"To the land of the Haradrim came only a tale from far off: a rumour of the wrath and terror of Gondor."- LOTR
I never expected to be 56. I never expected to be older than 45. Being here, however, I am surprised at the hold my past has on me. My wife loves The Sound of Music. She loves the song 'I must Have Done Something Good', and the love between Von Trapp and Maria, seeing something of herself in it. I remember the move mainly for having seen it something like 5 times in Seattle while my father was being dialyzed and learning about dialysis options. The movie makes me cry hard every time, and always at the same places. When Von Trapp holds his arms out to his children, when the Abbess sings 'Climb Every Mountain' and when Von Trapp chokes up singing Edelweiss at the festival. Oddly, I didn't understand why until last night. I wanted my father to hold his arms open for me, I wanted my mother to encourage me, and I understood and still understand the longing for a home you will never see, or perhaps never have.
When my sister found and re-recorded an argument my mother had with my father, I thought I would be deeply moved by the sound of my father's voice. I was. I was afraid. Elementally afraid, not of some thing but like the root of fear itself. I have only listened to it once. My sister had the same reaction. And that is what much of my childhood remains. Like the rumor to the Haradrim, it is a tale of wrath and terror that has informed my point of view forever. And yet the death of my father remains, 43 years later, as a divide across my life. August 15, a black day forever, and my years up through 7th grade one life, and my years from 8th grade on another.
At my 30th high school reunion my friend Jim Garrison gave me CDs re-recordings of our Glee Club 1970 and 1972 home concerts. These recordings, from my 7th and 9th grade years, bookend the time of greatest transition. Listening to them devastates me, and brings memories linked to music of emotions I don't have to hear the music to recall. I can think of those songs and remember. The 1970 home concert was almost the last thing my father ever heard me sing or perform. We sang for our 7th grade commencement, and I played my first piano recital piece a week later. I was 'Toccatina' from a book of simple piano pieces. I made a mistake and had to stop and reset, the only time I ever did that in public performance. That was the last thing my father heard. 8 weeks later he was dead. I retain the association of a man who approved wholly of very little hearing my only major mistake in performance, and it has informed my approach to performance the rest of my life.
I would never have thought that the songs of 1970 would remain with me. But they have, with enormous associations. The 13s, a special singing group to which I was the youngest ever admitted two years later, and without audition, sang 'Weep You no More Sad Fountains'. The words, about the death of a child, are very moving when read, and the music makes them very intense. They sang 'Cool Water' the next year. I can still sing it, and its words speak loudly to me of longing for something I can't have, even while dying from the lack of it. 'O Dan can't you see that big green tree? It's as clear as it can be, and it's waiting there for me and you!' And the haunting call of 'water, water' by the tenors. Every song on that 1970 album speaks to me.
And in 1972 the songs speak differently. I had survived a poor 8th grade year. I failed math all year, and I nearly failed Latin. And I knew that whatever my feelings were, I couldn't do that again. And I didn't. The 1972 songs tell me about a grim determination not to fail, and the budding of some sense of a future.
Despite that I hold the memory of childhood, of death, fear and loss. I try every day to overcome it, and most days I do OK. Some days I don't. I thought somehow I would forget, or get over it, but I never have. Now I know it will only stop the day I die. That the events of 1970, and of other years, live in me malignantly all the time. Like having a cancer, it is in remission but has recurrences on occasion.
Birthdays, which ought to be a celebration of life after a transplant, are oddly not so. I have another year to try and be a better man, to lose weight, to control my temper, and my ego, and my sarcasm. And every year I can only do some of that. Every year I am a bit slower, a bit creakier. In the last 10 years I have lost an inch in height, and it is very noticeable to Kim and to me. I can't fix that. I bear the marks of age now, and I can't fix that. I can only work on the insides. And I do try.
Ted
I never expected to be 56. I never expected to be older than 45. Being here, however, I am surprised at the hold my past has on me. My wife loves The Sound of Music. She loves the song 'I must Have Done Something Good', and the love between Von Trapp and Maria, seeing something of herself in it. I remember the move mainly for having seen it something like 5 times in Seattle while my father was being dialyzed and learning about dialysis options. The movie makes me cry hard every time, and always at the same places. When Von Trapp holds his arms out to his children, when the Abbess sings 'Climb Every Mountain' and when Von Trapp chokes up singing Edelweiss at the festival. Oddly, I didn't understand why until last night. I wanted my father to hold his arms open for me, I wanted my mother to encourage me, and I understood and still understand the longing for a home you will never see, or perhaps never have.
When my sister found and re-recorded an argument my mother had with my father, I thought I would be deeply moved by the sound of my father's voice. I was. I was afraid. Elementally afraid, not of some thing but like the root of fear itself. I have only listened to it once. My sister had the same reaction. And that is what much of my childhood remains. Like the rumor to the Haradrim, it is a tale of wrath and terror that has informed my point of view forever. And yet the death of my father remains, 43 years later, as a divide across my life. August 15, a black day forever, and my years up through 7th grade one life, and my years from 8th grade on another.
At my 30th high school reunion my friend Jim Garrison gave me CDs re-recordings of our Glee Club 1970 and 1972 home concerts. These recordings, from my 7th and 9th grade years, bookend the time of greatest transition. Listening to them devastates me, and brings memories linked to music of emotions I don't have to hear the music to recall. I can think of those songs and remember. The 1970 home concert was almost the last thing my father ever heard me sing or perform. We sang for our 7th grade commencement, and I played my first piano recital piece a week later. I was 'Toccatina' from a book of simple piano pieces. I made a mistake and had to stop and reset, the only time I ever did that in public performance. That was the last thing my father heard. 8 weeks later he was dead. I retain the association of a man who approved wholly of very little hearing my only major mistake in performance, and it has informed my approach to performance the rest of my life.
I would never have thought that the songs of 1970 would remain with me. But they have, with enormous associations. The 13s, a special singing group to which I was the youngest ever admitted two years later, and without audition, sang 'Weep You no More Sad Fountains'. The words, about the death of a child, are very moving when read, and the music makes them very intense. They sang 'Cool Water' the next year. I can still sing it, and its words speak loudly to me of longing for something I can't have, even while dying from the lack of it. 'O Dan can't you see that big green tree? It's as clear as it can be, and it's waiting there for me and you!' And the haunting call of 'water, water' by the tenors. Every song on that 1970 album speaks to me.
And in 1972 the songs speak differently. I had survived a poor 8th grade year. I failed math all year, and I nearly failed Latin. And I knew that whatever my feelings were, I couldn't do that again. And I didn't. The 1972 songs tell me about a grim determination not to fail, and the budding of some sense of a future.
Despite that I hold the memory of childhood, of death, fear and loss. I try every day to overcome it, and most days I do OK. Some days I don't. I thought somehow I would forget, or get over it, but I never have. Now I know it will only stop the day I die. That the events of 1970, and of other years, live in me malignantly all the time. Like having a cancer, it is in remission but has recurrences on occasion.
Birthdays, which ought to be a celebration of life after a transplant, are oddly not so. I have another year to try and be a better man, to lose weight, to control my temper, and my ego, and my sarcasm. And every year I can only do some of that. Every year I am a bit slower, a bit creakier. In the last 10 years I have lost an inch in height, and it is very noticeable to Kim and to me. I can't fix that. I bear the marks of age now, and I can't fix that. I can only work on the insides. And I do try.
Ted
I'd rather have you shorter and older than not at all! XO
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