singing

Yesterday evening I texted my friend to see how things were in her neck of the woods.  We discussed family issues and I folded my 10 cranes (Day 3 of The100DayProject.)  Then she sent a link to Richard Thompson's Facebook concert and I listened to that while I finished the cranes and knitted 8 rows of the 3rd swatch (another project, using up the stash.)  I thought about all the ways people are dealing with isolation.  Musicians and restauranteers have it the worst, I think:  their livelihood depends on social gatherings.  I winced in sympathy as Thompson peered at the screen and said, "thank you, thank you very much" at the end of each song.  Hearing no applause, talking to no one, playing for himself, but trying to give a living room concert nonetheless.  "This is weird," he said, and launched into another song.

It's Easter weekend and Alexander Lingus shared some Holy Week music, courtesy of the Capella Romana archives.  I listened a bit to those as well and thought how forced but sincere these efforts are.  Patrick Stewart is reading a sonnet a day.  The Royal Amsterdam orchesra produced a zoom performance of Ode to Joy that brought me to tears.  Friends from my Portland symphony played Bach:  a little stilted and without dynamic nuance, but they were all doing their best, listening to the principal violinist's part through headphones, recording with varieties of technology.  I think, maybe I should try a Zoom rehearsal with my family or my friends.  And then I think about the sheer effort of pulling together the technology.  I can't even get Mom to clear out her tablet cache so she can unfreeze the screen and order groceries through Instacart.  I have to do it for her.

Still, I am ahead of the curve here.  I am comfortable with virtual connections;  that's how I have been keeping in touch for the last several years, ever since I moved to New Mexico, in fact.  My community is far flung, and my gregarious spirit is grateful for the possibilities offered by the ether.

A year ago, when I was very lonely, I listened to bird song and thought "sumer is a cumen in."  Dad used to say that, and years ago I finally learned the tune and the words.  My musical friend M taught it to me one day as we drove....where?  I can't recall.  Into the Gorge for a hike?  Down to Eugene for a concert?  It was someplace out of town, because we had plenty of time to learn the round.  But, I have had no one to sing it with since then.  M is in Portland, dealing with her increasingly debilitating MS. 

I meant to visit her last fall when I was in town and ran into her husband.  He has bought the Sovereign Gallery, down by the Heathman Hotel.  It was owned by a friend who sold him many paintings back in the day. M and her husband hooked me up with that former gallery owner, a tall blonde man with a handsome Scandihovian face and engaging manners.  We went to a CNW concert by Joseph Silverman, who performed all 6 Bach unaccompanied sonatas, playing beautifullyl by memory.  I still remember sitting in the cramped cafeteria at Reed: this was before the concerts moved to Kaul Audidtorium.  It was sweaty summer evening.  The area by the stage was filled with cushions.  Limber younger folk lounged on them while the rest of us sat bolt upright in tiered circles.  I think that was my olnly date with the gallery owner. But the music was gorgeous.

Anyway, it was long ago, and I am alone, unable to share or make music in any but virtual ways. So, last year I set up my cell phone recorder and sang "Sumer is a cumen in," several times until I had a round.  I shared it then and I'm sharing it now.  Some day, I'll find someone, or several someones, and we'll sing it again.

There are so many memories of sharing music.  I visited T years ago, in Oneonta NY.  His sister was getting married, but the family welcomed me into their home and celebration.  They had a huge New England style home, with an impressive front staircase and a narrow back servant's staircase.  There was wood everywhere, paintings, books, beautiful fabrics.  It was a home, not a showcase, and all the rooms were filled with activity.  It was a musical family, so his mother asked the women who were there for the wedding to sing Jerusalem while she played piano.  It was a thrilling sound, all those gorgeous female voices. The next day, for the processional, we all sang "come follow..."  Years later, when my family was at the beach celebrating our parent's 50th anniversary, I taught it to my nephew and sisters as we sat around a smoky beach fire toasting marshmallows and listening to the waves.  Years later still, E and I sang it together as we drove into Santa Fe.  We also sang "White coral bells," which brought my mind back to the summer drives up to Minnesota when I was very young.  We'd be crammed into the Buick Station wagon, passing the time with singing:  "White Coral Bells," "Barges," and, bizarrely, "Gaylord," an advertising jingle for a stuffed mechanical dog.  (That song surfaced when we drove through the town of Gaylord. My sisters still remember it.)

I think I'll always want to sing, even when my voice is cracked with age, even when I'm isolated.  But singing in the shower or on an empty trail does not bring the same joy of singing rounds around the campfire or driving through the prairie.  And creating virtual music is a poor substitute for the resonance of music shared with others.

life by the lake

A year ago I was in Canada,taking care of two huge lab-type dogs. I was lonely, really lonely for the first time in my nomad experiment. I'm not sure why I was lonely. I had a car to take me to the nearby town. I had a neighbor who showed me his show care with the pearlescent paint job and the Harley Davidson orange interiro. He also showed me the trail out behind the house and returned my dogs when they escaped out the insecurely latched front gate. If I wanted, I'm sure he would have been willing to share some beer and time with me. But I didn't want it. I didn't know what I wanted.

The weather was both spring and winter: snow happened regularly and I got to start a fire, and then it went away and I went on muddy walks above the lake. I tried to blog, but intead I wrote letters and posted pix to Facebook. I set the roomba to taking care of the dog hair. I walked the dogs. I fed them. My hosts had prepped five weeks worth of raw-meat meals and every week I brought in 14 tubs from the freezer in the garage and started them thawing in the small pantry fridge. I monitored the yard pump, which was dealing with the spring melt. I knitted. I cooked. My hosts were on the Keto diet, so I was tasked with finishing up all the pastas and other non-Keto foods that were languishing in the pantry. For the most part I did not use the expensive Keto ingredients, but I did make the Keto non-baked chocolate desert which was WONDERFUL (utilized coconut oil, nut butters, shredded coconut, pecans.) I sat in front of the huge-screen TV, eating the sweet crunchiness and watching the curling championships and Stanley Cup playoffs. I drank Tim Horton coffee. I felt like I was turning into a Canadian. And I felt lonely.

I took a 10-day break while one of my hosts returned to take care of some busiiness. He didn't want to share the house with me and was going to stay with friends, and I thought I might as well explore a bit. I went to Calgary and stayed at the Fairmont hotel next to the old Olympic Torch, where I dined in the revolving restaurant. I walked along the river, visited the amazing library (and got a card just for the fun of it.) I walked through the Dior exhibit and attended a hockey game at the Saddle Dome. I checked out the First Nations exhibits. I swam in the hotel pool and had a good massage. Then I drove up to Banff where I hiked a bit, climbed the Tunnel Mountain by my lodge, and drove to Lake Louise to walk on the frozen waters. On the way home I stopped by the Terrell Dinosaur Museum. Each day was wonderful, full of images, which I took, and stories, which I did not write.

I did send some vignettes in letters:
Serenity, the black dog, is lying at my feet, wagging her tail and watching me intently. Chloe, the yellow, was lying on the couch (illegally) but has gone back to her cage where she feels most comfortable. Earlier today I took them for a walk, turning around when Chloe stopping pulling on the lead & getting home before she collapsed. Reportedly you get pulled half way and then pull her the other half. I wanted to avoid the latter.

I'm rather wiped out. Maybe it's altitude, maybe it's the week of travel, maybe it's time for me to stop this wandering around and settle down. I feel like I should be using my time more actively and productively, although I guess walking dogs counts as something. But I am beyond unmotivated. I took Vicodin for a bad headache on Saturday, and another yesterday just because I liked being drugged into immobility. Suddenly I understand how people can become addicted. I've never done that before, never self-medicated. Clearly something is wrong, but I don't know what. Still, there's no point in stopping this nomadic lifestyle. The issue is not homelessness, it's aimlessness.

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It's pouring snow today: it started April 30 has continued off and on. The snow dries up, then the skies empty out again. Today it's pretty constant, but we'll see if I can manage a short walk through the woods behind the house. The dogs get antsy if I don't take them out.

Last night I watched the Denver Avalanches (Hockey team) win Game 4 in the Stanley cup playoffs, Round 2. On April 19 I saw them live, winning Round 1 in Calgary against the Flames. I was in the very top row of the Saddle Dome, and it was a heartstopping climb up narrow, steep, beer-coated concrete steps. M & I are messaging throughout the games. He's pro-Avs of course, and now that I've gotten over the Calgary trouncing, I am too. After all, if they beat 2nd-seeded Sharks, that will justify the Flames' loss, right? and they are my most local team. Right now the matches are tied.

My host thinks I'm turning Canadian, watching curling and hockey and drinking Tim Horton's coffee. but it's my way of learning the community. Alberta's too much like Texas, in industry and politics, so even though I like the snow, it's just not a long-term solution for my final stop. We'll see what Quebec is like, end of August.

I'm still very dozy and unmotivated, but that is probably my life-long attitude coming to the fore. I just had too many commitments before to let the laziness really blossom into full-fledged sloth. I'm not hanging upside down yet, but that will probably come in due course.