Ghosts of Writings Past

Last night I was looking through my the files on my computer, and I came across a folder named "Plays." This immediately brought back memories of plays I used to write and perform with the aid of my siblings and numerous cousins. I would always write the plays, taking into account every one of my cousins' strengths and weaknesses, and creating parts that could easily be played by various members of the Ellis family. I always played the lead, because I felt I could never count on anyone else to learn all the lines required to be the lead. I even formed a theater company: the Ellis Family Theater Company, or the E.F.T.C.

A facsimile of the original program

We would practice these plays for months, and then at a convenient family gathering we would put them on for the parents and youngest children who weren't yet old enough to play parts. I would come up with the costumes, the music, and the programs, occasionally delegating tasks to the two cousins my age.

The first of these plays was The Story of a Princess and the Tale of a Dragon, a short drama about a princess who is captured by  dragon and an evil witch who are in cahoots, and is freed by a brave knight. The most memorable scene from that play was the one where the dragon failed to come out of the coffee table cave when she was supposed to. It was the first play I had ever written, and I was very proud of it, despite the errors of my actors. I thought I had lost the manuscript for this play, but I found a copy of it in the scrapbook I made of all the E.F.T.C. plays. It's absolutely wonderful.

Gismund and Chrysophylax plot their devious plots

The dragon and the knight battle

The princess thanks the knight for rescuing her

The next play we performed was a very short skit for the annual Thanksgiving talent show we held for our grandparents. This was The Daughters of Liberty. At a tea party five young women talk about the work they are doing for the revolutionary soldiers, and denounce King George. There wasn't much of a plot, but it was fun to jump out of my chair and cry, "Liberty forever and down with all tyrants!" And it's always fun to dress up in period costumes.

Discussing the upcoming highland dancing contest

Our piéce de résistance was a play set in the Scottish Highlands, We'll Come as the Winds Come. The play centered around a group of children who formed a clan called the Rob Roy Clan. They terrorize the game warden,Will MacNeil, who is always trying to catch people for poaching, but is secretly poaching himself. In one scene they write R.R.C. on various rocks to frighten Will. (This came from a club me and my siblings had once where we would go around the property and scrawl those initials on all of the cement surfaces and even trees. There are still evidences of the club today.) There was even a Scottish dancing competition, complete with swords, to showcase our dancing skills. (I choreographed the dance moves.)

Highland dancing

The boys try their feet at dancing, with disastrous consequences

An example of the choreography of the highland dance

When we put on our plays, they were far from perfect, and I would often get frustrated with the lack of appreciation of art. I still marvel that we were able to sort of pull off We'll Come as the Winds Come, the longest play we had ever performed. They were amusing at best. When we performed, the grownups were always very aggravating, always telling us to speak loud, and sometimes even laughing when they weren't supposed to. I think they enjoyed them, though, despite their annoying tendencies.

Those were not the only plays I ever wrote, though the others were never performed. There was the infamous Joan of Arc. Joan of Arc has always been one of my favorite saints, and after I read Mark Twain's Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc, I had to write a play about her. The play was extremely long. Unfortunately the manuscript has been lost, so I don't remember exactly how long it was, but it was long. It has become a family joke: Joan of Arch in ninety acts. The number grows every year. We started to practice the play after I wrote it, but I soon gave it up, as I realized it would never come off.

Last night as I was looking through the folder named "Plays" I found two other plays I had written years ago. The best one is One Wore Blue, One Wore Gray. This play, as the title suggests, is set in Civil War Virginia. The main character is Meriel Lee, niece of Robert E. Lee, to be played, of course, by me. (Each character in my plays was designed to fit each member of the family.) She and her male cousins (played by my brothers) met two Yankee girls and a Yankee boy (played by my Yankee cousins). They start off as friends, then find out that they are on different sides, and promptly hate each other. I'm still not sure what Yankees were doing in Virginia in war time. Meriel's cousins go off to fight, one gets killed, and the other is captured. When the Yankee girls find out, one of them (conveniently the niece of Lincoln), writes to her uncle and asks that he be released. The girls become friends again, and all is happy and well. I began to read this play out loud to my sisters. I did not get very far since I was laughing too hard. My dad came in, and read it out loud to us, using different voices for each character. I've never laughed so hard in my life.
When I wrote the play, I was probably around fourteen or fifteen, and I was into melodrama. The play is very melodramatic. The characters are always talking through their teeth, talking in stricken voices, or looking stricken, or some variation on being stricken, and Meriel twice breaks out into verse. It was extremely amusing, if not slightly embarrassing. Here is one priceless scene:



Meriel: (Between clenched teeth.) So. You are a Yankee.

Emily: What’s wrong? Aren’t you one too?

Meriel: (nearly shouting) No!

(Emily jumps up and faces Meriel)

Emily: Oh, so you are a rebel. I might have known.

Meriel: Yes, and I am proud of it. My uncle is Robert E. Lee.

Emily: So what? My uncle is the president of the United States.

I have no idea what I was thinking.

Back when I wrote those plays, I took them very seriously. Now, years later, I can look back at my writing and laugh. I have fond memories of those days. I'm toying with the idea of publishing my first mystery story, Ocean Mistory. I can guarantee you'll laugh. I know my family did when I discovered the notebook I had written it in and read it aloud to them. But that, as a certain professor of mine is fond of saying, is a story for another day.

The Adventure of Ramsey: Ramsey Goes on an Adventure and Meets Silverstone

A few weeks ago I was sitting with my little brother in the garden, and he asked me to tell him a story. I thought about it, and remembered a stuffed mountain goat he has that he is very fond of. That would be a good subject for a story, I thought. I began to tell him the story of Ramsey the Mountain Goat. This is the transcription of the story, almost as I told it to my brother.

Ramsey was a mountain goat. He was a very handsome mountain goat – the most handsome of all mountain goats, in fact. No other mountain goat had such a fine coat, or such a silky beard, or such shiny horns. And his big black eyes – why, they could melt even a heart of stone.

Ramsey lived halfway up the side of Watermelon Mountain. Watermelon Mountain was so named because some ambitious mountain goat had tried to plant a very large patch of watermelons, which had died, because, as everyone knows, watermelons do not grown the sides of mountains. Ramsey lived in a nice little house made of sticks and grass, thatched with reeds. He had a nice little garden where he grew all his mountainous vegetables. He had a nice bed made out of grass and leaves, a nice table made of wood, and a nice little sink where he kept his little wooden toothbrush. It was a very pleasant house, to be sure.

One morning of a lovely summer day, Ramsey woke up, stretched, and got out of bed. He brushed his teeth, washed his beard, and ate his breakfast. When he had washed his dishes he went outside. He looked around him and said, “I would like to go on an adventure.” He wondered what sort of adventure he should go on. He looked around him and thought, “I’ve never been to the top of the mountain. I think I’ll go to the top of the mountain.”

His mind made up, he put on his hat (to keep the sun out of his eyes) and set off on his way. It was a long, steep trek up to the top of the mountain, and Ramsey was quite tired by the time he got to the top. He had to stop several times to catch his breath and drink water from the mountain streams.

When he got to the top, there was a Rock Gnome, sitting on a rock sunning himself. Rock Gnomes are usually hard to see when they are sunning themselves on rocks, but this one had on a bright red hat, so Ramsey could see him quite well.

“Hello,” said Ramsey to the Rock Gnome.

“Hello,” said the Rock Gnome gruffly. Rock Gnomes don’t get out much, so their manners aren’t the best.

“What’s your name?” Ramsey asked.

“What’s your name?” the Rock Gnome asked back.

“Ramsey,” said Ramsey.

“That’s a silly name,” the Rock Gnome said gruffly. Remember, Rock Gnomes don’t get out much.

“No it isn’t,” Ramsey said.

The Rock Gnome shrugged. “Well. Suite yourself.”

“Thank you, I will,” Ramsey said. “What’s your name?”

“Silverstone,” the Rock Gnome said.

Ramsey thought that was just as silly a name as his, but he didn’t say anything because he was a very polite mountain goat. Instead he said, “That’s a very nice hat you’ve got on.”

“Why, thank you,” the Rock Gnome said gruffly. “I got it for my birthday. My birthday was last week.”

“Well, many happy returns of the day.”

“Thanks,” said Silverstone. “Say, do you want to come visit me?”

“Well, sure, why not?” Ramsey said. “That would be nice.”

The Silverstone got off his rock. “It’s this way.” He led the way to his rock house. He opened his little rock door, which was painted red, and he and Ramsey went in. It was a very nice rock house. There was a little rock table, and a little rock bed (Rock Gnomes sleep on pebbles. They like it very much, though I can’t see why.), a little rock refrigerator, and a little rock sink with a toothbrush.

“Would you like something to eat?” Silverstone asked.

“Yes, please,” Ramsey said. He sat down at the little rock table, and Silverstone brought him a bowl. There were rocks inside the bowl. Silverstone got himself a bowl of rocks, and sat on the other side of the table.

Ramsey didn’t much like rocks. Mountain goats don’t, as a rule. But Ramsey was a very polite mountain goat, so he didn’t say anything. He picked up a rock and put it in his mouth, but he couldn’t chew it. It had a funny, iron-y sort of taste, too, that he didn’t like. He didn’t want to be impolite, though, so when Silverstone wasn’t looking he slipped the rock into his napkin and then into his pocket.

“How do you like your rocks?” Silverstone asked.

“Mmmm, vewy goob,” Ramsey said as best as he could around a mouthful of rock.

Silverstone beamed happily. “Are you thirsty?” he asked.

“Yes, I am,” Ramsey nodded.

Silverstone went to his stone refrigerator and took out a pitcher. He poured a grayish liquid into a rock cup and gave it to Ramsey. Ramsey took a drink. It didn’t taste good at all, but he didn’t want to be impolite, so he drank it all. “What is it?” he asked.

“It’s mineral water,” Silverstone told him. “It’s my favorite. I usually save it for special occasions, and I drink stream water normally, but you are my very first Mountain Goat guest, so I wanted to give some to you.”

“Why, thank you,” Ramsey said.

“Well, now that you’re finished, would you like to see my rock books?” Silverstone asked.

“Yes, please.” Ramsey didn't know what a rock book was, but he liked books.

Silverstone went to a rock cupboard and took out a book. It was made out of thin pieces of rock. He put the book on the table and opened it. There was a page made out of granite, all gray with streaks of white in it. There was a page made out of sandstone, yellow and crumbly. There was a page made out of red rock, and one made out of shiny emeralds. There was one made out of sapphires, and another made out of rubies. They were quite pretty.

“I make them to sell to other Rock Gnomes,” Silverstone told Ramsey. “They’re quite popular.”

“Oh, could I buy one?” Ramsey asked. “How much are they?”

“Well, I usually sell them for fifty rocks,” Silverstone said, “but for you, ten rocks.”

Ramsey was quite touched. “Why, thank you,” he said.

“Do you have any rock money?” Silverstone asked.

“Hmmm.” Ramsey thought for a moment, then remembered the rocks in his pocket. “Yes, I do!” he cried. He took the rocks out of his pocket – there were ten of them – and gave them to Silverstone.

“Now what kind of cover do you want on your book?” Silverstone asked. He showed Ramsey all the different kinds of covers. There were covers made out of silver, covers made out of gold, out of sapphires, rubies, and even diamonds.

“Oh, they’re all so pretty.” Ramsey scratched his head. “I don’t know.”

“Wait, I have just the thing.” Silverstone scampered off to his cupboard and took out a book. The cover was made out of all different kinds of stones, rubies, emeralds, sapphires, diamonds, and even some silver and gold.

“It’s perfect!” Ramsey cried. “Thank you, Silverstone.” He looked at the stone clock on Silverstone’s wall. It said the time was a quarter to five. He sighed. “Oh, I really should be going. My aunt is coming to dinner at six, and I have to have everything ready. She’s rather particular, you know.”

Silverstone didn't know, but he had relatives of his own, and he understood. “Well, let me give you a ride down the mountain.”

“A ride in what?”

“In my rockmobile. It’s the latest model.”

“Well, thank you, that would be very nice.”

Silverstone led Ramsey outside to his garage. He opened the door and there was the rockmobile, a lovely little car made out of rock. It is a little known fact, but Rock Gnomes are very advanced in industrial affairs.

“What a nice car!” Ramsey exclaimed when he saw it. Mountain Goats do not have cars; they rely on their own four feet to get them around.

“Thank you.” Silverstone was quite pleased. He was very proud of his car. He polished it every day so that it shone like silver, and always made sure there was plenty of blueberry juice to make it run.

Ramsey climbed into the passenger seat of the car, and Silverstone climbed into the driver’s seat. He started the car, and away they went down the side of the mountain. “You know,” Silverstone confessed as they drove along, “I’ve never been to your part of the mountain.”

“Well, I had never been to your part of the mountain, either,” Ramsey said. “I’m very glad I went.”

“I’m glad you went too. I’ve never had a Mountain Goat friend before.”

They reached Ramsey’s thatched house halfway down the side of Watermelon Mountain. Ramsey thanked Silverstone as he got out of the car. “I had a very lovely afternoon,” he told his new friend.

“So did I,” Silverstone agreed.

“Would you like to come to my house tomorrow?” Ramsey asked. “I could show you around.”

“Yes, please, I would like that very much.” Silverstone waved to Ramsey as he started back up the side of the mountain. Ramsey watched him go, and then turned into his house. He had a lot to do to prepare for Aunt Ramonia.

The Life of a Song

The world lay heavy on my heart,

My eyes were closed in dreamless sleep.

My lips lay closed; I could not speak,

No song rose to my lips.

I walked in darkness like a soul

Lost without a spark of light;

And on my knees in sorrow fell,

My tears upon the earth.

Yet as I lay in abject fear,

It crept upon my sensless form,

Whispered softly in my ears

And touched my eyes with light.

No face there was, no hands to touch,

No voice to wake my deadened ears - 

Yet there was life, and in its wake

My tears began to fall.

I could not tell why then my heart,

So burdened with the cares of life,

Could only sing in twice-blessed song

And could not speak at all.

Awake, my heart! Arise my soul!

Go, soar with brilliant wings afire

To where all time in Time shall cease

And all my tears erase.

Beautiful Music and Fireworks

Last night I played in the Tehachapi Symphony Orchestra's annual July 4th concert. After the concert we sat on the grass of the football field where we were playing and watched the fireworks. It was a very good day.

This concert is the one where we play "light" music: movies scores, musical scores, lighter classical music. This time it was heavier. We even played some Wagner. That made me happy. While some film scores are good, I don't care for them as much, and I detest musicals. Detest and Abhor. I was lucky this time. The only musical score we played was South Pacific, a really old and obscure musical that hardly anyone in the orchestra had heard about. Last night we played some good pieces, my favorite of which is Berlioz's Marche Hongroise. This piece is a delight to play. It has stormy, Berlioz-esque passages, followed by light, airy passages.

We also played Bizet's Carmen Suite, which is just pure delight, and Bach's Little Fugue in G minor, as well as a few others and some Sousa. We almost played Mussorgsky's Pictures at an Exhibition, but it didn't come together in time. It was very disappointing. That piece is simply wonderful. It sounds good on all sorts of instruments, as well, especially the classical guitar.

Being away at college, I always forget how much I love playing in the orchestra. For a volunteer orchestra, the TSO is very good. And we have a superb director. He's no Barenboim or Karejan, but he's very good. And he always tells jokes. I think all directors should tell jokes. Whenever I come home in the summer and play for the July 4th concert life just gets so much better. Last night was no different. During a long rest in one piece, I began to reflect on how wonderful it is to be part of an orchestra. (I even started writing a story about it, which will come later.) I look around at my fellow musicians. Some of them do it because they are paid to do it. Some of them do it because they have nothing better to do, and some of them, like me, do it for no other reason than it is art. It would be nice to be paid for it, but I don't really care about the money. I do it simply because to be a part of this, this grand experience of recreating beauty, is worth more than all the wealth of the world. I work so hard, suffer through those hard, stratospheric passages simply so that beauty might be incarnated one more time. With my instrument I am bringing beauty to life, embodying the music that pours from the soul of the composer. The music is ephemeral, yet it is real. It is a part of that which we cannot see, cannot touch, but is there all the same, real and somehow tangible. And I am recreating it.

I always think how wonderful it must be to be an orchestra director. The director does not recreate the music himself; he does not play an instrument as we in the orchestra do. Yet he plays an instrument, and that instrument is his orchestra. With the movements of his hands, the director draws the music out of fifty different instruments, making them into a finely organized whole. A flick of his hand brings the trumpets in. With a pull of his hand, the music swells into a crescendo; he lets go and the music dies away into a whisper. What power he has! And he does not play a single note.

I am proud to be a member of the orchestra. That feeling of pride always increases when Dr. Newby steps onto the stage and smiles at us. That smile says, "We have worked together, struggled together, to make something beautiful come alive. I am proud of you." It does not get any better than that. And it does not get any better than the last movement of Mussorgsky's Pictures at an Exhibition.

Infinity

In dark stormholding sits my lady long
Amidst the dimmest shades of long and endless night
Where long and fast fall clouds of tinted gray
And shadows running here and to and fro
Encapture and envelope all from sight
And twist the very sinew of the day.
And yet she sits and looks to heaven's gate
With burnished eye and empty, polished hand
An azure heart, and tongue of burnished gold
To reach and grasp and hold for dearest life
And as the light sinks down to clasp still tight
To wait for naught and hope for all in vain.

Miles to Go: Behind the Name

I was thinking today about why I named my blog "Miles to Go." I guess there is a reason for it other than the fact that I like that name. One reason is Dr. Bob Carlson.

Dr. Bob Carlson was a professor at Wyoming Catholic College, one of the founding fathers, to be exact. Every year WCC students memorize approximately ten poems a year. (That is, we are supposed to learn them. I can't say I can recite all forty poems by memory.) One of these poems, Dr. Carlson's favorite, is Robert Frost's "Stopping By Woods". Because it is Dr. Carlson's favorite, it has become a school favorite. We all know it by heart, much better than any other poem. We always recite it en masse at the matriculation ceremony every year.

I do like this poem very much. In a way it expresses the journey we're all on, the journey that our four years at WCC prepared us for. We have miles to go until we reach our end, and what we do with those miles is important. We have miles to go before we sleep, and we cannot rest until have done what we have to do: set the world on fire!

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening

By Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here 

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound's the sweep

Of easy wind and down flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.