More on Gaskell
Wives and Daughters is a fascinating character study in the effects of different parenting. The heroine, Molly, loses her mother at a young age, yet matures into a loyal, soft-hearted girl. Her foil and stepsister, Cynthia, loses her father at a young age. Yet Cynthia matures into a woman who is unable to feel deeply or make meaningful connections with people.
One would expect the motherless girl to fare worse, but Molly is more fully human. Gaskell’s point is that a child needs loving care, regardless of the sex of the parent who gives it.
Cynthia’s living mother treats her as a burden from the beginning of widowhood, sending Cynthia off to boarding school at age 4. Every school vacation, Cynthia is left in the care of strangers while her mother travels with the great families that employ her as governess.
The net effect of this continued neglect is a vanity and manipulativeness, someone who cannot ever turn off the charm for fear of rejection. Yet Cynthia is apt to reject others, three suitors in all in the course of the novel. She admits that she’s not really capable of love or deep feeling for others. Today I think Cynthia would be said to suffer from an attachment disorder.
Molly, on the other hand, is blessed to be educated at home by a loving governess. She lives in a community where the women watch out for her, take an interest in her growth, strive to keep up a relationship with her. Though her father is a busy country doctor in the age of nothing but house calls, he works to be as available as he can. Theirs is a relationship of nurture and friendship. Gaskell paints their intimacy by showing father and daughter kneeling at the fireside, making toasted cheese sandwiches and amiably talking about the day’s events.
When Molly’s father marries Cynthia’s mother, thinking it will help is “poor motherless girl,” Gaskell makes it clear that it’s far too late for Molly to be helped by a stepmother. Her good character is well formed by age 17, as is Cynthia’s weak character. A great tension of the story is whether either girl will be swayed by the new family circumstances so late in “childhood.”
3.31.2005
3.30.2005
Unfinished business
My Ireland travel journal sputtered out with a partial paragraph for March 19, 1985, yet another piece of unfinished business that will remain so. Though reading the previous entires jogged many memories, there's no way I can call back the final three days of our trip of 20 years past.
I know that we competed in a concert band competition in Galway, taking first place in our division. At the hotel in Galway, I nearly overflowed the tub when I couldn’t get the water to shut off. I sent my roommate to get a chaperone while I shivered, mortified, in my bathrobe, and prayed one of the adult women knew something about plumbing (alas, several men came with one of the women). We did some sightseeing at the end of the trip, including a drive around “the Ring of Kerry” on the west coast, and a stop at the Cliffs of Moher. But so many details are lost to me now.
Unfinished-ness seems a recurrent theme in my life right now. Last week I read through the "end" of Elizabeth Gaskell's Wives and Daughters, only to find that Gaskell died before completing the book. It's a thoroughly enjoyable read, even though one must use one's imagination to complete the trajectory of the plot. I’d seen a film adaptation before reading the book, and now understand why the film’s ending seemed a little unsatisfying. Andrew Davies did a good job in making the screenplay work for a contemporary audience and the ending he created mostly followed Gaskell’s trajectory. I’m fairly sure, however, that she didn’t intend for Molly’s storyline to wrap up quite so easily. There are inklings in the text that obstacles to her marriage will not instantly disappear, but take many chapters to resolve.
On Good Friday, I sang Mozart’s Requiem with my church choir, a piece he did not complete before his death. From what I’ve read about the piece, several people had a hand in stitching it together. The student who had some of the greatest influence, Sussmayr, was not someone Mozart particularly admired. He merely seemed to be in the right place at the right time when Mozart’s wife Constanze was having difficulty finding someone to complete the piece. The pieces attributed to Sussmyer—-the Sanctus, Benedictus and Osanna—-are perhaps some of the more dull or clunky bits to sing. Purists like Christopher Hogwood of the Academy of Ancient Music jettison the Sussmyer contributions entirely. Despite the hackneyed additions, the piece is extremely moving, a challenge and a joy to perform. Peter Shaffer’s musical Amadeus (later adapted for film) has made the Requiem one today’s best known and most loved classical pieces. (FYI, to hear our performance, go to the archived webcast and scroll down to "3/25/05 - Good Friday Choral Concert")
An odd parallel between the novel and requiem mass setting is the fact that these unfinished works are considered some of their creators’ very best work. Are we to sit and lament the “untimely passing” of Gaskell and Mozart? Perhaps the works they left are an encouragement to all discouraged creators to keep working hard, for even the scraps you leave behind may become beautiful in their time.
My Ireland travel journal sputtered out with a partial paragraph for March 19, 1985, yet another piece of unfinished business that will remain so. Though reading the previous entires jogged many memories, there's no way I can call back the final three days of our trip of 20 years past.
I know that we competed in a concert band competition in Galway, taking first place in our division. At the hotel in Galway, I nearly overflowed the tub when I couldn’t get the water to shut off. I sent my roommate to get a chaperone while I shivered, mortified, in my bathrobe, and prayed one of the adult women knew something about plumbing (alas, several men came with one of the women). We did some sightseeing at the end of the trip, including a drive around “the Ring of Kerry” on the west coast, and a stop at the Cliffs of Moher. But so many details are lost to me now.
Unfinished-ness seems a recurrent theme in my life right now. Last week I read through the "end" of Elizabeth Gaskell's Wives and Daughters, only to find that Gaskell died before completing the book. It's a thoroughly enjoyable read, even though one must use one's imagination to complete the trajectory of the plot. I’d seen a film adaptation before reading the book, and now understand why the film’s ending seemed a little unsatisfying. Andrew Davies did a good job in making the screenplay work for a contemporary audience and the ending he created mostly followed Gaskell’s trajectory. I’m fairly sure, however, that she didn’t intend for Molly’s storyline to wrap up quite so easily. There are inklings in the text that obstacles to her marriage will not instantly disappear, but take many chapters to resolve.
On Good Friday, I sang Mozart’s Requiem with my church choir, a piece he did not complete before his death. From what I’ve read about the piece, several people had a hand in stitching it together. The student who had some of the greatest influence, Sussmayr, was not someone Mozart particularly admired. He merely seemed to be in the right place at the right time when Mozart’s wife Constanze was having difficulty finding someone to complete the piece. The pieces attributed to Sussmyer—-the Sanctus, Benedictus and Osanna—-are perhaps some of the more dull or clunky bits to sing. Purists like Christopher Hogwood of the Academy of Ancient Music jettison the Sussmyer contributions entirely. Despite the hackneyed additions, the piece is extremely moving, a challenge and a joy to perform. Peter Shaffer’s musical Amadeus (later adapted for film) has made the Requiem one today’s best known and most loved classical pieces. (FYI, to hear our performance, go to the archived webcast and scroll down to "3/25/05 - Good Friday Choral Concert")
An odd parallel between the novel and requiem mass setting is the fact that these unfinished works are considered some of their creators’ very best work. Are we to sit and lament the “untimely passing” of Gaskell and Mozart? Perhaps the works they left are an encouragement to all discouraged creators to keep working hard, for even the scraps you leave behind may become beautiful in their time.
3.18.2005
Limerick and Knappogue
Part 4 of my travel journal of 20 years past.
March 18, 1985
Somehow, Sue and I managed to completely ignore the wake-up call. I finally woke five minutes before breakfast. To make a short story even shorter, I nearly broke the sound barrier dressing, and arrived in the dining room without a minute to spare.
We got the wonderful news that we had taken a superior award in our division at yesterday’s parade. All the practices really had been worth it!
After a good struggle with instruments and luggage, we boarded buses and were ready to leave when we realized my roommate Sue was missing. I dashed back to the room when one of the chaperones summoned me. I had left my curling iron in the room and there was poor Sue, who had been struggling for a half hour just to get her suitcase closed.
Good-bye, Dublin. To Limerick, forward MARCH!
What started out as drizzle became torrents of frigid rain. After 45 minutes, the rain subsided again to drizzle. Conn did his best to cheer us up with some Irish music, which acted more as a lullaby to most of us, and sleep came easily.
As we crept closer to Limerick, Conn told us why many villages’ streets are so winding. According to ancient superstition, if you were followed by a spirit while on horseback, taking a turn followed by another turn would cause you to lose the spirit. Thus, most cities’ main street into town is S shaped.
The weather in Limerick was, putting it bluntly, the pits. When the buses came to a halt, we were forced to charge across the busy street, then clamber up a narrow staircase (quite a feat for us percussionists) and sit in a tiny classroom and wait and wait. Out on the street, the wait continued. An ill wind blew Matt W’s way [trombone]—he had a bad reaction to a cinder that blew in his eye. Luckily we had Dr. E.; “the show must go on.” Once on the parade route and into the judging area, hats were blown off, flags were blown out of the colorguards’ hands and we were all soggy, freezing and miserable. None of us were too surprised that we didn’t place in the top 3. The only thing on our minds was getting to the nice, warm hotel and out of our wet clothes. Marching season was officially over.
Limerick Inn was, in my opinion, a high point of our stay so far. Sue and I each had our own double bed—nice and firm with a huge, snuggly comforter. Our room was huge and tastefully decorated, perfect for guest who came…and came.
I think Rick [saxophone] and Noel [trombone] spent more time in our room than in their own. I soon found out why. Most of the guys got tiny rooms with huge closets, which are neato, but fairly useless for a two-night stay.
Rick was the first to discover tin whistles for sale in the (hooray) hotel gift shop. Soon several people followed suit, including Noel. The two of them decided to use our room as a practice room, which drove Sue and I right up the wall!!! When they got tired of making atonal screeches, Rick decided to play football with my teddy bear Perky. This was merely annoying until Sue got in on the act and whoops—they decapitated the poor bear. Ah well.
Soon it’s time to get dressed for the medieval banquet. I’m bushed. After boarding the bus, we’re off to Knappogue Castle and a new adventure. Conn started us on a sing-along, which got pretty silly. In no time flat we were at the castle.
Candles flickered in the corners and a few of us huddled around a turf fire. We were greeted by Jerry the butler and the singing lasses, all in costume.
The banquet hall was perfect—the heraldic banners and shields, the wooden tables and long benches, the torchlight. Aaaah! I loved the silly bibs we were forced to wear. The food was magnificent and of an unending supply.
And the entertainment…oh, the entertainment! Singing and playing and dancing—lovely lilting voices, the soothing harp, those dancers with lightning-fast feet! If I could control time, this moment would have never ended. But it did. With yearning regret we left fair Knappogue to make the trek back to the Inn. Sigh.
Conn knew how we felt. Another songfest would cure us for sure. Jeff O. [drill instructor] grabbed the microphone and had us nearly rolling in the aisles with classics such as “Teenage Cremation” and “Under the Boardwalk.” Mr. L [band director] sang “New York, New York” and, yessir, Mr. F. [chaperone and friendly xylophone fixer] sang “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.” We were absolutely crazed at this point.
The Inn? Already? Awww!
Part 4 of my travel journal of 20 years past.
March 18, 1985
Somehow, Sue and I managed to completely ignore the wake-up call. I finally woke five minutes before breakfast. To make a short story even shorter, I nearly broke the sound barrier dressing, and arrived in the dining room without a minute to spare.
We got the wonderful news that we had taken a superior award in our division at yesterday’s parade. All the practices really had been worth it!
After a good struggle with instruments and luggage, we boarded buses and were ready to leave when we realized my roommate Sue was missing. I dashed back to the room when one of the chaperones summoned me. I had left my curling iron in the room and there was poor Sue, who had been struggling for a half hour just to get her suitcase closed.
Good-bye, Dublin. To Limerick, forward MARCH!
What started out as drizzle became torrents of frigid rain. After 45 minutes, the rain subsided again to drizzle. Conn did his best to cheer us up with some Irish music, which acted more as a lullaby to most of us, and sleep came easily.
As we crept closer to Limerick, Conn told us why many villages’ streets are so winding. According to ancient superstition, if you were followed by a spirit while on horseback, taking a turn followed by another turn would cause you to lose the spirit. Thus, most cities’ main street into town is S shaped.
The weather in Limerick was, putting it bluntly, the pits. When the buses came to a halt, we were forced to charge across the busy street, then clamber up a narrow staircase (quite a feat for us percussionists) and sit in a tiny classroom and wait and wait. Out on the street, the wait continued. An ill wind blew Matt W’s way [trombone]—he had a bad reaction to a cinder that blew in his eye. Luckily we had Dr. E.; “the show must go on.” Once on the parade route and into the judging area, hats were blown off, flags were blown out of the colorguards’ hands and we were all soggy, freezing and miserable. None of us were too surprised that we didn’t place in the top 3. The only thing on our minds was getting to the nice, warm hotel and out of our wet clothes. Marching season was officially over.
Limerick Inn was, in my opinion, a high point of our stay so far. Sue and I each had our own double bed—nice and firm with a huge, snuggly comforter. Our room was huge and tastefully decorated, perfect for guest who came…and came.
I think Rick [saxophone] and Noel [trombone] spent more time in our room than in their own. I soon found out why. Most of the guys got tiny rooms with huge closets, which are neato, but fairly useless for a two-night stay.
Rick was the first to discover tin whistles for sale in the (hooray) hotel gift shop. Soon several people followed suit, including Noel. The two of them decided to use our room as a practice room, which drove Sue and I right up the wall!!! When they got tired of making atonal screeches, Rick decided to play football with my teddy bear Perky. This was merely annoying until Sue got in on the act and whoops—they decapitated the poor bear. Ah well.
Soon it’s time to get dressed for the medieval banquet. I’m bushed. After boarding the bus, we’re off to Knappogue Castle and a new adventure. Conn started us on a sing-along, which got pretty silly. In no time flat we were at the castle.
Candles flickered in the corners and a few of us huddled around a turf fire. We were greeted by Jerry the butler and the singing lasses, all in costume.
The banquet hall was perfect—the heraldic banners and shields, the wooden tables and long benches, the torchlight. Aaaah! I loved the silly bibs we were forced to wear. The food was magnificent and of an unending supply.
And the entertainment…oh, the entertainment! Singing and playing and dancing—lovely lilting voices, the soothing harp, those dancers with lightning-fast feet! If I could control time, this moment would have never ended. But it did. With yearning regret we left fair Knappogue to make the trek back to the Inn. Sigh.
Conn knew how we felt. Another songfest would cure us for sure. Jeff O. [drill instructor] grabbed the microphone and had us nearly rolling in the aisles with classics such as “Teenage Cremation” and “Under the Boardwalk.” Mr. L [band director] sang “New York, New York” and, yessir, Mr. F. [chaperone and friendly xylophone fixer] sang “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.” We were absolutely crazed at this point.
The Inn? Already? Awww!
3.17.2005
St. Pat’s Central
More from my travel journal…
March 17, 1985
Happy St. Patrick’s Day!
Up at the crack of dawn, we dressed and made our appearance at breakfast. Corn flakes and juice, followed by bacon, mutton sausage and eggs became an all-too-familiar breakfast. After loading the buses with instruments, everyone donned uniforms and boarded. To Dublin, Ho!
Conn told us of an ancient superstition about magpies, those huge crow-like birds of Europe. If you see a single magpie and wave to it, you’ll have good luck all day. If you see two, you needn’t wave, that is automatically good luck. If you wave to three magpies, you’ll have a girl child, and waving to four will bring a boy. We got caught up in the amusing Irish superstitions, to say the least—we waved at every big, black bird we saw for the rest of the week.
Entering the city, we stopped waving at magpies and started waving at the magnificent people. Everyone waved back, even some of the dignified guarde (policemen). We really got a kick out of that. With a little coaxing and much waving, we urged a peddler to come over to the bus and sell us Irish flags. Now we had flags to wave, as well as hands.
After lining up, we were in for quite a wait. A group of curious, kilted bagpipers came over to talk to us. They were intrigued by American saxophones, and we were intrigued by their bagpipes. One of the bagpipers challenged John S., and alto saxophonist, to a duel. We called it a draw.
The time finally came to enter the parade route. I swear, Dublin’s entire population must have come out to see us. They were so thick, we had to go single file at times. About 5/6 of the onlookers seemed to be under 18. I almost wished we didn’t have to march the parade—I just wanted to reach out and cuddle some of those adorable children. The little rosy-cheeked girls with ponytails in green ribbon and rosy little naughty boys were just too cute! The crowd seemed to love us too, asking as we passed if we knew their cousins in Pittsburgh or Scranton or Philadelphia.
The cord that suspends my xylophone upper keys [equivalent to the “black keys” on a piano] broke as I played the cadence, while we were squeezed into single file formation. One of the parents, Mr. F., saw my grimace, and thinking I’d hurt myself, rushed to my side. We were now two groups away from the judging stand, and I began to feel panicked. I restrung the bars, trying to keep moving and not swing my xylophone into anyone. Then Mr. F pulled the cord taut and together we tied it, hopefully well enough to make it through our routine for the judges.
At the moment of truth—the Lord mayor’s judging stand—we did our “Thriller” routine with utmost flash and precision. The crowd went wild. They’d probably never seen a drum major in a sequined glove moonwalk while colorguard and instrumentalists alike did a Jackson-esque dance routine.
We returned to Dublin Sport to unload, change, eat and relax. Karen Hearsch and her TV camera dropped in during lunch for some taping to send back to the States. A nice, restful hour after lunch, we boarded the buses as tourists now rather than competitors, and were off to a monastic site in neighboring Co. Wicklow.
The sun seemed incredibly bright because of the clear air, and though it was quite chilly, the day was splendorous. Our stop was Glendalough, an ancient monastic site. The site consisted mainly of a graveyard of very ancient Celtic cross tombstones. There were also some stone buildings—a well-preserved round tower, St. Kevin’s church and St. Kevin’s cottage, where he lived as a hermit for many years.
Conn explained that the Celtic crosses, the union of cross and circle, signified Irish beliefs—the union of new-found Christianity and the ancient druidic worship of the sun. The Irish believe that they must maintain some of their ancient heritage, or it will all be lost, Conn said. Though the modern Irish don’t worship the sun, they fell they should remember and respect the religion which preceded Christianity.
He also told a little about the construction of the buildings. The mortar they used to cement the stones together was made of a mixture of mud, blood and horsehair. Upon inspecting the buildings a bit closer, we found that the horsehair was actually visible in the mortar—even after a thousand years. That was truly mind-boggling.
The evening was spent relaxing a little and packing a lot. Tomorrow’s wake up call is six o’clock, for Limerick awaits.
More from my travel journal…
March 17, 1985
Happy St. Patrick’s Day!
Up at the crack of dawn, we dressed and made our appearance at breakfast. Corn flakes and juice, followed by bacon, mutton sausage and eggs became an all-too-familiar breakfast. After loading the buses with instruments, everyone donned uniforms and boarded. To Dublin, Ho!
Conn told us of an ancient superstition about magpies, those huge crow-like birds of Europe. If you see a single magpie and wave to it, you’ll have good luck all day. If you see two, you needn’t wave, that is automatically good luck. If you wave to three magpies, you’ll have a girl child, and waving to four will bring a boy. We got caught up in the amusing Irish superstitions, to say the least—we waved at every big, black bird we saw for the rest of the week.
Entering the city, we stopped waving at magpies and started waving at the magnificent people. Everyone waved back, even some of the dignified guarde (policemen). We really got a kick out of that. With a little coaxing and much waving, we urged a peddler to come over to the bus and sell us Irish flags. Now we had flags to wave, as well as hands.
After lining up, we were in for quite a wait. A group of curious, kilted bagpipers came over to talk to us. They were intrigued by American saxophones, and we were intrigued by their bagpipes. One of the bagpipers challenged John S., and alto saxophonist, to a duel. We called it a draw.
The time finally came to enter the parade route. I swear, Dublin’s entire population must have come out to see us. They were so thick, we had to go single file at times. About 5/6 of the onlookers seemed to be under 18. I almost wished we didn’t have to march the parade—I just wanted to reach out and cuddle some of those adorable children. The little rosy-cheeked girls with ponytails in green ribbon and rosy little naughty boys were just too cute! The crowd seemed to love us too, asking as we passed if we knew their cousins in Pittsburgh or Scranton or Philadelphia.
The cord that suspends my xylophone upper keys [equivalent to the “black keys” on a piano] broke as I played the cadence, while we were squeezed into single file formation. One of the parents, Mr. F., saw my grimace, and thinking I’d hurt myself, rushed to my side. We were now two groups away from the judging stand, and I began to feel panicked. I restrung the bars, trying to keep moving and not swing my xylophone into anyone. Then Mr. F pulled the cord taut and together we tied it, hopefully well enough to make it through our routine for the judges.
At the moment of truth—the Lord mayor’s judging stand—we did our “Thriller” routine with utmost flash and precision. The crowd went wild. They’d probably never seen a drum major in a sequined glove moonwalk while colorguard and instrumentalists alike did a Jackson-esque dance routine.
We returned to Dublin Sport to unload, change, eat and relax. Karen Hearsch and her TV camera dropped in during lunch for some taping to send back to the States. A nice, restful hour after lunch, we boarded the buses as tourists now rather than competitors, and were off to a monastic site in neighboring Co. Wicklow.
The sun seemed incredibly bright because of the clear air, and though it was quite chilly, the day was splendorous. Our stop was Glendalough, an ancient monastic site. The site consisted mainly of a graveyard of very ancient Celtic cross tombstones. There were also some stone buildings—a well-preserved round tower, St. Kevin’s church and St. Kevin’s cottage, where he lived as a hermit for many years.
Conn explained that the Celtic crosses, the union of cross and circle, signified Irish beliefs—the union of new-found Christianity and the ancient druidic worship of the sun. The Irish believe that they must maintain some of their ancient heritage, or it will all be lost, Conn said. Though the modern Irish don’t worship the sun, they fell they should remember and respect the religion which preceded Christianity.
He also told a little about the construction of the buildings. The mortar they used to cement the stones together was made of a mixture of mud, blood and horsehair. Upon inspecting the buildings a bit closer, we found that the horsehair was actually visible in the mortar—even after a thousand years. That was truly mind-boggling.
The evening was spent relaxing a little and packing a lot. Tomorrow’s wake up call is six o’clock, for Limerick awaits.
3.16.2005
Reminiscences continued
More from my travel journal that records my first trip abroad.
March 16, 1985
Here I sit on the terrace of our room in the Dublin Sport Hotel. It is a cool, windy afternoon--the temperature is about 35 degrees. Off into the distance is a swell of a small mountain, covered with swaying pines and knotty-limbed barren trees. At the foot of the mountain runs a country road on which tiny cars are driving--on the wrong side, of course. Just before the hotel lies a rippling man-made pond bordered by more knotty trees. Above the pond sits a golf course were several men are playing golf. They are rather tall, of sturdy frame, with Irish brogue rolling off their tongues. In the far distance rolls the almighty sea.
We are here, in Ireland. How did we get here--I mean to the hotel? Our plane touched down in Shannon at about 7:30 a.m. Irish time -- 2:30 American time. After a layover for refueling, we were off to Dublin. After a rather bumpy touchdown, we were really here. The stewardesses elbowed their way out of the plane, the snobs. Then we proceeded to customs, which consisted of telling the agent we were staying for a week and having our passports stamped. We grabbed our luggage, wound our way out of the airport, then hopped aboard the tour buses.
Most slept on the "tour" as the guide babbled on. I, for one, had no intention of sleeping and miss the magnificent scenery. Dublin itself had many identical homes with the only distinguishing characteristic being the doors. We finally arrived at the hotel, exhausted, and tried to settle in. I tried to shower, which was your typical "fry or freeze." Lunch was in the bar and consisted of strong Coke, mutton burgers and chips (what we would call French fries). At four, we went outside to battle the elements and improve our marching. I sure hope it all pays off.
Dinner was a three-course meal of mushroom soup, pigeon and chips, then strawberry ice cream.
At that time we were informed that we would be attending a dance with the Piscataway (N.J.) Band. Ooh! Please have mercy on us! Most of us hadn't had a wink of sleep in 20 hours or more. Those who had been fortunate enough to sleep only gained from one to six hours at the most.
After much prodding, we were herded onto the buses and carted to Dublin. With the guide, Sheila, aboard the other bus, we began to get to know our superb bus driver/guide, Conn. He told us tales of Dublin Bay and sang us songs. Arriving at the hotel where the dance was held, he reminded us that even though we're better than Piscataway, we should be humble about it. From that moment on, every soul on Bus #1 was in love with Conn.
I must say one thing about Irish contemporary music--it isn't very contemporary. Although they are months ahead with British chart makers, they haven't even heard of groups which have climbed and completely descended on the charts in the States. While 50% of the band snoozed in their chairs, the rest of us danced the night away--and regretted it later.
The trip back to Dublin Sport was silent except for the sighs and snores of one pack of exhausted bandies. No one uttered a single remark resembling a complaint when curfew was mentioned. Tomorrow is the big day.
More from my travel journal that records my first trip abroad.
March 16, 1985
Here I sit on the terrace of our room in the Dublin Sport Hotel. It is a cool, windy afternoon--the temperature is about 35 degrees. Off into the distance is a swell of a small mountain, covered with swaying pines and knotty-limbed barren trees. At the foot of the mountain runs a country road on which tiny cars are driving--on the wrong side, of course. Just before the hotel lies a rippling man-made pond bordered by more knotty trees. Above the pond sits a golf course were several men are playing golf. They are rather tall, of sturdy frame, with Irish brogue rolling off their tongues. In the far distance rolls the almighty sea.
We are here, in Ireland. How did we get here--I mean to the hotel? Our plane touched down in Shannon at about 7:30 a.m. Irish time -- 2:30 American time. After a layover for refueling, we were off to Dublin. After a rather bumpy touchdown, we were really here. The stewardesses elbowed their way out of the plane, the snobs. Then we proceeded to customs, which consisted of telling the agent we were staying for a week and having our passports stamped. We grabbed our luggage, wound our way out of the airport, then hopped aboard the tour buses.
Most slept on the "tour" as the guide babbled on. I, for one, had no intention of sleeping and miss the magnificent scenery. Dublin itself had many identical homes with the only distinguishing characteristic being the doors. We finally arrived at the hotel, exhausted, and tried to settle in. I tried to shower, which was your typical "fry or freeze." Lunch was in the bar and consisted of strong Coke, mutton burgers and chips (what we would call French fries). At four, we went outside to battle the elements and improve our marching. I sure hope it all pays off.
Dinner was a three-course meal of mushroom soup, pigeon and chips, then strawberry ice cream.
At that time we were informed that we would be attending a dance with the Piscataway (N.J.) Band. Ooh! Please have mercy on us! Most of us hadn't had a wink of sleep in 20 hours or more. Those who had been fortunate enough to sleep only gained from one to six hours at the most.
After much prodding, we were herded onto the buses and carted to Dublin. With the guide, Sheila, aboard the other bus, we began to get to know our superb bus driver/guide, Conn. He told us tales of Dublin Bay and sang us songs. Arriving at the hotel where the dance was held, he reminded us that even though we're better than Piscataway, we should be humble about it. From that moment on, every soul on Bus #1 was in love with Conn.
I must say one thing about Irish contemporary music--it isn't very contemporary. Although they are months ahead with British chart makers, they haven't even heard of groups which have climbed and completely descended on the charts in the States. While 50% of the band snoozed in their chairs, the rest of us danced the night away--and regretted it later.
The trip back to Dublin Sport was silent except for the sighs and snores of one pack of exhausted bandies. No one uttered a single remark resembling a complaint when curfew was mentioned. Tomorrow is the big day.
3.15.2005
First time abroad
Today is the 20th anniversary of my first trip across the pond. In 1985, I went with my high school marching band to Ireland to participate in the Dublin St. Patrick's Day parade and two other St. Patrick's week band events.
That our tiny 45-playing-member band from a little rural school was invited to such an event is still a bit of a mystery. Some personal connections I suppose were at play.
Earning the money to enable all band members to travel for free was a huge undertaking. We spent two years doing fundraising--car washes, bake sales, hoagie sales and a sponsored 24-hour rehearsal marathon. As a big fan of fantasy novels, Dungeons and Dragons and the like, I was completely over the moon about this opportunity to see part of Europe.
For fun, I thought I'd blog some of my travel journal. My adolescent "voice" is perhaps more entertaining than the content of the entries.
March 15, 1985
This is it--the realization of our colossal dream, two years in the making, one week in the reaping.
The trip began with a big sis-boom-bah farewell from our parents, the radio station and the TV stations. Off the buses rambled toward New York, giving us our last glimpses of barren Pennsylvania. New York loomed up, awesomely wealthy, awesomely dirty. Such is "the big apple."
At the airport we were again televised. Sue L. [fellow percussionist and friend] was personally interviewed and was asked, "What are you feeling at this moment?"
What were we feeling? Ecstatically happy, scared, anxious, completely spastic. After two years of labor, we were really, truly going to Ireland.
Tickets and luggage in hand, we dashed through the tunnel and stepped onto the plane.
"Good evening, welcome to Aer Lingus flight 104," said the stewardess with a pleasant British accent. What was I feeling at that moment? Scared and excited.
After several seat shifts, I wound up next to Becky D. [colorguard], my best friend and a non-flier. Oh boy. To subside our anxiety, we quizzed each other on safety procedures.
With a great rumble, our plane taxied down the runway, and gathering power, the hulking 747 rose from the earth. Becky and I held on for dear life, then we both started laughing.
"Look out Ireland, here we come!"
Today is the 20th anniversary of my first trip across the pond. In 1985, I went with my high school marching band to Ireland to participate in the Dublin St. Patrick's Day parade and two other St. Patrick's week band events.
That our tiny 45-playing-member band from a little rural school was invited to such an event is still a bit of a mystery. Some personal connections I suppose were at play.
Earning the money to enable all band members to travel for free was a huge undertaking. We spent two years doing fundraising--car washes, bake sales, hoagie sales and a sponsored 24-hour rehearsal marathon. As a big fan of fantasy novels, Dungeons and Dragons and the like, I was completely over the moon about this opportunity to see part of Europe.
For fun, I thought I'd blog some of my travel journal. My adolescent "voice" is perhaps more entertaining than the content of the entries.
March 15, 1985
This is it--the realization of our colossal dream, two years in the making, one week in the reaping.
The trip began with a big sis-boom-bah farewell from our parents, the radio station and the TV stations. Off the buses rambled toward New York, giving us our last glimpses of barren Pennsylvania. New York loomed up, awesomely wealthy, awesomely dirty. Such is "the big apple."
At the airport we were again televised. Sue L. [fellow percussionist and friend] was personally interviewed and was asked, "What are you feeling at this moment?"
What were we feeling? Ecstatically happy, scared, anxious, completely spastic. After two years of labor, we were really, truly going to Ireland.
Tickets and luggage in hand, we dashed through the tunnel and stepped onto the plane.
"Good evening, welcome to Aer Lingus flight 104," said the stewardess with a pleasant British accent. What was I feeling at that moment? Scared and excited.
After several seat shifts, I wound up next to Becky D. [colorguard], my best friend and a non-flier. Oh boy. To subside our anxiety, we quizzed each other on safety procedures.
With a great rumble, our plane taxied down the runway, and gathering power, the hulking 747 rose from the earth. Becky and I held on for dear life, then we both started laughing.
"Look out Ireland, here we come!"
3.04.2005
Catching Gaskell fever
I've seen Elizabeth Gaskell mentioned on several blogs recently. I thought I'd pipe up with a very hearty recommendation of the BBC video series Wives and Daughters. A good friend pressed the DVD set into my hands, saying, "You have to see this. I know you will love it." She was right. I was sorry to have to return the set. I watched the entire four episodes in one day, watched the special features, then watched all four episodes again.
I found the story more accessible than Austen, perhaps because the social faux pas are more evident to a modern reader. I often feel I'm missing something when I read Austen--the manners so central to the comedy are a bit too removed from 2005.
The acting is really first rate. All the characters come across as full-orbed. The heroine, Molly, is virtuous but outspoken, trustworthy to a fault and perhaps a bit too attached to her father. The stepmother who enters the story is an interesting riff on the stereotype: she's a bit self-absorbed and small-minded, but she's more weak than anything else and never cruel. She fumbles at asserting her role as mistress of the house, coming across as a pitiable character. Along with the stepmother comes a daughter, Cynthia, who is also quite a mixed bag. She's beautiful, charming, free spirited and careless. Though she and Molly become fast friends, her charm and carelessness get her into sticky situations from which Molly loyally tries to rescue her. The hardest part of the story is when Molly crucifies her desires, standing back as the man she loves falls for Cynthia, who neither cherishes nor deserves his love.
The hero and main love interest, Roger, is also pretty unusual. Instead of a rakish, dashing fellow, or a romantic artist or poet, he's a naturalist. He spends his hours outdoors collecting insects and pond scum, then brings his finds inside to draw or examine under a microscope. He seems a far more iteresting hero than most men you'll find in women's literature. He's the guy Gilbert Blythe (Anne of Green Gables series) could be if L.M. Montgomery were better at writing men.
There's a lot of undercurrent of class issues. Most of the romances take place across class boundaries. Those who oppose the matches are often humbled later for their opinion. At one point, Molly repirmands the daughter of the most fabulously wealthy family in town, Lady Harriet, a young woman about 5-7 years her senior. Lady Harriet had confided that she's been invited the home of two middle class spinster sisters who she considers "quite ridiculous," and Molly chides her to not go if you're only going to gawk and laugh, adding that she dislikes hearing her class spoken of that way. Lady Harriet takes the rebuke in stride and her admiration for Molly grows to the point that she takes great pains to help her "protege" ever after. Lady Harriet's brother likewise admires Roger's first-class brain and becomes his benefactor. It was refreshing to see noblesse oblige working properly.
All this said, I have not yet read the book. I just picked it up from the library this afternoon. I can't wait to see how much more is in store as I journey through its pages.
I've seen Elizabeth Gaskell mentioned on several blogs recently. I thought I'd pipe up with a very hearty recommendation of the BBC video series Wives and Daughters. A good friend pressed the DVD set into my hands, saying, "You have to see this. I know you will love it." She was right. I was sorry to have to return the set. I watched the entire four episodes in one day, watched the special features, then watched all four episodes again.
I found the story more accessible than Austen, perhaps because the social faux pas are more evident to a modern reader. I often feel I'm missing something when I read Austen--the manners so central to the comedy are a bit too removed from 2005.
The acting is really first rate. All the characters come across as full-orbed. The heroine, Molly, is virtuous but outspoken, trustworthy to a fault and perhaps a bit too attached to her father. The stepmother who enters the story is an interesting riff on the stereotype: she's a bit self-absorbed and small-minded, but she's more weak than anything else and never cruel. She fumbles at asserting her role as mistress of the house, coming across as a pitiable character. Along with the stepmother comes a daughter, Cynthia, who is also quite a mixed bag. She's beautiful, charming, free spirited and careless. Though she and Molly become fast friends, her charm and carelessness get her into sticky situations from which Molly loyally tries to rescue her. The hardest part of the story is when Molly crucifies her desires, standing back as the man she loves falls for Cynthia, who neither cherishes nor deserves his love.
The hero and main love interest, Roger, is also pretty unusual. Instead of a rakish, dashing fellow, or a romantic artist or poet, he's a naturalist. He spends his hours outdoors collecting insects and pond scum, then brings his finds inside to draw or examine under a microscope. He seems a far more iteresting hero than most men you'll find in women's literature. He's the guy Gilbert Blythe (Anne of Green Gables series) could be if L.M. Montgomery were better at writing men.
There's a lot of undercurrent of class issues. Most of the romances take place across class boundaries. Those who oppose the matches are often humbled later for their opinion. At one point, Molly repirmands the daughter of the most fabulously wealthy family in town, Lady Harriet, a young woman about 5-7 years her senior. Lady Harriet had confided that she's been invited the home of two middle class spinster sisters who she considers "quite ridiculous," and Molly chides her to not go if you're only going to gawk and laugh, adding that she dislikes hearing her class spoken of that way. Lady Harriet takes the rebuke in stride and her admiration for Molly grows to the point that she takes great pains to help her "protege" ever after. Lady Harriet's brother likewise admires Roger's first-class brain and becomes his benefactor. It was refreshing to see noblesse oblige working properly.
All this said, I have not yet read the book. I just picked it up from the library this afternoon. I can't wait to see how much more is in store as I journey through its pages.
3.03.2005
Spoonful of sugar
Mary Poppins really was on to something. Getting cooperation from a 2-year-old (a risky venture at best) can indeed be achieved through songs and games. I've discovered I can avoid being kicked repeatedly in the face while changing diapers if I sing "If you're happy and you know it" with new verses. We focus on face things, like "blink your eyes," "wiggle your tongue" and "beep your nose" and the once-flailing legs become compliant.
"Here we go 'round the mulberry bush" also adapts to many situations, like "this is the way we pick up the toys at bedtime in the evening." "Farmer in the Dell" can become "crayon in the box, the crayon in the box, blue, yellow, red and green, the crayon in the box." A good old round of "Eeny, meenie, miney, moe" has facilitated many choices of wardrobe, foods and activities.
This week, Claire learned a game that totally rocks: Simon Says. In just two days I've "played" this to get help cleaning up toys and compliance with the bedtime routine. I definitely enjoy this positive approach, and so does the little one.
Mary Poppins really was on to something. Getting cooperation from a 2-year-old (a risky venture at best) can indeed be achieved through songs and games. I've discovered I can avoid being kicked repeatedly in the face while changing diapers if I sing "If you're happy and you know it" with new verses. We focus on face things, like "blink your eyes," "wiggle your tongue" and "beep your nose" and the once-flailing legs become compliant.
"Here we go 'round the mulberry bush" also adapts to many situations, like "this is the way we pick up the toys at bedtime in the evening." "Farmer in the Dell" can become "crayon in the box, the crayon in the box, blue, yellow, red and green, the crayon in the box." A good old round of "Eeny, meenie, miney, moe" has facilitated many choices of wardrobe, foods and activities.
This week, Claire learned a game that totally rocks: Simon Says. In just two days I've "played" this to get help cleaning up toys and compliance with the bedtime routine. I definitely enjoy this positive approach, and so does the little one.
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