Magic To Do

Magic To Do

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“We have magic to do, just for you. We have miracle plays to play.”

From the moment we stepped into Signature’s theater-in-the-round with its shiny silver disc of a stage, I knew we were entering another world. I was holding my breath. I’ve loved the music of “Pippin” for decades. Could this revival possibly measure up?

I’m happy to report that it did! The singing, dancing, glitter, camp — here it was in the flesh, the musical from which the music derived. I learned that Pippin belts out “Morning Glow” right after he kills his father, Charlemagne; that “Spread a Little Sunshine” is sung by the devious stepmother Fastrada; and that Catherine, whose lilting soprano is perfect for “Kind of Woman,” is a widow with a young son.

The music I’ve loved for years became embodied last night, rich in color, drama, irony. From now on, when I listen to “Pippin” I’ll see the arched eyebrows and knowing glance of the Leading Player — or the grandmother stripping off her old-lady clothes to reveal a burlesque outfit underneath.

I’ll remember again what I too often forget: that we need stories, illusion — and magic — almost as much as food and drink and sleep.

A Tip of the Hat

A Tip of the Hat

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It happened on an ordinary walk, and it happened twice, since this ordinary walk was on a circular trail, where you run into people more than once if you’re strolling in opposite directions.

I’m glad it happened twice, though, because the first time I didn’t believe my eyes. By the second time, I was sure. A fellow walker, a man about my age, smiled and tipped his hat as we passed.

I’ve written before about how walkers acknowledge each other. I don’t expect much, am happy if I get a nod or wave. I never expected a tip of the hat. Such behavior harkens back to an earlier age, when gentlemen wore fedoras and opened doors for ladies.

Did the hat-tipper similarly acknowledge male walkers? I have no answer to that question. But I do know how nice it felt to be the recipient of a such a courtesy. It was a congenial gesture; it made me smile all the way back to the parking lot.

(President Calvin Coolidge tips his hat. Photo: Wikimedia Commons)

Shiftless

Shiftless

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As you might expect from a walker in the suburbs, I’m not big on driving. I do it, of course, because I have to — but I do it almost exclusively with a manual-transmission sedan. I shift up, I shift down. I lean into corners and feel the road. Piloting a stick shift has made driving as fun as it can be, almost as much fun as walking.

I did not come to this skill easily. I was an automatic transmission girl until I married into a stick-shift-car family and painstakingly learned to handle a clutch. With no automatic to fall back on, I had no choice. But it wasn’t easy, especially after living for 10 years in cities where I relied solely on public transportation.

For decades now I’ve mostly driven a manual, and loved doing it. I mourned our old stick-shift when it finally bit the dust. The 25-year-old Saab that we’re keeping alive by dint of a mechanic named Louis and way too much money may be the last manual I’ll ever drive.

A recent Washington Post article reveals that stick-shift automobiles account for only 0.6 percent of the American auto market now compared with more than 34.6 percent in 1980. Manufacturers are discontinuing their stick-shift models. Electric vehicles don’t require a manual transmission. And then there’s the comfort factor. As one auto industry expert opined, “The more the car becomes your couch, the less you’re going to want to shift your gears.” 

For me, a car is a tool, not a couch. It’s a necessary item. And if I have to own one, I’d like it to be one that mimics walking with all its stops and starts and adventures.

Joseph Ceo: 1933-2026

Joseph Ceo: 1933-2026

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The man on the podium was wiry and intense, just as I remembered him from high school. “We’re going to take this piece apart and put it back together again,” said Dr. Joseph Ceo, then 85, stabbing the air with his baton. I trembled, remembering past musical humiliations. I hadn’t played the string bass in decades, but once I heard that alumni were invited to join the Central Kentucky Youth Orchestra anniversary concert in 2018, I knew I had to be part of it.

Playing in an orchestra had made adolescence bearable. It introduced me to a group of people whose idea of a good time was listening to Wagner’s Liebestod on a Saturday night. It left me in love not just with music but with music-making. Yes, I lived 500 miles away, and my only symphonic experience since high school was air-conducting in the car, but these were trifles. I rented a string bass and got to work.

Though Dr. Ceo had left the orchestra and moved away shortly after we graduated, none of us had forgotten him. He had treated us like musicians, not kids, and we had performed well for him, many of us going on to conservatories and musical careers.

I was not one of them. So why was I standing here with a string bass I could barely hold up, preparing to play the finale of Stravinsky’s “Firebird”? Because I knew that if Dr. Ceo was part of it, I wanted to be, too.

The concert that weekend was everything I remembered from the old days. The fun, the tension, the pit in the stomach. But there was something else, too: the joy of making music together. As soon as I felt it, I knew the months of practice had been worth it. 

As we belted out the last bars of the piece, the timpani pounded behind me and I felt its vibration travel through the floor boards and into my spine, where it left a tingle. We had taken the music apart and put it back together again. In fact, life had taken us apart and put us back together again — and we were all richer because of it.

Thank you, Dr. Ceo. Rest in peace.

(Dr. Ceo stands in the back row of this photo, second from left.)

Last Morning Hours

Last Morning Hours

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First, the anxious tedium only an airport can supply, followed by passage on the sleek silver bird. And then, in what seems the blink of an eye, a return to normal life. Leaving behind the deep relaxation of beach time, of staring up at palm trees, impossibly slim, impossibly tall, a profusion of growth and greenery.

Then, there is finding the place I live to be new again. Even the old familiar walk, the up-and-back of the neighborhood thoroughfare, seems shiny and bright.

It is full-bore summer here. The night is rich with insect sounds, the mornings full of crows cawing and blue jays calling. Another trip is coming in a few days, a family vacation full of little people. There is plenty to do. But now, for these last morning hours, I want to pause and let it all sink in.

The Approach

The Approach

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Heading to the beach is a journey in itself. My favorite part is right before I see the breakers, when I take the dune path that leads to the shore.

It reminds me of the breathless moments before I’d see the Wildcat roller-coaster at Lexington’s Joyland amusement park when I was a little girl. The road curved and tunneled through an underpass, creating an eager anticipation and a gasp of pleasure when the rickety old structure came into view.

So too has been my experience these last few days as I trudge through fine sand on my way to the more hard-packed, easy-strolling stuff near the water. I know I’m about to see the Gulf in all its glory, crowned by clouds, strewn with sea foam and bringing close the faraway.

The next moments will also be fine: walking right up to the water, taking off my shoes, wading in the surf. But it’s hard to beat the moments beforehand, the approach. They are the finest of all.

A Tempo

A Tempo

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In music, the phrase “a tempo” means to return to the original pace. In the last few weeks (touch wood) I have been returning to my original walking speed.

I had slowed down through the winter and spring due to a hamstring thing. I won’t dignify it by calling it an injury but I will say that it turned my allegro into an adagio.

But now, if I’m careful, my stride is little more my own. The trick is knowing when I’ve overdone and backing off. I’m not as good at that as I hope to become.

It’s a good lesson not just in walking, but in life.

(Sometimes the sand slows me down.)

Ten Egrets and a Flamingo

Ten Egrets and a Flamingo

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I had to look closely because its hue wasn’t as pink as I thought it would be. But I definitely saw a flamingo on the beach yesterday. It was hanging out with ten egrets (I counted them), feeding in a tidal lake that appeared last year and has grown bigger since then. The birds seemed on good terms with each other.

The egrets raised their elegant heads, struck a perfect profile shot, as the flamingo tried to blend in. I’m not really pink, he seemed to be saying. I’m just one of the gang.

As I mentioned in another beach posting, mockingbirds are actually the state birds of Florida, though flamingos are more closely identified with the state.

I wish I’d been able to snap a shot of the flamingo itself, but I often walk the beach without a phone or camera. I’ll have to content myself with this lone egret I spied later in the day. He’s obviously a bird on a mission. Perhaps he’s looking for another flamingo.

‘Great Warehouse’

‘Great Warehouse’

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The natural world is never far away when I’m at the beach. I stroll beside the ocean, inhale the scent of seaweed, hear the cry of gulls, tremble at the power of waves that rise and fall and rise again.

In A Poetry Handbook, Mary Oliver notes that “these days many poets live in cities, or at least in suburbs, and the natural world grows ever more distant from our everyday lives. Most people, in fact, live in cities, and therefore most readers are not necessarily very familiar with the natural world. And yet the natural world has always been the great warehouse of symbolic imagery. Poetry is one of these ancient arts, and it began, as did all the fine arts, within the original wilderness of the earth.”

Being here, amidst this wildness, is not only relaxing for the body, it is recharging for the soul. It puts me back in touch with the “great warehouse of symbolic imagery” that I too often neglect to tap at home.

Gulf Forecast

Gulf Forecast

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I’m in Florida on my annual getaway. I’m savoring once again that unique combination of sea air, palm trees and sugar-white sand that makes this part of the Gulf Coast both relaxing and energizing.

Before leaving I looked up the weather. Would I need to pack a sweater? Yes, but only for inside. An umbrella? Not really, because I don’t mind getting wet at the beach.

Of course, I didn’t need to check the forecast to know what the weather would be. Sunny, hot and humid with warm mornings, sultry afternoons, and a thunderstorm to clear the air before nightfall.

It’s a forecast as familiar to me as this special stretch of Florida landscape.