Corrine Brown, My Mother

The picture above was taken on the Oklahoma State Capitol steps in 1928, just prior to Mom and Dad marrying in 1929 (a month before the Crash).  It’s one of my favorite photos of Dad and Mom, the the gangster with his moll.  Of course Dad was nothing of the sort; he was the kindest, gentlest man and wouldn’t hurt a thing.  Except snakes.  He hated snakes.  Mom was more “gangster” than Dad: she was a tough cookie, a woman of outspoken opinions (a raging liberal) and with no tolerance for ‘possums nor crows nor fools.

And yet under a rather crusty exterior, Mom was also a gentle soul.  She loved opera and got me started going at a very young age.  I remember driving into Oklahoma City to the Municipal Auditorium to see, among others, Die Fledermaus and Faust (performed, as I recall, by the Metropolitan Opera on tour, although I now strongly suspect it was some other company).  I also remember a performance of Handel’s Messiah.  Dad never went to those, nor did my brother.  But it wasn’t all high culture.  Mom and Dad also loved to party and would call up the local bootlegger (Oklahoma was dry in those days), order their whisky and all the setups, have it delivered to their door (ah, the good ole days), and then head out to a dance or a bar—where the music was mostly country-western.  There they would set the whisky bottle on the floor (some logic about hiding it from raids) and spend the evening dancing and drinking—but never to excess; neither were heavy drinkers.  One of my earliest memories is falling asleep on one of those high-backed wooden booths common in bars in those days.  I suppose now they would be criticized for bad parenting, but they were anything but that.  Oddly enough, one of their favorite dances was at the Catholic Church in the neighboring town of Harrah; as a devout Methodist, I never did understand a church condoning, even encouraging, drinking.  But Mom and Dad loved those dances.

I was a mama’s boy, no doubt about it.  Whether I was a mama’s boy because I was gay or I was gay because I was a mama’s boy, I’ll leave to the psychologists. But a mama’s boy I was.  That worked out really well as my brother, Ken, was a daddy’s boy (he, just like Dad, is straight and a conservative).  While I have little doubt that Mom and Dad loved Ken and me equally, this division of personalities worked out well for all of us.  I know sometimes Dad would look at me and wonder what hell he had wrought; but never once did he make me feel inferior or demean me in any way for being the little sissy boy I was.

Mom lived thirteen years longer than Dad, and I think that worked out well for several reasons.  For one, Dad relied on Mom for so much that I find it hard to imagine him without her.  I probably underestimate him, as he was certainly not a weak man, but he was devoted to Mom through all 50 years of their marriage.  Dad’s death was a terrible blow to Mom, but she picked herself up and went on to a new life.  She resumed her work as a porcelain artist (Ken and I have many works of hers), kept an active social life, and lived independently.  Only in her later years did I move to be near her.  And even when I lived across the state I would drive most weekends to spend with her as I loved that time together.  Our three favorite activities were driving around looking at the beautiful scenery of Eastern Oklahoma (and visiting cemeteries, which we both loved doing), hiking the many trails in the area (even with a cane—see image below), and going to Tulsa Opera (we had season tickets for many years).  She never stopped missing Dad, but those were good years.  And many of my strongest memories of Mom come from those times.

I miss her still, as I know Ken does, even though she died in 1993.  But I think of her with deep love and gratitude for the person she made me.

Banging on the Table

When I was looking to retire (7 1/2 years ago!), I had four options in mind:  stay in Killeen, Texas, move to Austin, move to San Diego (where I used to live), or come to Chicago, where my closest friend, Roger, lived.  I made what I think was the best choice by far: I moved to Chicago.  I suppose Killeen was never a real choice; I had a lovely home there, huge by Chicago standards, in a beautiful location.  But what would I have done there?  Mowed lawn, tried to stay cool, and fought off mosquitoes about covers it.  I figured I would start drinking by 10:00 a.m.  Austin is a lovely city, but it is central Texas, so, like Killeen, is hotter than the hubs of Hell.  Culturally, it offers a lot, mostly thanks to the University of Texas, but it’s certainly not in a league with Chicago.  San Diego is beautiful and is a city I love; culturally, it also doesn’t match Chicago, and it’s one of the most expensive cities in the United States.  Chicago has these long winters, but I love the cold and especially the snow, and Chicago also has some brutally hot and humid summer days—but not weeks and weeks in a row like central Texas.  But culturally there is only one city that matches Chicago, and that would be New York City, and who can afford to live there?  So Chicago was my choice and I have never regretted it for a second.

That long opening paragraph is by of introducing a most extraordinary performance I saw this Thursday: The Chamber Music Society of Lincoln Center’s concert, themed “Drumming.”  As you might expect the group has access to the best musicians in the world, performing each concert both here and at Lincoln Center in NYC.  In December they did what has become their annual performance of Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos.  I think it was perhaps the best performance of these well-known works I have ever heard; it was astonishingly beautiful.  This Thursday was something entirely different.

The emphasis was on percussion; in fact, the entire performance before intermission was all percussion.  All the composers were modern, or at least 20th century.  They ranged from one performer on a marimba to four players, two sticks each, banging on eight bongos of different sizes (this was a Steve Reich piece and if you know his music you have some idea of what was going on); somehow all four made it work and no one was stabbed nor were there any mishaps in this exciting piece.  The most unusual was Musique de tables for Percussion Trio, a piece performed by three percussionists sitting at a table making a variety of sounds using only their hands on the table (see photo above); It was a fascinating study of what kind of sounds can be generated in the most unusual of situations, and it was played a bit for laughs, with all the movements carefully choreographed, including some very funny moments built around the turning of the pages in front of them.

After intermission they did Béla Bartók’s Sonata for Two Pianos and Percussion.  In addition to the two pianos, there were timpani, a bass drum, snare drums, a gong, a marimba, and a triangle.  I don’t suppose it was to everyone’s taste (I heard some people talking on the train platform and they clearly were not as impressed as I was), but if, like me, you love modern music, this work was breathtaking.

And all this brings me back to the opening paragraph: I could never have heard a concert like this in any of the other cities I considered.  And yet it was almost a full house of people who, like me, loved every minute of it and applauded enthusiastically.  Discounting the old fogies on the platform!  And Chicago has offered me this.  I am grateful.

Addendum:  Here is a YouTube video of Musique de tables for Percussion Trio, performed by different artists than I saw.  There are several things to note here: one, in this production it is labeled a "ballet," which it certainly is; two, the hands almost seem to become independent of a body, puppets, as it were.  It's not long; do take a few minutes to watch it:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YygdWE9odV0.