January 27.22: Coping

The baton. The magic wand that transforms a traffic jam of soloists into a country drive of beautiful sound. That is, in a certain hand.

Some years ago, I worked with Rick, an elementary school band director who had that hand. Two days ago, I heard of his death.

I know that I have touched on the subject of music teachers in the past, dear reader, and I bet I do again. There are few things in life we turn to the way we turn to music, and music teachers have had much to do with that.

Have you ever heard the call of the beginning trombonist? Could you take it? Beginning Band is not for the faint of heart or tender-eared. Rick was one of those brave and gifted beings who took the squawks and bleats of those beginners and turned them into real music. By the time those beginners graduated from eighth grade, their sound was good. Really good.

Rick was hilarious, energetic, an entertainer at heart and a teacher in his soul. I think my favorite memory of him was from his summer marching band practices where, out on that hot blacktop, he could be heard in his best martial voice shouting “Your OTHER left! Your OTHER left!” I still laugh.

And every Christmas I think a thank-you to Rick for educating me about Mannheim Steamroller.

If ever anyone lived a life of value, Rick did. May the angels lead you, Rick, and may they lead with the right left.

January 23.22: Coping

Stemmed swan,

wings of snow,

winter daydream’s

furbelow.

With thanks to my dear friend Donna for the elegance of this white amaryllis,

which has bloomed manically and isn’t done yet.

 

 

 

January 19.22: Coping

A bit of brown bird,

his feathers a-fluff,

perched on the noon of my day.

So tiny a plume

seemed hardly enough,

but he blasted the doldrums away.

I do believe, dear reader, that this is a Carolina Wren. I was walking the familiar carpet path in familiar routine when he (barely) caught my eye, and I nearly undid myself getting to the camera without scaring him off. The sighting of anything other than the occasional crow is unheard of right now, and this little being was therefore all the more miraculous.

 

 

 

 

 

January 12.22: Coping

How yellowed the page,

how heavy the book,

how delightfully free

of click-bait and hook.

Not a single commercial

intrudes on my search,

sending my thoughts

to spiral and lurch;

I keep to my hunt

for elusive right word

without the distraction

of the marketing herd.

No windows to shout

and peddle their wares,

no storming my brain

with visual fanfares,

just simple bland columns,

neat and precise,

of calm worded world

etymologically nice.

 

Yes, dear reader, I flip through these pages knowing full well that there are words right now for things unknown when these books were new. I turn to them, nonetheless, as I wage my own little war to think in a straight line, and not be pulled into impossible elliptical thinking by all the pop-ups.

 

 

January 4.22: Coping

Sometimes we’re the audience,

sometimes we’re on stage;

either way we play a part

intrinsic to the age.

From Gilgamesh to Boba Fett,

the story is the thing

to make the case for why

we’re worth remembering.

The writer needs the reader,

as ear attends to speech;

reciprocally human

symbiotic each to each.

In telling and in listening,

we revere the mighty word;

inked or sung or spoken,

it must be read or heard,

and so the eye and ear

and reverent word creator

combine to tell of us

in storied life’s theater.

 

It seems to me, dear reader, that in our little corner of blogdom we have a certain reverence for the word. I like that.

Sometimes as reader and sometimes as writer, I have here learned about imagining, about thinking and re-thinking, about observing, and, even better, I have laughed. In that regard, 2021 was a good word year. In other places, the word has not been treated so kindly.

I wish us all a good year of words. Because words make life rememberable.

 

More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg

and to Wells Theater, Norfolk, VA.