The Deepest Winter - A Poem for Christmas

Poem by Clotilde Zehnder

Calligraphy by Katherine Zehnder

Evening Hymn

When day has breathed his last gold ray

And light has faded into dark,

The moon in radiance reaches down

Upon the sleeping, slumbering world,

And gently touches as it falls

Each lost and wandering bark.

And while the world is sleeping still,

The lonely traveler lifts his eyes

And on the moon his heart attends.

For in her light his soul is free,

And in her kindly radiance, now,

He finds his home at last.

Ocean Mistory

(Written at age nine. Spelling and punctuation are as in the original manuscript.)

1. Down by the Sea

Anna Anastasia and I were down by the sea. We went by train. When we got there we got out. Let's go swimming I cried. Anna said where are our suit-cases? We looked around. Where could they be cried Anastasia. We put them right here I said. We saw some men running. They had the missing suit cases!!! After them I cried. We ran, but the men disapered right in front of our eys!

2. Puzzling fakts
We were still staring when I said: How could they have gotten away!! Anastasia said, I don't know. Anna said, why don't we become detectives? Good idea! I cried. But we must ask Augustin what to do. They'll be coming soon, said Anastasia. We heard a whistle and we ran to meat the next train. The boys came out. As we waked to our cabin I told Augustin about what had happened. We can't aford to lose those diving suits, cried Augustin. We must get them back!

A facsimile of the original manuscript

3. Detectives
We had lunch. Wehn we were done we talked about the thifs. I said, next time we see them, let's fallow them. We must walk softly said Augustin. We saw the thifs out the window! Quick! I said. We went outside. We fallowed the the thifs. We fallowed them till we came to a trap door. The thifs went in I said let's fallow them, after all we are detectives. We went in - suddenly all went dark! I felt arms around me.

4. Captives!
After I felt the arms around me I felt nothing. After a hwile I came to myself. I was lying on my back in pitch dark. My hands and feet were tied. There was hard ground under me. All was dark exsept for one small light which came from a lantern. The others were tied up to. I cried Help! Help! Hush! commanded a voice. But I kept crying Help! Help! But no help came. I wished I was home.

5. Two Excapes
We were yelling for help when I said, look here, I found a way to excape! My wrist ties are loose. I will un-tie them and get my poket knife and cut your ropes. I un-tied my wristes and freed the others. I picked up the lantern. We crept along and came to the trap door. NOW! I cried. We ran trough the door. Menhwile the theifs saw we were gone. They said let's get out of here or we'll have the police after us! They ran away.

6. Exploring
Next day we went exploring. We waked along the seashore, hopping to see the thiefs. We saw them and I said, let's catch them! We ran quitly after the thifs. I ran to one and grabed him. Anna grabed the other one. I said give me the rope! We tied up the thiefs. The police erested them. We were very happy.

THE END

Consummate

Turn not to the flames, my love,
The flames that burn in endless rage
And send their souls to ashes gray.
My love, walk not in flames that burn
The mortal soul in coldest hate,
For when they burn their hearts to ash,
Then they can only die.

Yet walk in the light, my love,
The light that burns in endless flame
And lifts its soul in burning song.
Walk in the light while yet it shines,
For when it burns its brightest blaze,
Then, all consumed within its heart,
Then only can they die.

And Life Goes On...

In my senior thesis I wrote about the connection between music and suffering. There is an inherent connection between man and suffering, and an inherent connection between man and music. Put that together, add about 1100 more words and 39 pages, and you get the redemption of suffering through music. It's as simple as that. (If only it were; I could have been saved almost a year's worth of work.)

But I am not here to write about my thesis, though I would like to talk about suffering, and music. I would like to talk about orchestra, and Beethoven, as well. These thoughts came to me during orchestra today. We were playing Beethoven's 7th today. The whole of Beethoven's 7th is a masterpiece. The scherzo is a little long, but it is still a masterful joke. Anyone who has read my senior thesis or gone to my thesis oration will know that I love Beethoven. And that I hate Mozart, but that is a story for another day.

Well, we were playing the second movement of that masterful work, the 7th symphony, and our director, Dr. Newby, said, "The thing about tragedy is that life still goes on, and I think that is what Beethoven is trying to express here. You have to keep the music moving. When you slow it down, it defeats the whole purpose." That made me stop and think. While I was listening to the winds and brass practice a section, I began to muse over what Dr. Newby had said. Yes, when there is a tragedy, life goes on. We can never hold onto our sorrow for too long, for even though someone we love is gone, we still have life. The world around us has life, and we have to go on living. We can't help it. It is not any sort of disrespect to the dead. They know, and we know, that we have to keep moving. When we slow down, it defeats the whole purpose.

Throughout the rest of the movement, I mused on this, and as I mused, I saw what Beethoven was trying to express unfolding in his music. The movement starts quietly and somberly with the lower strings. It is a throbbing rhythm, as if someone were weeping. It it the sound of a coffin being lowered into the grave, while we look on and weep. The sorrow continues. It gets stronger, but it keeps moving. The pain is excruciating, but we must keep on going.

Then, quite suddenly, the sun comes out. The music is serene. It is not Mozart-happy; it is peaceful. The pain is not gone, but it is hidden away in a secret recess of our hearts, so that when we want to, or must, we can let it out. And we do want to let it out. Not long after the sun comes out, the music turns to the theme again, and the sorrow returns. It is not for long, however, and as it always does, the sun comes out again. That is the way of things.

The movement ends with the theme. It gets softer and softer, almost dying out, until it resurges in the last two measures. I do not think that is despair. No, it is a promise. It is a promise that we will never forget. We will go on with our lives, but we will always remember, and that pain will always be in the deepest recesses of our hearts because we loved. That is the way of life. That is the way of Beethoven's music.

And that is why I love Beethoven.

Alexander's Grave

When once he raised his head in brazen pride
From centuries of stony serpents' hearts,
He looked upon the world and raised his hand,
Encased in black and terrible to see,
And took his sword to conquer all he saw.

The world was at his feet, dejected, torn,
And still he cannot rest, till all is his;
He will not stop till his is heaven's door.

His visage stamped in silver, gold, and bronze.
Proclaiming all his glory to the ages hence,
He shall live long, and after death still more -
His name enshrined in memory's annals while
His mark upon the world is left behind.

For Death shall have no sting, no chilling bite.
Death shall not take his spirit, though he die,
His body withered once from dust to dust,
And grass grows sweetly on his mounded grave.

But yet when all is done and gone
There is no more than shadows on the grass.
And grass in winter's chill shall wither and be gone,
And love shall not his memory resurrect;
It lies not in his cold and lonely grave.

Music in the Modern Mode

In our day people, especially if they are young, say that classical music is boring. They would much rather listen to the latest pop hits or watch Justin Bieber gyrating on stage. When I go to orchestra concerts, I am struck by the overwhelming number of older people present. The ratio of people over forty is much greater than that of people under thirty. Our youth do not listen to classical music. They don't think it is relevant to them; the problems they are going through are expressed so much better in "Teenage Dream" or "Twenty-Two." So to make classical music "relevant" to today's youth, the symphonies of Beethoven and the concertos of Bach are given a touch of rock. Thus we have such atrocities as Walter Murphy's "A Fifth of Beethoven." Granted, that is from 1976, but that kind of "remixing" of the greats is still present. I hate to pollute the innocent ears of my readers, but this can only be understood with an example.

I hate it when people do this to beautiful music. It has always been my contention that in order to present something to young people we do not need to dumb it down. Thus my utter hatred of Christian rock. Just because something is called Christian does not mean it is good. (See Bad Catholic's post, "5 Reasons to Kill Christian Music.) Young people can be just as receptive to beauty as adults. They do not need Precious Moments to explain the faith to them. They do not need anything less than Beethoven's complete and unadulterated 5th Symphony.

I can understand a little the trouble, and why young people find classical music boring. After all, when you only hear Mozart and Haydn on the radio, what else are you to think? It's like showing someone the entrance to Arches National Park and not the majestic Double Arch or the stunning Delicate Arch. There are depths in classical music to which only Mozart and Haydn do not take you. You cannot simply stay on the surface and not explore the depths.

Yet there is hope. There are young people who love classical music, and even prefer it to the music their contemporaries are listening to. (Did you guess that I am one of those people?) Beauty and truth will not be ignored, now matter how much the other side presses forward. There are ways in which we can make good music relevant to today's youth without adding a drum set and electric guitars.

Recently I discovered a new phenomenon. Well, it is not exactly new to the world, but it is new to me. It is the classical flash mob. You know the principle of the flash mob: a group of people assembles suddenly in a public place to perform something for a brief time then quickly disperse. I was watching videos of such flash mobs on YouTube when I came across the Beethoven flash mob.

Since then I have watched this video many times. Every time it delights me. It is so wonderful, so powerful, so charming. One of the best things about it is the children. Granted, it is in Europe, and people are a bit more cultured there. All the same, it was delightful to watch the children throughout the video. The little girl who puts a coin in the bassist's hat stays to listen. A girl in red climbs a lamppost to have a better view and conducts from her perch. Two little boys dance and wave their arms around in time to the music. In general people are enjoying themselves. Who would not?

That kind of spontaneity lends a freshness to the music without changing it. When I see it, I think, this is what we need. Not necessarily classical flash mobs, though those would be fun. We need to clear the air around classical music. Classical music should not appear old and musty. I am all for the traditional appearance of classical music, but traditional in a fresh way. It is fresh because it is beauty. It is new because it is truth, and truth is present and relevant in any age.

And finally, as a conclusion, Peer Gynt on the metro. I love how the video portrays how beautiful music can lift us out of the humdrum routine of our lives while still being an essential part of our lives. Now this is a fresh take on classical music.

Once in a Blue Moon

They say it only rains in our town once in a blue moon. Whatever that means, it’s true. At least now it’s true. The old men would sit in the café every morning and talk about how they remembered a time when it rained nearly every day in the summer months. I can remember a time like that too. I don’t remember it raining nearly every day, but I do remember it raining at least twice a month. It was quite small then. Those were big rains. The gutters outside our house would be flooded. I would climb up onto the sofa under the window and press my nose against the cool glass, watching the rain come down in sheets outside. It would watch my father come home in the rain, his coat buttoned up tight and his hat pulled down low over his face. Mother would say, “You really need to remember to take the umbrella next time.”

My father would say, “But then I couldn't do this,” and wrap his arms around mother so that she shrieked. My father would laugh and kiss her, and then he would chase me around the house while I screamed with delight.

When the rain stopped I was allowed to put on my cherry-red rain coat and rubber boots and go out to play. The puddles were fabulous. The other children would come out to play in their rubbers, and we would have a splendid time until our mothers called us in. We went in reluctantly. Those puddles full of rain water were wonderful, magical things. You could see the whole world in them if you looked carefully. There is nothing you cannot be when you have a puddle of water and a world that smells as fresh as if it had been newly made.

But that was all so long ago. I don’t remember exactly when the rains stopped. I only remember that as I grew older the earth began to shrivel up and die like a grape that has been left too long in the sun. It was sad, and depressing, but we got used to it, all except for the old men who sat in the café every morning. They said we were under a curse. They said it was because children didn’t have as much respect for their elders anymore. I once asked my father if this were true. He sighed and looked sad as he said, “No, but perhaps it is because we do not have as much respect for our world as we used to.”

When I was fourteen I went to visit my cousin. Where my cousin lived it was fresh and cool and green. People had lush lawns instead of cracked brown earth and straggling weeds. Their trees were large and green and vibrant; ours, those few we had, were small and stunted and had a tortured sort of look. It was such a different world than the one I was used to. I loved it and wanted it to be my home. When I went back to our dry town I asked my father if we could move away. “I’m sorry, honey,” he said. “Our life is here right now.”

So I prayed. I prayed that rain would come again and turn our little brown town into a green paradise. I prayed that children would be nicer to their elders. I prayed that people would love their world more. God seldom works in the ways we want him to. The rains did not come. I finished high school, and the rain did not come. I went to college, and the rain did not come. I graduated, and still no rain. Perhaps the old men were right; perhaps we were under a spell that would not be broken for a hundred years. I would not see it happen. Perhaps my children would. I could not stay and wait for it, though. I had to leave, go some place where people were happier, and the towns were more than one color. I took a job at a newspaper office far away.

The night before I was to leave, I lay awake in my bed. Sleep would not come. The windows were open, letting in the little summer breeze there was. Everything was still. The moon was full and very bright, brighter than I had ever seen it. I looked at it and thought about the new life I was going to have. I was still thinking when I heard a noise.

When you've lived in a town your whole life you come to know its noises, the song it sings every day. But here was something new, and it awoke sudden memories in me. Perhaps I was dreaming, I thought. I sat up and listened hard. There it was again, a long, low rumble, followed by a crack. I got out of bed and ran downstairs in my pajamas. My parents were standing on the porch, tense and listening. I stood beside them and looked up. The sky was dark; only in patches could the stars be seen. The moon was still there, bright as ever, but all around it was darkness. In a flash I was little again, and the sky was dark and ominous, and the rain came.

And the rain came. It came slowly and lightly at first, a mere sprinkling, as if it had come to a new and strange place and didn't know where it was. All around the neighborhood doors opened and people came out, some in their pajamas. I walked out into the middle of the street and held out my arms. The rain pricked my skin. It was cool and refreshing, like a cold drink after a long, hot day of work. I could smell it, I could taste it, and it was good.

Then without warning the skies opened up. The rain poured down in sheets, soaking our bodies, seeping into the hard, dry earth. It woke us up. We were all out, the old folks to the little children. We laughed and danced about, splashing in the puddles that the thirsty earth did not drink up.

I slipped away, and went behind the house. I lay on my back on the ground. The rain poured into my eyes and mouth it seeped into every pore of my body. It was cold, but it was blissful. The moon still shone just as brightly despite the pouring rain. I laughed aloud for sheer joy. I was alive. I could feel it.

One rain does not make a river. But one rain can break a spell. Years later I came back to my home town. I lay awake in my bed again. I could hear the radio coming from the living room where my father was still up. I heard the announcer say, “Hello stargazers: get ready for a blue moon tonight. The moon will not actually be blue, but it is the second full moon in the month of August. This is the ‘seasonal blue moon,’ the third of four full moons in a season, an occurrence with has not happened in three years.” As the announcer’s voice faded into the back of my mind I heard the thunder. And the rain came.

Things seldom come out exactly as you want them to, but sometimes life can surprise you, once in a

blue moon.

From Darkness, Light

A couple of weeks ago I decided to read The Lord of the Rings again. It's been quite a while since I last read the trilogy; I think I may have read it either before or after my freshman year in college. Somewhere in my four years of college I watched all three of the movies, one after the other. Please note that I was very sick with strep throat and I was in bed for ten days. Otherwise I do not think I would have done that. The movies are well done insofar as they are movies, and they have a certain charm, but of course they do not compare with the books on any level. The charm of the books is far more charming. There is a depth in the books, a great amount of detail and beauty, that is lost in the movies. Why, they even cut half the scenes out! As I was reading the Fellowship I kept thinking, "That wasn't in the movie." Tolkien's portrayal of his characters is far better than Peter Jackson's. In the book, Strider and the Elves have such nobility and beauty. The Hobbits are cute and funny, but incredibly strong. Gandalf is magical and wise, but he has his comical moments that are not ridiculous. In a movie you can't display the depths of each character.

And then there are Tolkien's descriptions.

"The voice seemed far away and immeasurably dreary, sometimes high in the air and thin, sometimes like a low moan from the ground. Out of the formless stream of sad but horrible sounds, strings of words would now and again shape themselves: grim, hard, cold words, heartless and miserable. The night was railing against the morning of which it was bereaved, and the cold was cursing the warmth for which it hungered." (From the Barrow-whights scene)

Or, "The face of Elrond was ageless, neither old nor young, though in it was written the memory of many things both glad and sorrowful. His hair was dark as the shadows of twilight, and upon it was set a circlet of silver; his eyes were grey as a clear evening, and in them was a light like the light of stars. Venerable he seemed as a king crowned with many winters, and yet hale as a tried warrior in the fullness of his strength. He was the Lord of Rivendell and mighty among both Elves and Men."

Elrond in the movie must makes me laugh. He is nothing like Tolkien's Elrond. How can you get anywhere near that? I'm glad Peter Jackson decided not to put the Barrow-wights scene in the movie. Imagination fails at that point.

Before you begin to think I'm a LOR nerd, I am not. I do not particularly dislike LOR nerds; they are certainly better than Star Wars nerds of Trekkies. My main contention with LOR nerds is that they seem to focus more on the adventure of the books, or the movies. I am not a nerd; I am a fan. But perhaps "fan" is not the right word either. You are never a "fan" of Brideshead, or the Odyssey.  It is much more than that. I'm not sure I have a word for it. I don't have LOR paraphernalia. I don't hang up maps of Middle Earth and change my name to Elvish. I revel in the sheer beauty of the work. I marvel at how it can be written about such simple folk as Hobbits and be so beautiful. As C.S. Lewis said of the work, "Here are beauties which pierce like swords or burn like cold iron." A newspaper's review of the work says, "Tolkien's stories take place against a background of measureless depth...Tolkien's epic trilogy remains the ultimate quest, the ultimate battle between good and evil, the ultimate chronicle of stewardship of the earth."

The Lord of the Rings is not just a story about a fictional world. It is not just an adventure story. It is our story. It is the story of beauty being taken away from us. It is the story of the fight between good and evil. That is probably the reason I love the book so much. I have always been fascinated with the fight between good and evil, primarily because in the end, no matter what happens, the good always overcomes the evil. That is the way it is, whether it is in our world, or in Tolkien's Middle Earth.

So I will finish with a poem. I was not thinking about The Lord of the Rings when I wrote this poem. I believe I was sitting outside on a sunny day.


From Darkness, Light

The kings of old walked in the dark
With minds of steel and hearts of gold,
And as they trod their heads bowed down
While darkness pressed on every side.

But yet through dark and dismal skies
The light shone through and caught the spark
Of life within the men who trod
And warmed their hearts to burnished gold.

The light shone on and slowly grew,
And over land and on the sea
The men looked up, their hearts on fire,
And rallied in the golden light.

The dark drew back and fell to earth
On bended knee, with strangled voice
And moaning out in its despair
Retreated back into the depths -

For dark shall always bow to light
And darkness never can prevail.

Exulting in a Word

Sometimes I think about words. Words are wonderful things. I love words; I love to read them, I love to write them. It always astounds me how much a single word can express, how much it means. It astounds me that I can pick up my journal and read something that I wrote several months ago, and still feel exactly the same as I did then. It is as if the words, whether you read them or write them, capture a little of yourself and keep it imprisoned in themselves until you look at them again. Yet a word is only a certain configuration of letters, shapes really, on a page, and that configuration of shapes expresses something about us and the world around us. How can that be? My classmates will understand when I pull the Mystery Card, but that isn't enough. I wish I could know.

Today I was thinking about the word "exult." I thought about this word several months ago. I was sitting in the choir loft during the Easter vigil. Father Bob was reading the Exultet, and all was dark save for those little spots of dancing light down in the congregation, the little Easter candles. They seemed to be the words themselves, the words taking form in light.

Rejoice, heavenly powers! Sing, choirs of angels!
Exult, all creation around God's throne!
Jesus Christ, our King, is risen!
Sound the trumpet of salvation!


As it often does, my mind wandered a little, because I was thinking of the word "exult." It is such a small word, only five letters long, yet it is such a special word. It sounds like what it is. It sounds like water bubbling up, laughter, light, all at once. Some words are like that. "Exult" is a word that only has meaning in the context of what was going on around me at that moment during the Easter vigil. What if you were not a Catholic? Would you understand that word? If you were Jewish, perhaps you might. After all, the Israelites walked with God. If you were a Puritan, a Muslim, would you understand what it means? I can't think that you would. To me, the word "exult" can only have meaning in the context of our salvation.

The dictionary says that "exult" means "to show or feel a lively or triumphant joy; rejoice exceedingly  be highly elated or jubilant." For example, "They exulted over their victory." I suppose if you were a pagan and you killed your mortal enemies you could exult. But is that really exulting? It can't be the same thing as "Exult, all creation around God's throne!" We exult around God's throne because he is love. He is our God, and he loves us so much that he gave us his Son to die for us. That is such a wonderful thought that my heart cannot help but exult. Today as I think about that word I feel almost exactly the same as I did that Easter morning. 

I make a motion to change the definition of exultation. Exultation is when it is dark as night, and then the organ breaks out into a glorious prelude before we sing the Gloria, and the whole church is full of light and song. It is when a friend is baptized. It is when you sing Handel's Hallelujah Chorus with your friends at the end of a beautiful Mass. It is Christ redeeming us with his great love.

I don't care what the dictionary says. That is exultation.

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.

Thoughts from a Choir Assistant

This year for my workstudy job at Wyoming Catholic College I am the choir assistant. I'm not going to lie, it's a pretty cushy job, and also the best job in the world, at at least the best job at WCC. I get workstudy hours just for going to choir. I can mess around with a motet on my music writing software and get workstudy hours for it. I'm getting experience so I can lead a choir of my own someday. Best of all, I get paid for doing what I love.

I love choir. I'm a violinist, and I can't say that I have the best voice, but I love choir. There's something very wonderful about working with a group of people to create something beautiful. St. Augustine says that "singing is an expression of joy and...love. As you tell out God's praises, you give voice to the natural desire of every human being to glorify him with songs of love. It is hard to find words to convey the joy of the soul's loving encounter with God, yet fine music is able to express something of the mystery of his love for us and ours for him." (Sermo 34:1) When I'm up in the choir loft on Sunday morning I'm tired, and all I want to do is go back to bed. But then we start singing Victoria's Ave Maria, and I feel incredibly happy. I get this incredibly wonderful feeling all over my tired body, and I know that I am doing something worthwhile. I am doing something to praise God, and I am helping others to praise God. It's the same kind of feeling I get when I'm sitting alone in the church on a Saturday evening, and one of my professors comes in to practice the organ. The church is almost dark, and very quiet, and then suddenly the first notes of the organ sound, and become a vast, beautiful harmony. I want to laugh, and I want to cry, and it is at those moments that I feel so close to God. 

Choir can be a pain sometimes. Sometimes I don't want to run up after dinner and go to practice every Thursday. Sometimes, well, most of the time, I don't want to drag myself out of bed for early morning practice every other week. Sometimes people don't listen, or don't get their parts, or don't count, and the whole piece falls apart. It's a struggle to create beautiful music, and it takes time, precious time when you could be doing your homework, when you have that speech or a presentation tomorrow. It's a struggle to be patient when people don't put their choir binders back in the correct place.

But really, those things don't matter. What really matters is that we're making beautiful music together, and we're praising God together. I've been in choir all four years of my college career, and I plan to be in choir till the very last moment, that very last time that we sing together at my graduation. I couldn't imagine not being in choir. When I first came here, it was sort of a consolation for not being able to be in orchestra. Now I'm in choir because I love choir. Pope Benedict XVI adds to St. Augustine's words, saying, "Always remember that your singing is a service. It is a service to God, offering him the praise that is due. It is a service to other worshipers, helping them raise their hearts and minds in prayer. And it is a service to the whole Church, a foretaste of the heavenly liturgy in which the choirs of angels and saints unite in one unending song of love and praise." Yes, we choir members have the best. We get to join forces and sing for God with the angels and the saints. And we love it.

All the Stars in the Sky

Alice lay on her back in the green field. the sun had just set, and the sky was a lovely dusky blue tinged with gray.The air all around her was fragrant and warm, with just a hint of the coolness that was to come with the closing of the day. Alice closed her eyes. she could smell the warm grass, and feel its springy softness beneath her hands. There was a bird singing in some nearby tree. Its song was caught up by another bird, and passed on to another bird until  their song was a glorious symphony, made of many different melodies, but a beautiful whole. A cow lowed in its field, and its bell rang as it made its way  to its queen, carrying a piece of food in its mouth. A cricket started to play its fiddle, and then all the crickets were playing their fiddles.

Alice opened her eyes. A star had come out. She closed her eyes again and made a wish. When she opened them again, there were more stars. Three, then four, then five, then ten. The birds kept singing. The cow lowed once more and was still. The ant crawled away to its queen. The crickets launched into another fugue. And more stars came out.

Alice sighed happily and moved her hand over the warm grass. The sky had darkened to a lovely dusky gray tinged ever so faintly with blue. More and more stars were coming out. There were thirty now, thirty little hard cut diamonds shining in the sky. Now there were forty, then fifty, now a hundred. She had always wanted to count the stars. Her father said there were too many to count; only God could know how many there were. Her mother said it was silly. But she wanted to count them.

There were a hundred and fifty now – no, a hundred and ninety. Now two hundred. But there were more than that now. She counted steadily. Three hundred. Five hundred. A thousand. That was a lot of stars. How could God know how many stars there were? She kept counting.

Five thousand. She hoped she hadn’t missed any. Oh, there was that little one. She had hardly seen it. Five thousand and one. Eight thousand.

A million.

What was that? She stopped counting and looked hard. The star was beckoning to her, and the star was not a star. It was a girl, with a snow-white frock and a wreath of shining flowers about her golden hair. The girl reached out her hand, and Alice took it. The star girl’s hand was smooth and warm, and when she touched her, a lovely, tingly feeling went all over Alice.

The star girl lifted Alice up into the air, past the birds singing in the trees, past the birds flying in the sky, and up, far up, so far up that everything looked like the little toy houses and trees that Alice’s little sister played with. The air was delicious – cool and caressing, and it wrapped around Alice like a blanket, and it was the softest blanket in the world, softer than the blankets her mother made out of fine sheep’s wool.

Then there were other star girls, all wearing shining wreaths of flowers, but some had red hair, and some were wearing frocks shot through with delicate blues and greens and reds. They gave a cry of joy when they saw Alice, and they joined hands with her and danced around and around, and sang. It was the most lovely song Alice had ever heard, and it made her want to laugh and cry and dance and go to sleep all at once. It was more lovely even than the birds’ symphony or the crickets’ fugue.

When the dance ended, the star girls took Alice by the hand and showed her many wonderful things. They looked down at the rolling sea, their reflection sparkling on the dark water. They looked down at castles and mansions and cottages, and watched the mothers putting their children to bed. And then the star girls took dreams out of the pockets of their frocks and sent them down with a kiss to the sleeping children.

Then, somewhere down amongst all those sleeping children, a cry was heard, and Alice looked down and saw a little boy sitting up in his bed and crying for his mother. She saw his dream, and it was an ugly one, dark and frightening. And then suddenly there came swirling through the sky a dark shape, wearing a dark cloak that he wrapped around him. He took dark, ugly dreams out of a sack he carried on his back and blew them down to the sleeping children with a gust of cold air. Children began to sit up in their beds and sob and call for their mothers and fathers. The dark figure gave a hideous laugh and pulled more black dreams out of his sack.

The star girls pulled the petals off of the shining flowers of their wreaths and began to throw them at the dark figure. One after the other the bright petals flew at him, until he gave a loud cry and fled, dropping his sack of black dreams. The star girls quickly took dreams out of their pockets and sent the unhappy children back to sleep.

The star girls took Alice by the hand again, and took her away with them. And then there was a beautiful lady, who took each of the star girls in her arms and kissed them. She was the most beautiful lady Alice had ever seen. She wanted to be the beautiful lady’s little girl, but she was not, and so she hung back.

Then the star lady looked at Alice, and her gaze was bright as the sun, yet soft and gentle. She held out her hand to Alice, and Alice reached out her own hand and took it. The beautiful lady wrapped Alice in her arms, and Alice closed her eyes.

“Alice?” said her father. “Alice, it’s time to come in. Mama was afraid you’d gotten lost. You shouldn’t fall asleep in the pasture like this.”

Alice rubbed her eyes. “Oh, daddy,” she said, “I was counting the stars, and then they turned into little girls, and they took me up into the sky, and we gave lovely dreams to all the sleeping children in the world, and there was a bad person in a black cloak, and he gave the children ugly dreams, but the star girls chased him away, and there was a beautiful lady…”

She stopped, for her father was laughing.

“You have some interesting dreams, honey,” he said. “Hurry along now. It’s time you were in bed.”

As she was taking off her frock to put on her nightgown, Alice felt something hard in her pocket. She put her hand in, and there was a stone, perfectly round, and flat, and shiny. It was warm, and when she turned it around, she could see all the colors of the rainbow. She smiled to herself and got into bed.

She could hear the birds singing, but they were sounding sleepy. Their song was a lullaby now. The cow made no noise, and the ant was long gone to its queen. The crickets still sang their fugue. And up in the sky all the stars and the moon were looking down at her and smiling.