A weekend of relative calm, highlighted mainly by tenant-apartment matters and shuttling various objects hither and yon. Felt rather odd to not be taking off somewhere with morris dance kit and accouterments in hand, but my knees and calves certainly seemed to appreciate the change.
On a pleasant, still late Sunday afternoon at a Sudbury crossroads, several of us stood around contemplating the words, deeds and sensibilities of our still-growing children. In the midst of this, one young'un popped head 'round the corner and said, "Mom, a bunch of us are going over to the playground." And so, we watched as a few hundred yards away, these would-be adults, all so sophisticated and worldly, frolicked and laughed as if it was a decade ago.
May 12
Book completed: "Isaac's Storm," by Erik Larson -- Imaginative, well-written account of the 1900 Galveston cyclone, seen largely through the eyes -- and, as Larson would have it, filtered through the hubris -- of Isaac Cline, the city's weather bureau chief, who rightly or wrongly comes to symbolize the all-too-human failings of the era's scientists -- at least those assigned to work for the US government. Larson takes a certain amount of literary license with the events, especially in his depiction (which has drawn some criticism) of the relationship between Isaac and his brother, but his use seems quite reasonable. Moreover, he offers some historical as well as scientific background to the storm, even recounting Columbus' weather-related ordeals. Larson's throwaway, mischievous narrative quips -- recounting a densely detail-heavy public lecture by Cline, Larson says, "A 20th-century audience would have shot Isaac dead" -- are more than balanced by the blunt yet not gratuitous descriptions of the carnage and suffering.
May 11: Lilac Sunday
The finale of our Morris Dance Weekend Trilogy, which feels like it began back in 1947 but in reality lasted three weeks. Still, my knees and calves are telling me that it was a highly active set of weekends. Rather the point, I suppose.
So, OD and I joined the milling throng at the Arnold Arboretum. The venues for Lilac Sunday were different this year, at the request of management, so I saw parts of the Arboretum I'd not seen in more than 10 years, when we used to take OD and YD out to exercise their toddler legs. I did miss the twin pond area, for so long the central gathering place for Lilac Sunday, but it was certainly much easier schlepping to and from the car.
Performance-wise, we gave a good account of ourselves, for all the energy we spent the previous day. OD did a few dances in the morning, then more or less called it a day; had a fine time mucking about with her fellow team members.
And then we were at Doyle's for the drinkin' and singin', for which we stayed longer than I think we ever did before. Only trouble is, after it's over I invariably come up with about half a dozen songs I coulda/shoulda rendered. Ah well. Meanwhile, we were joined this year by an elderly Doyle's patron � definitely not a regular in the morris dance crowd � who decided to contribute "The Marine Hymn" to the proceedings. Highlights of the day.
May 10: Day o' Dance
YD and I saddled up to go to Red Herring Morris's annual frolic around the North Shore -- well, Salem and Lynn, anyway. OD, suffering from head cold, general exhaustion and sore limbs, wisely opted out, although her presence was sorely missed -- not least by YD, who lamented having no one her age with whom to while away the time. But she enjoyed the luncheon, and the opportunity to chat about "Charmed" and related interests with a fellow Herring.
The weather was lovely for dancing, in the 60s with a late-afternoon seabreeze to cool our well-heated bodies. I'm happy to say that I was able to either perform in, or accompany, almost every possible dance (Herring or massed). Because, after all, that's what these past several months were all in aid of, right?
That evening, at the apres-danse dinner party, I got to play mandolin in a brief but cracking-good jam session featuring a pair of brothers I first knew as dancers with Banbury Cross. One of them is about to graduate college, the other's completing his sophomore year. Both excellent musicians and dancers, and just all-around good people. A finer PSA for the benefits of youth morris dancing I cannot imagine.
Highlights of the day here.
May 3-4
The middle of our three-part Morris Dance Weekend Extravaganza, starting with The Ginger Ale, for which there is now a Web page.
Thankfully, we didn't have to deal with the dilemma of having to cut back some or all of the performance due to weather, because it turned out to be an absolutely perfect day: mostly sunny, calm and in the high 50s to low 60s. I got to the site early and just started scanning the crowds for appropriately dressed persons, a most effective method indeed. At length, we all found each other and took our place for the event-opening parade (we were performing as part of an Earth Day festival), then proceeded to walk for about a mile, with occasional fits of the Winster Processional.
When you are a component of a larger event, of course, you tend to feel less in control over certain circumstances. I suppose that's why I spent most of the first hour or so of the Ale running back and forth between the festival organizers and the various morris team representatives; in the great scheme of things, it may not have done much other than work off nervous energy but that was probably just fine.
Anyway, point is everyone more or less did what they were hoping to do. The afternoon performance slot was far more relaxed than the late-morning one, and then our final stop -- across the street from the site of our dinner party -- was absolute pleasure: a seize-the-stage, do-whatchawant exercise. Great fun watching all these kids get into the spirit and energy of the moment.
Dinner came and went quickly, and then I was jamming with a couple of youthful, and talented, fiddle players; we did a turn on "The Butterfly" I wouldn't mind trying again. A few contra and square dances, and OD and I ambled home, Dar Williams on the car stereo.
Sunday was a small-scale, and to be honest, anticlimactic May Day-type celebration at which my team and another danced. Didn't have a lot of energy for it, nor, really, was there much required.
Later that day, I borrowed the Dar Williams CD given OD by a friend. A bit of irony here: I heard Dar Williams on a regular basis on a folk/acoustic music-oriented radio station I've listened to for some years (albeit less frequently of late). But over time, and the station's playing of a fairly narrow selection of her material, I developed a certain obliviousness: "Oh, yes, I've heard her stuff. Pretty good, I guess." So now, thanks to OD and her friend, I am enchanted with "Beauty of the Rain" and have a far greater appreciation for Williams than I ever did.
Partly out of gratitude, I gave OD a copy of "Cry Cry Cry," the closest I'd been to any real indulgence of Dar Williams. Sunday evening, I heard the strains of Dar, Richard Shindell and Lucy Kaplansky harmonizing on "Cold Missouri Water" wafting through her bedroom door.
Oh yes: Some pictures from this year's Ginger Ale.
And from the aforementioned May Day.
So, this is -- what? � the sixth or seventh year running OD and I have taken part in the Charles River May Day Celebration, tramping (all right, driving) to the Weeks Footbridge and joining various friends, acquaintances and perfect strangers in singing and dancing up the sun. And for the third year, we spent May Day Eve with other Banbury Cross families, including the often sleep-free sleepover. OD may not find these activities as exciting as she did when she was younger, but traditions do offer a certain familiarity and comfort, even to (supposedly) prematurely jaded teenagers.
Anyway, it was just fine, even though I seem to have gotten a head cold for my troubles. Red Herring and Banbury both acquitted themselves well in the show-dance department, and I got to do Silly Things while playing for the Maypole and country dances, like play tennis ball soccer with an accordion player.
It struck me that the venues used for May Day offer an interesting commentary on the evolution of Western society. We start in a wide, open-air expanse of grass �-- a bit too much to call it a meadow -- abutting a river:
�-- then move to another grassy area, but one pretty well encircled by buildings:
�-- and finally end up recreating this bucolic spectacle in the heart of the urban environment, where you can't even part the earth to plant the Maypole:
No quasi-anthropological soliloquy to follow here, just a few thoughts inside a muddy head.
April 26-27: NEFFA-ing it
*Saturday: A damp day just gets damper, and chillier, and in general, more miserable. Well, from a weather standpoint, anyway. Actually, OD, YD and I had an overall fine time, even though the festival becomes about 20 percent more claustrophobic on such days. Red Herring braved the elements to stage its 2003 debut, as did OD's imaginatively dressed rapper-sword team; wisely, her morris team opted to dance indoors.
Somewhere in the afternoon, I squeezed into a corner to have an enjoyable little session with a few of OD's teammates, as well as guitarist Mike Agranoff and an elementary school-age fiddle player whose determination to join in exceeded his prowess.
*Sunday: Much, much better, thank you. Banbury Cross and the other kids' morris teams strutted their collective stuff to appreciative parents and envious adult morris dancers alike.
So, finally, after a weekend spent cultivating the famous "NEFFA stare" -- where you walk around with a fixed stare of about 20 to 30 yards ahead, so as to spot family members and friends -- I settled into the courtyard, drenched in the afternoon sun, and had one more round of tunes. Makes all the schlepping and sopping worth it. PS, more photos now available.
April 22-25
*Got to do a double musical turn at the campus Arts Festival: a song ("The Great Footrace") and a few tunes with Irish Studies Program music faculty and students, followed by a solo mini-concert. No casualties reported.
*More from our "I Am Old" series: Walking around during lunch-time, I encounter a kid fondly recalled from OD's elementary school dramatic-musical productions, making his pre-college decision campus visit.
*Shameless name-dropping: Interviewed Chris O'Donnell, who is about as charming, easy-going, self-deprecating and down-to-earth as one can be for having consented to be filmed in this. Seriously. I mean that. (Oh, and the costume is presently taking up space somewhere in his house).
*I sometimes feel hesitant about impulsively posting elegies here, because for every one I do it seems there should be three or four more. But I have a vivid childhood recollection of listening to a Nina Simone concert album, with the likes of "Summertime," "Liza Jane," "Trouble in Mind," "The Other Woman" and "Cotton Eye Joe," delivered with seemingly little effort but so much grace and feeling. When I went through her discography this week after her death, I realized that hers was an incredibly extensive repertoire covering all manner of genres ("Pirate Jenny"? "Black Is the Color of My True Love's Hair"?). Well, next time I'm in the A/V section of the library...
*Viewing: "Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets" � Disclaimer: While having read some, but not all of, Ms. Rowling's justly-praised works, I can't truthfully proclaim as strong an attachment to them as other members of my household. I will say that I recall this Potter episode as being somewhat less cerebral than the first, and the film exacerbates this impression -- not least because Emma Watson's Hermione is more in the background. The obligatory climactic fight scene, unfortunately, is especially egregious in that regard. But certainly can't fault the actors, especially the young'uns.
April 18-21
Ahhhhhhhh. Four. Day. Weekend. Thanks to the convergence of Good Friday with Patriots Day, that is. Even better, my colleagues and I busted sufficient amounts of posterior to ensure that we would meet our deadlines this week, so I was truly able to enjoy the time off without having to dread the going-back.
*Most of the weekend is spent in the house-cleaning mode, with specific focus on our Fibber McGee-redux basement. No, can't say you'd want to hold a tea party there now, but it's better than it was, yes yes.
*Just as, if not more heartening, the weekend sees a gradual swing upwards in terms of weather, to the point where Monday afternoon I fomd myself basking in near-70 degree weather on the ole front stoop, the better to watch the world go by.
*OD, it turns out, continues indulging her recent interest in 1960s folk-rock by buying a Judy Collins LP -- yes, her first investment in vinyl. A proud moment, to be sure. Later, having dug out most of our stock of LPs of that genre for her listening pleasure, I hear the familiar strains of an early Joan Baez album -- "Silver Dagger," "Henry Martin," et al � through the window.
*Saturday, OD attends a "teens-only" contra dance, at which she and her morris and rapper sword comrades give a demonstration -- none of which, sadly, we are on hand to see. We're informed it goes well, however.
*Sunday and Monday, I toy with the idea of going to a session, but it feels just too damn comfortable to shuffle about the grounds. Time enough later on, I'm sure.
April 17
*It's about 11 p.m., and LW has finished restringing her guitar, temporarily lent to OD. So how can we resist? Out comes the "Greatest Songs of the Sixties," James Taylor and Joni Mitchell songbooks, and the two of us belt out everything from "Turn! Turn! Turn!" to "Spinning Wheel" (with failed attempt at David Clayton Thomas impersonation) to "Both Sides Now" to "Downtown" (with failed attempt at Petula Clark impersonation), while OD watches bemusedly and, on occasion, even joins in. YD, passing by at one point, only offers wide-eyed stare.
*Viewing: "Fever Pitch" -- Recommended especially for Red Sox and Cubs fans, this small, slight but intelligently amiable English film, based on writer Nick Hornby's autobiography, is a comedy of the mismatched romantic kind: good-natured lout, a long-suffering devotee of the Arsenal soccer (football) team, intertwines with another teacher at the school where he works, a reserved, by-the-book young woman who cannot comprehend his attachment to the sport and all its rituals. Rather than simply relying on this beauty-beast dynamic, though, the film digs a bit deeper, and through flashbacks we see how his fanaticism developed, originally as a means of connecting with his estranged father, then as a symbol of his maturation. The question raised toward the end is, how much has his passion for Arsenal sustained him, and how much has it held him back from exploring other possibilities in life?
*Book completed: "How Boys See Girls," by David Gilmour -- Rather disposable story about a disposable person: Bix, 40ish, alcoholic, divorced father of an adolescent girl, about as cynical about love as he is work. Then he meets Holly, a neurotic, quirky girl about half his age, and for some reason they are sufficiently moved to have a relationship with one another -- at least for a while. A few tartly comic episodes, but the tone of the book and the writing is off-putting.
April 12-13
*Cold, rainy, generally all-round distasteful weather abruptly ends on Saturday, even as OD and I traipse through Somerville and Harvard Square in search of various items. Along the way, I hit a veritable jackpot in the used-album department, more of which at a later date. Suffice it to say I am a happy boy.
*Sunday, I am finally able to revisit the O'Hanlon's session for the first time in a while, which features Flynn Cohen as the guitarist du jour. Good, lively crowd, and the tunes flow very easily.
*Viewing: "No Man's Land" -- A micro-macro view of the Serb-Bosnian conflict, as three wounded soldiers -- one Serb, two Bosnian -- wind up between lines in a trench, one of the Bosnians lying atop a deadly mine that will explode almost as soon as he moves. At times, it appears headed in the direction of a buddy-buddy story, as the opponents find occasional common ground, and humanity, with one another. But such reassurance is fragile and short-lived; the enmity is, ultimately, too strong and pervasive. Writer-director Danis Tanovic is pretty brutal on the United Nations, which he depicts as so over-concerned with maintaining its (alleged) neutrality in the midst of the minor media circus that ensues as to be almost criminally ineffectual. The ending is shatteringly gruesome.
April 11
*A lot to sort out. Baghdad, and by now most of the rest of Iraq, has fallen, and Saddam appears on his way to some day joining Jimmy Hoffa and Elvis in the supermarket-tabloid sightings category. But accepting the fact that a political war is usually a much longer, less iconographic and even more complicated business than a military one is hard for people to accept � and I�ll go out on a limb here and say that Americans seem to have particular difficulty at this. Yet for every anecdote of Iraqis expressing anxiety (or more) about the American presence, there are those that make plain the joy and relief so many feel now that the Big Bastard�s gone, and you simply can�t ignore that.
I guess what I would like to see is less effort by pro and anti-war factions alike to vindicate their respective positions, and more emphasis on advocating for the Iraqis. That money you were going to spend on an American flag decal or "No blood for oil" bumper sticker? How about you steer it towards, say, Oxfam or Save the Children?
*Pure self-indulgence here: After having spent a goodly part of the past few months expanding my repertoire of Irish jigs and reels, the past week or so I've made progress on a splendid Macedonian tune, "Antice" (but don't expect me to be especially lockstep in that 7/8 rhythm), and from England, the lovely "Michael Turner's Waltz."
*Books recently completed:
=="Sam's Fall" by Richard Kearney -- Slight disclaimer here, as the author is somewhat of an acquaintance. Jack Toland reads � as do we -- the memoirs of his twin brother Sam, a monastery student who died under mysterious circumstances, and finds himself questioning many of the assumptions he'd made about their relationship, to say nothing of his own life. There are some by now tried-and-true elements of most any Irish autobiography, such as the push-pull between religion and sex in adolescence (the description of the "feeling of angels" is particularly hilarious), which become subsumed by Umberto Eco-like dialogue on the power and mystery of ancient texts. Sam gradually emerges as one who takes on others' identities, including Jack's, to fill a need, a gap inside himself -- with tragic results.
=="Taliban" by Ahmed Rashid -- The volume and interplay of individuals, tribes and sects that have influenced Afghanistan's history and politics is dizzying. But it's more than worthwhile to wade through these, because Rashid does an excellent job recounting the evolution of the Taliban, as well as describing the volatile Central Asian landscape that spawned, and maintained, them. The Clinton, Bush 1 and Reagan administrations all have a lot to answer for, it seems clear, and Russia and Pakistan deserve even more criticism. For me, a key point of the book is Rashid's recollection of his conversation with a Pakistani general during the Soviet withdrawal from Afghanistan:
"I asked him if he was not playing with fire by inviting Muslim radicals from Islamic countries, who were ostensibly allies of Pakistan. Would these radicals not create dissension in their own countries, endangering Pakistan's foreign policy? 'We are fighting a jihad and this is the first Islamic international brigade in the modern era. The communists have their international brigades, the West has NATO, why can't the Muslims unite and form a common front?'"
April 8
Viewing: "Lovers of the Arctic Circle" -- Julio Medem's chronicle of two young lovers and their unusual bond, one that survives their parents' marriage and various other twists (vague homage to Nabokov's Ada, perhaps), has several themes: notably, the prevalence, and absurdity, of coincidence; and flight, as in the act of flying as well as escape, or abandonment. But circles, literal, geographical and metaphysical, are the dominant motif here. Through their relationships, the lovers Ana and Otto (whose palindromic names suggest the lack of beginning and end) find themselves traveling similar paths as their ancestors. The title itself, referring to the lovers' ultimate destination, also refers to the phenomenon of the midnight sun, through which days seem to merge seamlessly with one another. But to dwell too much on the thematic elements is to shortchange the performances of Najwa Nimri and Fele Martinez as the adult Ana and Otto, or Kristel Diaz and Victor Hugo Oliveira as their adolescent selves. Not to be overlooked is Nancho Novo as Otto's father, who presents a dashing, long-haired presence early on but becomes a sad, lonely shell by the end.
April 4-6
*Uh, excuse us, Ma'am Nature, but April Fool's Day was a few days ago. So why is it snowing, sleeting and in the 30s? Oh, yes, that's right -- we're in New England. Well, fortunately, the regression in weather did not reach down to Baltimore, thus enabling me to indulge in my first Friday evening Red Sox viewing. Right, an 8-3 lead in the 8th almost vanishes in a maze of misplaced pitches, until Nomahhh! gets the final out with a perfect relay throw to the plate. Summer time, and the viewing is queasy...
*Most of the day is taken up with preparations for OD's long-awaited social, mixing school and contra/morris dance friends. Seems to go off without a hitch, or any visible damage. Except that one guest saw fit to bring "A Clockwork Orange," which proved less than palatable to the audience. Guess it goes to show that teens do have a threshold of tolerance.
*Thrown for somewhat of a loop by the Daylight Savings Time change-over, I participate in an afternoon concert organized by the unsinkable Seamus Connolly, which includes the fantastically fingered Cape Breton pianist Cape Breton, who proves to be as amiable as he is talented. Seamus played an absolutely gorgeous air composed in honor of his wife, a tune I actually heard in its formative stages at a similar event late last year I offered up "Slip Jigs and Reels" and "Thousands Are Sailing," if anyone's keeping track.
Later that day, at OD's morris dance practice, I collaborate once again with other parent musicians for a bit of fun: piano, mandolin and concertina sound pretty durn nice together, you know?
March 29-31
*Nothing like finishing your taxes two weeks ahead of time to put the vinegar back in your salad dressing, the bop in your bop-a-bop-a-bop, etc. Yep, we cleared off the kitchen table, plunked down the various forms, receipts, bills and other memorabilia, and went at it, with thankfully far less stress and anxiety than is our usual custom. Looks like we will most definitely not, however, be purchasing that jet car.
*Other than taxes, the main activity this weekend on my part was watching the NCAAs, and establishing what is likely one of my worst prognosticating standards ever: 0-4 in the Final Four, 4-8 in the Elite Eight.
*Recent musical acquisition: Lunasa, �The Merry Sisters of Fate� � I guess the rule for this band is, if you join, you must learn to play tin whistle if you don�t already. I kid, I kid, but the multiple wind instruments (most of them played by Kevin Crawford) give Lunasa a gentle, almost wistful quality alongside the driving fiddle (Sean Smyth) and pipes (Cillian Vallely). Credit also goes to guitarist Donogh Hennessy and especially string bass player Trevor Hutchinson, the latter of whom provides at times an almost eerie, otherworldly anchor. All this talent comes into play in the title cut, especially in the transition to the second tune of the medley, when Hennessy opens the throttle and leads the other four into a hell-for-leather rendition of �The Longacre.�
March 28
Whoops. It�s a week later, suddenly, and not an especially enjoyable one.
*First, well, need I open the Cupboard of Obviousness? Suffice it to say, it�s simply [insert favorite words connoting general awfulness] over there in the former Fertile Crescent, with reported atrocities by Iraqi soldiers and some fierce bombing resulting in at least hundreds of civilian casualties. Sadly, over here there appears to be a strong inclination - on both the pro and anti-war side - to polarize opinion, and the push-pull dynamic is draining and dispiriting.
*Far down on the scale of significance, I�ve been tussling with a new computer at work. Much-needed, but the timing of its arrival was about as poorly configured as one can imagine, coming right about at the beginning of our production cycle. Many man-hours have been devoted to figuring out why my Pagemaker fonts weren�t cooperating, and the resultant stress � combined with the situational brand already described � is something I would not recommend to my worst enemy, if I had one.
*Not that good things didn�t happen. I dropped in on the O'Leary's Pub session for the first time in some while. A far smaller and subdued gathering, but I got to play guitar for most of the time, something I�d been itching to do � practicing my chops (licks?) in the privacy of my living room does only so much. The temperature drifted upwards into the 50s and the odd 60-plus reading, and lo and behold LW and I got some yardwork in. And � in one of those �Gosh, I am a grownup� moments, we spent the better part of 10 minutes talking with our neighbor about sidewalk grades.
*Oh, and as for my annual non-monetary NCAA Tournament indulgence: Two of my Final Four picks have already been sent off.
March 21
I had a few pithy, smart-ass comments in mind, I guess, but I find myself really not in the mood. Look, I�m just tired from the weeks � months � of sorting out and reevaluating my position. To quote a phrase or a song from somewhere, the Auld Ways are changing. What perhaps we�re seeing is the absolute, final transition from the Cold War era. Think of it this way: From about 1989-91, some of the most recognizable institutions and concepts of the previous 50 years or so were swept away � the Warsaw Pact, the Soviet Union, to name the most obvious. It was, I�m sure, equally exciting and bewildering, maybe even more than a little scary, for the many people in those countries and societies defined by such institutions.
Now, more than a decade later, it�s our turn: Some other old familiars, while not necessarily destined for oblivion, are perhaps about to go through a drastic change: the UN and NATO. Like �em or hate �em, they were at least common points of reference. But it�s doubtful they will be that way ever again, and until we figure out what�s going to take their place, it�s going to be a tense, uncertain time, a period where everyone along the ideological spectrum really will need to do some serious reflection.
I guess my hope is, whatever form this new world (no, I won�t add �order� on the end) takes, the decisions made � and the way they are made � do not irrevocably hinder our ability to move around in the altered landscape.
March 19
*Well, thankfully, LW didn't get a war for her birthday. We marked the event in somewhat subdued but loving quiet with our much-favored boiled shrimp and curry-mayo dip.
*Viewing: "Chocolat" -- Generally enjoyable as far it goes, but the movie tries almost too hard for its own good. The plot is a familiar one, of a newcomer whose free-spirited ways and ability to elicit personal secrets upsets the equilibrium of her new community, challenging the established ways. In this case, it's confectioneer and single-mom Juliette Binoche, taking on the pious and domineering town mayor Alfred Molina, whose desire for moral order masks a secret humiliation. The sub-plots -- including an attempted rapprochement between a grandmother and her family, and a battered wife's personal renaissance -- would probably have been more than enough to carry it, but the arrival of Irish accented Johnny Depp as the de facto leader of a group of itinerate river-wanderers turns the conflict into a Social Controversy, and almost drives the film off-track. But we do ultimately realize that both Binoche and Molina are in prisons of their own creation, and need their own kind of release.
*Book completed: "The Honourable Schoolboy," by John Le Carre -- A long-delayed reading of the middle book in the great George Smiley trilogy (with Tinker, Tailor, Soldier Spy and Smiley's People). To my mind, it's the weakest of the three, in that Le Carre relegates Smiley -- trying to rebuild the British Secret Service in the wake of a major betrayal -- to an administrative role, in which capacity he sends the title character, talented yet troubled Jerry Westerby, on a mission to Hong Kong to uncover a Russian espionage network. Still, the contrast between Westerby's legwork in turbulent Southeast Asia and Smiley's efforts to manage intelligence-agency politics does make for good reading.
