Leave it to music, the universal language, to teach us how to live better. Long before technology, it was pretty clear that people sounded good when they sang together. There are many explanations — strength in numbers, an averaging of tones, bad singers influenced by the good ones (a raising of the bar), the pleasing sound of imperfection. They probably all can be true at the same time. So much so, that they invented a way on instruments to create this same tonal pleasure. It’s called the chorus effect.
Hammond introduced the Model B-C in 1936 to lock in true organ tone once and for all. A Hammond Model B-C organ. Using a second tonewheel system with slightly detuned notes, the B-C’s onboard chorus generator fulfilled Hammond’s vision of providing a richer, harmonized sound. Thus, chorus as an effect was born.
I can feel it in my sketchbook. One bird is nice. But a page. A flock! I can feel the chorus of the birdsong. And therein lies the wow! Even with the inevitable smudge, the handprint, the slight splatter, I think it adds to the beauty. This coming together. This gathering. I hope we can do it in our daily lives. Oh, how we need to gather. To find ourselves in the universal song. With all of our imperfections, we are still capable of “a richer” more “harmonized sound.” I want to be a part of that greater song. Can you hear it?
They signed up for the choir like everyone else at Central Junior High, but for three years, Gail Kiltie and David Alstead held the added responsibility of accompanying us on the piano. I never asked if they had wanted to. I hope at least our director, Mr. Lynch had, but I’m not sure.
Maybe we all just came to expect it. We often do that in our daily lives, so busy singing we just assume others will take care of it — be the foundation. We all have our roles to play. And I suppose, I hope, that we gravitate towards them, want them, but I also think it’s important every once in a while to stop and ask. To be sure. To give thanks for the support given. To let those around us know that the gifts they give us are indeed the music that we sing. To acknowledge them for laying the notes we climb. Notes we scamper upon with such joy, under the premise “well, it goes without saying…” But does it? Or does it just go unsaid. I don’t want to take that chance. So I say to Gail and David, thank you! I say to you who read, who comment, who join me in the words I plunk on my own sort of keyboard, thank you!
What a pleasure it is to share the music of this life. To take to heart that our pianos will not go unplayed. Our love will not go unsung.
Other than the birds in the trees, Bud Christianson was the first to demonstrate the pure joy of music. He wasn’t just teaching it, he was living it. He directed the band at Jefferson Senior High. The only faculty member to drop the mister, we called him Christy. It suited his swagger.
This was long before Fame, Glee, and frankly before most of us had cable television. But I, we, knew we were in the presence of something special. So it shouldn’t have come as a surprise when he told us before the spring concert that not only were we going to play our instruments, but we were going to sing. But we’re the band, we’re not the choir, some questioned. “But listen to that music,” he said, “how can we help but sing?! And stand up when you do!” His enthusiasm was infectious. It did feel good! So in between puffs on my clarinet, I stood, jumped beside my section (I would have flown if I could have) and I, we, sang with all of our hearts. There was no band. No choir. No audience. No separation whatsoever. Because the music!!!
Have we lost the ability to hear? To celebrate our differences? I’m not ready to let it go. I must stand. We must stand! Can’t you feel it? We have to be in this together. United. What do you have without the music?
The most fun was not when we got it right, but when we got it wrong. Maybe it was the hum of the wheels, or just the fact that we were together, but there was definitely something about being on the bus that made us all want to sing.
We had to rely on each other. We had no cell phones. No radios. Just the memory of the last song we heard on KDWB-63. And I don’t know where the confidence came from. Maybe it was youth. The comfort of open windows. Or just being on a bus with no judgement. That’s not to say there wasn’t laughter. Mid song, someone would always stop between gasps of giggles to say, “You think it’s what?????”
“I’ll never be your beast of burden,” was easily mistaken for “I’ve never seen a pizza burning.” Or when we “heard it in a love song,” — someone sang the ending of “can’t be wrong” — as “ten feet tall.” And we would laugh longer than the length of any song.
And it’s this freedom that I miss the most. The freedom we gave each other. The freedom I gave myself, to make gigantic mistakes. And not be concerned about how it looked, how it sounded — to just have fun!
You know we can still do that. Be free. Free as the birds to just sing it out loud. Without knowledge or permission, we can have a little fun! The buses are running. The skies are open. Will you join me?
We weren’t supposed to eavesdrop. And I could understand for the phone, the party line. No one wanted to hear the wringing of our sweaty hands around the mouthpiece, or our muffled giggles. But sometimes, we were just there, in the thick of the conversation. Running in through the screen door, jumping straight into the debate over the current episode of Days of Our Lives. Hearing words like affair and betrayal. Not knowing the meaning, nor the context, desperate to work them into the next conversation with cousins. My grandma, giving me, us, the “zip your lip” signal from across the kitchen.
So I knew the routine. But sometimes, my curiosity got the best of me, and I risked it. Surely something about church couldn’t be so bad. “What did she mean about the choir?” Now I knew my grandma, she went to church, but she wasn’t the minister. So why did the neighbor lady, sipping egg coffee from her stained cup, say it to my grandma? “Say what?” Grandma asked. “She said you were preaching to the choir?” “Oh, that’s just an expression,” she replied. “But what does it mean?” “It means ‘you’re telling me something I already know.’ You know, like the choir is always there hearing the message…and maybe the ones who need to hear it the most aren’t there.” “So why do we do it? Why do you do it?” I asked. She wiped her hands on her apron, picked up her ever present cup of coffee, brought it close to her lips, grasped it with the other hand — like it was the thought itself she was holding — lowered the cup a little and smiled, “because the choir keeps singing.” I smiled in return. I knew I had heard something special, with no constraint of the zip it sign. I ran out into the summer song. From what I could hear, all was well, would be well, on Reuben and Elsie’s farm.
I’d like to think I was aware of each twig. Each stick. The constant effort it must have taken, with damaged, sometimes even broken wings. Just to build something that I would be certain to leave. But I’m not sure that I saw it. Does anyone see it while nestled? Mostly, I suppose, I just took comfort.
Seeing it now, for the gift that it was, continues to be, I can only wonder, am I singing enough? I sing. I know this. But is it worthy? Is it heard above all the noise? Sometimes I hear the humming along, and I think, I can feel it, the gathering of new sticks. The building of new nests. And I think we can build something. Build it together. Joyfully. We who have been given all the tools, all the luxury and comfort, all the support of those who came before us, we have to sing. Sing and gather, and risk each thorn, because the world is listening. Watching. So in need of a nest, an impermanent nestle that holds us, lifts us, and sets us free.
We must be the gatherers. The inconspicuous gatherers, preparing the nest. Allowing all the comforts unaware, tucked within the improbable verse, the impossible song. It’s all we’ve been given, it’s all we need to hear.
Open windows on yellow buses made every team sound like a choir.
Before we were even allowed to ride team buses, or had the need to, they taught us how to sing in a round — a song where everyone sings the same part at different times. We were only 5 years old when Mr. Iverson came into our classroom and introduced us with this gift. It wasn’t long before together we were rowing boats gently down the stream, running after mice that couldn’t see, even welcoming our sleeping French brother Jacques.
As with so many things, it seemed as if they knew how much we would need this commonality. As we grew, we were given the freedom to make choices. Join groups. Follow ideas. And with this, perhaps without our knowledge or permission, we began to see all of our differences. And begin to make judgements. Maybe that’s inevitable. But maybe that’s why they gave us the songs. The collective music calmed our nerves as we traveled to the event. It also helped us in the commiseration or celebration afterwards. Because in the song, as it made its way around the bus, we were one.
Perhaps more than ever, we need to row our boats merrily, together. Because isn’t it true that we are all on the same team? Aren’t we all asked to go through the same things, only at different times? Fear, anger, confusion, joy, even love — it all makes the rounds. If we could only see that we were all in this together, maybe we’d hear the music once again.
Maybe it’s just a dream, but isn’t that what the song said life was supposed to be? We once sang it so loudly, so hopefully, “Merrily, Merrily, Merrily, Merrily…” Perhaps we could sing it again.
We were doing so well, until we got into the higher numbers. Not only did we have to learn the language, the French words for the numbers, we had to do the math as well. To say the teacher explained to us — (A “we” that could be only described as a collection of people from the land of misfit toys. Myself – the American, the two women from South Korea, the Cambodian, the Russian, the Mexican, and the 5 Arabs.) — this would be an overstatement. But in her defense, what good reason could there be to stop giving the additional numbers their own names and start combining them in different math problems? For example — the number for eighty is not given its own name, no, it is quatre-vingts (4×20).
Deep in my wandering brain, I thought of the first time I had heard this four and twenty. Yes, yes, baked in a pie…
“Sing a song of sixpence, A pocket full of rye. Four and twenty blackbirds Baked in a pie.
When the pie was opened, The birds began to sing. Wasn’t that a dainty dish To set before the king?”
It was my first music box. It was red and yellow, shaped like a tiny radio. You spun the knob and it sang the nursery rhyme. This one was my favorite. I dialed it in. The birds survived every time. Imagine that I thought – baked in a pie – and they survived! Glorious! I sang it again and again.
As the nursery rhyme repeated in my head, the teacher had already gotten to the nineties. It was even worse. In the nineties, you have to multiply and add. You can imagine the nightmare that 99 brings for a non-French speaking person — quatre-vingt-dix-neuf (4×20+10+9).
I suppose it will come as no surprise. To test out of this first unit, we had to hold imaginary conversations with the French officials. The first scenario, she explained, was in a store. I was to be the clerk selling dresses (so far so good.) She would be the customer. I looked at the pictures she gave to me. It showed a dress hanging on the rack. As big as life the tag read, $99.99. My heart sank. She asked how much it was. I started doing the math. The numbers raced in my head…all clunked together with the Song of Sixpence. I began my quatre-vignt-dix-ing… then stopped and said, in my best French — this dress was on sale. (Wasn’t that a dainty dish, I thought?) She laughed. I passed the exam.
I have been given the tools I need to find my way in and out of life’s pie. And so I keep singing!
For me it’s like meditation. To focus on just the canvas. The paint. My hand. Put down what I need to see. What I need to feel. And let it come to life.
The bluebird has long been seen as the harbinger of happiness. Its origins may date back thousands of years. In Chinese mythology. Native American folklore. European fairy tales. The bluebird is everywhere. I suppose we all want to be happy. We would do well to remember this.
It wasn’t until recently that I noticed it. I’ve sung it a thousand times, “Somewhere over the rainbow.” But it became so clear when I was painting. Humming along. “…where bluebirds fly.” Maybe it’s because I was a child when I watched The Wizard of Oz. Maybe it was because it was in my grandparents’ living room. But with this childlike brain, I thought, if the bluebirds were always spreading this happiness, they had to fill themselves with it, go somewhere to gather it in — over the rainbow, for example. And if they did, allow themselves this time, then they would have something to give.
I want to be that bluebird. I hope it is in us all to want to spread this joy. But to do that, we need to allow ourselves the time to gather it in. For me that is painting. For you, it might be baking, or gardening. Reading. Or actual meditation. Wherever your “over the rainbow” is, you need to allow yourself the time to visit. Gather all the happiness in your beautiful wings. Then, only then, I think, can you truly fly.
So if they ask you today, “Where are you going?” Smile, and reply, “Where bluebirds fly.”
“Words are partly thoughts, but mostly they’re music, deep down. Thinking itself is, perhaps, orchestral, the mind conducting the world. Conducting it, constructing it.” ― Patricia Hampl
We have a glove compartment full of cds. The car holds our only cd player. Vacation for us begins as I slip the cd into the player. It grabs it gently. Recognizes it. And starts to play the familiar soundtrack of our wanderings. These trips could be 30 minutes down the road, or five countries in five days. We know the words to each song. The beats. The rhythms. The little nods inside the lyrics. The poetry that fills our souls, guides us down an untraveled path.
My mother and I did the same. We soundtracked our journeys. Each note giving us strength and courage and the joy of exploration. Frank Sinatra, singing “My kind of town — ” led us into Chicago. And so it went with nearly all of the 50 states. A song for each journey, each story.
I suppose the music has always carried me. Each note a suitcase for the memory, and a map for open road. Those who know me, really know me, are the ones who can sing along.
Find this someone — this someone you can sing with. Someone who doesn’t care about the missed notes, or when your timing is just a beat off. Someone who laughs when the country band whispers, “…and Leon…” or is moved to tears with the pure magic of every Paul Simon turn of phrase. Find someone who shares your heart song and says, “Play it again! Play it again!”
