Day 3 (part 1): The march

O beautiful for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain, For purple mountain majesties above the fruited plain!  America!  America!  God shed His grace on thee, And crown thy good with brotherhood from sea to shining sea.

O beautiful for pilgrim feet, whose stern, impassioned stress A thoroughfare for freedom beat across the wilderness!  America!  America!  God mend thine ev’ry flaw, Confirm thy soul in self-control, thy liberty in law.

Second in a series on the 9/12 March on Washington, D.C. 

We awoke early on Saturday, September 12th, (in spite of extreme sleep deprivation) showered, dressed and hurried downstairs to catch breakfast before it was put away.  As is often the case with my family, we lingered too long over coffee (we were “viztin’ “), talking about our expectations of the day and the logistics of finding parking so that we could make it to Freedom Plaza to join the march.  Finally on the road to our destination, traffic proved to be frustratingly slow for our purposes, and there was a growing awareness that we were going to be late to the march.  Upon passing some road construction that we jokingly declared was a left-wing conspiracy to keep “the wrong people” out of D.C., speed picked up and we made it to the downtown area just about the time the march was to commence.  Amy dropped all of us off at the corner of 7th and Something; Ben hopped out, grabbed Grandmommy’s wheelchair from the back of the van and quickly began assembling (while I tried to help, all the while thinking, “Why didn’t we think of this earlier?”).  That done, we proceeded down 7th towards Pennsylvania Avenue as Amy drove away to look for parking. We’d agreed to stay in touch by cellphone to meet up with her along the way.

As we approached the moving crowd, which was walking with purpose but in no obvious hurry, I became aware of how quiet they all were.  Yes, there were people talking, very much like thousands of your closest friends and neighbors taking that daily morning walk.  There were the ”barkers” who’d planted themselves on the sidewalks left and right of the street; some marchers wore backpacks with portable PA systems in them, chanting their own grievances against the Obama administration or Congress.  As we moved toward the Capitol Building, I was keenly aware of the people around me, trying to take it all in.  Prior to the trip, I’d warned my kids that I wasn’t sure what we might witness in D.C., that we might see the gamut from normal, well-behaved people to real nuts who just like to be in the fray (no matter what “the fray” is about!)  But here we were, in the midst of smiling, genial folks, relatively quiet, all moving deliberately toward one purpose.  I was more than a little relieved and very excited to be there.  

There were the more enterprising ones, hawking their wares in the street–things like small U.S. flags; buttons and bumper stickers with various clever slogans; the ever-popular “Don’t Tread On Me” flags.  And there were others just handing out cards and flyers with websites of organizations and candidates for Congress who were “in the fight.”

All the time we were marching and listening and observing, we were very aware that Amy hadn’t caught up with us yet.  Several cell phone calls later, informing her that we just couldn’t wait at our appointed meeting place as well as giving her landmarks, she caught up with us.   

I paused along the way, just taking in the sights and sounds.  I took a few pictures (one of my favorites is my family in the middle of the street with marchers on either side and behind, with the Capitol in the distance.)  I thought of the people who, generations before, either by foot or horseback or carriage or Model T, had made their way up and down this historic avenue.  At times, it was more than a little surreal to be walking the same path.  And like those before us, we were sure of our purpose if not the outcome.

We finally reached the Capitol.  Well, when I say we reached it, I mean that we’d gone as far as we could–the crowd before us loomed large.  In the distance, we could hear that the rally was starting up.  Though there was a PA system in use, as well as a large screen, we couldn’t understand the speakers on the stage.  Our only clue usually that something was happening on stage was the wave of sound that would travel back through the crowd to us.

We all stood in line (for maybe 30-45 minutes?) to use the necessary, not knowing the next time we’d see one.  Bess, my 12-year-old, affectionately (& facetiously) dubbed the port-a-potties “potpourri,” vowing to never visit one again.  

There were blockades set up to control numbers going in and out of the Capitol grounds.  Making our way to the first one, we stood for a while to try to listen to the various speakers.  But I wanted to get closer, and I wasn’t satisfied with being relegated to the ”outskirts” of this event.  So I began to slowly move closer, closer until I caught up with Amy, who was doing the same.  We two, being the occasionally pushy people that we are, did a little exploring and found an opening through the temporary fence, where it seemed people were coming and going.  Making sure we had everybody in tow, we finally reached our destination–the Capitol proper.

Third installment, “Day 3 (part 2):  The rally,” coming soon. . .

     

 

Reflections on 9/12/09: A march to revolution

(l-r) Sam, Lisa, Kate, Bess, Amy, Mama & Ben in D.C. on 9/12/09

Just a week ago, my children and I were hurriedly making our way to all the memorials and monuments that we could before exhaustion caught up with us.  We’d spent that day participating in the 9/12 March on Washington, D.C., organized by such groups as FreedomWorks and the various tea parties across the country.  These are just some of my impressions of the trip, the event, the day and the place.

We started from home about 5:00 the morning of 9/10, excited about the trip and especially the march and rally scheduled for the 12th.  That first day was long and exhausting, with many restroom and coffee stops along the way (there were 7 of us!), until we finally pulled into our hotel in Knoxville, TN late on the night of the 10th.  We hauled our luggage to the second floor, three of us took showers and we fell into bed, thankful for a place to finally stretch our cramped legs. 

Morning came way too early; the other four of us showered, dressed, and we ran downstairs to the dining room to eat a decent breakfast before getting back on the road.  We’d made 2/3 of our trip the day before, so this day, the 11th, seemed a little more relaxed.  We finished our drive through Tennessee and got to beautiful Virginia.  Now I am a Texan through and through; I love my state and think that we have some beautiful and diverse landscape.  But since childhood, I’ve seen pictures of Virginia and thought it had to be one of the most beautiful places on earth.  Reality did not disappoint.  As we traveled northeast on Hwy. 81, with the Appalachians on the left and the Blue Ridge Mountains on the right, there were little communities tucked into valleys between small, green hills–frame houses and brick ones, the largest buildings usually being the white, steeple-crowned churches.  I began to notice that even the farmland seemed manicured, well-cared for, with barns and silos dotting the landscape.  As the sun was setting behind us, the passing scenes looked even more beautiful.  It was the stuff of picture postcards and calendars.

We finally reached Washington, D.C. around 8 p.m. the evening of the 11th.  My sister, Amy, who’d been to D.C. many years before, suggested we drive into the city to try to locate Freedom Plaza where the march would begin the next day.  We found our way to Constitution Avenue and quickly recognized the more familiar monuments:  the Washington and the Lincoln Memorial.  The reality of where we were and who had been there before us seemed to hit us all simultaneously, and the kids and I just let out a howl!  The strange dichotomy of our situation crossed my mind:  the protest against our present government that we’d come to take part in and the celebratory shouts that we’d reached this place where great men of vision, those who’d established our government, had once walked.  It was an amazing and memorable introduction to Washington.

Second installment coming. . .

 

Van Gogh: tortured soul, brilliant artist

Since my sixth grade year, when we had to learn about a select list of artists and their works, I have been drawn to the art of Vincent Van Gogh. I think I was fascinated that someone so sad, so lost could produce such beautiful images. And then, in my high school years, along came Don McLean with this haunting tribute to Van Gogh. Just wanted to share. . .

 

The Murder of a Killer

The Sunday morning shooting of abortionist George Tiller in Wichita, Kansas has sparked a new discussion of abortion, but for the wrong reasons. There are those who will shift the focus from the right-or-wrong of abortion to the unlawful killing of a doctor (who lawfully killed tens of thousands of babies.) I ran across this piece by Doug Phillips of  Vision Forum Ministries (see link below.)  I have nothing to disagree with concerning Mr. Phillips’ take on this event, and very little to add, except that the likes of Dr. Tiller seem chillingly similar to a certain “Angel of Death” at Auschwitz, whose “experiments” were state-sanctioned.  I don’t think it’s stretching things to believe that, at one point early in his life and career, Josef Mengele was interested in medicine that would help his people.  And I think it’s safe to say that one day he crossed a line, that he rationalized ”the end justified the means.”  Can any reasonable and sane person point to Mengele’s practices during WW II and say any of it was good?

http://www.visionforumministries.org/issues/life/george_tiller_is_dead_for_whom.aspx

 

Memorial Day 2009

This morning early I walked on

     while my darling was in a dream.

The last sweet days of summer bloomed

      and dressed the trees in green.

Then soaring high in the gleaming sky

      from far across the bay

Came a fearsome roar from a distant shore

     at the dawning of the day.

 

Then I called my men to follow me

     knowing well that the view was dim

Though tired and worn, how they fought all morn’

     as time was closing in.

And my heart was sad though sore with pride,

     for brave lads all were they.

As the angels fly, how they climbed so high

     on the dawning of the day.

 

But the edge is moving nearer now

     inside the fading sun,

And calling, calling out to them,

     my brothers, one by one.

But only dusty silence sounds,

     the ashes float away

As the twilight ends and the night descends

     ’til the dawning of the day.

 

Forgive me, love, I’m going now

     so very far away.

When darkness falls, only think me near

     and do not be afraid.

And please don’t grieve when I am gone;

     abide in what remains

‘Til the shadows end and we meet again

     on the dawning of the day.

 

For when shadows end,

     we shall meet again

On the dawning of the day.

(recorded by Mary Fahl)

 

 

Happy Mother’s Day!

Some are kissing mothers and some are scolding mothers, but it is love just the same, and most mothers kiss and scold together.            Pearl S. Buck

To my mother:  Thank you for. . .

the many kisses and the occasional scolding; the warm hugs and the even warmer spankings; the liberal “yes” and the seldom-heard “no”; delicious meals and cooking lessons; the “hand-did” dresses and the most glorious of them all–my wedding gown; mother’s love and friendship.

For everything you have done for me and everything you are to me, I wish you a special day full of happiness .

Have a wonderful day!                                                                                 

 

 

Rainy days and Mondays

It’s raining here today, with intermittent thunderstorms.  I realized while puttering around this morning that I was singing this song (trying to remember all the lyrics!)  Thought I’d share it.  The lyrics are simple, but I don’t think any song has ever expressed the mood of a rainy day better.  Enjoy!

 

Bluebonnet Time

Nothing stirs my Texan soul more than the sight of blooming bluebonnets every spring.  This year they are particularly beautiful — I keep asking everyone, “Don’t they seem especially deep-blue this year?”  I do believe they are!  The singular blossom is not remarkable.  It’s the field with thousands of them that is breathtaking.  Whether near the highways or back roads, the profusion of blue creates a cool blanket over the landscape.  Our family is not alone in the annual practice of taking pictures in the bluebonnets.  It’s a Texas “Rite of Spring.”  I’m sure, if the rain lets up, we’ll make that trek again this weekend to enjoy our beloved state flower before it leaves too soon.

Tiny, blue blossom,

multiplied by a thousand,

becomes Spring’s herald.

 

 

 

Gray daze

I don’t know what it is about a rainy day that makes me just want to curl up with a good book or a good movie, shut out the world and “chill.”  Rainy days make me want to nap, laze around, just “be.”  Experts might point to the lack of sunlight as the reason for my inactivity, but that’s just not romantic enough a notion for me.  Not today.  Today deserves a more Austenesque treatment;  I’ll break out the embroidered sampler, make a cup of tea and listen to some Schubert.  Perhaps Bess and I will snuggle together under a quilt and watch Sense and Sensibility.  It’s a day for snuggling.

 

5 minutes of fame and counting. . .

In the future, everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes.  Andy Warhol

This prediction has made the rounds, in one variation or another, since the late ’60s.  I dare say that many of the people who could claim it to be true in their lives might more realistically be considered infamous.  In my youth and early 20’s, I coveted fame, actually thought I was destined to be famous.  I wanted to pursue singing and acting, and without boasting, I think I had/have a modicum of talent that might have allowed me to fulfill that dream.  But something happened, or rather, someone  happened.  I met Mr. Right, got married, had babies, and somewhere along the way, I fell completely out of love with fame and all its trappings.  But I never stopped singing or performing, even if it was at home in front of the kids.  And for the most part, that has been satisfying.  My days are full, my husband and children think I’m pretty wonderful — life is good!

Two years ago, I began auditioning for the local community theatre’s productions (we only do 2 per year!) and I got to assist the director (actually staging some scenes myself!  A blast!)  The kids were older, and the timing was good for me to venture out away from home for short spurts of theatrical distraction.  And then a most wonderful thing happened.  Practically a gift from Above, a singing gig dropped into my lap from an acquaintance of my husband’s.  She knew someone who knew someone who knew someone (I have no idea how many generations back this goes!)  I was handed this terrific opportunity to sing a medley with a vocal ensemble during the annual Spring concert of the Metropolitan Winds of Dallas.  This medley was an homage to Glenn Miller’s music and his “Modernaires”, the latter of whom I frankly had never heard.  The Internet and YouTube solved that dilemma quickly; it was not hard to track down some of their recordings and pictures.  

Then the preparation began.  I was contacted by email by the musical director of the group, Randol Bass, who welcomed me to the group (sight unseen and sound unheard!)  Subsequent emails contained help and music and MP3 downloads for rehearsing.  Then, of course, the search was on for “what to wear.”  Randy was the typical man when he stated that that was the least of his worries.  I told him as much, saying that to a woman, looking good was every bit as important as sounding good!  My mother, bless her, helped me pull together a beautiful outfit:  a Dupioni silk blouse in iridescent purple and black chiffon palazzo pants.  Very glam for a homemaker!  And so, the 21st Century’s version of the Modernaires (2 women, 3 men) met for 3 rehearsals in the days leading up to performance.  Everything gelled and sounded great, and I knew I was in my element!

Performance night:  April 5, 2009.  My older daughter, Kate, accompanied me to the Morton H. Meyerson Symphony Hall in downtown Dallas to help me get ready for my “big night.”  We finally found our way through the labyrinthe of passages and doors and elevators.  I stopped backstage before heading upstairs to change, stepping out onto the stage as the band was rehearsing another piece.  I’d been to the Meyerson before, but as an audience member — never on the stage.  I think my heart skipped a little.  I caught my breath and felt extraordinarily NOT scared but so blessed and so excited to be living this dream!  The Meyerson is a beautiful hall, holding lots of people — but the feeling is very close in and intimate.  I couldn’t wait to get out there.

The performance started at 7:30 p.m., with the MetWinds performing a few pieces (one the very familiar Pink Panther Theme by Henry Mancini.)  Then it was MY turn (well, yes, the ensemble’s turn!)  We walked out onstage to the enthusiastic applause of people who had already been entertained by the sounds of the MetWinds and their guest artist, jazz trumpeter, Adam Rapa.  The intro started, and we swung right into our medley of Miller songs, including Jukebox Saturday Night, Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree,  Elmer’s Tune, Serenade in Blue, Chattanooga Choo-Choo, and (my favorite!) Gal from Kalamazoo.  What a ride!  The tempo started out somewhat moderate, but as we approached the Chattanooga we seemed to be flying.  No choo choo here – more like a bullet train!  The audience seemed to enjoy the songs — I know I did.  We received our own enthusiastic ovation, punctuated by cheers and whistles I recognized as my family’s.  For a few moments, probably about five, I felt famous.  For a few minutes, the world — or a very small part of it anyway — was watching and listening to me.  And for a performer-at-heart, that’s a rush. 

I got to join my family in the audience for the second half of the concert.  Afterwards, we stood chatting in the lobby, a few people from the audience making the effort to pay their compliments.  My cousin, Jamie, who’d remembered the concert and actually made it with her friend, Phillip, asked me, “So, what’s next?”  And it seemed perfectly normal and satisfying to reply, “Kate’s got to get home and send in a document due for her online English Lit. course before midnight!”  We laughed at this dichotomy that has of late become my life:  I am Wife/Singer; I am Mommy/Actress!

What a lovely night it was.  I figure if Mr. Warhol’s statement holds true, I’ve got another ten minutes left on my fame clock.  I look forward to savoring every split second.

A lovely night, a lovely night.  A finer night you know you’ll never see.  

                 from Rodgers and Hammerstein’s  Cinderella