February, Deep Fryed, 2013

When all the New Years' bells have rung,

and spring remains coiled up, unsprung,

February has the brass

to trickle in with Candlemas,

a feast forgotten, so they say.

But wait, it’s now called Groundhog Day,

on a date that’s getting busy,

so much so it makes me dizzy.

Pagans, Celtic folk and Wiccans

get as holy as the dickens,

reminding us of antique lore,

by ancient calendars well reckoned,

and calling February second

Imbolc*, sacred to Saint Bridget.

But let’s not get into a fidget,

worrying about the Druids,

when we should be drinking lots of fluids

staving off incipient colds

and shrugging off our loved ones’ scolds

to cough in our elbows and wrap up warm

saving ourselves and others from harm.

It’s all about the way the days

are getting longer, as the rays

of sunshine slowly but surely grow,

and sunsets have a special glow.

February used to be

the target month of the year for me

inspiring a new sarcastic poem

from the shelter of my home.

Although the shortest month of all

by count of days, it was no friend

because it never seemed to end,

proceeding at a maddening crawl.

See, I’m not even up to the third,

though so far I’ve squandered many a word.**

As day is gaining over night,

what is that sound, and dazzling light?

Drums and flutes announce with cheer

the Chinese welcoming their new year.

What fun, what colour and what food!

Parades and fireworks change the mood.

The Water Snake has just coiled in.

Now, after all that noisy din,

we melt and mellow at Valentine’s,

when lovers pen impassioned lines -

in praise of chocolate, a baby, a kitten,

or somebody special with whom they are smitten.

February sees no reason

why it shouldn’t start a season,

even one as long as Lent,

with carnivals on pleasure bent,

then having launched the Mardi Gras,

proceeds to give us all the blahs.

It hesitates in mid-career,

and grinds into a lower gear,

stretching like a spent elastic

with a resilience that’s fantastic.

As the momentum comes unwound,

some, weary of the dizzy round,

ask, “Must we always celebrate?

Give us a break - to hibernate!”

Helen Heubi

13 February 2013

*Apologies to any Pagans hearing this if I have not correctly pronounced Imbolc

** 222 so far, with renewed apologies for the missing rhyme

*** No apologies whatsoever for the recycled lines in this verse

Cellar Singers Got Talent

The Cellar Singers showcased a dazzling array of talents with an informal pre-Valentine evening on the ninth day of February 2013 at St. James’s Anglican Church, Orillia. Fresh snow lay thick outside, cold, sparkling and quiet under a starry sky after days and nights of storms. Inside the Stubley Auditorium, Mitchell Pady’s flexible voice was evoking Gershwin’s “Summertime” to a delicious piano accompaniment by Blair Bailey.

That’s not all that was delicious. A mouth-watering display of desserts featuring strawberries and chocolate lured eye and palate at the back of the hall. The Cellar Singers are famous for delectable home-made goodies, proof of that pudding being in their recipe book, part of my collection for years. The buzz of anticipation was high as the room filled to capacity, well in advance of show time.

An octet composed of Liz Schamehorn, Anne Hall, Wilma Koiter, Rosemarie Freeman, Wayne Cox, Dave Stewart, John Jefferies and Adam Thomson, accompanied by Blair Bailey at the piano, launched an evening dedicated to romance with “Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life” from Victor Herbert’s operetta, “Naughty Marietta”.

Ruth Bell-Towns hosted the talent show, sprinkling Valentine-inspired quotations and stories between acts, and keeping performers’ remarks as short and crisp as possible, with comic struggles as the occasional introduction took on a life of its own.

Debi MacKay’s harp vibrated to the compelling Latin-American rhythms of Alfredo Rolando Ortiz. The first of three compositions sounded like a serenade. The second piece breathed the sadness of a lost love, while the final selection evoked droplets falling from fountains in a plaza lined by houses with balcony windows open to let in the music and fragrances of a soft southern evening.

As in the 1954 movie “White Christmas” we had heaps of snow all around, and singers with lilting voices and comic sense to bring us a delightful double set of “Sisters”. Heather Philip, Alyx Mecalick, Vicky Malfait and Audrey Willsey, with Carolyn Grant at the piano, followed in the sprightly footsteps of Rosemary Clooney and Vera Ellen.

Romance followed in the form of noble aspirations and ambitions of grandeur. Armed with sword and shield, John Jefferies and Jim Barnett were stoutly supported by Blair Bailey in “The Impossible Dream” from Mitch Leigh and Joe Darion’s “Man of La Mancha”.

Wendell Fisher, Wayne Noble and Mitchell Pady warbled, wobbled and shuffled papers through a skit called “The Audition”, with an unpredictable happy ending.

Sopranos Nynka Greer and Kim McIntosh blended beautifully in the Flower Duet from “Lakme” by Leo Delibes. I keep mentioning accompanist Blair Bailey because his contribution is never the same as for the singers who sang before, but always underscores the particular talents of each artist and ensemble and creates a new and vibrant happening with them. Here, the word for singers and piano is, simply, “exquisite”.

Cole Porter’s sophisticated story of an oyster’s career in high society was rendered in excruciating detail by vocalist David James and pianist Blair Bailey, who then accompanied the barbershop quartet of Bill Fivey, Doug Hall Klaas Koiter and John Chiles in the nineteen-twenties hit, “Pretty Baby”, a favourite of my Dad’s.

The first time I saw this piece performed is vividly registered on my then ten-year-old brain when Dad dragged me to the Mt. Pleasant Theatre one evening. Up there on the big screen in black and white, Zazu Pitts at the drums was expertly stealing “Pretty Baby” from whomever was singing it, while bent on charming Charles Laughton in the classic movie, “Ruggles of Redgap”. Our boys of the 2013 Cellar Singers captured the essence and atmosphere of the great oldies in song and on screen.

Tuneful and engaging Canadian compositions followed the delectable refreshments and the Silent Auction. Singer song-writer Don Bray reminded me of a younger Valdy with his casual mastery of guitar and voice, while being very much himself. He stayed on stage to accompany fellow guitar virtuoso Mitchell Pady in a story song about meeting an old flame at a high school reunion. Two spell-binders.

Amy Dodington has a gift for unaccompanied singing of traditional Celtic legends like “She Moved Through the Fair”, that haunting Irish tale of doomed love. A pin-drop hush followed Amy’s voice and artistry before prolonged applause broke out.

We traveled back to the historic year 1066 when David James took the lectern to deliver in an authentic Stanley Holloway Yorkshire accent one of Marriott Edgar’s most popular history lessons, beginning: I'll tell of the Battle of Hastings, As happened in days long gone by, When Duke William became King of England, And 'Arold got shot in the eye. I suspect that David knows this monologue by heart, and only keeps the script handy for backup. Those monologues come with memorization software built into their engaging rhythm and rhyme. Our audience lapped this one up.

W.S. Gilbert’s elderly battle-axe from the court of the “Mikado” then took the stage. Under the made-up and full regalia of Katisha was Pauline Rideout, turning an impassive face and a deaf ear to Paul Dodington as Koko, the Lord High Executioner, who is trying to save his friends from a vat of boiling oil “after lunch” by an act of supreme sacrifice - wooing tough old maiden Katisha. His heart-wrenching ditty about a love-lorn tweety-bird who tossed himself into a river crying, “Tit-willow” proved very affecting, if not to the lady being courted onstage, then clearly to us in the audience, to judge from the tumultuous applause.

The glamorous duo Lynda and Jim Lewis glided through “I wouldn’t have nothin’ if I didn’t have you” from Randy Newman’s “Monsters Inc.” They shone and charmed.

Blair Bailey was to have played a duet if his intended partner at the keyboard had not injured her shoulder. Instead, he turned himself into Ragtime Bailey, and brought down the house with “Rialto Ripples" composed in 1917 by Geroge Gershwin and Will Donaldson.

Following this tour-de-force his contribution to “Summertime” from Gershwin’s “Porgy and Bess” was breath-taking to us, and to tenor Mitchell Pady. The singer had his own winning way with this classic. Their soul-satisfying finale to a glittering evening left me, for one, still ready for more magic.

We Shall Overcome

While at the Quaker Institute on Non-Violence on Rideau Lake in the summer of 1963, I learned about a march on Washington  DC led by the Rev. Martin Luther King. Next thing I knew, I had organized a carful of Canadians to join a multi-racial crowd over 200,000 strong, marching toward the Lincoln Memorial on the morning of 28 August 1963.

We started the march spontaneously, and earlier than the organizers had planned. By the time the first row of marchers had reached the monument, more were crowding behind them. Those at the front peeled back, in eddies through the oncoming demonstrators. I saw a State Trooper pass by like a leaf on a stream, helplessly and good-humouredly going with the flow. Eventually the river of humanity sorted itself out, and settled on the grass to wait, some with picnic lunches, all with water bottles. It was a scorching day.

Seeing me taking photos of the friendly crowd, a black teenager cheerfully offered to climb with my camera to the top of a small tree for a panoramic view of the historic scene. All day I saw people helping each other in loving ways. I saw a white man looking after a young black girl who felt sick. A black nurse spotted me nearly fainting with heat exhaustion, and took me to a temporary sick bay in a government building to lie down, drink water and rest.

Toward mid-afternoon the sun began to relent its heat, and a cool breeze fanned our foreheads. Great singers sang, at least those who could get through the throng. All movement stopped and all sound stilled when King took the podium, and his unforgettable voice sounded the refrain: “I have a dream.”

Now, 50 years later, we still have dreams, and popular movements like "Idle No  More" are on the move. New leaders are emerging. Perhaps the early years 2000 are the new nineteen-sixties.

The Orillia Youth Symphony Orchestra Highlights Its Chamber Ensembles

Seven chamber ensembles of the Orillia Youth Symphony Orchestra (OYSO) played for the Canadian Club on a Wednesday afternoon in December at St. Paul’s United Church. A senior audience lapped up the young performers’ 2012 Christmas program and sang carols with gusto in breaks between the instrumental music.

Madame Mayumi Kumagai, Director of the OYSO, introduced the self-directed chamber groups. Students aged eight to 18 gravitate together according to their chosen instruments. Each mini-ensemble decides what to play, chooses a leader and invents a name for their group. In concert, the leader introduces the chamber group and its chosen pieces.

Silver Bells are three flutists: Ayana Murray, Meghan Bowman and Natalie LoSole-Stringer. Two trumpeters: Jennie Davison and  Laura Couture and two trombonists: Viki Lentini and Patrick Smith form the quartet No Strings Attached. The current string ensembles have named themselves The Continuo, Nguyen and the Viba Quartet. Team Effort brings three clarinets to the stage, demonstrating the wide range and possibilities of that instrument. Percussionists Cole Mendez and Bayze Murray call their battery Hit or Miss. Their snaredrum duet, “On the March” was a hit with me.

Christmas music offers a wide gamut of moods. The Viba Quartet: Sawyer Glowanlock, Jenice Mun and Hannah Fletcher, violins, and cellist Jocelyn LoSole-Stringer opened the program with a rousing “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” followed by a sturdy “O Tannenbaum”, both arranged by the musicians themselves. I was impressed by their smooth tone and excellent rhythmic treatment of the tunes, all blending beautifully together thanks to their natural discipline of listening to each other.

Speaking of blending, the “Dixieland Duet” by the brass ensemble No Strings Attached and “Hedwig’s Theme” by the clarinetists Team Effort (Kyle Lau, Daniel Clarke and Claire Tazzio) both worked well with the brasses’ seasonal “Christmas Song” and the clarinets’ arrangement of Bach’s chorale “Sheep May Safely Graze.” The Dixieland sound brought an upbeat note while “Hedwig’s Theme” and the D Minor “Clarinet Duo” by Kyle Lau and Daniel Clarke were just that dark touch needed. After all, dark matter pervades most of space, in contrast to the glow and sparkle of distant nebulae and closer stars. So a little darkness serves to set off songs evoking Christmas lights.

Joel Lamontagne and Solivan Lau, violins, along with Natalie Jackiw, viola and Dylan McCullough, bass viol, form The Continuos. Their jolly “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” contrasted with the more sober, majestic “We Three Kings”. In between the dignified Kings and the minor mood of the Clarinet Duo came a solo fiddler: Sawyer Gowanlock.

When people ask me if a fiddler plays a different instrument from a violinist I have to answer, “It’s the same instrument.” Fiddlers have their own technique, often passed down from generation to generation, and especially in demand for dancing. That means an excellent command of rhythm, staying power and very nimble fingers. “Evelyn’s Waltz” was pivotal to the program that winter afternoon. And, yes, Sawyer comes from generations of fiddlers, in addition to being a violinist of the classical (or perhaps even jazz) persuasion.

Violinists Harvey Li, Andy Lee and Erin Kim, plus cellist Bobbi-Jo Corbett constitute the ensemble called Nguyen. I was amazed at how effectively this combination of instruments re-created the “March of the Nutcracker” without having all the resources of a Russian orchestra. I wondered how the “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” would sound without the celeste and bassoon originally scored by Tchaikovsky. Since the age of four, when my father first introduced me to the “Nutcracker Suite” I had associated the dainty celeste and grandfatherly bassoon with the tinkly fairy dance. The inspired arrangement chosen by Nguyen swept away a concept that for me had lasted nearly 75 years. Immediately, their delicate violin treatment made me forget the celeste, while the cello tossed off the bassoon part as to the manner born.

Crisply symphonic in their black trousers or skirts and white shirts, all the chamber groups united as an orchestra under the baton of Mayumi Kumagai for a rousing Trepak from the “Nutcracker Suite”, complete with kettledrums. And so a delightful afternoon finished with a grand Russian flourish.

Music on Davisville

When the Salvation Army band was not rattling our windows with their brief Lord's Day parade along Davisville Avenue, our walls were constantly vibrating from inside with music from the sublime to the silly. We had a piano for kids to start hammering on as soon as they could sit upright. We could turn on the radio to hear popular hits like “The Three Little Fishes” or soul-stirring symphonies under the baton of conductors like Stokowski.

Our collection of 78 rpm discs ranged from Rudy Vallee crooning “Mmmm, Would You Like to Take a Walk” to Frank Crummit’s “Frankie and Johnny” to the jazz collected by Peter from age ten, all dominated by Dad’s ever expanding collection of classics.

Relatives who could sing and play piano and banjo often brought live music into our living room. Many an evening when I was very small, I lay awake after bedtime, listening to cousin Mary’s charming mezzo soprano, with our Aunt Jessie accompanying her at the piano downstairs. Mary let a song sing itself, its cadences falling and rising as it moved her voice along - moving  listeners and accompanist as well. A Highland lullaby, “Husha-ba, Birdie, Croon, Croon”, soaked itself into my bones.

Uncle Jack’s magnificent baritone voice could handle Handel, then switch as effectively to a rollicking sea chantey or a music hall gem garnered in London on leave during in the first World War. We often clamoured for the calm beauty of “Where’ere You Walk”, the nostalgia of “Road to the Isles” and “Trade Winds”, or “Oh, Mr. Brown”, where Jack imitated a simpering, but forward, young lady, impatient of her much too gentlemanly caller.

Our ornately carved piano had a moveable keyboard that allowed us to adjust  pitch, but also tended to slow down slightly the action of the keys. This dear old upright never had one day of rest. I still have a photo of Peter's spaniel, Honey, lying in the crook of the left-hand support and the back of the piano, looking up at me with melting eyes as I stumble through a favourite Bach piece or a new folk song discovery.

My two brothers and I each took a year or so of lessons, then continued on our own. My younger brother had the nimblest fingers, and a quick ear. Within a couple of months of finding his way around a guitar, clarinet or flute, he could play with any tune that struck his fancy, in any style, even on our sluggish piano.

Some children bring home stray animals. I collected stray songs, beginning in kindergarten with "The Friendly Beasts", a carol about a donkey, a cow, a camel, a sheep and two doves. When I brought them home, my parents had all the advantage of a menagerie with none of the attendant barnyard noises or smells. They didn't have to walk or feed anything. All they had to listen to was my piping voice, and be glad it was not caroling the cumulative joys of "Old MacDonald's Farm."

I became a tireless collector of traditional folk music from all over the world and across Canada. I was as absorbed in learning new tunes with words in their original tongue as the lads who tinker with cars in their driveways are intrigued by engines. A song from Mongolia about a horse fascinated me with its giant leaps between notes. I learned how to pronounce Hungarian well enough to sing, although the exact meaning of all the words was beyond me. At least I understood the French and German songs in my collection.

The bulk of my folk repertoire was in English, however - from all over the British Isles and North America.  Irish songs like “My Love’s an Arbutus” were among my mother’s favourites when I sang in the evenings to the accompaniment of Dad’s home-crafted authoharp.

My ingenious father had created his own autoharp, enhanced with a much wider range of harmonies than available on commercial models. We could perform classics with all the original chords, as well as simple folk music. Dad’s gifted  fingers wove a variety of rhythmic patterns.

I mentioned the sublime and the ridiculous. “Rudolph, the Red-nosed Reindeer” was not one of the Friendly Beasts who played their part in a story two thousand years old. The imaginary reindeer with a nose that glowed bright in the dark sprang into fame, and to the top of the Hit Parade “one foggy Christmas Eve” in the 1940s. The tinny little tune to the tango rhythm didn’t catch on with one snobby teenager - me, already on the Bach beat.

My Saturday job at Christmas took me to the middle of Simpson’s Toyland, where the popular Rudolph counter reverberated with several versions of the Rudolph song in different keys, all at once, while we sold Rudolph pencil boxes, music boxes, cuckoo clocks. The tune that I cringed at came back to taunt me years later, in India, of all places.

Helen Heubi’s Thanksgiving Letter, October, 2012

Thanks for:

- the maples  turning colour up in Muskoka, where I lived for the last 17 years or so.

- selling my house in Gravenhurst to a young family.

- finding a lovely apartment in Orillia within days of the sale

- Mary, who found the new digs with me

- Eric for taking a day off work to pile my heavy stuff into truck and trailer, getting it safely to Orillia, transferring it to my new place, with Mary

- Janet LoSole, Jocelyn and Natalie for getting me out of the movers and shakers' way by taking me out for a latte and shopping.

- Lloyd Stringer for sharing with me the bounty of his garden. I had never tasted ground cherries before. Those tomatoes springing spontaneously from the compost are a wonder.

- the Lostrins (Janet, Lloyd, Jocelyn and Natalie) for their company at a meal straight from their garden at Foxfell.

- Lloyd for guiding me by cell phone from Noble Towers to Foxfell by shortcuts, a stroll of about 10 or a sprint of 5 minutes.

- Mary and Eloïse for bringing me another load of household goods

- Mary and Oliver for delivering another truckload of my things

- Vianet, my internet server, for providing me with instant internet and phone service, once the technician had installed a “dry loop” to by-pass Bell, and for my new phone number 705 393 3910, a Barrie number that connects without long distance charges to Gravenhurst and Orillia as well and also echoes my street number.

- the autumn colours beginning to show in Orillia, which I left in 1973. Yes, you’re right. I’ve come a full circle back to Orillia after nearly 40 years.

- YouTube, providing gorgeous choral works to sing along with, complete with score on screen. Examples: Angels' Carol: https://www.youtube.com/watch?NR=1&feature=endscreen&v=KOIhzqutZuQ

Fauré Cantique: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wKwHiGg21KA&feature=relmfu

Sing We: http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=endscreen&v=ciIvhB-zTfc&NR=1

Abend: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nuRpHnz2ZJo&feature=related

Well, that’s a start of my Thanksgiving for October, 2012.

Weeding out the Bad News and Cultivating the Good

First of all, is there any other kind of news than the bad? Occasionally, yes, a “brightener” is allowed space, but can be quickly chased out of a news broadcast or written report by Breaking News of some disaster or by a dire development in an ongoing “story”.

A great mentor, Bijan Anjomi, recommends a total divorce from news reports on any media, for the good of our health and our peace of mind. This makes sense. We all know that the news media live on what’s wrong with us, and Them, and anything happening in the world, or our community.

The fact is, however, that the news can fascinate me, and has ever since  my year of training as a journalist at the University of Western Ontario in the late 1950s. We gathered around the teletype machine just outside the J-lab to glean the latest on the Hungarian revolution. We stayed up all night to follow the US election results. I would have to check history to find out who won in 1956, because it wasn’t the outcome that mattered to me then. It was the process, the ups and downs of the election returns, the excitement, the suspense that kept me rapt over and wrapped around the teletype.

All that cascade of thrills was long ago and far away when I spent happy months in the back country of Provence, far from newspapers. I had to find excuses for this disloyalty to my profession of journalism. It had already dawned on me that news items fade in importance rapidly. There was a certain toll on my emotions from the roller-coaster effect of a crisis developing, peaking and diminishing - at least according to the media. I could tell myself that the whole package of a newscast on television depends on how the stories are gathered, shaped and delivered. I can still remark cynically that the language of the news anchor is deliberately designed to poke my fear buttons. And so, I argued to myself that I wouldn’t miss all the drama, and might even enjoy something like peace of mind. This proved true.

Months after my blissful stay in Provence as a recluse, I shocked a friend with my ignorance of the assassination of a bishop in Africa. That was the only world event that escaped my notice while wandering over hills fragrant with wild lavender and thyme.

Over the years since that experiment far from the media I have been developing my sensitivities in various directions - some new to me, and finding I feel the better for it. I had been reading about our hollow selves, but I couldn’t take such philosophizing too seriously. It made me think of Gilbert’s play, “Patience”, where the Poet declaims a ditty about being “hollow, hollow, hollow” and asks the fetching milkmaid if she too feels hollow. Patience replies, “Thank you, sir. I have dined.” If there is a hollow in my inner being, all the better. That’s where my imagination is free to play - imagination that has been growing muscles.

My inner world and the world around me have been on a collision course like a couple of galaxies meeting and duking it out between pieces of themselves and mostly steering clear of each other, easily avoiding any direct impact. It can be distracting. Occasionally as I scan the news out of the corner of my eye, my imagination will seize upon an item that triggers a powerful emotion, like something bad happening to a baby. My imagination fills in the horrors around the details given in the news report, and won’t let them go. Never mind that there are millions of happy babies living sweet lives, loved and cherished, gurgling and opening innocent eyes on a world of wonders. I have to teach myself to focus on these children, and stop imagining that I could have done something to protect the little one in the terrible news report.

Discipline dictates that I must focus more and more on what’s going well in the world - beginning with me. As Richard Bartlett writes, the universe will simply echo the whining and complaining of my Inner Brat when things don’t go my way. Perhaps until I get inspired by what I do want, I could step back and take a break.

I wonder what’s going on in my inner garden? Neglect? Weeding out of emotions evoking the worst of the past? Cultivating the ground for seeding sweet blooms, and watering the places where they will soon send up delicate green shoots? Can I cultivate the patience to give seedlings time to show themselves, no matter how tempted I may be to yank them up to see how they’re doing?

How’s your garden these days?