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.

How Many Are Too Many?

I’ve been a lover of the personal computer for a long time.  My first computer was a TRS-80.  It had 4 KB of memory and extremely limited use.  I taught myself BASIC and wrote several programs, including one for averaging grades.  I quickly updated to a 16 KB version.  Programs were saved on a tape player.  The thing was clunky and I absolutely loved it.  Thinking back I find it all rather astonishing what has changed over the years.  But change it has.

I now, to my total astonishment, have four totally functioning computers: my MacBook Pro, my nifty new iPhone 6, an iPad, and a ChromeBook.  I got the ChromeBook when my first generation iPad got so obsolete that I could only use it for playing solitaire.  I decided I couldn’t afford a new iPad, so I got the ChromeBook for a mere $198.00.  It’s web-based, i.e., there’s very little actually on the computer; everything is accessed through the web.  All told that little computer has been a dandy.  I still use it for streaming movies on Netflix or Amazon Prime; it’s comfortable on my lap and with ear buds, it works just fine.  And then about a month ago a friend who updated his iPad passed his down to me, so I’m back with a fully functioning iPad.  Four computers!  Good grief, do I really need all four?

The easy answer is no.  But I do use them all; I mean, as long as I have them, I may as well use them.  The ChromeBook sits by my easy chair for fast access while watching TV or reading; the iPhone is always with me and I use it sending messages, checking my e-mail, practicing my Spanish on Duolingo, playing solitaire—oh, and making telephone calls; the iPad goes with me every morning to Starbucks where I am the designated looker-upper when disputes arise (and they always do); and I use my MacBook Pro for everything else.  

Could I get along with fewer?  Certainly.  Am I getting rid of any of these?  Don’t bet your bippy on it!

Some Thoughts on "David Copperfield"

For some weeks now I’ve been following Robert McCrum’s weekly series listing the 100 best novels in English (http://www.theguardian.com/books/2013/sep/22/100-best-novels-robert-mccrum).  It’s a fascinating series, and checking out the next book on the list has become a Monday ritual at morning coffee with Ray and Libby and Phil.  The list is historical; that is, he begins with his earliest choice (Pilgrim’s Progress) and moves forward in time.  He’s currently at number 61 (Murphy, by Samuel Beckett—1938).  There have been some revelations on the list: two books that I had not read nor heard of I picked up at the library and read and liked (Lolly Willowes by Sylvia Townsend Warner, an early feminist novel, 1926; and The History of Mr Polly by HG Wells, definitely not science fiction, 1910).  Some choices I don’t think should be on the list (The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket by Edgar Allan Poe, 1838; and The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammet, 1929—as good as these books are).  Some I knew the author but not the work (Scoop by Evelyn Waugh, 1938).  And some I’ve never heard of the author nor title (Hadrian the Seventh by Frederick Rolfe, 1904; and New Grub Street by George Gissing, 1891).  But some authors I knew would make the list; one of those is Charles Dickens.  The question was which book would McCrum choose?

Dickens came in at #15.  I fully expected the chosen novel to be Great Expectations, a book I have read and taught many times and consider the best of Dickens’s work (although I admit I haven’t read every single Dickens’s novel).  Somewhat to my surprise, McCrum chose David Copperfield. In his essay (he has one for each selection: (http://www.theguardian.com/books/2013/dec/30/david-copperfield-dickens-100-best-novels), he anticipates “howls of rage” that one of Dickens’s other books wasn’t selected.  I didn’t howl—it is, after all, one man’s selection—but I was perplexed.  To decide for myself, as honestly as possible, I just reread David Copperfield.

In terms of plot, Great Expectations is clearly superior; David Copperfield has virtually no plot: it’s simply the story of one man and the problems he encounters growing up; there are conflicts, of course, but David moves forward through his life eventually facing and solving them all.  But this is a catalog of events, not a plot.  Great Expectations has a complex and ultimately satisfying plot.   

Those plot coincidences Dickens has been much criticized for are found in both novels.  I suppose that the fact that Dickens considered David Copperfield his favorite novel should count for something, but, frankly, not that much; it’s we, the readers in the 21st century who must make that decision.  In David Copperfield Dickens develops his major character in greater depth, helped, no doubt, by the novel’s autobiographical nature; but Pip in Great Expectations is a fully rounded character, too.  Both books are filled with memorable characters, David Copperfield perhaps more so: the delightful Mr. Micawber, the dastardly Uriah Heep, and the pesky but ultimately lovable Aunt Betsy.  But Great Expectations gave us Miss Havisham, surely one of the most memorable characters ever to grace the pages of English literature.

So it comes down to personal preference.  And I’m sticking with my choice for best Dickens novel: Great Expectations.  Feel free to argue with me!

Pride: The Movie

Last week I saw Pride, the new British film about gays and lesbians in London who pitched in to support the striking minors in Wales during the reign of the dreadful Margaret Thatcher—in spite of the deep cultural differences between the two groups.  It’s a wonderful movie and I was deeply touched by it, enough that I went back again this week to see it a second time.  Heck, I may even go a third time.

The story is real.  I watched a documentary about the actual events in the 1980s and the movie is surprisingly close to what actually happened.  Most of the characters are real (one major character is fictional) and the events happened pretty much as they are depicted in the movie.

The title resonates in several ways.  Obviously, there is the gay pride movement in London—at a time when gays and lesbians were being discriminated against and lived in physical danger—just like what the striking minors were going through.  So there’s also the pride of the Welsh minors in their struggle against the police and the attacks against them and the shameful attempt by the government to starve them into submission.  The title can even be extended to Thatcher herself and her astonishing ego and total failure to empathize in any way with the minors.  There is also the simple pride of coming out as reflected in the fictional gay character and his relationship with his family.

The movie is wonderfully filmed; the scenes in Wales are especially gorgeous, reflecting the harsh but beautiful landscape.  All of the acting is top notch and totally believable.  There are some truly memorable scenes: it’s almost worth the price of admission just to see Dominic West do his disco dance number!  And the ending, even though ultimately the minors lost their battle, is deeply moving and hopeful.  Bring a few hankies—not because it’s sad but because it’s so uplifting.

Please, go see this movie!

Language Adjustments

Language constantly changes; it’s the nature of the beast.  As a language conservative (the only place I’m a conservative), I fight what I consider frivolous and unwarranted changes in our language.  As far as I’m concerned, the only way to say ideology is  id-ee-ol-uh-jee, not ahy-dee-ol-uh-jee.  And harassment should be pronounced with the accent on the first syllable, not the second as is commonly heard.  And short-lived is pronounced with a long i.  Period.  I’m losing these battles (I’ve lost the last one already), but I gamely fight on.

But there is one recent change in language that I wholeheartedly applaud: the necessary alterations in gender in reference to same-sex marriages.  But these changes are new and they still bring me up short.  I was recently reading about the opera singer Patricia Racette when I ran across this clause:  “. . . the decade that I’ve known her and her wife, mezzo Beth Clayton.”  I knew Racette was gay; she has long been open about it.  But that didn’t stop me from doing a double take when I read “her and her wife.”  60+ years of reading “he and his wife” make the new phraseology stand out.  I’m all for it, of course; it’s just different and I’m having to adjust.

And I need to get used to it.  The same issue of Opera News had a news item about the great countertenor David Daniels marrying his partner, conductor Scott Walters; the ceremony was performed by none other than Supreme Court justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg (photo above).  It was just another news item.

I remember when the former ABC weatherman Sam Champion married his partner: the wedding was announced on GMA, complete with photos.  No big deal.

And just today I was watching Jeopardy!, and when one of the contestants was interviewed, he mentioned that he “and his boyfriend” went on a safari to see the great apes.  No one batted an eye.

For each of these events the world didn’t end.  Civilization as we know it didn’t come crashing down.  The institution of marriage did not crumble, as the Bible-thumpers told us it would.  In fact, Massachusetts has had legal gay marriage since 2004—a decade—and the state hasn’t fallen into the ocean.   Same sex marriage is legal in many countries: Argentina, Belgium, Brazil, Canada, Denmark, France, Iceland, Netherlands, New Zealand, Norway, Portugal, Spain, South Africa, Sweden, United Kingdom, and Uruguay; and in parts of other countries (the US for one)—and right here in Illinois.

And the world moves right ahead.  And that’s the way it should be.  Still, for those of us who watch language closely, some adjustments will need to be made.  I will gladly do that for this important step forward in human rights, even though for every “he and his husband” or “she and her wife” I do a double take.  I’ll get there; I’m just slow to adapt.

“Early though the laurel grows . . . ”

Facebook is a puzzlement.  I hardly ever understand what is going on.  My friend Sue recently sent me an important private message—and Facebook didn’t notify me.  Isn’t it supposed to do that?  If she hadn’t mentioned it in a “regular” post, I wouldn’t have known.  And I never understand who sees what or where anything shows up.  But, Facebook has done one really good thing:  it has kept me in touch with many former students, which is a delight.  And recently there was a post from Alyssa, one of my favorites.  She put up a picture of two books, The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius and A Shropshire Lad by A. E. Housman, that I must have discussed in class or perhaps even given out copies; I did that sometimes.  That simple post sent me on a trip down memory lane.

A Shropshire Lad was the first book of poetry I ever bought.  I still have it and there’s a photo of that book above.  That edition is copyrighted 1950, but I know I didn’t buy it then; in the 50s I was still a hick down on the farm and certainly wasn’t out buying poetry, although I was already reading it in school books.  I’m guessing I got it in the early 60s; I have a very faint recollection that I got it at an English language book store in Hong Kong or Kowloon (still a British colony in those days).  But I’m not sure.  I could have got it in Oklahoma City or Washington, D.C.  My memory, like the color in the cover of the book, has faded seriously with time.

Oh but I loved that book and those poems!  Instinctively, I think I understood that I had more in common with Housman than just poetry, but that revelation was to come much later.  Somehow, those simple poems would waft me away to someplace—undefined—where life was different, and oh so melancholy.  These are lovely poems, beautiful of language, but they have a great sadness to them.  Just what a young 20-something wants as he—I, that is—mooned about steeped in self-pity.  Who misses those years?

The most famous poem from the book is probably “XIX: To An Athlete Dying Young”: 

     Smart lad, to slip betimes away

     From fields where glory does not stay

     And early though the laurel grows

     It withers quicker than the rose.

And one of my favorites and, perhaps, a poem written in reference to Housman’s great unrequited love for Moses Jackson, is “XIII”:

When I was one-and-twenty

       I heard a wise man say,

“Give crowns and pounds and guineas

       But not your heart away;

Give pearls away and rubies

       But keep your fancy free.”

But I was one-and-twenty,

       No use to talk to me.

When I was one-and-twenty

       I heard him say again,

“The heart out of the bosom

       Was never given in vain;

’Tis paid with sighs a plenty

       And sold for endless rue.”

And I am two-and-twenty,

       And oh, ’tis true, ’tis true.

Rereading these poems led me to Tom Stoppard’s brilliant modern play, The Invention of Love, which deals with Housman’s love for Jackson.  Interestingly, the two actors in the play portraying the young Housman and the older Housman, Robert Sean Leonard and Richard Easton, both won Tonys for portraying the same person in the same play at different ages.  If you like A Shropshire Lad, this play is well worth seeking out.

One final poem from A Shropshire Lad, the last poem, “LVIII”:

I hoed and trenched and weeded,

  And took the flowers to fair:

I brought them home unheeded;

  The hue was not the wear.

So up and down I sow them

  For lads like me to find,

When I shall lie below them,

  A dead man out of mind.

Some seed the birds devour,

  And some the season mars,

But here and there will flower

  The solitary stars.

And fields will yearly bear them

  As light-leaved spring comes on,

And luckless lads will wear them

  When I am dead and gone.