Mary and I went on a hunt today for Lainey items and discovered that, as much as the Confederation Bridge has provided an adjunct to island modernization, some purchases are still a little harder to come by than others.
After checking downtown, we headed back out to the mall on University Avenue – the only Charlottetown mall that existed, in fact, when I moved here in the 70s.
As soon as we walked toward the building I began to laugh. I said to Mary, “I know that the inside configuration has changed, but I bet you I can show you where it happened.”
It happened back in 1977, when I was pregnant with Sarah’s brother. Sarah was just shy of two, and had, for the past few months, been displaying something of a temper. And my God, who could blame her?
We lived out in the country in a motel (owned by a friendly dairy farmer), Sarah sleeping in a crib in the bedroom, Paul and I living on the main-room pull-out by night (when he troubled himself to come home from the bars), me spending my days hand-washing; feeding and playing with Sarah, and while Sarah napped, admiring (and occasionally waving at...as if they could wave back...) the Holsteins.
I was often at a loss as to how to properly fill my days (I suppose my cow fixation is an indication of this), and between hitchhiking back and forth once a week for groceries, and household chores, I still had lonely hours to fill.
My friend Don Carter, whose brother made a living as a pig and potato farmer, brought me stacks of agricultural pamphlets, and once a week or so Don would come by in his Austin Mini and quiz me on what I had learned. (Potatoes – Netted Gems, Russets, Shepody, Goldrush, Kennebec, Green Mountain – proved to be my strong suit.) I also had a regular supply of Readers’ Digest magazines, although I forget where they came from.
Anyway, one wintry day about two weeks before I went into labour, Sarah and I hitchhiked (yes, she too stuck out her thumb) to the mall for groceries, but when we got there she was feeling fit to be tied and, tired and hungry, laid on the entryway floor and had a small (which is euphemistic for not so small) tantrum.
I, newly armed with parenting tips from the Reader’s Digest, understood immediately what I was to do. Huge with pending baby, I carefully made my way down to the floor and had a tantrum alongside of her. I did not yell loudly, hoping rather to show her than to scare her, but I kicked my legs as high as any pregnant person can and flailed my arms dramatically. I lamented heavenward, more with my eyes than my lips, trying not to look at her in a way that this smart little girl would comprehend as a lesson. (Nothing could cause more of a stir in our household than a lesson.)
Lo and behold, Sarah stopped crying. (Actually, I think every child in the mall stopped crying, their parents wandering over to stare.) Bringing her chubby little arms and her Michelin legs to rest on the floor, she looked over at me, wide-eyed. “I’m done, Mummy,” she said (or something like that), and true to her word, she never had a tantrum again.
Oh yes, there were years (and years) (did I say years?) when she pouted, and times when she scrunched up her nose, but not once did she ever get down on the floor and have another tantrum. And just as I felt about so many choices Sarah made out in the world, I admired her for that.
Today, after (Mary and) I ended another fruitless search in the mall, we crossed University Avenue toward a new set of stores, ultimately making our way to Kevin’s Island Fries truck. We cracked open two colas and sat in the car eating our French fries with red plastic toothpicks. I stared at the mall, scarfing down bites and remembering that day with my daughter...wishing that no matter how she had turned out – had tantrums persisted for one hundred years – she were sitting here beside us, laughing, as she so often did listening to stories I told her of when she was young.
Wednesday, April 27
Tuesday, April 26
Post Script
I am sitting in a beautiful yellow-painted (the colour I imagine as Italian Sunset) house (owned by two wonderful friends who live in Toronto) in Victoria by the Sea, here to spend some time with Sarah and with memories – in memory – of her childhood.
I asked Sarah a few weeks ago, my lips pressed to her hairless head, what I was going to do without her. And she said, “Mum, you’re going to write. And after you’ve written and written some more, and when you feel a bit better, I want you to write about us.”
No one understood better than Sarah my urgency to find a way to put thought into words. Apart from Don and Mary, no one knew as completely as Sarah all of the reasons I felt and feel compelled to come to the keyboard or to a pad of paper and begin jotting down.
Part of this has to do with a complicated childhood where words were either forbidden or combated. I can’t say how many little girl hours I spent at the Formica desk penciling out poetry, rubbing away the letters with my thumb the second I heard footsteps coming up the hallway.
When Sarah went to work in the pressroom and invited me to come see, no one understood better than she my wide-eyed, gobsmacked expression, the chills I felt as I stood looking upward, gaping at the rolling presses, the newspapers flying faster than I could count.
Of course, these are early days, and it is too soon to write much more than an idea of helping the people (who help me and) who come here to read about her and to remember her and honour that memory. Time is fleeting, as are remembrances, and as much as many people profoundly loved her, their lives will eventually return to some sort of normalcy, while mine will not -- and Sarah's never will.
She was a funny (as in comical, perceptive) girl, too, always aware of falseness and machination, always cottoning on to the minutiae behind – the minutiae that often motivated – the behaviour. She could suss out bullshit better than a bloodhound, often leaving dumfounded people in her wake. And there were a few people she had opinions about over these past few months, which sometimes set her off into a coughing fit, either from rage or from uncontrollable laughter.
Fortunately, Sarah had – as apparently, and gratefully, have I – an abundance of like-minded family and friends, to whom I will appeal for thoughts when the time comes to put longer-winded (and what we hope will be helpful) ink to paper. If there was one thing Sarah and I spoke about more than anything else, it was the nature and the mechanics of relationships, and she felt that by detailing our relationship and its tentacles, in all of its glory and occasional (mutual) stubbornness, together we could – we will – make a difference.
Meanwhile, I am reading the tributes that pour in for her by way of email, the Internet, my blog...and I cannot thank enough the dozens and dozens of you who knew (I mean, really knew) her; knew us; loved her; express that love so well, and who are passionate for all that she was and wasn’t, all that she had, and all that she wasn’t able to complete.
I find it fitting that it is raining, that I have a cold, that George Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue – we loved and often listened to this at home, not so many miles from here – is playing on CBC Radio, and that you keep coming back to see how she was, how we are, what can be done to remember her life and even, though her days here seem to be over, improve upon it.
No matter, nothing could improve on who she was; what she longed for; what angered her; what made her happy; what caused her to laugh; her kindness; her sensitive heart, and her passion for those people she loved best (and...now I am laughing...for those people she didn’t). (You know what I mean, and you loved that in her, too.) Nothing could improve on what we had with one another.
Thank you for coming by, compelled to remember. No one is more worth your memories.
Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. "Pooh!" he whispered. "Yes, Piglet?" "Nothing," said Piglet, taking Pooh's paw. "I just wanted to be sure of you." A.A. Milne
I asked Sarah a few weeks ago, my lips pressed to her hairless head, what I was going to do without her. And she said, “Mum, you’re going to write. And after you’ve written and written some more, and when you feel a bit better, I want you to write about us.”
No one understood better than Sarah my urgency to find a way to put thought into words. Apart from Don and Mary, no one knew as completely as Sarah all of the reasons I felt and feel compelled to come to the keyboard or to a pad of paper and begin jotting down.
Part of this has to do with a complicated childhood where words were either forbidden or combated. I can’t say how many little girl hours I spent at the Formica desk penciling out poetry, rubbing away the letters with my thumb the second I heard footsteps coming up the hallway.
When Sarah went to work in the pressroom and invited me to come see, no one understood better than she my wide-eyed, gobsmacked expression, the chills I felt as I stood looking upward, gaping at the rolling presses, the newspapers flying faster than I could count.
Of course, these are early days, and it is too soon to write much more than an idea of helping the people (who help me and) who come here to read about her and to remember her and honour that memory. Time is fleeting, as are remembrances, and as much as many people profoundly loved her, their lives will eventually return to some sort of normalcy, while mine will not -- and Sarah's never will.
She was a funny (as in comical, perceptive) girl, too, always aware of falseness and machination, always cottoning on to the minutiae behind – the minutiae that often motivated – the behaviour. She could suss out bullshit better than a bloodhound, often leaving dumfounded people in her wake. And there were a few people she had opinions about over these past few months, which sometimes set her off into a coughing fit, either from rage or from uncontrollable laughter.
Fortunately, Sarah had – as apparently, and gratefully, have I – an abundance of like-minded family and friends, to whom I will appeal for thoughts when the time comes to put longer-winded (and what we hope will be helpful) ink to paper. If there was one thing Sarah and I spoke about more than anything else, it was the nature and the mechanics of relationships, and she felt that by detailing our relationship and its tentacles, in all of its glory and occasional (mutual) stubbornness, together we could – we will – make a difference.
Meanwhile, I am reading the tributes that pour in for her by way of email, the Internet, my blog...and I cannot thank enough the dozens and dozens of you who knew (I mean, really knew) her; knew us; loved her; express that love so well, and who are passionate for all that she was and wasn’t, all that she had, and all that she wasn’t able to complete.
I find it fitting that it is raining, that I have a cold, that George Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue – we loved and often listened to this at home, not so many miles from here – is playing on CBC Radio, and that you keep coming back to see how she was, how we are, what can be done to remember her life and even, though her days here seem to be over, improve upon it.
No matter, nothing could improve on who she was; what she longed for; what angered her; what made her happy; what caused her to laugh; her kindness; her sensitive heart, and her passion for those people she loved best (and...now I am laughing...for those people she didn’t). (You know what I mean, and you loved that in her, too.) Nothing could improve on what we had with one another.
Thank you for coming by, compelled to remember. No one is more worth your memories.
Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. "Pooh!" he whispered. "Yes, Piglet?" "Nothing," said Piglet, taking Pooh's paw. "I just wanted to be sure of you." A.A. Milne
Sunday, April 24
Three Seasons with Sarah
There are so many things to be counted as loss with Sarah’s passing, and I am too sad to try to enumerate them here or perhaps ever again.
But during the past eight months, as I sat day and night by her side, the two of us often alone and Sarah so often afraid and in pain, I don’t know how Sarah, or I, would have managed to get by – and I say this on Sarah’s behalf because she and I talked about all of these things.
Were it not for your generosity – Lesley’s cake pops and kindness; Adam’s warmth and his humour; Gina’s passion and her lightweight computer (insert smiling face); Kathy’s lunchtime visits at Bruyere, and her cupcake store treat; Crystal’s – where to begin? – masked worries and fears; her constancy; her directness; her gathering of friends; the manicures and massages...everyone bringing us meals and treats (oh, the Pepsi!) and offers of rides, restaurant vouchers, and company – even a surprise birthday party for me, arranged by my daughter and Mary one week before Sarah’s death – I can hardly tally it all.
And there were the nurses; the doctors; the volunteers; the social workers; the attendants and aids, all of them fervent and diligent, falling in love with this marvellous girl who never once lost her courage or her quick-witted humour, wanting for her to feel better; to find a path to recovery, a way not to feel scared.
And there was Noam, her brother, who loved her with a tender-hearted spirit that he learned from his father; ever-present; always funny; steadfastly gentle and kind, rubbing and soothing and kissing away what he could, holding her hand and giving her peace.
And of course there was Mary, Sarah’s repository for all things sacred; the place where Sarah put all of her trust; the woman Sarah called her second mum; the person who made Sarah feel safe when it seemed as if the world had ripped open beneath her and swallowed her whole.
Dorothy Parker made me laugh out loud many times over with her tales of false friends – those who dared lay claim to the dead. And I think of how often I have heard or read anecdotes such as these about people who need to extol a dying person’s virtues (and in so doing extol, and exonerate, themselves), while having remained largely absent, lost in the romance of their own enabling fictions.
But such was not the case with any of these incredible people to whom Sarah was, and I am, eternally grateful. I am going to miss your generosity, your laughter, your conversation, your honesty, as well as your acceptance of Mary as my partner: Mary who loved my daughter as if Sarah were her own, and who came to understand why Sarah loved all of you so.
You made all of the difference in Sarah’s young life: you gave her hope, courage, sustenance, safety, guidance, loyalty, hours and hours of your time, and a strong sense that life, no matter how feeble or menacing, is always worth living.
But during the past eight months, as I sat day and night by her side, the two of us often alone and Sarah so often afraid and in pain, I don’t know how Sarah, or I, would have managed to get by – and I say this on Sarah’s behalf because she and I talked about all of these things.
Were it not for your generosity – Lesley’s cake pops and kindness; Adam’s warmth and his humour; Gina’s passion and her lightweight computer (insert smiling face); Kathy’s lunchtime visits at Bruyere, and her cupcake store treat; Crystal’s – where to begin? – masked worries and fears; her constancy; her directness; her gathering of friends; the manicures and massages...everyone bringing us meals and treats (oh, the Pepsi!) and offers of rides, restaurant vouchers, and company – even a surprise birthday party for me, arranged by my daughter and Mary one week before Sarah’s death – I can hardly tally it all.
And there were the nurses; the doctors; the volunteers; the social workers; the attendants and aids, all of them fervent and diligent, falling in love with this marvellous girl who never once lost her courage or her quick-witted humour, wanting for her to feel better; to find a path to recovery, a way not to feel scared.
And there was Noam, her brother, who loved her with a tender-hearted spirit that he learned from his father; ever-present; always funny; steadfastly gentle and kind, rubbing and soothing and kissing away what he could, holding her hand and giving her peace.
And of course there was Mary, Sarah’s repository for all things sacred; the place where Sarah put all of her trust; the woman Sarah called her second mum; the person who made Sarah feel safe when it seemed as if the world had ripped open beneath her and swallowed her whole.
Dorothy Parker made me laugh out loud many times over with her tales of false friends – those who dared lay claim to the dead. And I think of how often I have heard or read anecdotes such as these about people who need to extol a dying person’s virtues (and in so doing extol, and exonerate, themselves), while having remained largely absent, lost in the romance of their own enabling fictions.
But such was not the case with any of these incredible people to whom Sarah was, and I am, eternally grateful. I am going to miss your generosity, your laughter, your conversation, your honesty, as well as your acceptance of Mary as my partner: Mary who loved my daughter as if Sarah were her own, and who came to understand why Sarah loved all of you so.
You made all of the difference in Sarah’s young life: you gave her hope, courage, sustenance, safety, guidance, loyalty, hours and hours of your time, and a strong sense that life, no matter how feeble or menacing, is always worth living.
Thursday, April 21
In Memoriam
Coffey, Sarah Elizabeth, 35, died April 20, 2011, after a valiant battle with cancer.
Sarah is survived and deeply mourned by her partner Christopher Schroeder; their daughter Lainey; her mum Jennifer; her second mum Mary; her brothers Noam and Pablo; her sisters-in-crime: Crystal, Lesley, Kathy, Christena and Gina, and her adopted pressroom brothers and bosses at the Ottawa Citizen. She is predeceased by her loving father, Don Ives.
Heartfelt thanks go out to the staff at the Ottawa General Hospital 5th, 6th and 7th floors, and to the Elisabeth Bruyere Hospital, Palliative Care Unit. With special appreciation to Drs. Bencze, Clark, Touchie, Tucker and Lawlor; Emily and Wendy, and most especially to Peggy Harris and Norine Gagnon.
Sarah exemplified a life full of passion, compassion, humour, determination, loyalty, high-spiritedness, industry and courage. Her love for and devotion to family and friends will remain unparalleled.
Donations in Sarah’s memory can be made to the Bruyere Foundation.
Thursday, April 14
You Born Yesterday
Well, the day started out ordinarily enough if you don’t look at life in big picture ways. The morning found me hopping about between phone and Facebook (there, I said it) messages and email and praying (okay, so that’s a little strong) for birthday cards (I am a sad, sorry thing, yes I know) and anticipating a lovely dinner with Mike and Stephan following a busy day of deadline copy editing.
But first things first.
I had changed the cat litter the night before, but had forgotten to sprinkle some of that sweet-smelling Arm & Hammer deodorizer into the (six...count them) litter pans. And really, when you try and imagine (if you have to) what not sprinkling deodorizer into six litter plans can mean...well, you take my point.
Typically, I prance about the house in comfy shoes that accommodate my back troubles, but yesterday (even a prancing, girthy girl wants to look pretty on her 37th birthday) I had on my favourite brown, look-like-smooth-riding-cowgirl leather shoes. (Sorry, cows.)
I was in a bit of a hurry because the oatmeal pot was boiling away on the stove (well, the pot wasn’t boiling; the water for the oatmeal was), and I didn’t look down at the basement floor as I went about my business (plugging my nose against the cats, who had evidently gone about theirs.)
Now, I have never been a ballplayer like my mother and daughter, but I discovered soon enough what sliding into third must feel like. And were it not for Sneakers’ own girth (31 pounds, which is hefty for a feline, especially when you consider his short legs, which, on an average day, are barely visible) I might have escaped unscathed, but Sneakies is a little bit challenged, generally giving up on the paw-over-the-litter-pan effort before he’s really even begun.
So there I was, now standing in the kitchen with soft chocolate-coloured remnants all over the bottom of one of my good shoes, trying to wipe it away with a moistened paper towel – the pot now having boiled dry and the smoke detector firing.
Eventually, I got out of the house and down to the streetcar stop where I stood under my yellow umbrella (the sky not raining enough to be deemed Shakespearean, but everything wet nonetheless), watching a diligent pair of pigeons who were building their nest in the eaves of a variety store that never seems to open until midday, if it opens at all.
As I turned my back on the birds, I felt a large plop on the top of the umbrella. I have no idea if I had offended the pigeons by looking away, but really, all I was doing was checking for the – any – streetcar, given that one had not come by for at least twenty minutes.
Shaking the deposit from my unhappy umbrella, I stood back from the birds and searched for Mary’s (the one I had borrowed) transit pass, wondering – given that it really is true that things come in threes – what would be next. After all, I was about to board a streetcar where typically a person doesn’t find too many rush-hours animals, and it did seem that animals and their deposits were also in the forecast.
I could see from a distance that the streetcar was leaning on one side, although I already knew from the half-hour wait that the car would be full. Indeed, it seemed that everyone in east end Toronto was heading downtown. (I was secretly hoping that the passengers were setting off on a pilgrimmage, hoping to add weight to an anti-Rob Ford rally, when it occurred to me that if any of these people were travelling in from Scarborough, they were the idiots who had voted him in. Oh, sorry. But yesterday was my birthday, not today, and today I don’t have to be nice.)
So onto the vehicle I trudged, cramming my way toward the rear, past backpacks and duffel bags and oversized purses, landing smack against the backdoor railing. The place was frighteningly full.
From out of the swell, I heard the voice of a child – a sweet voice with a resonant tone; a happy voice, pleased to be coming from the seated position of a stroller (I knew this from the trajectory), away from the glares of the angry, impatient population.
I looked around. I looked down. Finally, I saw her, a mere two feet from where I was standing.
She looked up at me, all 30 inches and pounds of her, no more than three years of age, blue-eyed, dark-haired, dressed in head-to-toe pink, lively and engaged and engaging, her accompanying mother no more than sixteen. She (the child, not mother) smiled up at me as if we had met before – as if we were friends, in fact – and she opened her mouth to sing:
“Happy birthday to you...happy birthday to you...happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday to you.”
She looked right into my eyes, knowingly, twinklingly, and I looked right back into hers, and I said, “Thank you, sweet girl. Today is my birthday, and you have sung for me a beautiful song.”
The people around me gasped. One woman said, “Really? How wonderful!” and another cried out, “Oh, to be serenaded in this way on your birthday.”
I had to agree. I had to be pleased. I had to wonder if Don was at work, or at play...reminding me once again (everything happens in threes still lingering in my head) that superstitions aren’t real; that love is.
Anyway, the day turned out to be lovely. The rain eventually stopped, and the editing got done. Dinner was terrific, and when I eventually made my way home I found that I had received dozens (well, maybe not dozens, but that’s what it felt like) of warm-hearted messages from family and friends.
Later, basking in the semi-glow of my birthday and just before drifting off to sleep -- the cats all around me (Sneakers was sipping a celebratory brandy and smoking a Cuban cigar – ooph!) -- I thought of that dear little girl, and of Sarah, and of my mother and Don. And I don’t know all of the reasons why because in some ways this doesn't make sense, but I said to myself, “Third time’s the charm.”
And what became of the umbrella you ask? I threw it away.
But first things first.
I had changed the cat litter the night before, but had forgotten to sprinkle some of that sweet-smelling Arm & Hammer deodorizer into the (six...count them) litter pans. And really, when you try and imagine (if you have to) what not sprinkling deodorizer into six litter plans can mean...well, you take my point.
Typically, I prance about the house in comfy shoes that accommodate my back troubles, but yesterday (even a prancing, girthy girl wants to look pretty on her 37th birthday) I had on my favourite brown, look-like-smooth-riding-cowgirl leather shoes. (Sorry, cows.)
I was in a bit of a hurry because the oatmeal pot was boiling away on the stove (well, the pot wasn’t boiling; the water for the oatmeal was), and I didn’t look down at the basement floor as I went about my business (plugging my nose against the cats, who had evidently gone about theirs.)
Now, I have never been a ballplayer like my mother and daughter, but I discovered soon enough what sliding into third must feel like. And were it not for Sneakers’ own girth (31 pounds, which is hefty for a feline, especially when you consider his short legs, which, on an average day, are barely visible) I might have escaped unscathed, but Sneakies is a little bit challenged, generally giving up on the paw-over-the-litter-pan effort before he’s really even begun.
So there I was, now standing in the kitchen with soft chocolate-coloured remnants all over the bottom of one of my good shoes, trying to wipe it away with a moistened paper towel – the pot now having boiled dry and the smoke detector firing.
Eventually, I got out of the house and down to the streetcar stop where I stood under my yellow umbrella (the sky not raining enough to be deemed Shakespearean, but everything wet nonetheless), watching a diligent pair of pigeons who were building their nest in the eaves of a variety store that never seems to open until midday, if it opens at all.
As I turned my back on the birds, I felt a large plop on the top of the umbrella. I have no idea if I had offended the pigeons by looking away, but really, all I was doing was checking for the – any – streetcar, given that one had not come by for at least twenty minutes.
Shaking the deposit from my unhappy umbrella, I stood back from the birds and searched for Mary’s (the one I had borrowed) transit pass, wondering – given that it really is true that things come in threes – what would be next. After all, I was about to board a streetcar where typically a person doesn’t find too many rush-hours animals, and it did seem that animals and their deposits were also in the forecast.
I could see from a distance that the streetcar was leaning on one side, although I already knew from the half-hour wait that the car would be full. Indeed, it seemed that everyone in east end Toronto was heading downtown. (I was secretly hoping that the passengers were setting off on a pilgrimmage, hoping to add weight to an anti-Rob Ford rally, when it occurred to me that if any of these people were travelling in from Scarborough, they were the idiots who had voted him in. Oh, sorry. But yesterday was my birthday, not today, and today I don’t have to be nice.)
So onto the vehicle I trudged, cramming my way toward the rear, past backpacks and duffel bags and oversized purses, landing smack against the backdoor railing. The place was frighteningly full.
From out of the swell, I heard the voice of a child – a sweet voice with a resonant tone; a happy voice, pleased to be coming from the seated position of a stroller (I knew this from the trajectory), away from the glares of the angry, impatient population.
I looked around. I looked down. Finally, I saw her, a mere two feet from where I was standing.
She looked up at me, all 30 inches and pounds of her, no more than three years of age, blue-eyed, dark-haired, dressed in head-to-toe pink, lively and engaged and engaging, her accompanying mother no more than sixteen. She (the child, not mother) smiled up at me as if we had met before – as if we were friends, in fact – and she opened her mouth to sing:
“Happy birthday to you...happy birthday to you...happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday to you.”
She looked right into my eyes, knowingly, twinklingly, and I looked right back into hers, and I said, “Thank you, sweet girl. Today is my birthday, and you have sung for me a beautiful song.”
The people around me gasped. One woman said, “Really? How wonderful!” and another cried out, “Oh, to be serenaded in this way on your birthday.”
I had to agree. I had to be pleased. I had to wonder if Don was at work, or at play...reminding me once again (everything happens in threes still lingering in my head) that superstitions aren’t real; that love is.
Anyway, the day turned out to be lovely. The rain eventually stopped, and the editing got done. Dinner was terrific, and when I eventually made my way home I found that I had received dozens (well, maybe not dozens, but that’s what it felt like) of warm-hearted messages from family and friends.
Later, basking in the semi-glow of my birthday and just before drifting off to sleep -- the cats all around me (Sneakers was sipping a celebratory brandy and smoking a Cuban cigar – ooph!) -- I thought of that dear little girl, and of Sarah, and of my mother and Don. And I don’t know all of the reasons why because in some ways this doesn't make sense, but I said to myself, “Third time’s the charm.”
And what became of the umbrella you ask? I threw it away.
Sunday, April 10
Globe and Mail’s Uncharitable Review of Tafelmusik’s Beethoven’s 9th
http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/arts/music/beethoven-without-brilliance/article1977400/
I read this article, gobsmacked.
Is it possible that the reviewer and I were sitting in the same hall, listening to the same orchestra and the same choir?
Has it really come to what I have long dreaded about Toronto—the part of this city’s culture that makes me cringe: the gatherings in which I have had to sit, tape over my mouth, listening to a barrage of who’s who, what’s what, what’s right and what-I-know?
Really, who gives a flying bird?
Who cares whether the last rendition/s you heard—and, according to your finely tuned hearing—demonstrated nuances that were interpreted more correctly?
Who gives a leaping lizard what you know about music; where you’ve studied, and who your influences are?—because, really, that's what I took as the core of your article.
Let me tell you, uneducated peon that I am, how I felt about last night’s concert:
I have been a Tafelmusik season’s ticketholder for five years. I sit in the upper balcony, hanging over the railing, gaping down performance after performance, always leaving the concert and the evening with a litany of wide-ranging opinions. As much as I am in awe of Tafelmusik and its players, I have not loved everything they have produced.
That said, I could not possibly have been more moved by the entirety of last night’s concert. In fact, because of my daughter’s failing health, I have been unable to attend all but two performances this season.
How thrilled was I, then, that last night should have been one of them?
I was moved every which way—by the choir, by the selections, by the musical director, by the conductors, by what felt like a highly nuanced performance; by the way the music made me feel, caused me to reminisce, gave me chills, made me laugh, stimulated tears, delighted everyone sitting nearby, and left me wanting more and more. The choir, the orchestra, the conductors, their rendition...everything shone like a thousand blazing suns, as brilliant as anything I have heard or seen.
And yes, I have studied music—in a conservatory—albeit briefly. And yes, I have had a small hand (my left one) in song-writing. And yes, I have lived long enough to form opinions about choirs, orchestras and musical interpretation.
And no, I have no desire to name names, cite composers, or compare previous performances. I care only how the music—their music—made me feel.
When I came home and telephoned my partner in Ottawa, I said to her, “I know I have said this more than once, but I have to tell you that tonight, truly, was the most exceptional night I have had at a Tafelmusik concert.” And then I thanked her for buying me the ticket. And then I cried.
And if that doesn’t tell you everything, then go read the review in the Globe and Mail, which evidently does.
I read this article, gobsmacked.
Is it possible that the reviewer and I were sitting in the same hall, listening to the same orchestra and the same choir?
Has it really come to what I have long dreaded about Toronto—the part of this city’s culture that makes me cringe: the gatherings in which I have had to sit, tape over my mouth, listening to a barrage of who’s who, what’s what, what’s right and what-I-know?
Really, who gives a flying bird?
Who cares whether the last rendition/s you heard—and, according to your finely tuned hearing—demonstrated nuances that were interpreted more correctly?
Who gives a leaping lizard what you know about music; where you’ve studied, and who your influences are?—because, really, that's what I took as the core of your article.
Let me tell you, uneducated peon that I am, how I felt about last night’s concert:
I have been a Tafelmusik season’s ticketholder for five years. I sit in the upper balcony, hanging over the railing, gaping down performance after performance, always leaving the concert and the evening with a litany of wide-ranging opinions. As much as I am in awe of Tafelmusik and its players, I have not loved everything they have produced.
That said, I could not possibly have been more moved by the entirety of last night’s concert. In fact, because of my daughter’s failing health, I have been unable to attend all but two performances this season.
How thrilled was I, then, that last night should have been one of them?
I was moved every which way—by the choir, by the selections, by the musical director, by the conductors, by what felt like a highly nuanced performance; by the way the music made me feel, caused me to reminisce, gave me chills, made me laugh, stimulated tears, delighted everyone sitting nearby, and left me wanting more and more. The choir, the orchestra, the conductors, their rendition...everything shone like a thousand blazing suns, as brilliant as anything I have heard or seen.
And yes, I have studied music—in a conservatory—albeit briefly. And yes, I have had a small hand (my left one) in song-writing. And yes, I have lived long enough to form opinions about choirs, orchestras and musical interpretation.
And no, I have no desire to name names, cite composers, or compare previous performances. I care only how the music—their music—made me feel.
When I came home and telephoned my partner in Ottawa, I said to her, “I know I have said this more than once, but I have to tell you that tonight, truly, was the most exceptional night I have had at a Tafelmusik concert.” And then I thanked her for buying me the ticket. And then I cried.
And if that doesn’t tell you everything, then go read the review in the Globe and Mail, which evidently does.
Thursday, April 7
Surprise!
I am always surprised by what I don’t know.
I am always surprised by what I do know.
I am always surprised by the people who prove to be my friend.
I am always surprised by the people who prove not to be my friend.
I am always surprised that, despite the evidence, people behave as if they are never going to die.
I am always surprised by the number of people who refuse to live.
I am always surprised by how kind people are.
I am always surprised by how unkind people are.
I am always surprised by really smart people who can’t see what’s going on right under their noses.
I am always surprised by how really stupid people can fool really smart people.
I am always surprised by how much courage some people have.
I am always surprised by how much courage some people lack.
I am always surprised by the degree of abuse that persists in and among families, especially toward women and children.
I am more surprised by how many of those abused women, who are often surprisingly smart, continue to choose abusive partners.
I am always surprised by our inability to change.
I am always surprised when people are able to, and surprised when they do, change.
I am always surprised to find out who some people find attractive.
I am always surprised to find out who some people find unattractive.
I am always surprised by how unfair life can feel for so many.
I am always surprised to discover how magnificent life can be.
I am always surprised by what brings people back to this blog.
I am always surprised by what, in comparison, doesn’t.
I am always surprised to find that I am not as bad as I often think I am.
I am always surprised to find that I am not as good as I know I can be.
I am always surprised by what I do know.
I am always surprised by the people who prove to be my friend.
I am always surprised by the people who prove not to be my friend.
I am always surprised that, despite the evidence, people behave as if they are never going to die.
I am always surprised by the number of people who refuse to live.
I am always surprised by how kind people are.
I am always surprised by how unkind people are.
I am always surprised by really smart people who can’t see what’s going on right under their noses.
I am always surprised by how really stupid people can fool really smart people.
I am always surprised by how much courage some people have.
I am always surprised by how much courage some people lack.
I am always surprised by the degree of abuse that persists in and among families, especially toward women and children.
I am more surprised by how many of those abused women, who are often surprisingly smart, continue to choose abusive partners.
I am always surprised by our inability to change.
I am always surprised when people are able to, and surprised when they do, change.
I am always surprised to find out who some people find attractive.
I am always surprised to find out who some people find unattractive.
I am always surprised by how unfair life can feel for so many.
I am always surprised to discover how magnificent life can be.
I am always surprised by what brings people back to this blog.
I am always surprised by what, in comparison, doesn’t.
I am always surprised to find that I am not as bad as I often think I am.
I am always surprised to find that I am not as good as I know I can be.
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