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Category: place

Past is Present

Past is Present

What would it be like to live where the past is present, where you can visit an Iron Age fort or a beehive hut, drive along ancient routes and savor timeless views?

It would feel like living here, in the west of Ireland.

Take Kilmalkedar, a 12th-century Irish church built with stones that had been around for centuries, some of them with the ancient ogham script. It was built on an important monastic site. After the roof caved in hundreds of years ago, people began burying their dead inside the church, a practice that practically guaranteed one entry into heaven.

Speaking of heaven, what would it be like to love the place you live so much that you give tours of it.  Makes me think about place and some people’s devotion to it, which very much gets me back to why I started this blog.

To walk through the landscape and write about it, and in writing about it to belong to it.

Here, that process is not as labor-intensive.

Far-Flung

Far-Flung

In St. Louis for a family wedding, I find myself thinking about place, about generations placed and unplaced, about the difference it makes.

Families that began in Indiana and Kentucky spread to Arizona, California, Colorado, Florida, Idaho, Illinois, Maryland, Missouri, Montana, New York, Oregon, Texas, Virginia, Washington, Wisconsin — and I’m probably forgetting a few.

It was bound to happen when transportation became supersonic and communication became instantaneous, but do texts, calls and jet planes fill in for the shout down the street, for Sunday visits?

People leave for college, for jobs, for opportunities, for fresh starts. It’s how we’ve live now.

It’s just changed us, that’s all.

Caps Win the Cup!

Caps Win the Cup!

It took me a split second this morning to remember, and then the joy washed over me again: The Washington Capitals have won the Stanley Cup! They have coolly and methodically mowed down their competition. They have run the distance, they have prevailed.

Does D.C. need this or what? It’s been decades since we’ve had a sports championship of any type. And just in general, things are tough in the “swamp.” We’re the seat of government in an era when government is contentious. Our traffic is horrendous, and we’ve had four weeks of rain.

But last night, all of that was forgotten. Ovi hoisted the Stanley Cup, smiled his gap-toothed grin, and made some sort of utterance that was part howl, part growl.

Last night wasn’t about words, though. It was about sounds and images. Firecrackers popping. A sea of red in Capital One Arena and throughout Chinatown (which I cruised beneath on Metro less than two hours before they won).

Today the whole region woke up a little happier than it did yesterday. Yes, it’s just a bunch of guys who skate around and chuck each other with sticks. But it’s our guys. And they won!

Ramping Down

Ramping Down

National Airport is only a mile from my office, less as the crow flies (though Google Maps doesn’t chart crow-fly mileage).  But it took me half an hour to navigate yesterday because of the time I spent  backtracking.

The problem was that I had walked from the office to the airport but never the other way around. I  had the general idea but couldn’t figure out the specifics (like finding the bridge that crosses the parkway and the railroad tracks). Airport signage (in fact, most signage) does not favor walkers!

Eventually I found the road that led to the ramp that led to Crystal City. It all seemed so easy once it fell into place. I was on the downward slope, heading back to office and home.

(The first National Airport terminal in 1941, shortly after it opened. Courtesy Library of Congress.)

We Did It!

We Did It!

I knew when I heard the trumpet solo in the Triumphal March from Aida that there was a different energy at the performance. Something inspired, something transcendent. Seasoned artists say that performances aren’t usually better than rehearsals, but this one was.

I’m not saying that this particular performer played better at the concert. I was nervous, almost dropped my bow switching from pizzicato to arco. But I held on, made most of the notes in the run, did not rush the entrance in the exposed string bass part half way through the Verdi, and was able to hit the harmonic in the tip-of-the-bow opening of the Firebird finale.

From there on, the hair stood up on the back of my neck as I played our B flats and E flats, putting everything I had into those notes, doing my awkward vibrato, hearing the timpani pounding behind me. I didn’t just play the music, I felt it. The trumpets and trombones blaring out their final chords, the whole marvelous ensemble, and at its helm, Dr. Joe Ceo, 85 years old.

“We’re doing this again in five years for the 75th anniversary,” he said after the concert, as a bunch of us stood around, still in a bit of a rush from it all. “You all will have to be here for it, because I don’t know if  I will be.” No way, we said. If you can do it at 85, you can do it at 90.

It was that kind of music, that kind of concert, that kind of day.

(The Central Kentucky Youth Orchestra with vocal soloists in its final performance of the 2017-2018 season. No pictures of the Reunion Orchestra yet!) 

Concert Day

Concert Day

Bow has met bass, performers have met conductor, the intrepid Dr. Joe Ceo, and in a few hours we will practice briefly, then take our turn on stage.

There are about 50 or 60 of us in the Reunion Orchestra, of wildly varying ages and abilities. Take the string bass section for starters. Our first chair is a professional bass player, a conservatory graduate and first chair of the Buffalo Philharmonic; he’s about 20 years out of high school. Next is a member of the Lexington Philharmonic and longtime teacher who was in the youth orchestra a couple of years before I was. Next to me is a 2017 high school graduate who was playing his final concert with the Central Kentucky Youth Orchestra this time last year.

Not that any of this matters. Playing music together banishes age and occupation. What’s important is being in tune, on time and willing to give our hearts to the task at hand.

And of that there is no question.  We traveled from New York and Texas and California and Virginia to do just that.

Have Bow, Will Travel

Have Bow, Will Travel

I am usually an optimist, but not enough to pack my string bass bow in checked luggage on the flights from Little Rock to Lexington. The bow, and my concert black clothes, were stuffed into my smallish briefcase. Or, to be more precise, my computer, notebooks, journal, book and clothes were stuffed in the briefcase. The bow was resting on top of it as I roamed around the Charlotte Airport.

To back up a bit here … The Central Kentucky Youth Orchestra is providing a string bass but I’m providing the bow for this weekend’s musical activities. I’m so glad it’s not the other way around, but the bow has presented some logistical challenges. It’s too large to fit into a carry-on bag, which is why I was checking luggage to begin with. And it’s fairly delicate, too, so it has been well padded.

Now the bow and the bassist (seems presumptuous … but that would be me) are on their way to pick up the bass and take it to Bryan Station High School, where the rehearsal (and the fun begins).

Have bow, will travel.

View from the Brow

View from the Brow

Yesterday, for the “retreat” part of this work week in Arkansas, we drove an hour and a half west to Petit Jean Mountain. It was where the organization I work for began —  and a place that holds special memories for me.

I spent most of the day at a conference room inside, but there were a few minutes at the beginning and end of the day when I could walk to the brow of the hill and savor the view —  the big puffy clouds casting shadows on the fields, the hawks soaring high above the pines, the two mountain ranges that draw the gaze ever westward.

It was a view that captivated me decades ago — and still does. I thought about why. It’s more than just the beauty, I think. It’s also the promise and perspective, metaphor for a nation that once stretched its legs across a continent and took its strength from people and from place.

Joy in D.C.!

Joy in D.C.!

I’m not a big ice hockey fan — I don’t know a check from a puck — but I know jubilation when I see it. And jubilation is the story here in Washington, D.C., as the Capitals advance to the Stanley Cup finals for the first time in 20 years.

I found out from a text from Claire, my hockey-loving daughter, who used about half a dozen exclamation points at the end of her message.

It’s that kind of joy. As Washington Post sports columnist Dan Steinberg wrote,  D.C. reacted “about how you’d expect a city might react, if that city had been waiting for 7,000 or so days for a team to get to this particular spot, and if that city had seen this particular team come up short in this particular round against this particular opponent every particular spring.  There was relief. There was delirium. There was exaltation.”

It’s one of those wins that feels like more than what it really is, that feels like payback for living in a “swamp” where troubling political news combines with troubling Metro news (including the closure of four stations for 98 days next year) combines with killer traffic for a uniquely D.C. type of misery.

But today is different. It’s May. The azaleas are bursting with jewel-tone blossoms. Pollen is on the run. The Caps may not make it all the way. But right now it’s more than enough that they made it here.

(Photo: Washington Capitals)

Born in the Bluegrass

Born in the Bluegrass

Yesterday, researching who I wanted to pull for in today’s Kentucky Derby, I ran across a fun statistic. Seventeen of the 20 mounts in the race were born in the Bluegrass. The Lexington newspaper had all the birthplaces, many of them clustered in the Pisgah Pike, Versailles area near where my parents used to live.

I didn’t know all of the farms (though I knew some, most notably Calumet, with its distinctive white and red trim). But I know all of the places, know the two-lane roads that wind to them, the way the Osage orange tree branches arch over their lanes. The roll and tilt of the land is familiar to me; it’s what I grew up with, too.

Reading those farm names, I could smell the tobacco scent that would waft through the air in the fall when I was a little girl, back when the big auction houses were still there. I could smell the aroma of Lexington’s own racetrack, Keeneland, an amalgam of spilled beer and turned soil.

Once these places were part of my external landscape, now they’re part of my internal one.