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.