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.