To a Young Girl

This from The Writer’s Almanac:

"It's the birthday of Anne Frank , born in 1929 in Frankfurt, Germany. It was on this day in 1942 that she received a red and white plaid journal, from her father, for her 13th birthday, and she started to write her diary, a diary that she called by the name of "Kitty." A few weeks after she started her diary, Anne's older sister Margot got a notice to report to a Jewish work camp, so the Franks went into hiding in an annex in Amsterdam. They couldn't bring suitcases, because it would look suspicious, so Anne had to wear two vests, three pairs of pants, a dress, a skirt, a jacket, a summer coat, two pairs of stockings, a wool hat, and a scarf-even though it was July. Four other people lived in the annex with Anne and her family, and they lived there together for two years. They had family friends who helped them survive, who brought them food and supplies. Anne wrote about being scared, and about injustice, and about missing the sunshine; and she also wrote about things that many 13-year-olds write about in their diaries. She wrote about how mad she got at her mother, and how she wanted privacy; she wrote about her crush on the teenage boy she lived with, and how she thought it was unfair that her parents liked Margot best.

In August of 1944, someone tipped off the Nazis, and they raided the apartment and sent everyone to concentration camps. Anne died of typhus at Bergen-Belsen just a few weeks before British troops came to liberate the camp; and of the eight people who lived in the annex together, only one, Anne's father, Otto, survived. Otto returned to Amsterdam, and a family friend told Otto that she had found Anne's diary in the annex after the Nazis had left. Anne wrote in the diary that she wanted to have it published, and so Otto wanted to try and honor his daughter's wishes. It took a while and was rejected by several publishers, but it was published in Germany in 1947, and the United States in 1952. Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl has sold more than 25 million copies, and it is considered the second-best-selling nonfiction book in history, after the Bible."

Anne Frank was born a year after my own father, who died two years ago on the 16th of June. When I try to imagine them as contemporaries, it's somewhat difficult. I only knew my father as an adult, and despite the few photos and family stories, it’s hard to imagine him as anything but. Of course, none of us had the opportunity to know Anne Frank as anything but a young girl, so it’s equally difficult to imagine what she might have been had she survived.

There is so much to consider when making the attempt to wrap your mind around Anne Frank the living, breathing, thinking and feeling person, as opposed to Anne Frank, the emblem of the Holocaust. When I try to imagine Anne as a real person, outside of the larger than life person she’s become thanks to her journal, it helps to look to my own daughter, who will celebrate her own 13th birthday in four months. Naturally, there are some glaring differences between the two of them, but I would venture to suppose that most girls of that age have conflict with their mother, long for privacy, secretly eye some boy or other and harbor resentment toward siblings. I find myself wondering what the sound of Anne’s laugh was like—was it spontaneous and nutty, like the unselfconscious outbursts of Dear Daughter? Did she find wonder in the world of roly-polies under clay pots of flower seedlings? Was bedtime ever a struggle, or did she read aloud to her pets? Through her diary, we are given an all-too-brief look at her day-to-day life, in conditions that, at best, were arduous. Still, questions remain.

Then, what might the 23 year old Anne Frank have been like? Or the 33 year old? Would she be a young mother by then, a university graduate, an accomplished musician? Would she have worked for the creation of the state of Israel, or raised chickens in her backyard? Would she, at 73, been like my own father, slightly irascible, prone to seizures, fond of her grandchildren?

Only three short years separated the day Anne Frank first received the diary that would ensure her immortality and the day she died in 1945. She was forced by unimaginable circumstances to cram a lifetime’s worth of observation and thought into those brief years and somehow make them fit into the pages of a slim volume. She did a remarkable job.

Anne Frank said, "Everyone has inside of him a piece of good news. The good news is that you don't know how great you can be! How much you can love!" God only knows how great she would have been at 80, and how much love she had yet to give.

Happy Birthday George

I cribbed this from The Writer's Almanac. I love that tiny little show. One of my dream jobs would be to research and write for it, or perhaps my own broadcast of literature, history and humanities minutiae.

When I was a child, we honored Abraham Lincoln and George Washington separately on their respective birthdays. Presidents' Day is a nice holiday, and who doesn't love a three day weekend, but the lumping of the two together makes it easy to gloss over the lives of two truly remarkable men. Certainly they had their specific failings, and examining their lives in the context of modern values and beliefs raises particular questions. But even that cannot override the basic fact that they were, at heart, good people who accomplished quite a bit of good in their lifetimes.

Ten Things You Never Knew about George Washington, born on this day in 1732:
1. His dentures were carved from a hippopotamus tusk. They were drilled with a hole to fit over Washington's one remaining tooth, and they rubbed against his natural tooth in such a way that Washington was in constant pain, and so he used an alcoholic solution infused with opium.

2. By the time he reached 30, he had survived malaria, smallpox, pleurisy, dysentery. He was fired at on two separate occasions — and in one of them, his horse was shot out from under him and four bullets punctured his coat. He also fell off a raft into an icy river and nearly drowned.

3. During the last night of his life, a doctor friend came over to perform an emergency tracheotomy on Washington. Arriving too late, the doctor tried to resurrect Washington by thawing him in cold water, then wrapping him in blankets and rubbing him in order to activate blood vessels, then opening his trachea to inflate his lungs with air, and then transfusing blood from a lamb into him.

4. He enjoyed playing cards, hunting foxes and ducks, fishing, cockfighting, horse racing, boat racing, and dancing. He bred hound dogs and gave them names like "Sweet Lips" and "Tarter."

5. His favorite foods included mashed potatoes with coconut, string beans with mushrooms, cream of peanut soup, salt cod, and pineapples.

6. He snored very loudly.

7. He did not wear a powdered wig, as was fashionable at the time. Instead, he powdered his own red-brown hair.

8. Washington had a speech impediment and was not good at spelling. He would often mix up is and es when speaking and in writing.

9. There are 33 counties, seven mountains, nine colleges, and 121 post offices named after Washington.

10. He delivered the shortest inaugural address ever. It was only 133 words long and took 90 seconds to deliver.

Your Boat's Lost at Sea

It’s been a while since I wrote an historical note, and today’s event isn’t so old as to be what is usually considered history. It did happen eight years ago, and there are people in the world for whom this is still a pivotal, life-altering event.

Today in 2000, John Morris Rankin swerved to miss a pile of road salt on Route 219 near Margaree Harbour, Cape Breton Island, NS. His SUV tumbled down the 25 meter embankment into the Atlantic Ocean. Three teenage boys, including his son Michael, escaped and climbed back up the cliff and were rescued by passersby. Rankin was found dead in the partially submerged vehicle, presumably from the impact of the crash.

One of 12 children born in the small Canadian province of Nova Scotia, Rankin was a songwriter, instrumentalist and a loving family man. His family group, the Rankins, was made up of some of his sisters and a brother. Although they never made much noise on the American music scene, they were absolutely huge in Canada, in both the folk-rock and traditional Celtic genres. After his death, John Morris Rankin’s daughter Molly joined the group for a reunion tour, taking her father’s place as fiddler on an emotional comeback in 2007.

I didn’t know him, just his beautiful songs and his recordings. I’m listening to the album Endless Seasons today. It’s a nice collection of nice people singing lovely songs. Here's a performance clip I think you'll like.

Baroque No More

I have to say I truly miss having Internet access at home. This hasn't happened yet due to a number of factors, prime among them is that I have been too lazy to research the various offers of Internet alone, cable TV plus Internet, land-line telephone plus Internet, land-line telephone plus Internet PLUS cable TV, ad inifitum, ad nauseum. The adage about not missing your water until the well runs dry is true. It just makes my head hurt to think about sorting through all of that information and making a decision.

So, my decision for now is not to think about it a little bit longer, and to continue to blog from wherever whenever I can.

Monday, whilst home in the morning due to a flaming flare up (imagine actual flames settling in the joints of your wrists, back, elbows, ankles and hips), I received a call from the local piano dealer telling me a tech was finally available to come and look at the damage to my beloved Acrosonic inflicted by the movers. Was I interested? You betcha.

An hour or so later, the noble Wes pulled his trusty Volvo into my driveway. Hauling out his bag of tools and putting on nice, fussy little shoe covers, he quickly dismantled the upper portion of my spinet and soon located the problem. It seems three octaves of keys had become dislocated from the capstans, causing them to be jammed in the keyboard. And yes, oh Mr. Snotty Adjustor from the Moving Company, this was directly attributable to the fact that the piano was turned ON ITS END to be moved. And just for the record, it's a very good thing your guys DIDN'T actually drop it during the move.

It took him about fifteen minutes to do the actual work. We also chatted a bit about rabbits (they were watching him avidly), music in general and the irony of being charged an extra fee for special handling of the piano, only to have it damaged in the actual handling.

Anyway, a half hour later my nice little piano was feeling much better

and I was definitely happier. I wrote him a modest check, took his card and promised to schedule a tuning sometime in the near future and did a wincing, hobbling happy dance in honor of my restored instrument. I played a few bars of a Handel sonata, despite the fire in my hands. It was so good to be able to play again, if only briefly.

Wes was also able to reference the serial number on my piano and determine when it was built. I knew it was used, but figured on it being about 30 years old. It turns out I have a war baby! My dear Acrosonic was built in 1942, which lends the imagination toward all kinds of nice stories. I wonder what hands played her, and what tunes she sang? Did she welcome home a loved one from overseas? A sweetheart sailor perhaps? Or was her cover solemly closed and draped in black, to acknowledge that some beloved someone wouldn't be coming home after all?

I love old furniture and old instruments. I loved my piano before knowing her vintage, but having a specific date and era gives me a new love and respect for her. What a rich and exciting time to be brought into the world.

At the end of the day, my piano was once again whole and hale. My hands felt better and I was even able to play a little. By bedtime, all was right with the world, and she held the lovely flowers sent by a friend. We're home at last.

Happy Birthday!

1872 -- Bertrand Russell
1883 -- Walter Gropius
1897 -- Frank Capra
1912 -- Perry Como
1919 -- Dame Margot Fonteyn
1920 -- Pope John Paul II

There was a funny joke I heard some years ago about screen star Jean Harlow meeting Dame Margot Fonteyn. I don't know if it's true or not, but it makes me laugh.

"At a party, screen siren Jean Harlow heard that Margot Fonteyn was also in the room. She asked to be introduced to the prima, and gushed, "Oh Dame Mar-gott, I'm so happy to meet you! This is the happiest moment of my life!" La Fonteyn replied, "Thank you, but the 't' in my name is silent. Like in 'harlot'."

:-P

God's in His heaven

It's the birthday in 1812 of English poet Robert Browning. My favorite passage of his is the Song from "Pippa Passes." Yeah, it's sweet, but that's it: it's sweet. I like it. It makes me happy on summer mornings.

It's also the day in 1915 that the Cunard liner Lusitania was torpedoed and sunk by a German U-boat. More than 1,100 passengers and crew lost their lives in this attack, among them at least 100 Americans. The Lusitania was a sister ship to the Mauretania and Aquitania, and were smaller -- though faster -- than the ships of the White Star Line (Olympic, Titanic and Britannic). The ship was built in Clydebank, Scotland, and launched in 1906.

The German submarine U-20 was operating in the Irish Channel in the spring of 1915. Despite warnings of submarine activity and the discovery of three German spies on the ship, Captain William Turner continued on his voyage. At about 2:20 p.m. Captain Schwieger of the U-20 ordered fire on the Lusitania. Struck below the bridge, a subsequent explosion below decks caused the ship to sink in less than 20 minutes. Lifeboats were hindered by the ship listing dangerously because of water pouring through its side and poor design of the hull plates. The dead recovered from the water are buried in the Church of St. Multose in Kinsale, Ireland. Others still lie in the wreck, near the point of Old Head of Kinsale.

Schwieger was branded a war criminal by the international press for firing on an unarmed passenger ship. Speculations abounded in later years that the Lusitania may have actually been carrying munitions and war materiel. These have never been proven.

War is a funny thing. It causes humans to take actions that are inexplicable and irrational. I can't get my head around the idea of firing on an unarmed ship full of people in the middle of a channel. How do you live with having given the order to fire, or actually being the finger on the trigger?

A Hemidemisemiquaver in Time

Mstislav Rostropovich has died and the world goes on, although somewhat less than it was before. I’m trying to remember if he was one of the guest performers brought to town by the Memphis Symphony Orchestra in my youth. I used to usher at the performance halls downtown, and thereby saw lots of wonderful concerts, opera shows, Broadway musicals and ballet performances for free. If I did see him, it was obviously lost on me at the time; in retrospect, I guess there's a lot of things I did then I wish remembered better.

Rostropovich played cello, which is, I’m pretty sure, the preferred instrument of heaven. I can’t get my head around the concept that mere humans could have created such a sublime instrument, and then gone on to compose music suitable for it. It just seems beyond our puny reach. I never learned a stringed instrument, and it’s one of the few real regrets I have about my life. I like to think I’m not too old to learn cello, but at the same time, how could I possibly be worthy?

Here is a rather good story about Rostropovich, along with some comments by Lynn Harrell, another master of the cello. He made me weep openly at a concert a few years back.

Are there young people coming up in the ranks of classical performing artist to replace those whom we are losing? Pablo Casals is long gone, and now Rostropovich. Yo-Yo Ma and Lynn Harrell are both 50-something. Who is to follow?

Truth, Justice and the boy from Polecat Creek

On this day in Polecat Creek, NC, Egbert Roscoe Murrow came into this world. It was 1908, and his family lived in a small log cabin and supported themselves on the few hundred dollars per year that subsistence farming brought them. Egbert’s family later relocated to Washington state, and it was there during his high school years that he acquired the nickname “Ed.” In college, he would formally change his name to “Edward,” thus becoming Edward R. Murrow. By his death in 1967, the boy from Polecat Creek would become one of the most recognized voices and faces in the world, and would set a standard for journalism that, although still remembered, is rarely emulated today.

In late 2005, George Clooney (whose legendary charm still eludes me) wrote, directed and played a supporting role in “Good Night and Good Luck,” the brilliant ode to Murrow’s fight against the rising taint of McCarthyism. David Straithairn (whose lanky charm leads me to insist on watching “Passionfish” alone so I can concentrate) portrayed Murrow in an Oscar-nominated performance. If you haven’t seen the film, do make a point of it. You’ll be glad you did.

Murrow’s career began in radio with on-the-ground coverage of the Anschluss in the late 1930s. Broadcasting from Vienna, Murrow provided eyewitness accounts of Hitler’s first move into Austria. Later, he covered the aftermath of the Buchenwald liberation, and stunned the world with the description of the suffering and death found there.

Edward Murrow made the jump to the nascent field of television in the 1950s, first guest-appearing on the CBS Evening News and then on his own show, “See It Now,” an updated version of “Hear It Now,” which he and producer Fred Friendly (Clooney’s role in the film) created for CBS radio after the war. In 1954, Murrow and Friendly produced a 30 minute special entitled “A Special Report on Senator Joseph McCarthy.” This well-researched and carefully produced segment highlighted McCarthy’s increasingly upward-spiraling against the so-called “Red Scare” in the American entertainment industry. Murrow and Friendly paid a hard price for exposing the truth about McCarthy. Their hard-hitting approach to news was discomfiting, and turned off viewers who were quickly becoming addicted to the novel game shows and talk shows that were beginning to crop up on the airwaves.

Those who know me know how little television I watch. We have cable at the house, but flipping through the channels leaves me tired and disgusted. Despite 50+ channels (I know, we only have a few!), it gets more and more difficult to find something worth watching, especially when Dear Daughter is around. She’d love to watch the reality shows and pre-teen sit-coms her fifth grade classmates discuss, but the couple of times we’ve actually tuned in, we’ve both quickly realized we just can’t sit through very much of that kind of drivel. At the day’s end, it’s nice to know that we can lead fulfilling lives without knowing the latest scoop on Britney, Brangelina, Sanji-whoosis or Hannah Montana (which is actually fairly tame and less smart-ass than most shows aimed at grade-schoolers).
But the absolute worst is when I try to watch broadcast news –either local or national. It’s sad and disturbing how little we’re willing to settle for in the arena of vital information. Completely overlooking the nauseating level of violence and despair in the news, the reporting itself is too frequently shallow, glib and uncaring. Coupled with Chiron misspellings, perky announcers who can’t read or pronounce names and who make inappropriate comments, the prospect of sitting through an entire 30 minute newscast pretty much sends me into a keening, thumb-sucking fetal position.

And don’t even get me started on the reporters and camera work…

Anyway, today is the birthday of the boy from Polecat Creek. Celebrate by skipping the news and taking a walk around with your eyes, ears and mind wide open.

We miss your work, Egbert. Good night and good luck.