of N. Eldon Tanner, Gordon B. Hinckley, Marion D. Hanks, and, yes, even Thomas S. Monson. I shared the insights that I had in Conference with those around me in Duluth. From August of 1964 to November of 1966, I shared those things, and many others, with my companions and the people of southern Mexico, having to learn another language altogether in order to do the latter. I found out about the Church Educational System while on my mission; I had never heard of the Seminaries and Institutes before then. I determined that that was what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. I attended BYU, taking classes in Spanish and English Literature (a double major) and in the process picked up 30 hours of religion classes from the likes of Ivan J. Barrett, Robert J. Matthews, and many others on the faculty in the Religion Department. I began teaching Seminary in the fall of 1969 at Bountiful High School Seminary. Shortly thereafter, I was asked to teach Institute classes at Cypress College in Buena Park, California. During my 35 years with CES, I taught students at Purdue University, UCLA, USC, the University of New Mexico, and finally at Utah Valley State College. In all of this, my wife and I have tried to teach the Gospel of Jesus Christ as revealed in these latter days to the servants of God. “I’ll say what you want me to say….”
From the time that Pat and I became formally active in the Church, first as young single adults and then as a married couple, we have willingly accepted the various callings that have come to us by revelation and the laying on of hands. Pat has served in almost every capacity in every auxiliary in the Church; I have been blessed to serve in various callings in the Wards and Stakes in which we have lived. Each of the callings has required us to be better people than we were before we were called. For the most part, we rose to each occasion. As we have learned the principles and ordinances of the Gospel, we have tried to apply them directly to our daily walk and talk. Wherein we have been successful, we have been fundamentally changed, laying aside a portion of the natural man and slowly but surely partaking of the divine nature. We are not perfect by any means, but we have improved and are still improving. We have tried to raise our children in righteousness and in the attempt have become better ourselves. We have served the living and the dead, and we think that no matter where we may find ourselves, in this world or in the next, we will be somewhat comfortable with those who are like-minded, those who are trying to please God the Father. “I’ll be what you want me to be…..”
Last night I was silently celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of my baptism. I wanted the day to be a little different from the rest because I wanted to be a little different as a result of it. As I sat in the Stake Center waiting for the session to begin, I prayed that I might be particularly edified by what was said and done, that I might be more determined, more committed to the Gospel of Jesus Christ, his Church and Kingdom here upon the earth. The speakers were wonderful; I might easily flatter you and your counselors. But the singular moment came, the capstone of the meeting, when the young men from BYU-Idaho sang the closing hymn. I like the sentiments of the song, but I have never really enjoyed the music for some reason. I will sing it when called upon, but I would not choose it if left to my own devices; I much prefer “Ye Elders of Israel”, written by my great-great grandfather, Cyrus H. Wheelock. But whoever did the arrangement of “I’ll Go Where You Want Me to Go” somehow got inside of the hymn; it was transformed into something glorious. The sentiments and music amplified each other and I could not have wished for a greater blessing than to have heard that hymn sung that way. If I may say so without being misunderstood, it was as if the entire Church were singing “Happy Birthday” to me last night. I came home a better man, or at least a man who more than at any other time in his life wants to “go”, to “say”, and to “be”, what the “Dear Lord” desires of me.
This has been a long letter. I hope that you have arrived at this point without having been wearied by my pile of words. But I do have a request to add, if it is not too unseemly. Would it be possible to communicate my feelings to the one who arranged the closing hymn last night and to the choir itself for their performance? I don’t know how I would go about doing that myself. I would appreciate any effort in that direction.
Today I will watch the Sessions of Conference with anticipation. It was fifty years ago to the day that I was confirmed a member of the Church. I remember standing in my first Fast and Testimony meeting, begging the saints in the Chino California Branch of the Church to forgive me for anything that I might have done during the first sixteen years of my life that might have brought embarrassment to them, that they might forgive me my weaknesses and follies. I believe that they did. I feel the same way today, that I might be at home with the people of the Lord, that I might not be a stranger or a foreigner to the Kingdom of God, but a fellow citizen every whit. I am grateful for those around me who have my best interests at heart, who love and cherish me as a member of their eternal family. I treasure the friendships that I enjoy in the quorums of the Priesthood, for the spirit of brotherhood that only those quorums can provide.
Know, President Monson, that Pat and I love you, and are willing to follow your righteous counsel, wherever it may take us, whatever we are required to say, whatever we may become as a result.
Sincerely,
PNH
President Monson’s secretary had called me to ask if it would be all right for him to send a copy of the letter to the two men in Rexburg, Idaho, who had been responsible for the arrangement and the performance of the hymn. I said that it would be perfect in my eyes to do so. What a delightful thing to have happen as the result of a singular five minutes on a Saturday night in April! Little connections of joy and happiness, a little moment that changed my life and perhaps the lives of others. What could be better than that?
Monday, March 30, 2009
Pure Philology
I woke up this morning at 2:30 with my brain on fire. That happens to me from time to time, particularly if the events of the previous day have been provoking. I went to choir practice in the afternoon and my friend Gordon spent part of the time trying to help the members of the choir comprehend that the words of hymns are not merely sounds to be articulated, but sentiments to be conveyed by the meaning of those words in combination with one another. As we went through the several verses of “Precious Savior, Dear Redeemer”, a hymn that we are going to sing on Easter Sunday, he asked about each noun, verb, adjective, and adverb, soliciting from us the meanings attached to them. Our practice was considerably improved.
Precious Savior, dear Redeemer, Thy sweet message now impart.
May thy Spirit, pure and fervid, Enter ev'ry timid heart;
Carry there the swift conviction, Turning back the sinful tide.
Precious Savior, dear Redeemer, May each soul in thee abide.
Precious Savior, dear Redeemer, We are weak but thou art strong;
Precious Savior, dear Redeemer, We are weak but thou art strong;
In thy infinite compassion, Stay the tide of sin and wrong.
Keep thy loving arms around us; Keep us in the narrow way.
Precious Savior, dear Redeemer, Let us never from thee stray.
Precious Savior, dear Redeemer, Thou wilt bind the broken heart.
Precious Savior, dear Redeemer, Thou wilt bind the broken heart.
Let not sorrow overwhelm us; Dry the bitter tears that start.
Curb the winds and calm the billows; Bid the angry tempest cease.
Precious Savior, dear Redeemer, Grant us everlasting peace.
H.R Palmer
During the latter part of the Third Watch this morning, I began to think about my own response to language. I wondered if I, like J.R.R. Tolkien, could consider myself a pure philologist. “I like history”, he said in a letter to his son Christopher, “and am moved by it, but its finest moments for me are those in which it throws light on words and names.” Tolkien frequently spoke of his “linguistic aesthetic”, his predilection for certain kinds of sounds and rhythms in language that particularly pleased him. I find that I am not particularly satisfied with anything that I have writtn unless it can be read out loud, no matter how long a sentence may be, no matter how lengthy an essay may be; good writing is a joy to read out loud. In conjunction with the sounds and rhythm of any piece of prose or poetry is the flow of ideas that illuminate the mind and heart. This only comes when a writer actually has something to say, when he has felt or understood something profoundly. This, more often than not, is the great stumbling block for most erstwhile writers. Shakespeare’s MacBeth laments something of this meaningless prattle that many writers choose to serve up to their readers.
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
This, of course, is Gordon’s point exactly. To sing without the accompanying intended emotion subverts the whole point of performing.
I wrote earlier of John Denver’s “Perhaps Love”, a piece that was originally performed by Denver and Placido Domingo. Many years after the song first aired, John Denver performed “Perhaps Love” in a live concert somewhere in Southern California. A friend who was at the performance commented afterward that for some reason that particular version, just the singer and his guitar, had moved the audience more deeply than anything that he done that night. Denver smiled and said, “It was something that I learned from Placido. He sang his part with emotion, each word having its own articulation, its own sound, its own emphasis, according to its meaning. ‘Cloud’ and ‘warm’ should be sung differently than ‘storm’ and ‘steel’ and I have tried to do more of that when I perform.” Imagine that! Many people cannot abide the duet and prefer the solo, but the power of Denver’s solo performances derived directly from the collaboration. Domingo helped Denver get inside of his own creations.
There is a point of diminishing returns, however. I write songs to express feelings that I have bubbling up inside of me. Sometimes the feelings are so strong during the composition that I cannot publicly perform the song until I have sung the piece over and over again, pushing the emotions down. Sometimes I get so far inside of a song that I forget what I am doing, even failing to play the chords properly on the guitar. I frequently have to practice a set for months in order to strike a balance between the sentiments and the skills.
When the choir first gathered to practice the three hymns that we are going to sing on Easter, Gordon asked me to talk to the members of the choir about the historical setting for “Peace Be Unto Thy Soul”, a work that he had composed based on a passage of scripture. I did so with some expertise. The effect on the altos, where one of my daughters was performing, was dramatic. Jennifer said afterwards that the women around her could not sing, they were so deeply moved by what I had said. As we rode together to the practice yesterday, Jenny said, “Hey! Gordon didn’t ask you to talk about the hymns this week, did he?” I replied in the negative. “Good,” she said. “I would really like to get through the thing this week.”
Two weeks ago I had no trouble whatsoever singing “Peace Be Unto Thy Soul”. Yesterday, I could not finish the piece at all. My knowledge, my preparation for my little talk two weeks ago, had steeled me somewhat against the power of the lyrics. With that knowledge fading from my mind, my heart unabashedly accepted the significance of what Gordon had written and I was undone. Hopefully I will do better next week and the week after that.
Words mean things. They represent little pieces of who and what we are. They allow us to share the innermost parts of our private sanctuaries with each other. Communication is, in the end, “communion” with all of the power that particular word can convey. We invite others to drink from the living waters of our soul and by so doing we are mutually and eternally bound to each other. If done properly, the union is accompanied by brotherhood and love. I am glad that I know Gordon Jessop.
H.R Palmer
During the latter part of the Third Watch this morning, I began to think about my own response to language. I wondered if I, like J.R.R. Tolkien, could consider myself a pure philologist. “I like history”, he said in a letter to his son Christopher, “and am moved by it, but its finest moments for me are those in which it throws light on words and names.” Tolkien frequently spoke of his “linguistic aesthetic”, his predilection for certain kinds of sounds and rhythms in language that particularly pleased him. I find that I am not particularly satisfied with anything that I have writtn unless it can be read out loud, no matter how long a sentence may be, no matter how lengthy an essay may be; good writing is a joy to read out loud. In conjunction with the sounds and rhythm of any piece of prose or poetry is the flow of ideas that illuminate the mind and heart. This only comes when a writer actually has something to say, when he has felt or understood something profoundly. This, more often than not, is the great stumbling block for most erstwhile writers. Shakespeare’s MacBeth laments something of this meaningless prattle that many writers choose to serve up to their readers.
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
This, of course, is Gordon’s point exactly. To sing without the accompanying intended emotion subverts the whole point of performing.
I wrote earlier of John Denver’s “Perhaps Love”, a piece that was originally performed by Denver and Placido Domingo. Many years after the song first aired, John Denver performed “Perhaps Love” in a live concert somewhere in Southern California. A friend who was at the performance commented afterward that for some reason that particular version, just the singer and his guitar, had moved the audience more deeply than anything that he done that night. Denver smiled and said, “It was something that I learned from Placido. He sang his part with emotion, each word having its own articulation, its own sound, its own emphasis, according to its meaning. ‘Cloud’ and ‘warm’ should be sung differently than ‘storm’ and ‘steel’ and I have tried to do more of that when I perform.” Imagine that! Many people cannot abide the duet and prefer the solo, but the power of Denver’s solo performances derived directly from the collaboration. Domingo helped Denver get inside of his own creations.
There is a point of diminishing returns, however. I write songs to express feelings that I have bubbling up inside of me. Sometimes the feelings are so strong during the composition that I cannot publicly perform the song until I have sung the piece over and over again, pushing the emotions down. Sometimes I get so far inside of a song that I forget what I am doing, even failing to play the chords properly on the guitar. I frequently have to practice a set for months in order to strike a balance between the sentiments and the skills.
When the choir first gathered to practice the three hymns that we are going to sing on Easter, Gordon asked me to talk to the members of the choir about the historical setting for “Peace Be Unto Thy Soul”, a work that he had composed based on a passage of scripture. I did so with some expertise. The effect on the altos, where one of my daughters was performing, was dramatic. Jennifer said afterwards that the women around her could not sing, they were so deeply moved by what I had said. As we rode together to the practice yesterday, Jenny said, “Hey! Gordon didn’t ask you to talk about the hymns this week, did he?” I replied in the negative. “Good,” she said. “I would really like to get through the thing this week.”
Two weeks ago I had no trouble whatsoever singing “Peace Be Unto Thy Soul”. Yesterday, I could not finish the piece at all. My knowledge, my preparation for my little talk two weeks ago, had steeled me somewhat against the power of the lyrics. With that knowledge fading from my mind, my heart unabashedly accepted the significance of what Gordon had written and I was undone. Hopefully I will do better next week and the week after that.
Words mean things. They represent little pieces of who and what we are. They allow us to share the innermost parts of our private sanctuaries with each other. Communication is, in the end, “communion” with all of the power that particular word can convey. We invite others to drink from the living waters of our soul and by so doing we are mutually and eternally bound to each other. If done properly, the union is accompanied by brotherhood and love. I am glad that I know Gordon Jessop.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Perhaps Love
When I first started performing in the early 1960's, the songs that I wanted to play were those of my era. I was not a Beatles fan by any stretch of the imagination. I own all of their music today, but not because I enjoyed them then, but because I have since learned something of musicality from them. I learned Buddy Holly songs. It took me six months before I could play any one of his pieces, but once I did I discovered I could play them all. I remember my friend Bud Peterson saying to me one night after I had played at a Church social, "Well, It was nice that you could play the same song three times tonight." I decided that I needed to expand my repertoire just a little. I settled on folk music, in particular the early music of Bob Dylan. I learned to play guitar in just about the same location in the country that he did, and his music had just a little bit of northern Minnesota stuffed into it, a stuffing that I seemed to enjoy a lot. I went away to Mexico for a couple of years and while I was gone, little Bobby Zimmerman reinvented himself. I found that I was not really in a frame of mind to play and sing his new material.
I was a Peter, Paul, and Mary fan, an Ian and Sylvia fan, a Bud and Travis fan, a Pete Seeger fan, a Joan Baez fan, having no idea as to where they were politically, or even that they were politically active. I just liked the music and the meaningful lyrics that went with them. I suppose that one of my favorite pieces at the time was the "Ballad of Springhill, Nova Scotia" by Peggy Seeger and Ewan MacCall. I sang it often as a young folk singer, but there came a time when I just simply did not include it in my sets. I was reminded of it again, however, a year or so ago when the Crandall Canyon mine disaster took the lives of six men initially and then a second collapse killed three of the rescuers. The bodies of the six Utah men were never found. The final lines of MacCall's period piece had application.
After returning to Utah, I found myself playing the songs of Gordon Lightfoot, simply because they were beautiful. Others of his pieces I learned because he touched a part of my past. The ore boat "Edmund Fitzgerald" wintered in Duluth, Minnesota, while I lived there and I saw that great ship many times I went over the High Bridge to Superior, Wisconsin. Lightfoot's "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" is fourteen verses long with a wonderful chord sequence for the guitar. I performed it many times to receptive audiences, especially in the Midwest. I remember being invited by one of my children's elementary school teachers to come perform it for her class. In the middle of my rendition, the woman broke down in tears; one of her relatives had gone down with the ship.
At some point I made a connection with Henry John Deutschendorf and began playing his music, and the music that he borrowed from other songwriters. I guess that it was about that time that I figured that I never needed to become a recording star because everything that I wanted to do and thought that I could do, had been done by this fellow. Of all his songs that I have learned, this one that follows is by far and away my favorite. It was originally released as a duet with Placido Domingo.
I was watching television tonight, after Trillium and I finished another Inspector Morse episode, and one of the PBS stations was presenting a program on Denver's music. In the particular segment I watched, John Denver explained how the song came to be written. He and his wife, Anne Martell from St. Peter, Minnesota, were having troubles in their marriage, a separation had taken place and they were staring down the long, lonely highway of divorce. The song was a tribute to her; in spite of all of the misunderstandings and distresses that they had experienced, she was his real love. That, I think, was the spirit of all of John Denver's music. He had a way of looking at the very worst of situations and finding the very best that could be said. There was talk of a possible reconciliation of their marriage shortly before his accidental death off the coast of California on 12 October 1997.
At the heart of every marriage there are sentiments much like those John Denver had for Anne Martell. We sometimes forget those wonderful sentiments, much like Denver did when he and his wife separated. The trick is to remember, to keep before our minds and hearts, the reasons and the feelings that we had in the beginning. Always.... always... always....
I was a Peter, Paul, and Mary fan, an Ian and Sylvia fan, a Bud and Travis fan, a Pete Seeger fan, a Joan Baez fan, having no idea as to where they were politically, or even that they were politically active. I just liked the music and the meaningful lyrics that went with them. I suppose that one of my favorite pieces at the time was the "Ballad of Springhill, Nova Scotia" by Peggy Seeger and Ewan MacCall. I sang it often as a young folk singer, but there came a time when I just simply did not include it in my sets. I was reminded of it again, however, a year or so ago when the Crandall Canyon mine disaster took the lives of six men initially and then a second collapse killed three of the rescuers. The bodies of the six Utah men were never found. The final lines of MacCall's period piece had application.
Eight days passed and some were rescued,
Leaving the dead to lie alone,
Through all their lives they dug a grave,
Two miles of earth for a marking stone
After returning to Utah, I found myself playing the songs of Gordon Lightfoot, simply because they were beautiful. Others of his pieces I learned because he touched a part of my past. The ore boat "Edmund Fitzgerald" wintered in Duluth, Minnesota, while I lived there and I saw that great ship many times I went over the High Bridge to Superior, Wisconsin. Lightfoot's "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" is fourteen verses long with a wonderful chord sequence for the guitar. I performed it many times to receptive audiences, especially in the Midwest. I remember being invited by one of my children's elementary school teachers to come perform it for her class. In the middle of my rendition, the woman broke down in tears; one of her relatives had gone down with the ship.
They might have split up or they might have capsized
They may have broke deep and took water
And all that remains is the faces and the names
Of the wives and the sons and the daughters.
At some point I made a connection with Henry John Deutschendorf and began playing his music, and the music that he borrowed from other songwriters. I guess that it was about that time that I figured that I never needed to become a recording star because everything that I wanted to do and thought that I could do, had been done by this fellow. Of all his songs that I have learned, this one that follows is by far and away my favorite. It was originally released as a duet with Placido Domingo.
Perhaps Love
Perhaps love is like a resting place
A shelter from the storm
It exists to give you comfort
It is there to keep you warm
And in those times of trouble
When you are most alone
The memory of love will bring you home
Perhaps love is like a window
Perhaps an open door
It invites you to come closer
It wants to show you more
And even if you lose yourself
And don`t know what to do
The memory of love will see you through
Oh, love to some is like a cloud
To some as strong as steel
For some a way of living
For some a way to feel
And some say love is holding on
And some say letting go
And some say love is everything
And some say they don`t know
Perhaps love is like the ocean
Full of conflict, full of pain
Like a fire when it`s cold outside
Or thunder when it rains
If I should live forever
And all my dreams come true
My memories of love will be of you
John Denver
I was watching television tonight, after Trillium and I finished another Inspector Morse episode, and one of the PBS stations was presenting a program on Denver's music. In the particular segment I watched, John Denver explained how the song came to be written. He and his wife, Anne Martell from St. Peter, Minnesota, were having troubles in their marriage, a separation had taken place and they were staring down the long, lonely highway of divorce. The song was a tribute to her; in spite of all of the misunderstandings and distresses that they had experienced, she was his real love. That, I think, was the spirit of all of John Denver's music. He had a way of looking at the very worst of situations and finding the very best that could be said. There was talk of a possible reconciliation of their marriage shortly before his accidental death off the coast of California on 12 October 1997.
At the heart of every marriage there are sentiments much like those John Denver had for Anne Martell. We sometimes forget those wonderful sentiments, much like Denver did when he and his wife separated. The trick is to remember, to keep before our minds and hearts, the reasons and the feelings that we had in the beginning. Always.... always... always....
Friday, March 6, 2009
Half of the Story
My two sons have done this little quiz and I decided to do the same. I found that the great fallacy of this exercise is that more frequently than not, I could have answered the questions either way. The "either/or" argument is deceptive. I do believe that there is a large part of my personality that is quit "scientific", but I have stewed in the cauldron of the Humanities so long that I have absorbed much of that flavor. Additionally, I believe that the test assumes a basic "Aristotle/Plato" philosophical dichotomy. What I find interesting in this is, because of my religious background, Platonic philosophy has a more active role in my life than most Aristotelian scientists would like to admit to. I do not find this a confliction; I perceive it as an enhancement.
. You Are An INTJ |
 You have a head for ideas - and you are good at improving systems. Logical and strategic, you prefer for everything in your life to be organized. You tend to be a bit skeptical. You're both critical of yourself and of others. Independent and stubborn, you tend to only befriend those who are a lot like you. In love, you are always striving to improve your relationship. You have strong ideas of what love should be like. At work, you excel in figuring out difficult tasks. People think of you as "the brain." You would make an excellent scientist, engineer, or programmer. How you see yourself: Reasonable, knowledgeable, and competent When other people don't get you, they see you as: Aloof, controlling, and insensitive |
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Music for the Living and the Dead
I was sitting in choir practice a few weeks ago when someone brought up the prospect of the choir singing at a funeral. I do not recall who the subject of the conversation was, but I began considering my own death. Not that I was perturbed at or desirous of the effect, I was simply contemplating my own funeral. Now that Trillium and I have settled on where we are to be planted when that magnificent day arrives, I began to think about the program for the service. I thought that since I was to be the focus of attention, I ought to have a say in what transpires before I have no say at all.
I have only had one piece of music on my mind and heart when I have thought of the concluding ceremony. I fell in love with it the first time I ever heard it performed.
Jerusalem
And did those feet in ancient time,
Walk upon England's mountains green:
And was the holy Lamb of God,
On England's pleasant pastures seen !
And did the Countenance Divine,
Shine forth upon our clouded hills ?
And was Jerusalem builded here,
Among these dark Satanic Mills ?
Bring me my Bow of burning gold;
Bring me my Arrows of desire:
Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold:
Bring me my Chariot of fire !
I will not cease from Mental Fight,
Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand:
Till we have built Jerusalem,
In England's green & pleasant Land.
William Blake
I have only had one piece of music on my mind and heart when I have thought of the concluding ceremony. I fell in love with it the first time I ever heard it performed.
Jerusalem
And did those feet in ancient time,
Walk upon England's mountains green:
And was the holy Lamb of God,
On England's pleasant pastures seen !
And did the Countenance Divine,
Shine forth upon our clouded hills ?
And was Jerusalem builded here,
Among these dark Satanic Mills ?
Bring me my Bow of burning gold;
Bring me my Arrows of desire:
Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold:
Bring me my Chariot of fire !
I will not cease from Mental Fight,
Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand:
Till we have built Jerusalem,
In England's green & pleasant Land.
William Blake
I am an Anglo-phile. I have been my whole life. I prefer English literature over American, even though I have studied both. I have stood at the top of Sears' Tower in Chicago, but I prefer looking up at the facade of Queens College or contemplating the lovely interior of Radcliffe's Camera. The legend is, had my family remained in England instead of coming to the New World, we would have owned Oxford and we would have a larger burial plot than the one we presently have under a set of stairs in Westminster Abbey.
So as I sat there, contemplating my funeral, I said aloud, "I know what I would like you to sing at my funeral."
"What's that?" said our director, who can make broom handles sing and turn the meanest poem into musical glory.
"William Blake's 'Jerusalem'. You know, that same piece that was played at Harold Abrahams' funeral at the end of 'Chariots of Fire'."
Gordon chuckled, "Well, good luck. We probably will not be practicing that anytime soon."
I replied, "I am not hoping to have it performed anytime soon, but perhaps we ought to work it up just in case." The score has not appeared in our folders, so I have not been holding my breath.
About the same time that all of the morbidity appeared in our choir practice, Gordon introduced a piece by Gabriel Faure, "Cantique de Jean Racine" arranged by John Rutter. Jerolyn, our more than accomplished pianist, had already mastered the piece and when she began to play, I said to myself, "I can live or die by this". Faure had written the music when but a young man of nineteen in 1864 to accompany his paraphrasing of St. Ambrose's hymn "Consors paterni luminis" composed in the 4th Century AD. I never tire of it. Perhaps no one can ever tire of something wrought in divine passion and preserved in the amber of pure love.
So as I sat there, contemplating my funeral, I said aloud, "I know what I would like you to sing at my funeral."
"What's that?" said our director, who can make broom handles sing and turn the meanest poem into musical glory.
"William Blake's 'Jerusalem'. You know, that same piece that was played at Harold Abrahams' funeral at the end of 'Chariots of Fire'."
Gordon chuckled, "Well, good luck. We probably will not be practicing that anytime soon."
I replied, "I am not hoping to have it performed anytime soon, but perhaps we ought to work it up just in case." The score has not appeared in our folders, so I have not been holding my breath.
About the same time that all of the morbidity appeared in our choir practice, Gordon introduced a piece by Gabriel Faure, "Cantique de Jean Racine" arranged by John Rutter. Jerolyn, our more than accomplished pianist, had already mastered the piece and when she began to play, I said to myself, "I can live or die by this". Faure had written the music when but a young man of nineteen in 1864 to accompany his paraphrasing of St. Ambrose's hymn "Consors paterni luminis" composed in the 4th Century AD. I never tire of it. Perhaps no one can ever tire of something wrought in divine passion and preserved in the amber of pure love.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Mad Music Skills
One day, not so long ago, The Forest for the Trees were ensconced in the Dungeon practicing, or at least pretending to practice. I was attempting to work out some sort of accompaniment on one of the guitars when Jen said "Gee, Dad, you have some mad guitar skills". I was startled for two reasons. First, I had never heard the word "mad" used in that fashion. I have to say that I was somewhat pleased at the evaluation once I knew what she meant. Secondly, I didn't think that what I was doing was particularly "mad" or "skillful"; I was merely trying to make something pleasant to go with our singing.
I have thought about that phrase a lot during the last month or so. I have wondered what Jenny would have thought if she had heard me playing when I was practicing eight or nine hours a day, when I did have "mad skills". Even when I was merely practicing an hour or two a day, I found that I was able to do some things with my instruments that lack of practice has caused me to lose. When she made that remark, I had not picked up the guitar for more than a week. I began to have an old familiar groan rise up within me.
I have also thought about what I would consider "mad guitar skills" and who really had them. I know that there are rock musicians that are touted as being the great guitarists of our lifetimes, but for some reason none of them have really done it for me. Typically they have been loud and muddy, very little crispness in their performance. I have heard only one guitarist in my entire life who really had "mad skills". I was glad to have known him; he was my friend.
I am not sure when Jon Woodhead first picked up the guitar, but by age sixteen he was one of the finest guitarists in the country. Since then he has played with the likes of John Stewart (of Kingston Trio fame), Carlos Santana, Maria Muldaur, Leon Russell, Ace, Peach, and many others. We collaborated in the late 1980s and early 1990s, in part because Jon said he actually liked some of the songs I had written. We wrote a few songs together, he providing the musicality and I the lyrics. Some of the pieces I put on "Rollin' Home" several years ago; some of them bring just a little moisture to my eyes when I listen to them.
As we cut the tracks, I usually ended up on the twelve-string guitar and Jon did all of the rest. He was the master of the fret-less bass, the slide guitar, the keyboard, and a multitude of other instruments that I had never seen before, much less held in my hands. My particular moment of astonishment at "mad guitar skills" took place one evening as we were warming up in his front room. We started talking about music that we both liked, folk and contemporary blues and such. He asked me if I heard Cat Stevens' "Bona Mone Jakon" album. I told him that I had almost worn my copy out and that I thought that Stevens was one of the most innovative rhythmists in the business.
He then said to me, "Do you remember this?" He then played the clearest rendition of the guitar riff of "I Wish, I Wish" I have ever heard. He "out-Stevensed" Cat. I was thunderstruck. I had him play it over and over again. Here were "mad guitar skills" in person, in the flesh, sitting two feet away from me.
One of the great tragedies of Jon Woodhead's career is that he was never really appreciated the way that he should have been. He has had a life full of music, but he has not had the recognition that he deserved. Whenever I think about choices I could have made as a young man, desiring to be a professional singer, I think about that vagaries of the system that allows noisy, disharmonious, abusers of sound to come to the forefront and subjugate the real masters in relative obscurity. What could I have done in that industry that would not have eventually destroyed me? I have often felt like I had been on a battlefield, with shells bursting all around me, bullets whistling by, and I barely managed to get out of harm's way just in time.
So I sit once a week with two of my daughters and one of my son's-in-law and make music, laying down tracks on that old Fostex recording system that Jon and I learned to use many years ago. Occasionally, one of them will say "Gee, Dad, you have some mad guitar skills", and I feel part of something really grand.
I have thought about that phrase a lot during the last month or so. I have wondered what Jenny would have thought if she had heard me playing when I was practicing eight or nine hours a day, when I did have "mad skills". Even when I was merely practicing an hour or two a day, I found that I was able to do some things with my instruments that lack of practice has caused me to lose. When she made that remark, I had not picked up the guitar for more than a week. I began to have an old familiar groan rise up within me.
I have also thought about what I would consider "mad guitar skills" and who really had them. I know that there are rock musicians that are touted as being the great guitarists of our lifetimes, but for some reason none of them have really done it for me. Typically they have been loud and muddy, very little crispness in their performance. I have heard only one guitarist in my entire life who really had "mad skills". I was glad to have known him; he was my friend.
I am not sure when Jon Woodhead first picked up the guitar, but by age sixteen he was one of the finest guitarists in the country. Since then he has played with the likes of John Stewart (of Kingston Trio fame), Carlos Santana, Maria Muldaur, Leon Russell, Ace, Peach, and many others. We collaborated in the late 1980s and early 1990s, in part because Jon said he actually liked some of the songs I had written. We wrote a few songs together, he providing the musicality and I the lyrics. Some of the pieces I put on "Rollin' Home" several years ago; some of them bring just a little moisture to my eyes when I listen to them.
As we cut the tracks, I usually ended up on the twelve-string guitar and Jon did all of the rest. He was the master of the fret-less bass, the slide guitar, the keyboard, and a multitude of other instruments that I had never seen before, much less held in my hands. My particular moment of astonishment at "mad guitar skills" took place one evening as we were warming up in his front room. We started talking about music that we both liked, folk and contemporary blues and such. He asked me if I heard Cat Stevens' "Bona Mone Jakon" album. I told him that I had almost worn my copy out and that I thought that Stevens was one of the most innovative rhythmists in the business.
He then said to me, "Do you remember this?" He then played the clearest rendition of the guitar riff of "I Wish, I Wish" I have ever heard. He "out-Stevensed" Cat. I was thunderstruck. I had him play it over and over again. Here were "mad guitar skills" in person, in the flesh, sitting two feet away from me.
One of the great tragedies of Jon Woodhead's career is that he was never really appreciated the way that he should have been. He has had a life full of music, but he has not had the recognition that he deserved. Whenever I think about choices I could have made as a young man, desiring to be a professional singer, I think about that vagaries of the system that allows noisy, disharmonious, abusers of sound to come to the forefront and subjugate the real masters in relative obscurity. What could I have done in that industry that would not have eventually destroyed me? I have often felt like I had been on a battlefield, with shells bursting all around me, bullets whistling by, and I barely managed to get out of harm's way just in time.
So I sit once a week with two of my daughters and one of my son's-in-law and make music, laying down tracks on that old Fostex recording system that Jon and I learned to use many years ago. Occasionally, one of them will say "Gee, Dad, you have some mad guitar skills", and I feel part of something really grand.
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