New
Feature! Favorites!
Fan favorites, a sort of
"Best Of" collection, as determined by your comments.
blog: (noun; contraction of the term web log) A part of a website,
maintained by an individual who makes regular entries of commentary,
descriptions of events/people/places/things, or other material such as graphics
or video.
Marcille's Blog: The creative writing/photography outlet for Marcille Wallis,
whose good intention it is to make regular entries; part travel journal, part
artist's journal, part personal journal, part sense, part nonsense.
Thanks for visiting my blog! If you have any comments/observations or would like further information or just to "dialogue" a bit, please e-mail me: Marcille at marcillewallis.com. (I promise never to share anything you say without prior written consent from you.)
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December
31, 2011
(Port Charlotte, FL)
Just now, I've received an
e-mail from Ann and Cal Lloyd, with a couple of photos attached. One is
shown here.
December
22, 2011 (Port Charlotte, FL)
Today's the Winter Solstice. The Longest Night of
the year. Some call it Midwinter, though I've never quite understood that
one, since it is in fact the first day of winter. But this year, it has a
special significance, because it marks exactly one year until the fulfillment of
the great Mayan prophecy of the world coming to an end.
October
23, 2011
(Marion, NC)
Just left First United Methodist
Church of Marion, after having played the dulcimer in morning worship. My
friend Chris attends this church, and I was especially honored to join Chris and
the others in the praise and worship band for a sing-along. I played
piano!
While
out in Bee Tree, Norma looked up toward the Blue Ridge Parkway and noticed the
gap that our family used to use, generations ago, in traveling from their home
in Barnardsville to Black Mountain. (Not in this photo) I'm thinking
a trip up to Craggy is in order, maybe in a couple of days.
September
2, 2011 (New Paltz,
NY)
This
ruined pumpkin patch courtesy of Hurricane Irene.
Oh, and from now until its official release/debut at The Big E, you can order the CD for just $12, shipped and everything as soon as it's in my hands! To order, just click on the cover art, above.
BIG thanks to my team: Michael DeLalla of Falling Mountain Music (Boulder, CO), Jeanette Gander of Buffalo Graffix (Port Charlotte, FL), and Gus Compson of Disc Makers (Pennsauken, NJ) for keeping things going while I was offline due to Hurricane Irene. You are the best!
August
22, 2011 (Rhinebeck, NY)
We left Gilboa this morning for Rhinebeck and the Dutchess County Fair.
The scene at left is our last look at the valley that we passed through every
time we went into or out of our campground.
August
21, 2011 (Hunter, NY)
We've just finished the Hunter Mountain International Celtic Festival. It
was a little different, as my experience with Celtic festivals goes, but great
fun and we were certainly well-received. Hunter Mountain is a ski resort
in the Catskills, and we were located just outside the doors of the "base
lodge," where they transact ski rentals. (Good thing, because it was
a bit rainy, especially on Sunday, and we were well-protected.)
We
also had a great view of Sunday's pipe competitions -- the volume of the pipes
prevented me from being able to play the dulcimer much, but I didn't mind
terribly as I was so gratified to see the interest in the competition.
Just look at the crowd pictured at left!
There were some great bands playing there, and lots of vendors of various goods. By far, the most dramatic feature of this festival -- the thing that everyone's raved to us about for years -- is the march of the massed pipe bands late on Sunday afternoon. I wanted to get a picture of this event, but I seriously underestimated its popularity, and couldn't get anywhere near close enough to take a picture that would've made sense as to what was happening! So my words will have to do:
Picture yourself looking up a gentle ski slope, looking along the length of one of the lifts. You see lots of kilted persons milling about up-slope, and old school buses bringing more kilted persons to join them. Depending upon your vantage point, they may briefly disappear from your sight, as they assemble themselves just beyond a little knoll. And then you hear the sound of pipes playing "Scotland The Brave; " gradually the pipers, in near-perfect formation, follow a tall pipe major in full regalia up the knoll and then down the slope towards you. Row by row, they "reappear" from behind the knoll, all decked out in the various uniforms of the many competing bands and marching proudly. The hundreds of pipers create quite a volume! At one point, they're all on the slope and it is one impressive sight ... no wonder it's the most talked-about event of this festival!
If, like me, you enjoy seeing folks decked out in their plaid, you'll appreciate the pictures above. But wait -- that group in the middle -- they're not wearing plaid! These three are members of the Ancient Order of Hibernians Pipe Band ("Hibernia" being the ancient Roman name for Ireland). Due to the fact that they were not wearing plaid, they definitely were the most strikingly-attired band of the day. "We're only a Grade 5 band," one of its members told us somewhat apologetically, "but we have a lot of fun."
I've saved my favorite picture for last. It is the scene that greeted us on Saturday morning, as we prepared ourselves for the day. Hunter Mountain itself is shrouded in morning fog, the summit lodge just barely visible. Click on the "thumbnail" for a breathtaking view.
August 19, 2011 (Gilboa,
NY)
Just received the first sample sound files of material for the new CD! So
excited!
August
18, 2011 (Gilboa,
NY)
Greetings from the Catskills! We'll be headed over to Hunter Mountain
tomorrow, to set up for this weekend's Hunter
Mountain International Celtic Festival. This festival is one I've been
hearing about for several years, now, so I'm thrilled to be a part of this
year's event!
August 8, 2011 (West
Springfield, MA)
Today I went into the village of West Springfield to do a little business.
On the way back to our campsite I drove along Union Street, and was shocked and
saddened by what I saw.
We've had so much violent weather around the nation in recent years, that we hardly notice when another tornado or flood hits, unless we have some ties to the affected area. And that is in no way a criticism of people's failure to notice; it is merely an observation that these natural disasters, once unusual occurrences that we called "Acts of God," have now become almost commonplace. But last June, when a rare tornado touched down in West Springfield, Greg and I sat up and took notice because we have a lot of friends in the town, and do a lot of business here, most notably our participation in The Big E. As we were in North Carolina at the time, it was tough getting correct information about the storm. News reporters, assuming that West Springfield was the western side of big city Springfield, kept saying that the funnel cloud cut a swath through Springfield. Actually, West Springfield is its own municipality, and not to be confused with the west side of Springfield or with Westfield, another municipality just west of West Springfield. So at various times, we thought that Springfield, or West Springfield, or Westfield ... or perhaps all three ... had been affected. Phone calls to friends eventually cleared this point up.
Today, though, there was no lingering doubt in my mind as to which town had been affected: it was definitely West Springfield, and a great deal of damage seems to have been along Union Street. Entire roofs gone and top floors blown out of multi-story buildings. Great heaps of debris. Blue tarps everywhere. Ominous red XXX on the facades of certain homes. To a native Floridian this is an all-too-familiar tableau. In fact, in just five days' time we'll mark the seventh anniversary of Hurricane Charley, which so devastated our part of Florida (and the later Hurricanes Frances and Jeanne, which added to the toll).
I was gladdened, however, in passing along the train yard, to see numerous train cars full of building supplies necessary to repair the damage. That was a tough one for us, post-Charley, as supplies were hard to come by for quite a while. I suppose that's because a tornado cuts a relatively narrow path, as compared to a hurricane which can leave a path of devastation hundreds of miles long. All in all, West Springfield is largely unscathed, but when even one home or business is lost, or there's even one death, it's a great loss to the entire community. Here's hoping that this tornado goes down as the storm of the century in this area, and its like never comes this way again.
August 1, 2011 (West
Springfield, MA)
Boy oh boy, did Maggie pout this morning! She actually started the pout
yesterday, when she saw us begin to pack for this morning's trip. Today,
when Greg led her toward the van, she gave a marvelous impersonation of a
condemned prisoner being led to the gallows! Guess she's grown to love
Maine. So have I.
But new adventures await, and for a couple of weeks we are actually camped at the Eastern States Exposition, site of next month's Big E. It's pretty desolate here right now, but in just a few weeks this place will be a hive of activity. My own activities during these two weeks will be centered around listening to "takes" for the new CD project, working with our graphic artist on photos and text for the CD, getting bids for CD replication, etc. And maybe going to a Red Sox game. (Keep your fingers crossed on that one; the game for which we're trying to get tickets is with the Yankees.)
Oh, and all is forgiven as far as Maggie is concerned. She and I went for a nice walk around the deserted Mallary Complex, which was still ripe with smells from a recent livestock exhibition. Though I think she'd still rather be stalking deer and wild turkey in the Maine woods, she was nevertheless excited to explore this territory.
July
30, 2011 (Bucksport,
ME)
I participated in the Bucksport Bay Festival today. Bucksport is a neat
little town situated at the top of Penobscot Bay. The view at left shows
the bay, the Penobscot Narrows Bridge which crosses it, and just to the right of
the bridge, Fort Knox. (No, not the Fort Knox where the gold is
stored. This Fort Knox was built in the mid-1800's during a time of
tension between the United States and the United Kingdom.) Bucksport
figured prominently in both the Revolutionary War and the War of 1812; its
residents have been farmers, shipbuilders and fishermen; today there is a large
paper mill ... and an elephant once roamed the streets. Yes, back in 1892
a circus elephant named Charlie escaped and lived for a time as a free animal,
until finally being captured with the help of a pit bull!
July 24, 2011 (Bangor, ME)
I've just finished playing for Messiah Baptist Church here in Bangor. What
a wonderful morning this has been! From the time that I was greeted so
warmly at the door, helped inside with my gear, asked if I would play piano for
the congregational singing ... yes, that's right, the pianist was out today and
the pastor remembered that I'd played piano for my home church ... and then had
pretty much the entire morning worship time turned over to me, it's been an
exhilarating, yet also humbling, experience. It's a beautiful thing to be
so many, many miles from home, and yet feel right at home. Several friends
have pointed out that it exemplifies the old saying "Home is where the
heart is." I'm sure they're right.
Well, I'll be coming home -- to Bangor, that is -- again next July. We've already discussed having another dulcimer concert and pre-Fourth of July picnic next summer!
July
19, 2011 (Northport, ME)
This past Saturday, while I was playing dulcimer at the Maine Celtic
Celebration, a man stopped by our booth to listen. This man listened very
intently. Soon he asked if we were local, to which we of course answered
"No."
"But I would love to have you come play at my church," he said, "would you do that sometime?" And Greg responded with "Over thirty years as church musician -- Marcille loves playing for churches." And it just so happens that I'd never firmed anything up after a few inquiries I'd made about booking something for this coming weekend, so miraculously -- or by divine design? -- I was able to offer to play at Messiah Baptist Church, in Bangor Maine, this Sunday. I have no idea, really, what to expect, but I'm prepared for anything -- and know I'll enjoy myself! 10:30am, if you're in the area!
July
15, 2011 (leaving Littleton, MA)
You know what they say about "paybacks" ... I think Maggie just paid
us back for her 10-day "incarceration" at the Animal Hospital of
Marion (which is a lovely facility full of caring people, by the way, regardless
of how Maggie feels about the place).
This morning, Greg had just stepped out of the trailer and had turned his back
on Maggie for just a few seconds, but in that brief time, she hopped out of the
door and was off! This is a heart-stopper, as a peevish chow-chow does not
listen to anyone and it's pretty scary trying to chase down a dog on the run. Mercifully, Maggie is older, so instead of going
out on the run she trotted to the next campsite over, where our neighbors were
quietly breakfasting at their picnic table. Brazen, she stepped right up
to their table, nose in the air as if to say, "So what are we eating,
gang?" Greg caught up to her and wrestled her to the ground and I,
still struggling to get into my clothes after just having showered, came up with
the leash and clipped it to her collar ... but not before Maggie made a couple
of not-so-playful threats to bite Greg. Now Maggie is safely in her crate
in the van and Greg is behind the wheel and every few minutes one of them turns
to glare at the other. We'll all be friends again by and by, but in the meantime this
is more than a bit uncomfortable!
July
13, 2011 (Milford, PA)
On
Day Three we are camped along the banks of the Delaware River.
July 12, 2011 (Falling
Waters, WV)
Day Two of the long trip from Grandfather Mountain to Maine. Our drive was
along I-81 through the Shenandoah Valley, a road that I've traveled many times
over the last couple of decades but still enjoy. Though life as an
itinerant musician offers me great opportunity for travel, I sometimes fantasize
about being completely aimless in my wanderings, able to meander here and there,
exploring small off-the-beaten-path towns and country byways. Had I the
time for doing so, I might begin by traveling the length of Virginia's Route 11,
also known as the Lee Highway. Route 11 and I-81 criss-cross each other
numerous times through the Valley, and as we speed along the Interstate, I see
tantalizing glimpses of Civil War battlefields, tourist attractions from
yesteryear, and natural wonders that all appeal to my curiosity.
May 30, 2011 (Swannanoa,
NC)
Preparations for the upcoming WNC Highlands Celtic Festival, which we produce,
have dominated my waking hours recently! It's shaping up to be bigger --
much bigger -- than last year's inaugural event, and I suppose that the demands
on my time are getting bigger as well ... which is to say, overall, it's a good
thing. But it doesn't leave a lot of time for blogging, or even doing blog-worthy
things!
Last Friday night we did a little bit of "scouting" and went to listen to the band Cutthroat Shamrock.
This past Saturday we attended the Greenville Highland Games on the campus of Furman University in Greenville, South Carolina. Met some friends that we previously knew only through Facebook, and it was just like we've known them forever. That was pretty cool. Saw Rathkeltair play and that was very cool; also enjoyed Barleyjuice. Listened to the fine hammer dulcimer playing of Julia McDermott. Ate fish n' chips from Cameron's. Visited with our friend Melodye Steverson, who makes a lot of the Celtic jewelry I wear. I must say, though I enjoy producing and performing at events a lot, it was a welcome novelty to be a spectator for a change.
The highlight of my weekend was at yesterday's Kirkin' O' the Tartans on the campus of Montreat College in nearby Montreat, NC. It was a very moving experience.
May 7, 2011 (Charlotte,
NC)
We've just finished the day at the Mint Hill Highland Games, nearby. It
was a great time ... hope no one ever gets tired of hearing me say the best part
was visiting with old friends and making new friends, because for me that is
truly the best aspect of what we do. I feel very blessed to be able to
combine my love of playing music with my love of travel and the outdoors and
love of people!
One of our new friends is Scott Epperson, who does a great impersonation of Barney Fife. Scott grew up in Mount Airy, NC, which was of course the inspiration for the fictional Mayberry of the Andy Griffith Show. He's traveled all over the US, has met and performed with most of the original cast of that TV series, and has so closely studied and copied Barney's mannerisms that he's been told he's more "Barney" than Don Knotts himself!
Now we're back at the trailer, parked about a quarter of a mile away from the impossibly HUGE Charlotte Motor Speedway. I wish there was a way in the world to relate how massive this complex is; seriously, no picture I could've taken could accurately represent the scale of the place. I doubt I've ever seen any single thing that big before in my life, though perhaps a couple of the huge auto-manufacturing plants come close. The entire complex covers 2,000 acres; the NASCAR track, a 1.5 mile oval, is but one part of the complex. I thought it odd that in order to find a restaurant yesterday evening, we had to drive several miles; however, on further reflection, I'm thinking that racing fans can find pretty much anything they want within the Speedway complex. Amazing. I mean, I knew NASCAR was big, but I didn't realize just HOW BIG!
April 22, 2011 (White
Springs, FL)
Some time back, my friend Claudia started a Facebook discussion as to whether
football or auto racing was more typically Southern. A
spirited debate ensued, during which time Claudia, obviously a football fan, asserted
most passionately that football was the true sport of the South. I knew
she was wrong, but not being a NASCAR fan myself, was unable to muster anything
more than a few weak counterpoints to her excellent arguments ... until today.
Today, Claudia, I give you:
Mattress Racing
I can hear ya'll snickering from here. It's not that. And don't bother to Google this folks; you probably won't get very far. You'll see pages and pages of ads for racecar bedding for little boys, videos of people racing down ski slopes atop mattresses, and pictures of people racing on open water using mattresses as rafts. But the mattress racing I'm talking about involves old bedding and race cars. If I have my facts correct from listening to the local radio station broadcasting from beautiful downtown Live Oak, Florida, mattresses dot the racetrack and initially it's comical to watch the drivers try to dodge them -- and each other -- as they race around the track. But the real fun apparently begins when drivers are forced to run over the things, which often get stuck underneath the car until maybe getting wrapped around the drive shaft and perhaps igniting.
Ain't got nothin' in football even comes close to that.
Mattress racing. Now that's Southern -- that's us -- for you. Nothing, not even used bedding goes to waste. Everything has a use, and if you hang on to it long enough, you'll discover its use. Southerners, the original recyclers; long before "Reduce, Reuse, Recycle" became the catchphrase for modern environmentalists, we adhered to the mantra "Use it up, wear it out, make it do or do without."
Happy Earth Day, Claudia and everybody else!
April
6, 2011 (The Villages, FL)
We've
just finished another Tartan Day in The Villages. Frances Pisacane, on
fiddle, joined Don Pigeon and me; Ann and Cal Lloyd, as always, were at their
elegant best, dancing for the huge crowd at Spanish Springs Town Square.
Tartan Day, always April 6, is a nationally-recognized day for honoring the many contributions made to our country by Scots and Americans of Scottish descent. Naturally, our program of music is heavily Scottish, and expectedly so ... so it came as somewhat of a surprise when a gentleman came up to the gazebo stage to request "Danny Boy."
I'm not sure how easy it is to sing "Danny Boy." It's sort of slow-paced, so there are voice control issues that make it not the easiest song for a vocalist. It ranges over an octave and a half, which is quite a challenge. And on this particular night, it seemed a little weird to be asked to perform this quintessentially Irish song. Perhaps all three of these issues, along with the fact that he was very tired and it was getting toward the end of our four-hour performance, were running through Don's mind when he turned to me and said, "Let's get this over with." And then he proceeded to sing the most touching and heartfelt rendition of the song that I've ever heard. I caught my breath as Frances's violin soared into the second half of the instrumental break between verses -- sheer magic was taking place up on that stage. We live for such moments.
April
5, 2011 (White
Springs, FL)
We
are back at Stephen Foster Folk Culture Center. We've been here for just a
couple of days now, having left home a week ago for Black Mountain, NC and work
on the WNC Highlands Celtic Festival. Then we went down to Columbia, SC to
participate in the inaugural "Tartan Day South." It was a fun
event, albeit incredibly windy! And on a fun note, Tartan Day South was
held at the Columbia Speedway, which was the site of NASCAR legend Richard
Petty's first win. During set-up I actually got to drive on the
speedway! Of course, I was driving our big white cargo van, and wouldn't
have dared to test it against those banked turns!
One of my acquaintances here asked if I didn't find the park a little too quiet, and wondered if Greg got bored sitting back at the campsite while I played dulcimer in the Craft Commons. How could I ever possibly make her understand all that we do as part of our Celtic Heritage Productions endeavor? For me, the quiet is a very good thing, as I'm preparing for the recording of a ninth CD. And Greg? Sit? Never! He is ever industrious, especially during the business day!
The only thing that's missing is Maggie Muggins, as she stayed home during our trip to the Carolinas. Greg will go home to fetch her up here in just a few days, then watch out squirrels!
March
23, 2011 (Port Charlotte, FL)
We're
going back out on the road in a little less than a week. Dulcimer?
Check. CD inventory? Check. Iron Frying Pan? Oh, you
better believe -- Check! The
dulcimer and the CDs are tools of my trade, but that old black skillet is an
important part of our life.
The pan once belonged to my grandmother; Meemaw, we called her. It's at least 50 years old and probably a decade or two (or more) older than that. It's been lovingly, properly, cared for over the years ... if you know how to care for cast iron cookware, then you know what "proper care" entails: we never use soap to clean it. If you don't understand how to care for these utensils (or if you happen to work for the health department) you probably think this sounds pretty gross. But this treatment helps to season the pan and contributes to its non-stick properties. Every year, before we go on the road, I take time to re-"season" the pan by giving it a good scrubbing, coating it with a thin sheen of peanut oil and then placing it in a 200° oven for a couple of hours; this accounts for the shine you see in the picture.
I can't even imagine trying to figure the number of meals I've consumed that have been prepared with that pan. Nowadays I stir-fry a lot of vegetables, occasionally fix bacon or sausage, and it's my go-to for certain Cuban dishes.
I make a mean corned beef hash with it, and there's a funny story associated with the hash: When my brother and I were little, we used to spend many weeks during the summer with our grandparents in Brooksville, Florida. Mind you, we called our Brooksville grandmother "Mimi," and though she was not the owner of this particular pan, she did have a pan something like it; I imagine that many, if not most, Southern women of that generation used cast iron cookware. Among our favorites of Mimi's dishes was corned beef hash, and when we went back home, we would plead with our mother to make hash. But hers was never quite as good. I hope I didn't hurt her feelings by telling her that it wasn't "quite right," and I never could exactly tell her what was different, but it ... just wasn't the same. As an adult, I tried to make hash myself, but it just wasn't right ... until this pan came into my possession. The very first time I made hash with this pan, I discovered that Mimi's secret ingredient must've been the cast iron pan she used. Scientifically, it can probably be explained by the evenness with which the pan conducts heat. I tend to think it must be magic.
The
one dish that I've never learned to make, in spite of possessing the magic pan,
is Meemaw's fried chicken. I know she used this very pan to make her
chicken: a perfectly seasoned, golden brown, crispy yet tender, moist but never
greasy masterpiece. I should've asked her to teach me, but somehow never
got around to it. Scientifically, there's probably a step -- or perhaps
two -- that I never observed and therefore have missed in my own attempts.
I tend to think, though, there was a secret ingredient: Love.
We have to be pretty spare in our choices of what to take on the road with us. Everything has a purpose, and if an item can serve multiple purposes, all the better. Like I said before, the dulcimer and the CDs are tools of my trade. But the old black skillet serves its purpose as a cooking utensil, as a treasured "antique," as an heirloom connecting me to my wonderful Meemaw. All of the memories and all of the love have seasoned that pan, and consequently memories and love season every meal that is prepared using it.
March
9, 2011 (Port
Charlotte, FL)
I just heard a sonic boom
overhead, as the space shuttle Discovery made its final re-entry into the
Earth's atmosphere and sped toward its final landing at Cape Canaveral.
Once again, I felt a bit nostalgic, remembering certain events in our nation's
space program ...
I was a very little girl when the astronauts were first introduced. They instantly became heroes to me and I knew all their names, just like a young baseball fan can name the starting lineup of their favorite team. Today, as I began writing this entry, I tested my memory and was still able to name most of the seven -- John Glenn, Wally Schirra, Gus Grissom, Alan Shepard, Gordon Cooper, Scott Carpenter, and Donald Slayton -- I won't tell whose name I forgot! In the days of Project Mercury, our family lived east of Arcadia, on a cattle ranch nicknamed "Coon Prairie." Our house was less than 100 miles, "as the crow flies," from Cape Canaveral and because the prairie was flat and largely treeless, we were able to see the launches as they rose into the upper atmosphere. I remember being filled with wonder at the thought of men going into "outer space."
I cried a few years later, when Gus Grissom, along with two other astronauts, was killed in a fire preparing for an Apollo mission. And I cried tears of a different nature many years later when John Glenn, by that time a Senator, flew as a civilian in a shuttle mission -- in fact, he flew on Discovery. I made a point to watch that flight ascend, too, watching from my classroom window.
Although I was very preoccupied with preparing for my very first trip overseas, and barely even aware that a space mission was going on, I watched in awe as Neil Armstrong set foot on the moon, and like every other American who witnessed that historic event, I've kept his words in my heart to this day: "that's one small step for (a) manone giant leap for mankind." (I was consumed with other aspects of being a teenager during the Apollo 13 flight, never even aware that there was a problem until years later, when a movie was made about it!)
I remember the awful day when teacher Christa McAuliffe, along with six other members of the Challenger crew, was killed in a horrific explosion that occurred just after takeoff. It was my lunch break, and TVs were not so common in schools, so I was unaware that anything was amiss, until Jean, one of my colleagues, came in and softly said, "The Challenger went up." Uncomprehending, I actually laughed and said, "Yes, I imagine it did, just as scheduled." Jean quickly corrected herself, telling me that it went up, as in, went up in flames. Disbelieving, I went outside and saw one of our assistant principals puzzling over "that funny-looking cloud." I told her that it was the cloud left by the explosion of the shuttle. And the rest of the afternoon, the mood of our entire school was one of shock and sadness. Our principal tearfully made an announcement confirming what was already being whispered about amongst the school population. At the end of the announcement I expressed to my class the hope that the astronauts' deaths were sudden and painless, whereupon Luke, one of the students, glared at me and said, "What are you talking about? I hope they're alive!"
As luck would have it, I was visiting a school in Palm Bay, Florida, less than 30 miles away from Cape Canaveral, when the shuttle program resumed with the launch of -- Discovery. Because Palm Bay High School is on the space coast, and it had been customary to dismiss class to watch space program launches, many in that school were close eyewitnesses to the Challenger tragedy. So when class dismissed on this day, students and teachers alike were hushed, almost fearful, in anticipation. I heard the loud roar, watched in fascination as the huge rocket with its fiery tail rumbled into the sky ... then heard a huge cheer go up, and saw tears of joy streaking the faces of those students and teachers.
Most people probably take the space program for granted these days. I don't even pay nearly as much attention to it as I once did, although I still try to catch launches, going to the end of our driveway and looking down the street which points northeast, perfect for viewing launches even in the daytime. The night-time launches are the most fun, watching that little ball of fire ascend then disappear, almost by magic, as it enters the outer atmosphere.
Welcome home, Discovery. And thanks, NASA, for all the good memories.
January
5, 2011 (Port Charlotte, FL)
A
lot of independent musicians just like me have struggled since the explosion of
the Internet. We've tried to get a handle on digital distribution and the
public's appetite for social networking, and have tried to discover that fine
line that could determine whether your promotion suffers because of your
dedication to your art ... or whether your art suffers because of time spent on
promotional obligations. I'm keenly aware of these potential pitfalls,
because in addition to promoting my own music our company, Celtic
Heritage Productions, Inc. produces three Celtic festivals, and each of
these festivals requires a great deal of planning, organizing, communicating,
coordinating and promoting, and so much more that I could never have imagined,
prior to being responsible for doing it myself. I'm really a lot luckier
than the vast majority of "indies" because Greg, who possesses
tremendous organizational skills and business acumen, helps to keep me focused!
Still,
over our company's ten years of existence, a great deal has changed, and it's
sometimes overwhelming. MySpace, once the favorite of professional
musicians, is sort of in decline; while Facebook continues to thrive. I
have yet to see Twitter as a viable tool for me. I sell my music through
CD Baby, iTunes, Amazon, and about 40 other sites -- thank goodness CD Baby
coordinates all of that for me! Greg and I manage our own websites through
a company called PureHost. There are dozens of other sites that offer me
presence, too ... but here we go with the
time issue again: do I have time to connect with fans through each of those
sites, without sacrificing my time for just playing or even listening to
music? One site, though, that remains tremendously popular is YouTube; and
I'm happy to say that I have finally, FINALLY, launched a YouTube channel of my
own: www.youtube.com/user/MarcilleWallis.
With the help of friends William Miller and Tiffany Christman, I have learned
the rudiments of video editing, and my four efforts to date have been clips from
our recent Christmas With The Celts concerts -- with more to come! In
fact, I promised a link to Matt's fiery and fun-filled interpretation of the
Orange Blossom Special, which you can see by clicking on his photo. I've
no doubt that at the end of this particular video, all you'll be able to utter
is, "WOW!"
December
31, 2010 (Port
Charlotte, FL)
Happy New Year! I
really meant not to let so much time pass since my last post ... but the days
immediately preceding Christmas With The Celts were so hectic ... then we were
zooming off to do five concerts in five days ... then a few days of rest, during
which I got mighty lazy -- and gave myself permission to be so! So
here's a bit of a re-cap.
Our first concert was a return to the Sun City Center (FL) United Methodist Church (SCCUMC). The first concert of any series is a little bit "scary" and you're asking yourself all sorts of questions as to whether you're rehearsed enough, whether you've written the show to "flow" properly ... and I will admit to a bit of nerves that cause me to ask myself all sorts of stupid questions like, "What if I've gotten the date wrong?" or "What if no one comes?" Well, the date was correct -- in due time our vocalist/multi-instrumentalist Don Pigeon arrived, followed by our dancers Ann & Cal Lloyd; fiddler Matt Miller had ridden to the gig with Greg and me -- and plenty of people came -- several hundred! They laughed in all the right places, sang along, clapped and cheered, so any jitters quickly passed! SCCUMC is just about the perfect place to start a concert run!
The next day's concert was in a venue brand-new to us: the St. John United Methodist Church in Sebring (FL). There's a funny story about how this one came to pass, and it's all thanks to Facebook, the social networking site. A friend with whom I used to teach, Jeannine De Genaro, "friended" me a while back; I then suggested she "like" my artist page -- the page that is dedicated to my professional life; (if you are not a Facebook user, bear with me). Jeannine was surprised to learn that I play the dulcimer, because it's apparently been just that long since we've been in touch! She asked if I might want to do a concert in her husband's church sometime ... and as luck would have it, there was an opening in our schedule which we'd been unsuccessful in filling. (This kind of thing always makes me marvel at God's timing.) We took the date, swapped posters and pictures and press releases back and forth ...
...
and on the day of the concert, it was bleak and overcast, and rain was predicted
for most of the day. "Gee," I was thinking, along the two-hour
ride to Sebring, "I sure hope this rain doesn't keep people
away!" I'm thrilled to report that it did not! Thanks to the
good reputation that St. John Church has established for their entertainment
series, a good number of folks showed up because it's their habit to support
this part of the church's ministry. Another good number from the Celtic
American Society of the Highlands (this part of Florida, along its
"ridge," is known as the highlands) came out -- some dressed in full
Scottish garb. Others whom I'd known growing up in nearby Arcadia came
out, too. In all, the church was filled beyond capacity -- shhhh, don't
tell the Fire Marshall! Seriously, Pastor Ron De Genaro, his teenaged
sons, and a couple of other men from the church were scrambling around, trying
to find chairs to seat the overflow crowd! And as a result, what great
energy was there! For me, personally, it was two hours of good, plain
fun. I so enjoyed seeing Jeannine and Ron again, marveled at how much
their sons have grown, and can't wait to go back!
On Sunday, we returned to The Villages, and Church On The Square, for our 9th Christmas With The Celts appearance there. I was thrilled to meet up with friends I haven't seen in ages -- another reunion that I'll credit Facebook for. As for the concert itself -- they say a picture's worth a thousand words -- how about a video, courtesy of our excellent sound man at The Villages, Billy Fields? Just click on the picture to be taken to YouTube.
Ann & Cal departed for Chattanooga at this point, so they'd have a nice long Christmas visit with family. So we enlisted Jaime Knaub, with whom we've worked before, mostly at the Caloosahatchee Celtic Festival, to fill in with her Irish dancing.
Monday
night's performance was at First Presbyterian Church of Arcadia, always sort of
a homecoming for me, since I grew up in that town. And Tuesday, at Punta
Gorda's Congregational United Church Of Christ, is homecoming for Christmas With
The Celts -- this marked our 11th Annual staging of the production. By
this time, whatever jitters we may have suffered in earlier performances were
long forgotten, and everyone was really in a groove! We're working on
getting our hands on a video of Matt and Jaime in a fiddle-dance
"duel" to the "Irish Washerwoman" -- hilarious! In the
meantime, I'll give you a link (click on Matt's picture) to Tiffany Christman's
video of a blazing rendition
of the "Orange Blossom Special" -- be sure to listen for the little
Ozzy Osbourne tributes that have been thrown in!
Before we knew it, we were all saying our goodbyes and heading to our separate homes for Christmas with our respective families -- though in many ways, this particular cast of Christmas With The Celts have become like family to Greg and me.
Thanks
to those who performed with us over the past year ... to those artists who
performed for us in our various Celtic Festivals ... to those who attended our
concerts and festivals, and came out to see us in the many Highland Games, art
fairs, and so forth in which I performed during the year. Your support and
encouragement mean more than I can express in words!
So my New Year's Resolution? Hmmmm ... I've never been too disciplined along those lines, making and breaking them sometimes before the first day of the year is over! But I will promise you this: a new CD, to be recorded LIVE during this June's WNC Highlands Celtic Festival. How about that? And here's a sneak preview at one of the numbers that's almost certain to make the cut. Just click on the picture at left.
Again, wishing you a happy, healthy and prosperous New Year!
December
11, 2010 (Lake City, FL)
I've just spent a fun
evening at Stephen Foster State Park. You may wonder why I'd be so keen to
go back there, since I just finished a month-plus long residency there.
But the Festival Of Lights is going on: four million lights decorating
the park. We watched as rangers and volunteers spent nearly every daylight
hour of November, preparing for the event, so naturally I was very curious to
see the end result of that fantastic effort.
What a beautiful sight! There was a slight nip in the air, and so many people milling around, sipping hot chocolate (and eating gator tail). Horse-drawn carriages escorted sightseers throughout the park, and there was music in the air, everywhere!
December
10, 2010
(Marietta, GA)
I'm often asked how I
got started playing the dulcimer: did I grow up playing it, or did I take it up
later in life? For the record, I took it up later in life.
I'm then asked what made me want to play this particular instrument, and to this I answer that my experience is probably like most other people's experience with the dulcimer: I heard it, fell in love with the sound, then decided to see if I could produce that same sound. Here's a more specific account:
In the late '70's my brother moved to Berea, Kentucky. I paid a summer-time visit to him, and one day when he was away at work, I took a little tour of the town of Berea, which is known not only as the home of Berea College and as the folk arts and crafts capital of Kentucky, but is considered one of the nation's top arts destinations. Poking around in the town's studios and galleries, I entered one shop which was running a videotape of a man playing the most magical-sounding instrument; a dulcimer, I was to learn. Though I did nothing more at the time than to investigate the name of the instrument, I never forgot the sound; it quite literally haunted me for years.
Fast-forward to 1991, when my mother and I traveled to North Carolina in early July, to visit with family and among many other activities, attend the Grandfather Mountain Highland Games. At "Grandfather," I met a vendor who actually had a dulcimer for sale; I was very excited about the find, and interested in purchasing the dulcimer ... but he didn't have a clue as to how to play it. I couldn't figure it out, either, so I reluctantly left with a pennywhistle (which, when played, made my dog howl -- but that's another story).
A few days later, we were visiting the High Country community of West Jefferson, where I found a dusty-looking but very interesting music shop. They, too, had dulcimers, but the young woman who was in charge of the store that day did not know but one tune on the dulcimer. She seemed more promising than the fellow at Grandfather, but all of her movements were strictly memorized, so she couldn't be much help to me, either.
I realize that readers may wonder why I didn't go ahead a buy the instrument, but remember: the Internet was virtually unknown at that time. How could I possibly have figured out how to play the dulcimer? I wouldn't even have known if it were in tune! A few nights later, we were having dinner with a couple of my cousins and I mentioned my fruitless, dulcimer-less search. One of them remembered having seen a dulcimer shop along the road near Waynesville, so when my mother and I set out for home we decided to travel by way of Waynesville.
Sure
enough, I was speeding merrily along and I spied the sign! Though the sign
depicted the mountain dulcimer, and not the hammer dulcimer that I desired, I
nevertheless stopped. My reward was to find a person who could not only
sell me a hammer dulcimer, but explain how it was played. Within five
minutes, I was able to play the old ballad "Go Tell Aunt Rhody."
I bought the hammer dulcimer, and the rest, folks, is history.
My mom made me a present of a mountain dulcimer that had been built by the shop's owner, Jack Lyle. Many years later, I was to learn that Jack had been a classmate of my dad's at Lee H. Edwards High School (now Asheville High).
Oh, and the tune that the young woman played for me in West Jefferson? I never forgot it, either; in fact we recorded "Midnight On The Water" on the "Timeless" CD. Today, the memory of all this came flooding back as I passed Balsam Gallery Dulcimers, now open by appointment only, though still owned by Jack Lyle.
And now you know ... the rest of the story.
December
9, 2010 (Hendersonville, NC)
Because Town Hardware
was closed yesterday, we started our day in Black Mountain again, to complete my
mission of buying a new hibachi grill. Then we set out for Hendersonville,
the new home of my Uncle Charlie and Aunt Alice.
The
shortest way to get from Black Mountain to Hendersonville is via Bat Cave, on
Route 9. I realize that it's normally unnecessary for me to identify our
route, but for you readers who are unfamiliar with Western North Carolina, the
very name "Bat Cave" conveys what I want you to know: today we were
taking the road less traveled. Oh, there are a few gated communities now
springing up along the way, but Route 9 is so twisty and hilly and windy that
tractor-trailers are prohibited from taking it!
We stopped once along the way, to look back toward the Blue Ridge Parkway and shoot this photo. Such a classic picture of the Southern Highlands!
A few days ago, I mentioned that my visits with Norma and Sally were too rare -- ditto that for my visits with Charlie and Alice! In the last couple of years, we've spent somewhat less time in North Carolina, and the time we have spent there has been largely consumed with either working or resting up from the work! I do mean to do better ... because I really do enjoy time with my family.
December
8, 2010
(Black Mountain/Swannanoa, NC)
We've been cooped up
too long! Today, Norma and I headed out to Black Mountain, with intentions
of doing a little shopping and running some errands, including Town
Hardware and Pisgah
Brewing. Town Hardware was, unfortunately, closed for the day and
Pisgah Brewing's taproom was just a bit too chilly to really enjoy ourselves
(though it wasn't a wasted trip, as I took away two "growlers" of
their fine organic brews). So we decided to take a little spin through
several of the nearby communities instead, enjoying sightseeing from the warm
car.
One of my favorite little communities is Bee Tree, near Swannanoa. I suppose that I'm fond of Bee Tree because there's only one main road leading in, and that road "dead ends" at one of the big reservoirs that provides drinking water for the county. There's little traffic, and relatively little development. So little traffic is there, in fact, that we met up with a big, er, group of wild turkeys (what would you call them? a herd? a clutch? a flock? no, I just looked it up and it's called a "rafter.") out for a stroll.
Further on up the road, we saw this yurt. I took a picture, because although the yurt, as a structure, has been used by nomadic Mongolians for centuries, its use by those outside that culture is a recent phenomenon. And it struck me as odd.
How about that, kids? Rafter of turkeys ... yurt ... two new vocabulary words in one blog!
December
6, 2010 (Weaverville, NC)
Good thing I didn't
come up here to North Carolina with a lot of expectations about getting out and
running around! These two scenes -- somewhat snowy (yesterday) and
somewhat snowier (today) -- were taken from the picture window in cousin Norma's
front room. Look how cold that sky looks! And see, if you can, the
thin sheet of ice on the street running up the hill (picture at left). I
watched, particularly yesterday, as cars would cautiously round that corner,
then do a controlled, slow slide down the hill. It's a pretty scene, but
I'm glad I'm not part of it!
December
4, 2010
(Weaverville, NC)
I was home only a
couple of days before turning around to go back to North Carolina!
Personal reasons brought me here, and I'll be staying for about a week more,
staying with my dad's cousin Norma and getting to spend time -- time that has
become altogether much too rare -- with Norma and her daughter, Sally.
Today, Norma and I ventured up to visit mountain communities to the north of Asheville. I needed to re-stock CDs at the two Toe River Arts Council (TRAC) galleries in Spruce Pine and Burnsville, plus make a visit to the Toecane studio of Sally's husband, glass artist Judson Guerard. We decided to start at the furthest point, Spruce Pine, and work our way back. The trip to Spruce Pine was pretty uneventful, though the cold weather was producing random snow flurries -- nothing at all to be concerned about, I figured. Once inside the TRAC gallery, I noticed more snow flurrying about, but went on about my business, also enjoying visiting with a few friends. Norma and I decided to have lunch at DT's Blue Ridge Java, the coffee shop on Spruce Pine's lower street, and during our nice lunch I watched as big, wet snowflakes fell -- and started to accumulate. "Uh-oh," I thought to myself, as Norma is phobic about driving in inclement weather. But she professed to be unconcerned, even going so far as to express surprise at her own lack of concern. I thought that perhaps she was relishing the adventure of it all.
So
on we pressed toward Toecane. By this time, there was quite a bit of snow
on the roadway and though our fellow drivers were being very cautious, a couple
of them had slid off the road. We even passed a couple of snow plows
already in service. Now, I grew up in Florida, and though I've driven in
snow -- even heavy snow -- before, seeing the plows on this particular day made
me wonder if I'd somehow underestimated the situation. We arrived at
Judson's studio and enjoyed a couple of hours there, sitting in a circle around
the pot-bellied stove. It was Day Two of TRAC's annual winter Studio Tour,
and the snow unfortunately seemed to have kept all but the hardiest away.
The snow let up, and we decided to head down to Burnsville. Passing through Loafer's Glory (yes, there really is a town with such a wonderful name!) I stopped to snap this picture. A light dusting of snow is all that's needed for a scene out of Currier and Ives!
Our trip to Burnsville was completely uneventful; by this time it was no longer snowing and very little of it had accumulated. We re-stocked the TRAC gallery, did a bit of shopping in a couple of small stores, and then headed back to Weaverville.
The weatherman has hinted that, although there were only light flurries here in Weaverville today, tomorrow morning we may wake up to a colder, whiter day.
November
28, 2010 (Port Charlotte, FL)
Home again! I
haven't been here in seven and one-half months!
November
26, 2010
(White Springs, FL)
I
was talking to Larry, one of the park rangers, the other day; we were discussing
the alarmingly low level of the Suwannee River. If you study the picture
at left, try not to become enthralled with the almost-perfect mirror reflection
of the trees in the water -- it's not supposed to be that way! There ought
to be a current rippling the water, making such a picture impossible. I
shouldn't have been able to walk all the way across the river last week, with
water coming over the tops of my boots only once -- but that's exactly what
happened. Canoers and kayakers are finding their sport to be too much work
these days; their boats keep bottoming out and it's just not much fun to
continually have to port the boat to the next stretch that's deep enough for
paddling. Larry tells me that Georgia's Stephen C. Foster State Park, also
located along a stretch of the Suwannee River in that state, has drastically cut
back on their hours and services, since most of the activity in that park is
centered on the Suwannee itself.
Look again at the picture. (The "land" at the left is actually a little sandbar, with portions of the river flowing around it.) See where the river's level should be -- has been through recent decades? If you visited the river in person, you would immediately recognize the depth at which it must have run in past centuries, as the trees on the bluffs overlooking the river stand several stories above its current level.
So why is the river's level so low? Is it drought? Surely a simple lack of recent rainfall is part of the answer, but I heard a disturbing statistic yesterday that makes me wonder if there are other factors at play:
The artificial reservoirs which have been created to provide drinking water in certain population centers around the globe contain five times the volume of water as all of Earth's rivers, combined. If I worded that clumsily, confusingly, let me try again. There is FIVE TIMES as much water in the Earth's man-made reservoirs as there is in the Earth's rivers.
I wonder what the implications are. If the natural flow of a river has been altered in order to feed a reservoir, surely this would cause a disruption in that river's natural rain cycle. Fifty or so years ago, Georgia's Chattahoochee River was dammed in order to create Lake Lanier. Originally, the purpose for this was to create hydroelectric power, though Atlanta has been using Lake Lanier as a water supply. Last fall, there was such a severe water shortage in parts of Georgia that residents of certain rural counties were limited to one hour of fresh water access per day. ONE HOUR. PER DAY. Could this drought have been a consequence of the interruption of the Chattahoochee?
What about the sheer weight of all that water in the reservoirs? Sure, there's a lot of weight in the oceans and seas and large natural lakes ... but Earth has had many eons in which to balance itself according to the weight of its natural waters. It's not unreasonable to question whether the artificial reservoirs could be causing a shift in Earth's delicate dance through space.
We certainly seem to have outsmarted ourselves, time and time again! I think of the idea to make the Kissimmee River into a canal, back in the 1950's. This clever plan to alleviate the potential for flooding in parts of Florida caused drought in the Kissimmee's floodplains and very nearly killed Lake Okeechobee, which in turn had severe implications for the Everglades -- the River of Grass. Thank goodness work is underway to restore the Kissimmee River to its natural course.
But to undo the Kissimmee mess doesn't have any implications for anybody's municipal water supply, as far as I know. I cannot even imagine what would happen if, for example, the decision were made to blast the dam and allow the Chattahoochee to reclaim its natural course! Truly, I don't even want to think about it.
But I would like to know about it if, just once, a far-seeing individual nixed a plan to majorly meddle with the natural order of things. I would like to meet the scientist or engineer who, despite his/her brilliance, had the humility to recognize this essential truth: Mother Nature ALWAYS Wins!
November
24, 2010 (White Springs, FL)
Bats get a bum
rap! They fly, just like birds fly, and to the casual observer they pretty
much look just like birds when they fly. Unlike birds, they don't have
interesting plumage; they don't entertain us with cute little antics the way
birds often do, and I guess their guidance system occasionally causes them to
swoop a little too close to humans ... something that birds rarely do unless
they're defending a nest. Maybe that's why we're a little afraid of
them. Or perhaps it's because they look like flying mice, another creature
of which we are not terribly fond; in fact, in some cultures/regions the bat is
referred to as the flittermouse. Bats don't have any of the endearing
physical traits that other mammals possess, like big soft eyes or comical masks
or furry tails.
Maybe we fear bats because they are widely regarded as rabies carriers. As mammals, they can contract rabies, but they are really no more likely than any other species to have rabies ... and unlike most other species they do not exhibit aggressive behavior if infected. Or maybe we fear bats because we've watched just one too many movie about vampires; there are three species of bats that do feed on blood, but the vast majority of bats thrive on insects.
They definitely aren't cute. But bats are just so beneficial! At left is a big bat house located near the river here in Stephen Foster park. Approaching the house, you may first become aware of the ... um ... pungent odor of guano, which I understand makes an excellent fertilizer.
Get a little closer to the house and you may hear a faint chattering coming from inside. Visit the house close to sunset, as Maggie and I did today, and the chattering seems to take on a sense of urgency, as the bats prepare for their nightly food raids. One bat, I've read, can eat up to half its body weight in insects each night. There are a whole lot fewer mosquitoes and moths and beetles and other mischievous nasties that we humans don't have to deal with, thanks to bats!
This evening, as the setting sun sunk toward the horizon, the chatter reached fever pitch ... and then the bats began to emerge from their hideaway, zooming out into the twilight, sometimes one by one, sometimes in small groups which quickly scattered. A few came very close to where we were standing. It was quite an experience! If you want to view a few seconds of this spectacle, just click on the picture.
November
22, 2010
(White Springs, FL)
Stephen Foster park is
preparing for December's Festival of Lights. We've watched with delight as
park rangers and volunteers have strung some of the 4 MILLION lights that will
decorate the park from December 3 through the end of the month. The park
will be open late, until about 9pm, each evening, in order to maximize the
dramatic effect of all those lights. The scene at left is the museum; at
right is the little field directly behind our campsite. Too bad we won't
be here during that time, though I am planning a little overnight trip back to
the park in the early part of the month.
We'll be
leaving -- finally going home -- this coming Sunday.
November
15, 2010 (White Springs, FL)
Our time here in White
Springs is definitely helping me to connect with enjoyment and appreciation of
even the simplest pleasures! In waiting for the laundry to be done, I am
gazing up at the bluest sky, the puffiest white clouds, and the deep green
needles of tall pine trees, and somehow the task of washing sheets and towels
seems a little less tedious!
November
13, 2010
(White Springs, FL)
Seems like something's
always happening here at Stephen Foster Folk Culture Center. This weekend,
it's a dulcimer gathering. Though it's been lots of fun visiting with
dulcimer-playing friends and meeting other dulcimer enthusiasts/professionals, I
will confess here that I'll be glad when it's over. I have grown weary of
saying, "No; I am artist-in-residence here at the park, and not officially
involved with the dulcimer festival in any way." I'm not being a pill
-- I don't mind that people think that I must be one of the gathering; in fact,
it's very logical to think that I must be part of it in some way. But
anything that I've repeated, perhaps 100 times or more, gets old!
November
12, 2010 (Jacksonville, FL)
Tonight I had the
privilege of playing for a special surprise birthday party.
Here's the back-story: when I first released The Celtic Ray, almost ten years ago, I did a little "tour" of all the Borders bookstores in Florida. One store that I particularly liked was the Jacksonville store, where I found an unusually receptive and enthusiastic audience, several of whom I've kept in close touch with over the years. Of that group, the person who's encouraged me most, coming to other gigs and being my "sounding board" for other CD projects, is a lady named Madonna.
A little over a month ago, I was contacted by Madonna's granddaughter. The family was planning a surprise birthday party for Madonna, and this granddaughter thought that a little dulcimer concert would be an unusual surprise. Sure enough, when Madonna entered the room to cries of "Surprise, Happy Birthday," she surveyed the faces of her children, grandchildren, and neighbors, then fixed her eyes questioningly on me. "What? How?" she spluttered.
It was a grand evening and I had a wonderful time. There was a lot of love in that room!
November
3, 2010
(White Springs, FL)
It gets really dark at
night here in White Springs. And that darkness, combined with autumn's
lower humidity and clear, cloudless skies, has produced some spectacularly
starry nights. Just giving the dog her final walk of the night is a
magical experience.
November
1, 2010 (White Springs, FL)
"Would you come to
my church?" was the request of fellow craft demonstrator, Betty.
"I'd come and pick you up."
Unhesitatingly, I answered that I would visit Betty's church, and she didn't even have to pick me up. "And you'd come and play your dulcimer, too, right?" she said. I nodded, and she trotted off to make a quick phone call. A few minutes later, she came back with what she considered a counter-offer from the pastor: Would the dulcimer player come on Sunday night instead? Sunday night, he'd explained to Betty, was scheduled to be a musical service, anyway.
"Of course," I said to Betty; "It's the Fifth Sunday Sing!"
At this point, Betty stared at me, incredulous that I would have somehow deduced what sort of service the pastor had planned. And perhaps readers are wondering too, so let me explain: in many Southern Baptist Churches, if there are five Sundays in a given month, the evening service of that fifth Sunday has no "preachin'," but is instead a service that starts out with a prayer and becomes a fun-filled hour of singing all of the old favorites, by request from members of the congregation. In my days at First Baptist Church of Arcadia (FL), a Fifth Sunday Sing was a fun challenge for me as organist/pianist, because I could never know in advance what people might ask to sing! But I'd been a member of that church all my life, and I don't recall ever being stumped by a request for a song that I did not know. In fact, after a few years of service and with a few Fifth Sunday Sings under my belt, I was able to predict certain requests. One lady (often, my own grandmother) would always ask to sing "In The Garden;" another would always want to sing "Bringing In The Sheaves," and so on.
So
last night, armed with my dulcimer, directions to the church, and knowledge only
of what time the service was to start, I set out for Wellborn, Florida, and the
Mount Beulah Baptist Church. Betty and a couple of her friends met me at
the church; a few minutes later, Pastor Larry Gooch came in ... and told me that
he was turning the service over to me!
I made sure to ask in advance if he'd have any objection to my playing some secular music, perhaps even an Irish jig or two, should the notion occur to me. "I don't see any reason why not," said he.
What a time we had! At 6pm, everyone was in place: a mix of regulars who never miss coming to church every time the doors are open, friends of Betty's that she'd insisted had to come, and some folks who were highly curious about this weird hammered thing they were promised to hear. There was a brief opening by the pastor, a couple of congregational hymns, a prayer, then Betty's introduction, and then I was up. Interestingly enough, my old church jitters made a brief appearance -- no matter how many thousands of people I may have played in front of, it was always playing in front of my own folks at First Baptist that caused me to get a little nervous. This evening, I chose to play "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring" as my opening number, and I listened in horror as my hands refused to play, in the correct order, the notes that they'd played so many, many times before! "This is ridiculous," I kept laughing to myself.
I did manage to play the ending measures correctly, though, and from there on I found smooth sailing. Telling stories about my family and about my life as a professional musician, I played a number of those favorites that probably would've been sung that evening, anyway, sometimes playing the solo dulcimer rendition, sometimes having those assembled sing along with me. In one funny instance, a gentleman asked me if I could play "How Great Thou Art," and I asked if he would like to sing along; the pastor chimed in that he would, so I played, and they sang, "How Great Thou Art" ... then one woman said, "Now you play it the way you would if we weren't singing." And I did.
I did play a little jig set, by the way, plus my great-grandfather's favorite, "When You and I Were Young Maggie." And "Blessed Assurance," and "I'll Fly Away" ... ah, it was a fine time that flew by much too quickly. My closing number, at the request of the pastor, was "Danny Boy."
There was a little party/reception afterward, at the home of one of the church members. It was a pretty impressive party, too, especially considering that they'd had barely one day to coordinate everything! So many people kept telling me, "You'll come again, won't you?"
Oh yes, you can bet on it!
October
25, 2010
(White Springs, FL)
It's been a long time
since I lived in the country. When my family first moved to Arcadia (FL)
we lived on a cattle ranch on what was then called "Coon
Prairie." At that time, the ranch was several miles from the city
limits, and one of the things I remember best is the quiet. We moved from
that place into town when I was eight years old, but visits to my grandparents,
who lived in the Withlacoochee Forest, about nine miles outside of Brooksville,
Florida, featured even more of that quiet.
White Springs is similarly quiet. But my use of the term "quiet" refers to the absence of a great deal of man-made noise. There hasn't been much development in White Springs for 100 years or better. (White Springs was, in the mid-1800's, a great tourist attraction and industrial location, but for the last 100 years or so, though buildings have been torn down and replaced by more modern ones, the number of buildings has more or less maintained a status quo.) Without the sprawling development that plagues so much of the rest of the state, there are more places for the "critters" to live: more trees for the birds, more underbrush for small creatures, more forest for the larger ones. And without the competition of man-made noise, one gradually becomes aware of a different sort of noise. Playing my dulcimer during the day, I hear the birds singing, as if they are singing along with me. At night, I hear insects ... and some other calls that I cannot identify. I'm hearing one tonight that, quite frankly, is freaking me out just a little bit! I've heard this creature as it's moved along an arc about 30 yards from our campsite -- so at that "safe" distance, I think I'll be OK. The natural sounds -- even the somewhat eerie ones -- are so lovely that even the radio playing softly inside the camper sounds vaguely obscene.
Quiet is under-appreciated these days. Cell phones, iPods, TV ... we're never without them. All that noise drowns out the natural world around us ... drowns out our own thoughts ... can it drown out the voice of God? I wonder ...
October
20, 2010 (Swannanoa, NC)
Some of my favorite
"moments" at festivals are spent with children. Yeah, sometimes
I shudder when a hyper-active child whirls into my space, and, without having
really paid any attention to what I'm doing, exclaims, "Lemme try
that!" I do occasionally let kids play the dulcimer, but I try
to size them up as to whether they will be respectful of the instrument; in
fact, by asking them if they are willing to do exactly what I tell
them to do (as to holding the hammers, and tapping gently). After all, I don't want to spend 30 minutes re-tuning a
dulcimer that's been pounded out of tune by an overly enthusiastic
drumming. Nor do I want to lose a $50 pair of hammers to rough
treatment! Although I'm always running a slight risk -- and I typically
travel with only one instrument -- it's a beautiful thing to witness the sheer
joy in a child who's discovering how music is made.
Kids don't necessarily always want to play, either, but sometimes they can come up with questions and observations that are real doozies! The schoolteacher in me tries to send them away with something meaningful.
Last weekend, a wiry, big-eyed little boy skidded up to me and wanted to know about the dulcimer. "How do you play?" he demanded; "Do you strum it or what?" It was toward the end of the day, and I'd already packed all of my gear and accessories, though I hadn't yet packed the instrument itself. I briefly considered telling him that I was done for the day, but instead I gave him a tight-lipped little smile and said, "Here, let me show you."
I hadn't played many notes when he called out, "Mom, you've got to come over and see this!" His mother, along with a teen-ager who proved to be his sister, came over to listen. When I wrapped up playing the merry little ditty, the girl thoughtfully remarked, "You know, Mom, you've been thinking about learning to play a musical instrument. This would probably be a good one for you to try."
"That's a great idea!" the boy chimed in. The mother smiled and shrugged, saying, "Well, it certainly is beautiful."
"Mommm," he said, "all musical instruments are beautiful ... even the banjo!" Then he did a comical little "air banjo" routine, mimicking its sound with a twanging "deedle-eedle-deedle-deedle" and dancing around.
All musical instruments are beautiful. From out of the mouths of babes, huh? He's right, you know. I'm so glad I didn't turn him away!
Earlier that same day, a family had come by, and one of the boys looked over the CDs and selected A Mighty Fortress. He handed it to his mother, who said, "So are you sure that's the one you want?" He nodded, and she told him that the CD would be part of his birthday present, then.
Turning to me, she asked if I would autograph the CD, and said that he'd asked to come to the show because he wanted some of my music for his birthday.
To Vincent: Blessings on your 13th Birthday. From very humbled and honored me.
October
19, 2010
(Swannanoa, NC)
Enjoying a couple of
days in Swannanoa. Yes, we're here for business reasons, but the fall
colors are so beautiful and the weather so cool and mild, and Maggie Muggins so
thrilled to be here; business just doesn't feel so -- busy -- you know?
I've talked about Christmas in the Woods so much; thought I'd share a few pictures, trying to illustrate the charm of this show.
To be honest, I didn't have a lot of time to run around, taking photos! And that's a good thing! We were very, very busy, especially the second weekend. Predictably, the CD In Quiet Joy, my collection of favorite Christmas carols played on solo dulcimer, outsold all others.
We have some great neighbors in the woods. Most of them don't have a web presence, but a couple of them who do are linked below. Kate and Bud's Closet features whimsical hand-painted children's clothing, and Lynda and her crew have so much fun that it would be almost impossible to have a bad day working alongside them. Likewise, Joy and Zach Ingram, of Brown Bear Pottery, love what they do, and create a cheerful atmosphere for all around them.
October
17, 2010 (Sutton, WV)
We're spending the
night in West Virginia, on our way to Swannanoa, North Carolina. Today
marked the end of two great weekends at the Christmas in the Woods festival.
After we'd left Ohio and entered Pennsylvania, we passed through Chippewa Township. "Great," I muttered bitterly to Greg, "a town, a condo complex, a shopping center and who knows what else, all named for someone who used to live here." But then I thought back to a sign that we saw as we traveled a section of the New York State Thruway ... and I had to smile.
WELCOME
TO THE SENECA NATION
You have now left New York State and are subject to the laws and jurisdiction of
the Seneca Nation. A fee is being assessed for your passage through nation
lands and paid by New York State on your behalf.
October
14, 2010
(Elkton, near Lisbon, OH)
Greetings
from the fireside! We've been enjoying a glorious few days at Lock 30
Woodlands Campground. The weather, until today, has been especially mild
and unseasonably warm (a relative term -- in Northern Ohio, in fall,
"warm" is 70's during the day and 40's at night). But last
night's temperatures dipped into the 30's, and today's high probably won't get
out of the 50's. Yes, winter's definitely on its way.
Today Maggie Muggins and I took what will probably prove to be our last stroll along the historic Sandy & Beaver Canal. She enjoys shuffling noisily through the fallen leaves as she tracks the scent of one -- deer? chipmunk? dog? -- who's traveled this path before us. I wonder if she'd make as much noise if she understood that the noise provides an alert to her "prey?"
For my part, I'm happy that there will be no surprise encounters. Oh, I'd be happy enough to see a deer, too, but the prospect of getting my arm jerked out of its socket, as Maggie suddenly lunges to the end of her lead, is not a pretty one. As she snuffles along the banks of the Middle Fork of Little Beaver Creek, I ponder the engineering marvel that was the Sandy & Beaver Canal. Seeing the little creek as it is today, it is hard to imagine that it was part of a working canal system that connected Bolivar, Ohio and Glasgow, Pennsylvania; it's hard to imagine this little stream being deep enough to accommodate large boats laden with products from the various mills along the line. But 150 years ago is a long, long time ago, and I suppose that much of the landscape has changed and changed again; in fact, it was repeated flooding in this very area that caused problems that eventually forced the canal's closure back in 1852.
Soon, our path will be blanketed in snow, and the Little Beaver Creek, shallow as it is, will probably be iced over. By then, we'll be back in Florida. In fact, we head that way this Sunday, after the second weekend of Christmas in the Woods -- and after a trip to Maggie's beloved Swannanoa, North Carolina, where there will be more shuffling and snuffling among the fallen autumn leaves.
October
10, 2010 (Columbiana, OH)
There's
a lovely tradition, here at Christmas in the Woods (and, in August, at Shaker
Woods) of having a Sunday morning worship service that precedes the day's
festivities. In the past few years that I've participated in these two
festivals, it's been my honor to provide dulcimer music for these services.
It's also a fun challenge for me. I've been playing "church music" since I can remember -- hymns were a part of my piano lessons early on, and liturgical/classical works by Bach, Handel, et al were the lion's share of the one year's worth of organ lessons that I took as a teen. I served my home church, First Baptist Church of Arcadia, as pianist or organist -- sometimes for Sunday School or Vacation Bible School, most often for worship services -- off and on for nearly 30 years. It's safe to say that I know hundreds of hymn tunes -- at least in my head!
Transferring those tunes from my head to the dulcimer is the challenge. You see, the dulcimer can't be played easily in every key, the way that the piano can. I can "sight read" on the piano -- can't really do that on the dulcimer. So when the music leader for these "Church in the Wildwood" services wants to sing a certain hymn, I need to quickly ascertain that I know the tune, then go about selecting a key setting that is both "dulcimer friendly" and "congregational singing friendly". I've always been able to do that, even with hymns that I'd never previously played on the dulcimer ... until today. In our pre-service meeting, the music leader called for "Open My Eyes, That I May See" and, while I know the melody very well in my head, there was one little tricky passage that I knew I wouldn't be able to get through without a little prior practice. So I had to refuse ...
But wait 'til next Sunday!
October
8, 2010
(Columbiana, OH)
The long-running
television series, "Monk," featured a brilliant detective who was
socially handicapped by OCD -- obsessive-compulsive disorder. His phobias
and compulsive habits were the stuff of jokes, and quizzes such as "How
Monk-ish Are You?"
Maggie Muggins never took the quiz, but she would've scored 100%.
For reasons that Greg and I cannot fathom, Maggie orders her life -- and ours -- around routines. If the thing you'd like her to do makes sense to her, and can somehow fit into her highly structured world, she'll gladly do it ... on the other hand, if she cannot understand why you're asking her to do something, well, you might as well be trying to talk Neptune into following a different orbital path. In the mornings, Maggie must take a half tablet of Rimadyl (a sort of arthritis medication). The Rimadyl is evidently flavored with something mighty tasty for a dog, because she's never given us the slightest bit of grief in taking her medicine. She's also given "cookies" in the morning: some cheese-flavored ones that look so much like Cheez-Its that we actually have to caution visitors not to help themselves, and one really yummy-smelling one (even by human standards) that's sort of like carrot cake. Mind you, the medicine and the cookies are all presented to her at the same time, but she chooses to eat the medicine first, then the cheese bits, then she picks up the carrot cake cookie and takes it to the bathroom rug for consumption.
This morning, Greg laid out the cheese bits and the carrot cake for her, and then realized that there were no more Rimadyl tablets in the small medicine bottle. And in the few minutes it took me to locate the large bottle with several months' supply of Rimadyl, the cheese bits and carrot cake were left untouched -- ignored, actually -- while Maggie stared and glared at Greg. When he was finally able to put the medicine down next to the cookies, she dutifully took the Rimadyl ... then ate the cheese bits ... then picked up the carrot cake cookie and trotted off toward the bathroom rug.
I guess it's a chow thing. A Monk thing. You wouldn't understand ...
October
7, 2010 (Barcelona, NY)
We "shuffled off
to," and right on through, Buffalo today, and are now camped across the
road from Lake Erie. This is a pretty cool little town, with sort of an
"outpost" feel. There's a lighthouse dating back to the early
1800's, a little harbor and beach, and a whole lot of quiet here. Mags and
I took a walk in Ottaway Park, directly across the road from our campground,
hoping to wade in Lake Erie. But the park is situated on cliffs that are
about 15-20 feet above the lake, with no access below, so we had to content
ourselves with a stroll around the grounds, admiring the fall color and
listening to the waves crash against the cliffs.
We saw an unbelievable number of grape orchards on the way to the campground -- in fact, the campground is located adjacent to a huge orchard -- so Greg inquired and was told that nearby Westfield is the "Grape Juice Capital of the World," home of Welch's Grape Juice. How about that?!
October
6, 2010
(Herkimer, NY)
Greg and I are on the
way to Ohio, and Christmas in the Woods. Heading west on I-90, we made a
snap decision to follow the interstate, also known as the New York Thruway, all
the way to Buffalo (instead of turning south to follow our usual route along
I-84). What a great decision! I can now say I've seen the Erie
Canal!
I first remember learning the "Erie Canal Song" as a fourth-grader in Arcadia, Florida. ("I've got a mule, her name is Sal, 15 years on the Erie Canal") We learned a lot of songs and stories from American folk culture in my grade school and junior high days, but back then the Erie Canal was no more real to me than Paul Bunyan! Actually, I've discovered that quite a bit of American history/geography makes ever so much more sense to me now that I've done more traveling.
The town in which we're staying tonight, Herkimer, is famous for "Herkimer Diamonds," and the KOA where we're camped is directly across the road from one of the mines. Herkimer diamonds are not really diamonds at all, rather a type of quartz, but they make nice little trinkets and are nevertheless thrilling to discover. And this KOA is pretty spectacular, too! It's directly on the banks of West Canada Creek -- were it not so rainy and nasty outside today, The Mags and I might have to take a wade in the rushing stream. Other cool features at the campground are the completely off-the-grid solar lodge and an organic community garden. Hey, this place was named the 2010 "Kampground of the Year!" Yeah, we'll definitely have to come back this way again ...
October
5, 2010 (West Springfield, MA)
We've said our
good-byes to The Big E and to our friends in West Springfield and head out
"on the road again" tomorrow morning. Tonight I'm feeling very
grateful for the tremendous support we received from New Englanders -- and a few
who traveled to the fair from far outside the region -- as this marked our
company's most successful year at The Big E. What a way to celebrate our
10th Anniversary as a corporation!
I'm also grateful for our Collins Tavern "family," as I'm pretty sure that the daily bowls of Collins Tavern soup kept me healthy for the entire fair. And Melissa's "inspirational" messages, written on the lid of my soup container, helped to keep my spirits up!
September
28, 2010
(The Big E, West Springfield, MA)
I was playing my dulcimer the other day, when a couple approached me.
"I have one of these," the woman said; "I have the instrument, the stand, the case, the hammers, the electronic tuner, everything you
need. Now I just need someone to teach me how to play."
I made a recommendation as to a potential teacher who lives in the general area, but the woman expressed disappointment that she would have to drive a
little distance to get lessons. She informed me that she was an experienced musician, so I suggested that perhaps she could teach herself, as I
(and many of my fellow players) had done. "Oh, that won't do," she replied. "I've already tried, but I can't figure it out. I'm sure that if someone
would help me get started, I'd have it mastered in no time."
The couple lingered. While continuing to play, I asked what type of instrument she'd purchased.
"It's a Dusty Strings. At least the same size as yours, and probably bigger."
Greg, overhearing this, brightened. Thinking to make a connection with her, he said, "Sam Rizzetta, who built Marcille's dulcimer, is the man
who did the basic designs for the Dusty Strings company."
She flinched in disbelief, blurting out, "But my instrument is very beautiful. It's got a rich-looking mahogany-colored top. It's an exquisite
piece."
Briefly, I look at my own dulcimer through her eyes. It's 17 years old, now, and no one would describe it as cosmetically beautiful any more.
My hand traces the side rail, finding the small dimple I put in it less than 24 hours after taking possession of it: I'd slipped on ice when carrying
it from my hotel room to the car. My mind still hears the rich chorus of tones that reverberated from inside the case, and I recall gingerly
walking back to the room, my heart in my throat the entire time, to inspect the instrument to be sure that no major harm had resulted from my
carelessness.
Sliding my hand further along the rail, I find one jagged, rough corner and recall the time that a gust of wind blew the dulcimer onto the
pavement during a street fair in Dunedin, Florida.
Examining the sound board, I see evidence of other minor catastrophes and remember other episodes:
The time that the hickory nut fell out of the tree during a rehearsal in Ohio -- I still can't figure out how that nut managed to slip so perfectly
between the strings to leave such a relatively large indentation!
The time that I was hustling to get off stage after performing at a festival in North Carolina -- I dropped one of my telescoping legs and left a
gouge in the sound board.
The time that our band was giving a free "St. Patrick's Eve" concert to a Punta Gorda, Florida audience still shell-shocked from a punishing
hurricane season -- the performance venue had not yet been able to repair the canopy over their stage, and the sudden rainstorm that blew in
left a few water marks that I've not been able to rub out.
My dulcimer has endured snow flurrying onto it during a performance at Tennessee's Dollywood. Its tuning pins are ever so slightly corroded
from salt air exposure up and down America's eastern seaboard, from Florida to Maine. It's been played in 100-degree-plus temperatures in
Milwaukee Wisconsin and sub-freezing temperatures in Orlando, Florida. It's collected dust at fairgrounds in Michigan and New York and in
Georgia's Stone Mountain Park. It's traveled hundreds of thousands of miles and played millions of tunes.
It's been fondled by quick, sticky-fingered children with slow-footed parents.
It's been embraced by the hands of hearing-impaired persons who wanted to experience its sound through its vibrations. Its strings have been
traced by the fingers of sight-impaired individuals who wanted to "see" it through their sense of touch.
To me, the scars and imperfections are "character marks." Like the wrinkles and dark spots on the face of an elderly person, each one was
attained through mostly natural use, and perhaps occasional misuse, but each "flaw" has a story to tell. It is evidence of a full life, fully lived.
And to me, it is beautiful.
I jarred back to the present, at a loss for words. The slight was probably unintentional, but even if it was not, any response from me would have
been unjustified. After a few minutes, the couple moved on.
I caught Greg's eye. "Honey, don't even think about it," he consoled.
"Oh, I'm not insulted by what she said, Greg. She's looking at the dulcimer as if it's a fine piece of furniture, rather than a musical instrument.
She'll figure it out eventually ... or not."
He smiled. "Well, I'm glad you didn't say anything to her."
I smiled back. "Well, it wouldn't have been right for me to say anything, really. But I
couldn't help thinking that my dulcimer is, in fact, beautiful because
"I know how to play mine."
September
15, 2010 (West Springfield, MA)
The calm before the
storm. I'm sitting in our Airstream, which is parked at the Eastern States
Exposition, readying myself for The Big E, which begins Friday.
In the days and weeks since my last entry, we've been in Ohio for the Shaker Woods Festival, then New York for the Dutchess County Fair and Woodstock-New Paltz Art & Craft Fair. I flew to Atlanta for the Yellow Daisy Festival, while Greg stayed in Massachusetts. By the time I re-joined him, the framework for our Big E display was already set up. Yeah, Greg!
August
20, 2010
(Columbiana, OH)
I
am sitting at The Missing Sock, doing laundry. Ah! How I dislike
doing laundry on the road! But at least I have come up with a positive
aspect to laundry day: that night, I will be sleeping on freshly cleaned sheets!
Today I shopped at the local Sparkle supermarket; grocery shopping is another disliked, but very necessary, chore. And there was a pleasant aspect to today's shopping, as well. The young man who helped me out with my groceries was a friendly sort, so I asked him if he lived in Columbiana; he answered that he did, so I pressed on to ask what it was like to live here.
He said, "You know, this is a very nice place to grow up. The biggest crime that's been committed here in the last few years is someone stealing the sculpture outside of the public library. But then they returned it." I had to smile. He continued to say, "A lot of my friends complain that there's nothing to do here. But if you want to go to the races, you can go to Salem, which is not too far; if you want shopping, there's Boardman, and if you want really big city stuff, Cleveland and Pittsburgh are both only about an hour or so away. My friends don't realize that big cities are hard places to live; there's a lot of crime and you can't ever really get any peace and quiet."
I secretly marveled at this teenager's wisdom and maturity. I assured him that, one day, his friends would probably come around to appreciating their quiet home town -- I didn't tell him, but I was more like his friends when I was that age! And I spoke from experience, because I am definitely not like that now!
August
15, 2010 (Bellefonte, PA)
Are you
superstitious? I never was ...
We set out from Massachusetts last Wednesday, spending our first night at beautiful Winding Hills Park in Montgomery, New York. Getting on the road nice and early on Thursday morning, we hit rain not long after. Greg ruefully laughed and said, "Of course it's raining; we're going to be driving in Pennsylvania!" And it really does seem that every time we pass through Pennsylvania, whenever we pass through Pennsylvania, whether it's July or August or October, it rains. We ran the dreaded Oh Gee, Wilkes-Barre/Scranton Is Under Construction gauntlet, and stopped for the night at the Bellefonte, Pennsylvania KOA. The plan was to drive in and set up for the Shaker Woods Festival (in Columbiana, Ohio) on Friday morning, then spend a leisurely Friday afternoon and evening before the festival began on Saturday.
Friday morning, we woke up, packed up the trailer, loaded the dog into the van, turned the ignition key ... and the starter kept turning and turning, finally catching briefly before immediately turning itself off. Uh-oh. Wasn't it just this morning that Greg reminded me of it being Friday The 13th, and the sixth anniversary of another fateful Friday The 13th -- the day that Hurricane Charley came to visit, ripping up our house and thousands of others in his path?
The
van never started. I called AAA and had it towed to the local Ford dealer,
who determined that a part in the fuel injection system needed replacing -- and
wouldn't you know, this is not the kind of part that a shop is going to keep on
the shelf? So now we're waiting, hopefully only until tomorrow, for the
van to get its part and be put right again. Although the organizers of the
Shaker Woods Festival are understandably less than thrilled with the situation,
I am thinking it could've been a whole lot worse! Imagine if we'd stopped
somewhere for fuel, parking next to the station's only diesel pump, only to have
the van stalled there! What an unhappy event that would have been!
Or if the van had failed to start the previous morning, in Montgomery, which is
a little more rural -- everything from the wait for AAA to tow us to the drive
to a car rental agency would've taken much, much longer.
As
it is, on Saturday we took a nice drive in our rented Prius to State College,
home of The Pennsylvania State University, ate some waffles, took a brief
walking tour of the town and Penn State itself, and gained a whole new respect
and appreciation for that school and especially for its most famous employee Joe
Paterno. Late Saturday afternoon, one of the Amish neighbors came to the
campground with his two young sons and horse-drawn carriage full of home-baked
goodies -- how could we resist? Snickerdoodles for last night's dessert,
and pumpkin bread for this morning's breakfast -- yum, yum.
Today Maggie and I took a walk around beautiful Victorian Bellefonte. (I've posted a whole album of pictures on Facebook; to be taken to that album, click on the picture at right.)
Yes, we certainly could have been "stuck" in far worse places than Bellefonte! In that sense, we feel very, very lucky; blessed, really.
But the next time Friday The 13th rolls around, I'm going to be a little leery.
August
10, 2010
(West Springfield, MA)
Today,
our last day in Massachusetts, I had to run some last-minute errands. They
took me into the City Center of West Springfield, which has gone to the
dogs. Actually, before anyone takes offense, click on the thumbnail below
to see what I'm talking about: in celebration of the local high school mascot,
the Terriers, businesses all over town have purchased, and decorated, statues of
West Highland White Terriers. Cute! And proceeds from the
sponsorship of these dogs will go to West Springfield school arts
programs! Great idea!
Note: This width of this picture
is greater than the width of your screen. Some browsers will adjust
accordingly; if yours does not, a scroll bar should come up
below the enlarged picture, to enable you to see all eight photos that have been
condensed into one.
August
8, 2010 (Southwick, MA)
A full and happy day,
starting with a return to the West Suffield (CT) Congregational Church.
Met our friends Melissa and John at the Cambridge Brew House in Granby (CT) for
drinks and appetizers. Then tasty fish and chips take-out from the Big Y
supermarket here in Southwick. Now a campfire, just the three of us, Greg
and myself with Maggie Muggins (the dog).
Tomorrow will be a pretty full day, too; mostly work, though we'll go for a nice Italian dinner with Melissa and John. On Wednesday, we set out for Ohio and the Shaker Woods Festival.
August
4, 2010
(Southwick, MA)
Not
long ago, in fact during the Grandfather Mountain Highland Games, a woman
lingered a little past "closing" to talk with Greg and me about being
"Celtic."
For the record, our basic view of "Celtic" includes what are traditionally called the "Seven Nations": Ireland, Scotland, Wales, Brittany, Cornwall, Isle Of Man and Galicia and their languages, music, culture, etc. We do also embrace things that have a Celtic influence, such as bluegrass music. And though historians seem constantly to be revising the story of the people who once dominated Western Europe prior to the heyday of the Roman Empire -- aka The Celts -- we recognize a certain Celtic influence that reaches as far as Turkey (Galatia, which you may know from the New Testament), Ukraine (Halychyna), and Iran (Scythia), among others.
At one point during the conversation, the woman noticed the cross I was wearing and asked if Greg and I were Christian. When I replied that we were, she nodded to our two hymn titles (Be Thou My Vision and A Mighty Fortress) and said, "I thought so," then "How do you justify that with being Celtic?"
It's not the first time I've been confronted with the notion that one cannot be both Celtic and Christian. And though the short answer is that there is absolutely no conflict between the two, the question does deserve some sort of explanation. I've never seen the question as a challenge, but rather I've seen the questioner as a seeker -- and yet I've never worked out an honest, concise, and accurate response.
I've been thinking about it, though. I won't be disingenuous and pretend that I don't understand why someone would ask such a question. I know that in the minds of many, Celtic = Pagan. Yes, it's true that the ancient Celts were Pagan -- as was most of the rest of the world. And it doesn't much matter what definition of "Pagan" you consider "correct" -- if you consider Pagan as a catch-all term for polytheistic religions, keep in mind that in the centuries and millenia before the Christian era, the only monotheistic religion was Judaism. And if you consider Pagan as a catch-all term for non-Christian religions, keep in mind that the heyday of the Celts was in the pre-Christian era.
Though I claim a Celtic ancestry, I feel no more bound to their ancient religion than I am to any other aspect of their way of life -- like cooking over an open fire, walking or riding a horse as my primary mode of transportation ... or living without air conditioning! In fact, when Christianity was introduced to the Celts, many of them quickly and enthusiastically embraced the new religion, in part because many of its tenets were similar to their own beliefs: the belief in an afterlife, for example.
I'm still working on a nice way to express my thoughts and beliefs without offending by appearing too glib or too self-righteous. I would never want to turn someone away because they felt that I was putting their beliefs down. If anyone has suggestions/insight/input, please share!
August
1, 2010 (West Suffield, CT)
Today I visited a
church which is even older than the one I visited last week: the West Suffield
Congregational Church, established in 1743. I'm not sure that the church
building, pictured at left, was actually built in 1743 ... but there are a lot
of houses around Suffield that have plaques stating that they were built in the
mid-to-late 1700's, and none of them looks remarkably older than this building,
so perhaps it is that old.
Old being a relative term! As a native Floridian, I'm not used to seeing many buildings that are even as much as 100 years old, so these buildings seem positively ancient to me, and full of wonder. Then I consider my very first visit to England (when I was a teen) and it wasn't unusual to see a building that was close to a thousand years old. I'm one of those dreamy "If these walls could talk ..." kind of people, so I really enjoy seeing such old places.
Though today's worship service was thoroughly modern, complete with a female minister (imagine what the founding pastor would have thought of that!) we observed a truly ancient rite: the Sacrament of Holy Communion. Though I am not sure exactly when Christians first began to observe Communion (also known as Lord's Supper) it is based on Jesus' last supper with His apostles and was probably observed for the first time within a couple of decades after His death -- making the Communion celebration some two thousand years old. I enjoy the "connectedness" that I feel, knowing that Christians the world over are taking part, some at the very same moment, some within a few hours or days ... that they have done so for the past hundred years, and for the past two thousand.
July 26, 2010
(Camden Hills State Park, ME)
(The small photos in this entry are "thumbnails" which can be
enlarged with a click of the mouse.)
My
little intrepid trail-blazing dog has lost a step or two, especially in the last
year. It's no surprise, really; after all, she is going on 13 years
old. And whether you subscribe to the old wisdom that one year of a dog's
life is equivalent to seven human years, or a more modern formula that
determines equivalent human age according to a sliding scale that takes into
account not only the dog's age but breed/size as well, 13 years is well into
"seniorhood" for The Mags.
But
today she was full of energy at the start, thanks to the cool morning. So
we planned a trip to Lincolnville Beach, just south of where we're staying in
Northport, for a little outing. Arriving at the beach, however, I found a
sign which said that domestic animals were not allowed on the beach. If
you know Maggie, you know that she has resisted all efforts at domestication in
her 13 years! And of course, the sign begs the question of whether
non-domestic -- in other words, wild -- animals are allowed on the beach.
Maggie definitely can be a wild child! But I knew what they were getting
at: No Dogs On The Beach.
So
we went a few more miles south, to Camden Hills State Park. Instead of
turning toward the hills, which would have great views of Mid-Coast Maine that
would not be all that meaningful to a dog, we turned toward the shore, where we
found trails and plenty of of new smells that would prove to be very meaningful to a dog.
Some of the rocky, root-bound and lichen-covered stretches of trail were as challenging as any of our hikes along the Appalachian Trail. (What's pictured at right is not one of the challenging stretches, but the deep greenery was just so serene, I had to share.) And I must say, the path down the cliff toward the waterline was very challenging. To tell the truth, I would not have attempted that path had I not seen a couple and their huge St. Bernard coming up the path. I figured, if a great big dog like that St. Bernard, who is probably four or five times Maggie's size, could make it, we could!
I'm
not sure that going down toward the water was all that rewarding for
Maggie. To her, it was just a bunch of rocks, and no way to actually get
into the water. But to me it was a great vantage point for a look out onto
Penobscot Bay.
Back at the top of the path, we walked south along the Shoreline Trail until we reached a little "ravine" probably newly carved in last winter's snow melt. We then turned north and walked until we reached what was probably the park's northern boundary. By this time, I think my sweet senior pet had had enough.
Now we're sitting back at the campground, reunited with Greg and enjoying a campfire and the cool Maine afternoon. On Wednesday we'll head down to Massachusetts.
July
25, 2010 (Belfast,
ME)
Belfast's First Church
(Congregational) has been standing since the early 1800's. Its
congregation was formed in the late 1700's. Today, I attended their
morning worship service.
It was Homecoming Day, and though part of the day's focus was on the church membership, I was made to feel very welcome. In fact, at the close of the service, I was headed toward the door, trying to get out quickly so that I would not interfere with the taking of the annual church photo, when a church member invited me to be part of the photo! It's going to be interesting, isn't it, when absent church members are scanning the photo for familiar faces and wondering who is that woman in purple?
During the sermon, one of the pastors made a comment that I found especially meaningful. Her father, it seems, was very orderly in his life, even in religious matters, while I take it she is a bit of a free spirit. She said that God, to her, is like music that surrounds her and inspires her to respond interpretatively, rather than like a drum major keeping the beat ... I like that notion a lot.
July
24, 2010
(Bucksport, ME)
Got
the day started early today -- got out of bed at 4am! -- to head up to
Bucksport for the Bucksport Bay Festival. It was foggy, but not pea-soup
foggy, on the drive up. A little while after our arrival, the fog gave way
to a drizzle of rain that was to last a couple of hours -- but mercifully we
were already loaded in before the drizzle started!
The festival, as you see, lines the waterfront. Despite the dreary start to the day, people turned out in good numbers for the parade and the blueberry pancake breakfast. (Greg caught part of the parade; I didn't, but I would not be left out of a helping of those blueberry pancakes!) By noon the rain gave way and even more people turned out.
We met so many nice people -- as always! One of the nicest we encountered was a fellow who lives in the apartments just behind our set-up: he let us "borrow" his electricity for the day, adamantly refusing payment -- though he brightened considerably when Greg offered to pay him in CDs! Ultimately, he was reluctant to accept even this token of our gratitude, though Greg finally convinced him. And in a true spirit of sharing, he gave one of his new CDs to a cousin, then sent the cousin over our way.
Another
favorite moment was when I played "Lord of the Dance" for a gentleman
and ended up having a whole chorus singing along! Just a random note about
this song: later in the day, there was a group of people who came to our booth,
none of whom were at all familiar with the song, though they did know the
tune. And yet they knew every other selection from my CD, Be Thou My
Vision.
Across the bay, at Fort Knox, there was a re-enactment. I'm almost ashamed to admit it, but I never took the time to find out what, exactly, was being re-enacted. But there was plenty of cannon fire! In the photo at right (click on the thumbnail to enlarge), that's not a cloud, that's smoke from the cannon.
I took this last photo as we were crossing the Penobscot Narrows Bridge headed "home." That's Bucksport you see from a distance. Lovely town, is it not?
Greg and I split an "Angler's Platter" from Angler's Restaurant in Searsport and I can report that, on Day Ten, Marcille is still not tired of seafood!
July
22, 2010 (Northport, ME)
Steamers (clams) for
lunch today. Day Eight of the experiment to see if Marcille can get tired
of seafood.
Yesterday
we went up to Bucksport, site of this weekend's Bucksport Bay Festival in which
we will be participating on Saturday. Our drive took us past Belfast,
directly through Searsport and near Stafford Springs, before crossing the
Penobscot Narrows on a magnificent bridge of which area residents are
justifiably proud. You can see its 42-story observation towers in the
photo at left. It's a tourist
attraction in its own right, with historic Fort Knox, built in 1844, located on the bluffs that are visible just to the right
(west) of the
bridge.
According to the Chamber of Commerce, Bucksport "brings together the best of coastal and inland Maine." Walking around the town, I think I got a sense of that observation. Bucksport has much of the charm of other coastal villages/towns we've visited, such as Belfast, Lincolnville, or Rockland, but it also has its gritty industrial side -- which I also find to have its own charm because it's real, it's honest, and it's the backbone of America. Verso Paper, the factory pictured at right, is evidently a big employer, although based on a quick Internet search, there seem to be several other mills in the immediate area.
At left, the Dairy Port, offering
walk-up window service of Sundaes, Splits, Shakes and other goodies. At
right, the Alamo theater, whose marquee advertises a free showing of "Back
to the Future."
From left: the Buck Memorial
Library, a house whose architecture I found interesting, the Orthodox
Presbyterian Church (I didn't even know there was such a thing!), a completely
renovated (and beautiful) historical building that is up for sale -- any takers?
We're very much looking forward to Saturday's festival! It's constantly being advertised on the radio station that we've been listening to. And Bucksport is such a friendly town that we're eager and happy to support in any way we can.
On the way home, we stopped for lunch at Angler's Restaurant (next to Baits Motel, hahaha), in Searsport, for lunch. We each enjoyed a "Junior Angler's Platter" piled high with clams, shrimp, scallops and haddock. Greg and I are both pretty good eaters, but this "junior version" of their signature seafood platter nearly stymied both of us!
Later in the afternoon, back at the campground, we watched as wisps of fog made their way from the bay inland. There's something about fog that seems to render everything peaceful and still. Ah! It's a good life!
July
20, 2010
(Rockland, ME)
Maine's
most celebrated resident is not author Stephen King, nor even the Bush family
who summer in Kennebunkport. No, the most celebrated resident is the
lobster -- say it "lobstah" if you want to sound like a
"Mainer" -- and the lobster is pictured everywhere, even on the side
of a diesel tank!
July 18, 2010 (Belfast, ME)
The last two days have
been spent at another wonderful
family/community-oriented gathering: the Maine Celtic Celebration. The
setting for this gathering couldn't be more beautiful; it's right on the harbor
off Penobscot Bay. And the weather was just gorgeous (although perhaps
just a bit hot). Below are photos; after all, a picture's worth a thousand
words, right?
There were Games and there were
games. I unfortunately missed the Cod Toss and the Cheese Roll, but
laughed my head off over the Isle Of Man Three-Legged Race and the Molly Malone
Wheelbarrow Race. And of course it's always a thrill to see the athletes
who compete in the traditional Highland Games. (But for a little extra
thrill, and a big belly laugh, click
here for pictures of the Cheese Rolling Contest.)
The view pictured at left is, for
me, an inextricable part of the Maine Celtic Celebration. Our booth looks
out over this harbor, and ... words just can't explain how lovely it is.
The MacLir Ceilidh Band, pictured, is one of the local groups who play at this festival
-- really incredible local talent. Another of those incredibly talented
locals is Bob, pictured playing his bodhrán with me on dulcimer; he also plays
pennywhistle and dulcimer. In the photo at right, Greg actually posed for
me!
I formatted this last photo a
bit different from the rest, making it a "thumbnail" that you can
enlarge by clicking on it. I wanted you to see the expressions on the
little girls' faces, as they learn the rudiments of a traditional Highland Sword
Dance -- absolutely priceless!
We were surprised on Saturday by a visit from Bonnie and Wayne Carr, longtime friends from Punta Gorda (FL), who'd timed a little Maine vacation around coming to the Celtic Celebration. There I was, playing away at the dulcimer, when Greg said, "Look who's here." I looked out, saw Bonnie wave, turned back to my dulcimer ... then it was the classic double-take, as my brain processed who I'd just seen!
July
16, 2010
(Northport, ME)
We
love it here in "Midcoast Maine." Hannaford's, the local
supermarket, will steam lobster for you, and we wasted no time in getting
ourselves a helping; in fact, we arrived yesterday and after setting up the
trailer, I headed off to Hannaford's for weekly grocery shopping -- and steamed
lobster.
Today, after setting ourselves up for this weekend's Maine Celtic Celebration, we noticed a sign outside the nearby Hideaway Diner: "All You Can Eat Haddock Friday Night." Well, it's Friday, and we love finding local businesses, so ... now we're both full of haddock and I'm wondering if I could ever tire of seafood.
July
12, 2010 (Wytheville,
VA)
Can't believe that
Grandfather Mountain Games is now but a memory! All the good intentions I
had for regular postings and lots of pictures went by the wayside, once the
festivities started. But there are a few highlights I want to share ...
The events started on Thursday, with runners competing in "The Bear": a race that begins in the small town of Linville, at the foot of the mountain, and makes an ascent of over 1,000 feet in just a couple of miles, following an old scenic highway. The runners sped past our campsite, cheered on by the assembled Games participants, took a lap around the track (that you see in the picture of July 7) ... and then ran right up to the top of Grandfather Mountain. Whew!
Thursday night, after sundown, came the torchlight ceremony. Envision a large stadium, lit only enough to keep it safe for the crowd, but otherwise dark. Representatives of each clan convening holding their individual torches, coming one by one to announce their presence, then placing their torch in an ever-growing blaze of torches. A lone piper perched on a tower, overlooking it all, waiting to pipe a melody -- so very moving and very symbolic.
Greg and I began our work on Friday, set up in a large tent near one of the entrances to the Games. I enjoyed my playing so much! In a typical street fair, I'll often avoid playing the very obscure Celtic tunes, in favor of playing melodies with more "universal" appeal. But in this setting, not only was there a heightened appreciation for the more esoteric stuff, many festival attendees actually knew a lot of those old songs.
On Saturday, my cousin Richard drove up from Weaverville to spend the day at the Games; our friends Cindy and Sherman drove over from their summer home in nearby Banner Elk. My friend Connell Sanderson, who is a piper in the Montreat Scottish Pipes & Drums (and now a member of Hamish and the Hooligans) stopped by with his flute and pennywhistles to play a few tunes with me. We saw plenty of other friends that we know from the various Highland gatherings and Celtic festivals in which we've participated over the years.
Late Saturday night, a big fight broke out. We who are camped nearer the festival grounds are dubbed "McFamily," while those encamped across the road are the "McRowdies." Normally the McFamily noise curfew is 11pm, but on this night at 11pm, our pipers and drummers began playing Scotland The Brave and marched toward the road, followed by a mob of McFamily. North Carolina state troopers, in anticipation of this brawl, had stopped traffic along the road so that McFamily could safely cross. But before they even crossed the road, a small group of McRowdy attempted to outflank them, and were beaten back -- in a hail of marshmallows! Laughing all the way, McFamily invaded McRowdy territory, hurling marshmallows -- and had marshmallows hurled right back at them. It's an annual event, this huge marshmallow fight, and it's very typical of the good humor and spirit of camaraderie that prevails at these Games.
Sunday, everything was returned to normal. And suddenly it was over! Sunday evening was spent trying to find all of our new friends, to say goodbye -- or should I say, "See you next year?"
July 7, 2010
(Grandfather Mountain, NC)
There's
a piper piping just outside my window.
I
know that sounds like sheer torture to some, but I'm enjoying it! It's
just part of the culture here. (It doesn't hurt that he's a pretty good
piper!)
Yesterday I took a little walk in the festival area. It all seems to be in place: the yellow striped tents for the Highland Dance competition, the green striped tents farther to the left of the picture which are (I think) a VIP viewing area; the small tents that you see ringing the track in the distance are for the clans and other organizations. They're all labeled, just waiting for their occupants. And towering over it all, the peaks that make up Grandfather's profile.
Hark! This piper must be rehearsing for the Piobaireachd (pronounce: "pibroch") competition -- playing the "classical" music of the bagpipes -- as the strains that I hear are sedate and somewhat mournful.
And now, he is silent!
July 5, 2010 (Grandfather
Mountain, NC)
Yesterday was such a
wonderful day!
It
started with a visit to Faith Baptist Church, in Linville, the little town at
the foot of Grandfather Mountain. Maggie and I took a nice long walk in
town, then she loaded up for a nap while I went into the church. The first
"person" to greet me? A border collie belonging to one of the
two Margarets who greeted me on the church steps. Several people,
including pastor Brad Calhoun, introduced themselves to me -- what a friendly
church family! A few minutes prior to the start of the service, a pianist
and violinist played some hymns; soon they were joined by another violinist, a
guitarist and Elizabeth, who played the flute. "This is a church that
loves music," said Elizabeth as she assembled her instrument.
"We're traditional here," the pastor later explained to me, and it
suited me just fine; I could've played all of those tunes by heart, and even
knew most of the words without referring to the hymnal, so I felt very much at
home.
After
service was over, we went into nearby Banner Elk, to visit friends who were
exhibiting at a craft fair in town. Then we took a little walk in Banner
Elk's Tate-Evans Park, where we sniffed clover and waded in the little
stream. Everywhere we looked, families were gathering for picnics.
After the briefest trip to the supermarket, we went back into Linville for one
more stroll before heading back onto the mountain.
After our evening meal, I brought out my dulcimer and bodhrán and was soon joined by Ian, a beginning fiddler and Cody, who's studying guitar. We played up the few tunes that we all had in common, then did sort of a circle. Among our "audience" were Pappy and Patti, a couple that Greg and I actually know from the Caloosahatchee Celtic Festival. They're pictured at left, Pappy dressed in his patriotic best!
Later, after the last musical note had died out, Greg and I and a couple of companions from nearby campsites watched fireworks displays put on by some of the various mountain communities. From up here, there were at least three different shows visible! And as exciting as that was, even more wonderful to me was the discovery of a possible shared ancestry with one of our companions, Stephen Kelley. He's promised to share some genealogical information that he has on the Steeles, the family of my great-grandmother. Further conversation revealed another potential connection in the Stephens family of Eastern Tennessee.
And with that little exchange, I began to understand the Grandfather Mountain Highland Games as a unique experience. It's much more than a Highland Games -- as much fun as that implies -- it's a Gathering of the Clans. And sure, all Highland Games have Clans convening; it's one of the hallmarks of a Games, at least in the United States. But here at "Grandfather," many of the participants who come back year after year are descended from the Scots and the Scots-Irish who settled this region. I suppose that "shared blood" is inevitable for any of us who have an ancestral connection with the Southern Highlands. It's a much stronger connection than the Clans and Septs that go back to Scotland -- as wonderful as those connections are! -- it's truly family.
July 3, 2010
(Grandfather Mountain, NC)
Just
for the record, I am not one of those Floridians who swore, during our
peculiarly cold winter, that they'd never again complain about being hot.
(Also for the record: it wasn't the coldest winter I remember in Florida.
I've lived there all my life.)
Anyway, not having taken the vow against complaining about hot weather, I felt perfectly justified to occasionally comment on the peculiar heat that we experienced during our time in Swannanoa. It ain't hot n' more ... last night, up here on the mountain, the temperature dropped down at least into the lower 40's. As Greg commented, when this morning we awoke underneath our down blanket: "Good sleeping weather."
And I ain't complainin'!
July
2, 2010 (Grandfather
Mountain,
NC)
We're camped on
Grandfather Mountain, awaiting the start of the big Highland Games -- which
don't begin for almost a week!
The ride up here was pretty, but it is one of the toughest drives we make with the trailer, since it's all climbing. Yes, Swannanoa's in the mountains, but Grandfather -- one of the highest peaks east of the Mississippi -- is in what's called the High Country. It's a perfect area for growing Christmas trees; if you've ever bought a Fraser Fir from North Carolina, it almost certainly came from around here.
We saw two black bears on the way up here: one, a little cub barely bigger than a large-ish house cat, was running across the highway. The other, a few miles up the road, was more likely a yearling, standing just off the roadway and looking anxiously about. I found this most unusual, as in 25+ years of traveling this stretch of road several times per year, I have never seen a bear. To see two, especially one so young (I am pretty sure that I have never seen a cub in the wild.) gives me concern. If any bear behaviorist out there could explain this to me, I would like to know.
July
1, 2010
(Swannanoa, NC)
For our
last day in Swannanoa, Maggie and I took a walk around the back pond, near the
Swannanoa River. We often take this walk, but today it was especially
sweet. Looking at the photos, you can see why we enjoy this
place so.
The little pond near the river is
covered with beautiful pink water lilies which open with the sunlight. The
pond sustains bass, other panfish, turtles, frogs, ducks, geese ... the pink
lilies sustain my soul.
A view of the Swannanoa. What
is it about the sound of water rushing over rocks that we find so calming?
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