Songs My Mother Taught Me . . . Warsaw Concerto

Last October I posted a series of Songs My Mother Taught Me in memory of my mother. I had a few left over in drafts that I mentioned I would post in the future (and others that may come to mind). Warsaw Concerto was one of them and I'm posting it as a tribute in solidarity with a nation in mourning. The plane crash deaths of the Polish President Lech Kaczynski, his wife, Maria, and a delegation of 94 of their country's top officials, including military, political, and of the arts, have created a nationwide sorrow that I find touching because it includes even the deceased president's detractors.

The album cover shown above is a scanned copy of the album owned by my mother. It's mine now. When I was a little girl my sister and I had our own records and record-player, and the rule was Don't touch Mama's. I distinctly remember one day being alone in the house (my sis and the daytime babysitter must have been in the backyard) when I decided to look at my mother's albums. I saw this cover and had to pull it from the shelf and set it on the floor in front of me. It terrified me. I had heard adults use the word war and I gathered it was a terrible thing. I saw war in front of me but attached to other letters. The planes looked threatening, not like the happy ones we would watch take off while parked in my mother's car at the end of the runway of the small Reno airport. That huge fist. Could it knock the angry planes out of the sky? Blood. Maybe the planes were winning. That day I understood the album both said and showed something about awful war. I did not know until a few years later that it was also about a city, a country, a people.

A few days after discovering the album I broke the rule - couldn't help myself - and I played the "war" track on the album. It was the first time I'd heard music without words. While Warsaw Concerto played I had a dawning that is as difficult to explain as war.





Warsaw Concerto was composed by Richard Addinsell in 1941 for the movie "Dangerous Moonlight," also known as "Suicide Squadron." The plot was about the love between a beautiful concert pianist and a pilot. The action takes place in Poland during WWII. The producers wanted to use the second concert of Rachmaninov, but ultimately requested that music be written in the style of Rachmaninov by Addinsell. The music he created has outlived the film.

[To see a clip from the movie, the scene when the pianist is composing the concerto, click here.]


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Songs My Mother Taught Me . . . Stumbling

Last year in honor of my mother I posted a series of Songs My Mother Taught Me. I had some left over that I didn't use, and I may remember more later, so I will continue as the mood strikes me. And the mood strikes me now.

She used to giggle about Stumbling. It was a song that made her silly. She hummed it once while my stepfather, a really fine dancer, led her around the living room in an impromptu Fox Trot. And then they laughed. So, the song makes me happy when I think about it.

I wonder if it has ever been used to accompany the Fox Trot in Dancing With the Stars. It would really test the skill of the dancers because Stumbling is a musical romp!


Here is an accomplished ukulele player doing justice to Stumbling.


Great version of Stumbling by HefTone. HefTone's Channel at youtube




And this is most likely the version my mother knew as a young girl.
I would title this video.......

Antidote for a Stressful Day

fuzzbear6240 uploaded this at youtube and said: Victor (BW) 18899-A "Stumbling" Fox Trot (by Zez Confrey) Paul Whiteman and His Orchestra. First issued circa early 1922. 
Played on my VV-50 (Victrola phonograph), in the park. 




Interestingly I found a song with the same title (but different song altogether) that was done around 2008 by TRUSTcompany, a band I am not familiar with. Stumbling by this band is called "The best song ever made in Alternative Rock History" in the youtube upload that you can hear here. Here here! it really is excellent alternative rock and maybe could be called.......Antidote for a Boring Date.

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Songs My Mother Taught Me . . . Dem Bones

Happy Halloween, everyone.

This outstanding-in-its-field scarecrow is along the country road about eight miles from Silverton. I took the shot on my way home from my solo beach trip a few weeks ago.

Well, of course, one of the songs my mother taught me was Dem Bones! She had the cutest way of performing it in the kitchen when I was a kid. This is the 16th in an undetermined number of songs my mother taught me that I posted this month in her memory, and with it the series is closed. 





Fred Waring and the Pennsylvanians sing in a youtube video uploaded by gerdenshed


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Songs My Mother Taught Me . . . On the Street Where You Live

I've had a good time this month posting songs my mother taught me as a tribute to her. Now I'm down to the final two days of the month (and, yes, I actually do have one for Halloween) with one of my favorite songs saved for this post.......and I'm feeling burned out. So just a few words to say that I don't remember who sang On the Street Where You Live on the record my mother had. As I listened to many at youtube this one by Vic Damone sounded the most familiar. Evidently he had a popular hit with it after it became famous in My Fair Lady. I don't remember seeing My Fair Lady at the theater with my mother, and remember instead viewing it on TV later.

My mother liked On the Street Where You Live because she was a romantic and she no doubt had relationship memories or fantasies about the song. I absolutely loved the song and often requested she play it. I dreamed my way onto adventurous streets, down alleys with ivy-coated walls, past brick apartments with important-looking entries, along smooth pathways that peaked into gardens and uneven sidewalks that showed off the architecture of imaginary neighborhoods that - during the daytime - took on the intoxicating smell of bus fumes and snow in July, and - at nighttime - glowed golden behind drawn shades where silhouettes moved slowly to jazz sounds and one dog barked before being let inside. Back then the enticement for me of On the Street Where You Live had much more to do with visions of STREETS than with the YOUs who might live on them. Now the enticement is the great song itself, everything about it.

On the Street Where You Live - lyrics

I have often walked down this street before;
But the pavement always stayed beneath my feet before.
All at once am I Several stories high.
Knowing I'm on the street where you live.
Are there lilac trees in the heart of town?
Can you hear a lark in any other part of town?
Does enchantment pour Out of ev'ry door?
No, it's just on the street where you live!
And oh! The towering feeling
Just to know somehow you are near.
The overpowering feeling
That any second you may suddenly appear!
People stop and stare. They don't bother me.
For there's no where else on earth that I would rather be.
Let the time go by, I won't care if I
Can be here on the street where you live.




I must include the video of Dean Martin singing On the Street Where You Live for the simple fact that my mother adored this man. I didn't understand it. I think it had something to do with his being (or acting as if he were) a high-functioning drunk, the kind of drunk she wished my father could have been. These days, as a woman older than my mother was during her "crush days" on Dean Martin, I understand his appeal. I also really like his version of this song.









top photo: NY East Village from The Weblicist of Manhattan


{This is the 15th in an undetermined number of songs my mother taught me I'm posting this month in her memory. For background, please visit the post containing the first song, Ivory Tower.} 
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Songs My Mother Taught Me . . . Que Sera, Sera

There probably aren't many women who were little girls in the 1950s who didn't learn this song, and I'd venture to guess that most learned it from their mothers.....or at least sang it with their mothers.

My mother always tried to keep life up beat. She was into positivity long before it was a movement. But I could tell that this song made her a bit sad and it made me sad too.  It all seemed a little too loosey-goosey to me, the concept of having little or no self-determination. Even back then I had a strong sense that the final verse about having "children of my own" didn't apply to me and I didn't like the constraints set up in the song. If it was about the future happening as it will then why did the verses seem like a blueprint?

I didn't realize until I began thinking about this song to post, and paying attention to the feelings it stirred inside me, how little I cared for Que Sera, Sera ......even if it was one of the songs my mother taught me.





Que Sera, Sera
from The Man Who Knew Too Much (1956)
words by Ray Evans and music by Jay Livingston


When I was just a little girl
I asked my mother
What will I be?
Will I be pretty?
Will I be rich?
Here's what she said to me:


Que sera, sera.
Whatever will be, will be.
The future's not ours to see.
Que sera, sera.
What will be, will be.


When I grew up and fell in love
I asked my sweetheart
What lies ahead?
Will we have rainbows
Day after day?
Here's what my sweetheart said:


Que sera, sera.
Whatever will be, will be.
The future's not ours to see.
Que sera, sera.
What will be, will be.


Now I have children of my own.
They ask their mother,
What will I be?
Will I be handsome?
Will I be rich?
I tell them tenderly:


Que sera, sera.
Whatever will be, will be.
The future's not ours to see.
Que sera, sera.
What will be, will be.
Que sera, sera.


I find the video below, with quasi-version of Que Sera and hint of Doris Day's voice filtering around it, both frightening and invigorating at once. The line towards the end of the video: "It's your responsibility to do something about it" is more along my way of thinking. If I see something that needs to be done and I can do it, then I must do it. If I see where I can make a difference, large or small, then I must commit to make that difference. I shouldn't think manana regarding a responsibility, unless sleeping on an idea will bring more clarity and therefore a better result. The word endangered should send me into action, and it usually does. Just tossing it all to the wind and saying whatever will be will be doesn't work and we should see that by now.



Que Sera by Wax Tailor, aka JC Le Saout




{This is the 14th in an undetermined number of songs my mother taught me I'm posting this month in her memory. For background, please visit the post containing the first song, Ivory Tower.} 

art: Escher, Crystal Ball

International Union for Conservation of Nature and Natural Resources RED LIST OF THREATENED SPECIES  (Don't sing Que Sera, Sera to any of these!)

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Songs My Mother Taught Me . . . Going Home

{This is the 12th in an undetermined number of songs my mother taught me I'm posting this month in her memory. For background, please visit the post containing the first song, Ivory Tower.}


My mother liked classical music in a basic sense, but her taste ran more toward popular music. My love for classical music and opera (adored by her father) was not passed from my mom to me, was developed on my own. It was interesting to share that appreciation with her after she retired and moved to Oregon. I got her to some symphonies but never an opera. In the final weeks of her life I played classical music (and easy listening instrumentals) that I found soothing and assumed that she did also. But it wasn't until one day I put an old Marty Robbins record on the stereo in her family room that I returned to her bedroom to see her face changed to a happy dreaminess. "Love it, love it, love it," she said emphatically.

It is precisely because her interest in classical music took a backseat to other musical forms that I can easily recall her favorite selections. She told me when I was a child that her mother loved "Going Home" and would hum it around the house when she was a girl, which she in turn did for me. She said it was composed by Dvorak, and I remember being somewhat confused that there were words to a classical piece. (See below that the tune was likely a spiritual that Dvorak liked and adapted for the symphony*) It was years later that I listened to the entire symphony with its wordless 2nd movement, but of course whenever I hear it I think of that part as one of the songs my mother taught me.

She died in 2000 on this day and we had her memorial service a few weeks later. Going Home was not among songs on tape that were played over the speakers in the funeral home, although as I read information for this post I realized it is a favorite at funerals.

Less than a year after her death, September 11 happened and I was so grateful that my mother with the "Pollyanna" outlook on life did not have to endure the shock that the rest of us lived through together. Only a few days later, The Oregon Symphony was scheduled to perform at The Oregon Garden here in Silverton, a final toast to summer and the ending of the 2001 outdoor concert series. Michael and I had tickets and we went to the concert with some trepidation (remember those early days after 9-11 when we were unsure of the safety of being in large gatherings?).

The setting for the outdoor concerts there is so lovely. Concert-goers sit (in low lawn chairs only) in a grassy bowl facing where the setting sun is seen through an oak grove behind the stage.

We were advised at the outset of the concert that we could not depend on the program that had been printed prior to 9-11. The conductor was changing some music commensurate with that moment in time. I remember only the final piece --  Dvorak's 9th Symphony, 2nd Movement: Going Home. Michael and I held hands, and as we did I felt so close to my mother. I sat there in awe of the punch of color tracing the coast range in the distance. Did I cry? I do not remember. Many did. The many, who shared the surreal beauty of the song being offered up to the old oaks and the sunset and the ether. It was all we had to give. And such tenderness to take.






Going Home - lyrics (Words by William Arms Fisher)

Going home, going home
I'm just going home
Quiet light, some still day
I'm just going home
It's not far, just close by
Through an open door
Work all done, care laid by
Going to fear no more
Mother's there expecting me
Father's waiting, too
Lots of folk gathered there
All the friends I knew
All the friends I knew
I'm going home
Nothing's lost, all's gain
No more fret nor pain
No more stumbling on the way
No more longing for the day
Going to roam no more
Morning star lights the way
Restless dream all done
Shadows gone, break of day
Real life begun
There's no break, there's no end
Just a living on
Wide awake with a smile
Going on and on
Going home, going home
I'm just going home
It's not far, just close by
Through an open door
I am going home
I'm just going home
Going home, going home
[Repeat]

Antonin Dvorak (1841-1904): 9th Symphony - 2nd Movement (Largo)

. . .The Symphony is subtitled "From the New World" and was composed by the Czech composer Antonin Dvorak during an extended stay in America when he took up a post there in New York. Dvorak became homesick and this particular movement is often interpreted as an expression of his longing to be home in his native land. It is therefore appropriate that the music was turned into the song called "Going Home". Dvorak's New World Symphony was also one of the two recordings chosen by astronaut Neil Armstrong to take to the moon. Perhaps it was a personal favourite, or perhaps he looked upon the Moon as a "New World". . .--mfiles.co.uk

*Henry "Harry" T. Burleigh (1866-1949) African American Composer, Arranger, and Baritone (and thought to be the composer of the spiritual that Dvorak adapted for the 9th Symphony, 2nd Movement)Burleigh't teachers at the National Conservatory did not include the school's Director, Antonin Dvorak, but the two did spend considerable time together outside of classes. . . Burleigh often sand spirituals for Dvorak, and began working as his copyist in 1893. He also played the double bass and the timpani in the Conservatory's orchestra, of which Dvorak ws one of two conductors. . .

He was not a student of Antonin Dvorak, as is often assumed, not then being sufficiently advanced in his theoretical studies, but he spent much extracurricular time with the Bohemian composer, acquainting him with the spiritual repertoire . . .He also served as double bassist and timpanist in the school orchestra, conducted by Dvorak and Franz von der Stucken.--AfriClassical.com
{Personal note of interest: The header of the AfriClassical website linked above features a photo (at left) of James DePreist, who was the music director and conductor of The Oregon Symphony from 1980-2005, and conducted the program we heard after 9-11 at The Oregon Garden.}

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Songs My Mother Taught Me . . . To Each His Own

{This is the 11th in an undetermined number of songs my mother taught me I'm posting this month in her memory. For background, please visit the post containing the first song, Ivory Tower.}

To Each His Own was original music written by Victor Young for the 1946 movie of the same name, something I just learned while researching for this post. I only knew it as my mother's favorite song. Now I realize that it was her song for my father; maybe it was even "their song," since they were together in 1946 when it was recorded by five different artists/groups that year, all of them hits.

When I was little I liked looking at her albums when she was at work. There were a few album covers that I found particularly enchanting and perplexing and I played the records to unlock the mysteries of the cover photos and artwork. One was an album by The Ink Spots (another I will probably write about this week as I am wrapping up my October tribute of songs my mother taught me).  My mother also had the 45 rpm record of this song and played it so frequently that it seems in my mind a soundtrack for my hours growing from 3- to 4- to 5-years old. [Note: since first posting this the video of The Ink Spots version was deleted. I am replacing it with Al Martino's version, which was actually more popular.]

When I was a young teen my mother received a gift in the mail from an old friend who had shared days of heartbreak and divorce in the mid-1950s, a woman who had moved to California years before but with whom she stayed in touch. She opened the package to find a metal music box that had a shallow bowl for loose powder, with a small puff, under the lid on top. The turn-key was on the bottom and, when wound, played this tune. It still does...... although I must find someone who repairs old music boxes as it no longer winds fully so the song begins at wind-down-slow and ends after a few lines. The music box now in my possession seems nearly alive to me as it bravely chimes sparse notes of my mother's favorite song, To Each His Own.

- In 1946 there were five Top 10 versions- Eddy Howard (#1).The Ink Spots (#1)
Freddy Martin (#1), The Modernaires with Paula Kelly (#3),and Tony Martin (#4)
- also charted by The Platters # 21 in 1960
- also charted by The Tymes at # 78 in 1964
- also charted by Frankie Laine at # 82 in 1968
- also charted by Al Martino on his Greatest Hits album and it appears again on The Godfather III soundtrack album

To Each His Own- lyrics

A rose must remain with the sun and the rain

Or its lovely promise won't come true

To each his own, to each his own

And my own is you

What good is a song if the words just don't belong?

And a dream must be a dream for two

No good alone, to each his own

For me there's you

CHORUS

If a flame is to grow there must be a glow

To open each door there's a key

I need you, I know, I can't let you go

Your touch means too much to me

Two lips must insist on two more to be kissed

Or they'll never know what love can do

To each his own, I've found my own

One and only you

REPEAT FROM CHORUS

Songs My Mother Taught Me . . . Mairzy Doats

lamb in pen spring 2007 by marezlove

{This is the tenth in an undetermined number of songs my mother taught me I'm posting this month in her memory. For background, please visit the post containing the first song, Ivory Tower.}

I love this song my mother taught me when I was a little kid(!) I can actually remember the first time my mother sang it for me and the excited twisty feeling of my brain working to switch off the nonsense words and plug into their becoming words with meaning, words that I knew. Quite likely, my first "Ah-Ha!" moment was learning Mairzy Doats.

To hear the original Mairzy Doats recorded in 1944
by Merry Macs......click!

MAIRZY DOATS (Merry Macs) - lyrics

Mairzy doats and dozy doats and liddle lamzy divey
A kiddley divey too, wouldn't you?
Yes! Mairzy doats and dozy doats and liddle lamzy divey
A kiddley divey too, wouldn't you?

If the words sound queer and funny to your ear, a little bit jumbled and jivey
Sing "Mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy"

Oh! Mairzy doats and dozy doats and liddle lamzy divey
A kiddley divey too, wouldn't you-oo?
A kiddley divey too, wouldn't you?



It is not true that the younger generation doesn't sing these kinds of silly songs anymore. The little girl, named Kennedy, in this video is adorable singing Mairzy Doats. Embedding has been disabled so you'll need to click the link to hear her version.  The same is true with the video featuring two boys and their lamb named Ivy who sing the song at the beginning of this video.

Be silly. Be honest. Be kind. 

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

Long live silly songs.

-Lydia

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Songs My Mother Taught Me . . . The Dutchman

{This is the ninth in an undetermined number of songs my mother taught me I'm posting this month in her memory. For background, please visit the post containing the first song, Ivory Tower.} 

There are three songs my mother taught me that sprung from, ironically, my own generation - but went unnoticed by me when they were first released. I may not have time in this month of remembrance of her to post the other two, but I sure couldn't miss The Dutchman.

My mother, whose name was Margaret, was one-half Dutch on her father's side (Van Swearingen). She never traveled abroad so did not visit The Netherlands, although she had an opportunity to tour there with a group from her office before she retired and opted to not spend the $1000 it cost then. What a pity. She regretted it for the rest of her life.

About ten years before she retired she was promoted to office manager of a satellite state employment office outside Reno (she left casino work after 17 years as a blackjack dealer and reinvented herself in the business world). She was divorced from my step-father by then, both my sister and I were in our first marriages, and she went through a phase of partying with the people from her office after work. John Ascuaga's Nugget in Sparks was close to the office and with its variety of restaurants, lounges, and areas of entertainment it became the favorite haunt of the group...and also of my mother alone when the rest of them had gone home to spouses and families. She preferred the smaller lounge with stage and enjoyed the acts there that ranged from home-grown talent to nationally-known acts, many that had been big-name acts in the past.

One of those once big-name acts, still enjoying a large and strong fan base, was The Kingston Trio. When my mother learned that they were to perform at the small stage lounge she encouraged her group of co-workers/friends to attend the opening night's performance.

My mother attracted people like a magnet. She had a winning smile, expressive brown eyes, and a body that moved to music so when she appreciated someone -- from someone she supervised to a skilled musician on a stage -- she exuded that appreciation. Drew them to her. She caught the attention of Bob Shane, the lead of The Kingston Trio, who asked for her name after a song. "Margaret," her voice traveled to the stage. "Oh," said Bob Shane, "then here is your song." They sang The Dutchman. My mother swooned and returned nightly during the Trio's stint at the Nugget. Bob Shane came to her table to meet her during one of their breaks and my mother swooned more, and he must have loved receiving the true adoration common in times gone by. Each night while the group played The Nugget when Shane saw my mother in the audience he would begin The Dutchman, adding, "This is for Margaret."

Below is a screengrab from The Kingston Trio website showing Bob Shane (center) as he looked during the time my mother enjoyed him singing The Dutchman........

Bob Shane has retired from The Kingston Trio (after suffering a heart attack in 2004). I know this because last year they came for one performance to the beautifully-refurbished Elsinore Theater in Salem, Oregon. Mike and I went but realized in the opening song that Bob Shane was not up there on the stage. The concert was wonderful anyway, with Bill Zorn (formerly of The Lamplighters) performing as lead.

The song was significant for my mother because someone made it special for her, because her name is in the song, and because of her Dutch ancestory. It was also significant, I believe, because the song's story was so unlike her own life. Married four times, and an eternal romantic, she was alone for the last 30 years of her life. There was a great love relationship during part of that time, but she never remarried. She said to me in later years that she guessed she "did better alone." Yes, and no. She would have loved being the Dutchman's Margaret of this song, sharing unconditional love after having shared a real partnership throughout a long marriage.

During my mother's final illness I bought a CD by Scottish singer John McDermott that contained this song my mother taught me.  
The Dutchman. We played it often during her last weeks.
She listened to it with her eyes closed.


Here is the quintessential version sung by the late Steve Goodman.

"The Dutchman" is a song written by Michael Peter Smith in 1968 and popularized by Steve Goodman. At the time Smith wrote the song, he had never visited The Netherlands.

The song is about an elderly couple living in Amsterdam, Margaret and the title character. The unnamed Dutchman is suffering from shell shock which he received during the war, while Margaret cares for him with a sadness over what has happened to him over the years. It's a story of unconditional love. - Wikipedia

The Dutchman - lyrics

The Dutchman's not the kind of man
To keep his thumb jammed in the dam
That holds his dreams in
But that's a secret only Margaret knows
When Amsterdam is golden in the morning
Margaret brings him breakfast
She believes him
He thinks the tulips bloom beneath the snow
He's mad as he can be but Margaret only sees that sometimes
Sometimes she sees her unborn children in his eyes
(chorus)
Let us go to the banks of the ocean
Where the walls rise above the Zuider Zee
Long ago I used to be a young man
And dear Margaret remembers that for me
The Dutchman still wears wooden shoes
His cap and coat are patched with love
That Margaret sewed in
Sometimes he thinks he's still in Rotterdam
He watches tugboats down canals
And calls out to them when he thinks he knows the captain
'Til Margaret comes to take him home again
Through unforgiving streets that trip him
Though she holds his arm
Sometimes he thinks that he's alone and calls her name
(chorus)
The windmills whirl the winter in
She winds his muffler tighter
They sit in the kitchen
Some tea with whiskey keeps away the dew
He sees her for a moment calls her name
She makes the bed up humming some old love song
She learned it when the tune was very new
He hums a line or two
They hum together in the night
The Dutchman falls asleep and Margaret blows the candle out
(chorus)

For fun: Dutch Windmills 3D Screensaver - information here. 


For inspiration:  The biography of Steve Goodman (1948-1984) --  

No one performed/performs The Dutchman as well as he did.

Painting: The Mill at Wijk-Bij-Duurstede by Jacob van Ruisdael (1628-1682)

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Songs My Mother Taught Me . . . Old Man River

{This is the eighth in an undetermined number of songs my mother taught me I'm posting this month in her memory. For background, please visit the post containing the first song, Ivory Tower.}


I wish I'd paid better attention to my mother when she told me that her mother had taken the family to hear Paul Robeson in person. Since they lived on both coasts during times he appeared on stage (related production schedule and related clipping) I don't know any more than she saw him and she loved him. Old Man River stirred something deep in my mother that went beyond admiration for the powerful voice, the iconic song, the memorable play/movie. She told me his remarkable story and did so without the addition of pro-American or anti-Communist comments. We had many discussions about his life story and Robeson's life awakened something deep in me the way Old Man River did in her. In preparation for this post I find I have new stirrings of appreciation for this wondrous and complex human being. Here are highlights of his bio found at Rutger's University's Paul Robeson Cultural Center:

• He was the grandson of slaves and the son of a minister who escaped slavery, and became one of Rutgers University's most famous and accomplished alumni.

• In 1915, Robeson was awarded a four-year academic scholarship to Rutgers University. He was inducted into the Phi Beta Kappa Society and Rutgers' Cap & Skull Honor Society. He was valedictorian of his graduating class in 1919.

• He was named to the All American Football Team twice in spite of open racism and violence expressed by his teammates. In 1995, he was inducted posthumously into the College Football Hall of Fame.

• In 1923, Robeson earned a law degree from the Columbia Law School. There, he met his wife Eslanda Cordoza Goode, the first black woman to head a pathology laboratory

• He went on to such stage successes in Show Boat, Porgy and Bess and Othello, which was hailed by some critics as the play's greatest interpretation. He starred in 13 films between the 1920s and the early 1940s. . .

• He sang for peace and justice in 25 languages throughout the United States, Africa, Asia Europe, and the Soviet Union. 

• During the McCarthy Era of the 1950s, every attempt was made to silence and discredit Paul Robeson because of his political views and dedication to civil rights.

• For a generation, his memory was obscured and his achievements forgotten, but the centennial of his 1898 birth has sparked new debate about his place in our history.

I am grateful to my mother for giving emphasis to Paul Robeson's story during nights of serious discussion around the kitchen table. I grew to also admire the man and to love this special song my mother taught me. Old Man River. 

 


This video has a bit of narrative by Harry Belafonte describing how words in the song changed through the years. To hear a 1930 recording of Paul Robeson singing the original lyrics (and to see some excellent still shots of him), click here. The portions that were substituted for other lyrics soon after that earlier recording are shocking and a reminder of positive changes in civil rights in the U.S. since then.....and are a reminder that what has been won can be lost if not treasured and protected. 

Paul Robeson: A Poem

-by Andrew Vinstra 2007

Paul Robeson - African American Actor, Political Pioneer,
Cultural Activist & Basso Profundo Concert Singer


The box springs beneath me squeak as I try to drift off.
Every shallow breath I inhale catches in the frame of the rigging
droops there in tatters rags red as blood, red with blood, turned to blood
the breath runs in rivulets scattering skeletal.

The whole structure creaks beneath the weight of centuries
of waiting to wake from the nightmare.
Sleep is the ocean I never quite cross.

My breath comes in waves
that break against the hull of my ribs.
I inhale, the sail unfurls.
I am become the bone ship of my people.

My ribs are the hull holding the breath
whispering up out of history.

My skin is the sail that catches wind, holds breath, swallows whole
the hollow ocean, the empty bowl my voice is become.

My nose is the prow that points over the precipice I pitch into,
heedless. My mouth, the chasm I scream over.

My eyes are the crow's nest at the top of the mast
from whence I spied the teeth of darkness
yet somehow I'm still alive.

The bellows of my lungs expand.
My skin stretches thin and brittle,
a leaf ripe with fall, translucent as parchment
the wind catches and slowly unfurls. My ancient skin
becomes molten. It flakes off as feathers
and slowly descends.The detritus of all we have left
sifts slowly through the depths caress and waits
unbidden. The scales fall from my eyes, two bright
pennies, revealing the iris starting once more
to open. Cumulus storm clouds gather. Molten skin
like lava builds from beneath.
Below the surface bones gather as feathers.
The sea in my voice begins to rise
and the whole ocean opens.

I know now as I wake from slumber
that heaven and hell shall hear my voice
and the earth shall tremble.

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Old Postcard Wednesday--Weaverville, CA--combined this week with Songs My Mother Taught Me . . . Red River Valley

This postcard was purchased either in the mid-1960s when our family visited the area, or in the early-1970s when my mother was there alone. Both short trips were pilgrimages for her back to Trinity County, California, where my grandmother, my mother, and her little (adopted) sister lived on a large property with a rustic cabin and outhouse during the Great Depression. The property belonged to my uncle Marshall, who had work elsewhere in California. During the entire time they lived on what they called "the ranch," my grandfather held various traveling sales jobs and stayed with them for a short time to recuperate from an illness.

"The ranch" was situated in the mountains known as the Trinity Alps (A on the map below), and Weaverville (B on the map) was the town where they bought all supplies that they didn't grow themselves. The following description of the area is from the Shasta Cascade Wonderland Assn. website (nicely presented, I might add):

Weaverville/Trinity Country

Now known for its gracious hospitality, golden history, and many outdoor splendors, as with many portions of Northern California, the lure of gold is what brought settlement to the area. Even before the gold rush of 1849, pirate Bill English and his rogue crew discovered gold on Trinity River near Big Bar and left the area with their purses full. It was the eventual discovery of gold in 1849 that brought thousands of miners to the area and the construction of such towns as Weaverville and Lewiston. Most of the county is forest land and some of the most beautiful scenery and natural lakes are found in the Trinity Alps Wilderness, so named because its snow-capped peaks are reminiscent of the Swiss Alps. The Trinity River, designated as a wild and scenic river, provides opportunities for kayaking, rafting, fishing, and swimming. Resorts in the Coffee Creek area, just north of Trinity Lake, offer horseback riding, cabins, and recreational activities.  

Weaverville, located along Highway 299, provides a nostalgic step back in time.  One of the most interesting portions of Weaverville's history comes from the 1800's, when as many Chinese men and women inhabited the region as did Euro-Americans; all of them searching for the abundant gold found nearby. In 1852 they established a Taoist place of worship, which burned in 1873.  The new temple, Joss House in the state park of the same name, dedicated in April of 1875, has since been in continuous use as a place of worship.

(click image to enlarge for better viewing)

The three women moved up there to the mountains the day following my mother's graduation from Santa Monica High School in 1933. All was lost. The power was even turned off as she dressed for her graduation in a frock borrowed from a cousin. My grandmother had held the household together nearly on dignity alone, insisting that Margaret (my mom) be able to graduate before they retreated to the available shelter of "the ranch" in Trinity County. In a description of the times, an informative online essay begins:

The decade of the 1930s saw the Great Depression in the United States and many other countries. During this decade large numbers of people lived in poverty, desperately in need of more food, clothing, and shelter. Yet the resources that could produce that food, clothing, and shelter were sitting idle, producing nothing.

Soon after they had moved into the ranch some people from the countryside came asking if Margaret would become the teacher of the one-room schoolhouse, as the previous one had married and moved and they'd been without instruction for awhile. My mother was aghast, and informed them she had only a high school diploma. It was exactly that, a diploma that none other in their area had, which made her seem highly qualified to be their school teacher. My mother declined and years later wondered how her life might have been different if she had simply taken on the challenge, and later, when conditions improved, completed a teaching degree.

Instead, she worked in a small office in Weaverville for a short time before becoming extremely ill with rheumatic fever, after which she regained her health and strength growing a large garden, maintaining the fences surrounding the property, and milking and caring (deeply) for their cow, "Molly."

In the two years they lived there she made wonderful friendships with people she spoke of even in her last years, had suitors who took her to dances at the Grange Hall, and learned to truly love Trinity County for its awesome beauty. In 1935, the word circulated around the countryside that they were moving, and the afternoon before moving day the three of them were inside the cabin finishing the chore of packing when they heard singing..........

From mountainside cabins and all the way from Weaverville, folks who had grown to love my grandmother and her two daughters were walking, riding horses, and driving a few cars toward the cabin at the ranch -- and they were singing Red River Valley. Once congregated, they stood and sang the song together and my mother remembered that it was the most beautiful sound. It is a story she told over and over while I was growing up, and she cried each and every time the song played.

I do believe that it is my favorite of all her stories, and one of my favorite songs my mother taught me. Red River Valley.

{This is the seventh in an undetermined number of songs my mother taught me I'm posting this month in her memory. For background, please visit the post containing the first song, Ivory Tower.}

SidsCardShop uploaded this marvel to youtube, adding this information:

If the video starts and stops repeatedly, go do something else until it has struggled through one time. Restart and it will play properly. I have a pretty fast PC, but I must do that.

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Songs My Mother Taught Me . . . Whistle While You Work

 

{This is the sixth in an undetermined number of songs my mother taught me I'm posting this month in her memory. For background, please visit the post containing the first song, Ivory Tower.}



I found this beautiful, albeit humorous, photo of my mother in one of her albums that wasn't one we looked at with her, not that I can recall anyway. There are some cute pictures of my sister and me in the album, but it is basically a grown-ups display, showing visits from some relatives and old friends, friends from her work and their families, and "Daddy Bob." She nearly married the man we called "Daddy Bob" and I remember being all for it because I loved his teen-aged son and daughter. They were Catholic, something I thought sounded exotic. I have few memories of Bob, so he must have been a quiet drunk. It was his drinking that stopped her from marrying him; she had at least learned that from her years with my father.

This shot, taken by Bob, was in a series with a visiting relative and her spouse, likely at a cabin at Lake Tahoe, but most definitely at some spot in the Sierras where they had enjoyed a getaway from kids and work. My mother was one to ham it up for the camera. I did not inherit that from her. So this was her take on their having spiffed up the little cabin before leaving the key. She didn't usually do housecleaning dressed as she is here. But she always whistled while cleaning, cooking....doing anything around the house. My mother did not sing well, but her whistling was divine: on pitch, pure, melodic, sweet.

Of course she took us to see Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, and all the other Disney movies. In essence, therefore, she taught me all the Disney tunes. Ringing in my memory is this song my mother taught me.....by example. Whistle While You Work.

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Songs My Mother Taught Me . . . Ebb Tide

{This is the fifth in an undetermined number of songs my mother taught me I'm posting this month in her memory. For background, please visit the post containing the first song, Ivory Tower.}


Thursday and Friday, both days and both nights, were heavenly on the Oregon coast. The predicted storm hit as I was checking out of the motel on Saturday morning. So, once again, my October soul journey to the beach included hours walking on the sand. Thinking. Not thinking.

One thought that came into my mind on Thursday evening when I took these shots at Lincoln City beach was a song, one that I hadn't thought of for so long and that was not on my list of possibilities for this month's series of songs my mother taught me. It came gently into my memory as I marveled over the silvery sunset and the beauty of everything in my view. Ebb Tide.

My mother had an album with a photo of the ocean on the cover, and I think the title of the album was Ebb Tide. In any case, it was not an album that I, as a child, appreciated in the slightest. I don't remember any other songs on the album except Ebb Tide, and it was a ghastly organ piece that made me say Ewwww. To this day organ music (with some few exceptions in the classical genre) is about the only music that truly repels me. I hated this instrumental piece as much as my mother loved it. Even when the Righteous Brothers came out with their version in the mid-1960s I rejected Ebb Tide, while very much loving their other work.

So it was a real surprise for Ebb Tide to come to me at the beach, and an even greater surprise to find myself singing the song as I walked (at least the few words I remembered from hearing the Righteous Brothers version on the radio), and an even greater surprise to find myself actually enjoying selecting the version I liked best from numerous versions by many artists in videos at youtube. No surprise, however, that my favorite rendition would be sung by Frank Sinatra. I love Frank Sinatra.......and my mother? She hated him. She didn't have one of his records, so I came to my appreciation of his work later as a young adult. That makes this particular post a real compromise!

Ebb Tide. One of the songs my mother taught me because she so loved the ocean after spending her 'tween and teen years in Santa Monica. She was so content retiring in Oregon an hours drive from the coast, where we scattered her ashes as she requested, and where I feel closest to her.

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imagine whirled peas and no violins*

Music House by Valerie Walsh




Needing a break from the videos I've been posting of songs my mother taught me, I've refreshed my mind tonight by looking at art and photography online. Of all genres, many appealed to me for different reasons.....this one especially for its expressive charm. I just love it, not only because it describes the houses of my childhood - but because it is a powerful reminder that I have still not taken violin lessons. I bought my violin two years ago after taking a fiddle workshop for adults conducted during our town's arts festival. It was taught by a classical violin teacher who has been with our school system for decades, and by a free-wheeling New Orleans-style fiddler (he calls his style "swamp rock"). They wondered: would this work? ...offering at a small price a five-night course for adults with little or no violin experience, and have them playing a song together at the end of the week? Well, it did work. It was one of the best times I've had in a decade and I consulted the classical teacher about the appropriate beginners violin to purchase, not expensive but not tacky either. We were all set for lessons when her elderly mother grew ill, and time went by that turned into years.

I was meant to find this artwork tonight. Because my silent violin is waiting for me.

 * a variation on quotes about imagining world peace and societies without violence - original author unknown

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Songs My Mother Taught Me . . . Barney Google (With the Goo-Goo-Googly Eyes)

{This is the fourth in an undetermined number of songs my mother taught me I'm posting this month in her memory. For background, please visit the post containing the first song, Ivory Tower.}

My mother sang a song from her own childhood for my little sister and me when we were kids that made us all giddy, especially when we learned enough to sing the chorus along with her. Barney Google (With the Goo-Goo-Googly Eyes), for us, however, had nothing to do with all I've learned about the comic strip while putting this post together. I love political cartoons but have never been a huge comic strip fan, so I didn't know until now that the comic strip was the inspiration for the song. So, if not about a comic character, what exactly was the significance of Barney Google for my mother and then for us?

It involved memories of her childhood pet turtle, named Barney Google by her brothers. No photos survived the years but I imagine Barney Google looked something like this turtle named Zeppe discovered here with other great photos of turtles of all kinds. From her description of him it's most likely that Barney Google was an Eastern Box Turtle.

My mother's family lived in New Rochelle, New York during the time they had the pet turtle, in a large three-story home with large front and back yards. Barney Google slept inside the house, in a wooden box with damp wood shavings, from which he was removed each morning by Nellie, my grandmother, who was up early to begin breakfast for my grandfather, their three sons, and my mother, who was the youngest in the family. At dawn, Nellie put Barney Google outside in the flower garden against the back of the house. And the turtle's day began. It was comprised of the exact same daily walk, snacking and sleeping along the way. Always heading in the same direction, Barney Google walked slowly in the sheltered, soft border around the circumference of the house, one time around. To my childhood wonder (and it still amazes me to think of it now), the trek around the house took him exactly until dinner time, when he could be found waiting at the bottom of the back porch steps to be carried inside.

As winter approached and it was evident that Barney Google was ready to hibernate, a place was made for him in a part of the basement where the floor was dirt and he dug in using the soil and wood shavings. The family checked his area periodically during the winter, but Nellie was in tune with the rhythms of nature and usually approached Barney Google's corner of the basement in spring to find signs that he was awakening.

The end of the story is sad. A special container was readied for Barney Google's transport when the family moved some years later to Florida. My mind has blocked the particulars that used to make me cry hysterically as a child. What I recall is that the water supply spilled or wasn't sufficient for the length of the trip. Barney Google did not survive the move.

(More information about the Eastern Box turtle)

"Edison Blue Amberol cylinder record No. 4757, by Billy Jones and Ernest Hare, recorded April 13, 1923. This cylinder recording was dubbed from an Edison Diamond Disc record," writes phonophilo who uploaded this great addition to youtube, adding "This record is being played on my table top Edison Amberola DX cylinder phonograph which was manufactured in 1914." ...........[My mother was born in 1915, so it's likely that she listened to Barney Google on a phonograph similar to this.] 

BARNEY GOOGLE lyrics

(Rose / De Beck / Con Conrad)
Billy Jones & Ernest Hare, Thomas & West 

Who's the most important man this country ever knew?
Do you know what politician I have reference to?
Well, it isn't Mr. Bryan, and it isn't Mr. Hughes.
I've got a hunch that to that bunch I'm going to introduce:
(Again you're wrong and to this throng I'm going to Introduce:)
Barney Google, with the goo-goo-goo-ga-ly eyes.
Barney Google had a wife three times his size
She stood Barney for divorce
Now he's living with his horse

Barney Google, with the goo-goo-goo-ga-ly eyes.
Barney Google bet his horse would win the prize.
When the horses ran that day, Spark Plug ran the other way.
Barney Google, with the goo-goo-goo-ga-ly eyes. 

Who's the greatest lover that this country ever knew?
And who's the man that Valentino takes his hat off to?
No, it isn't Douglas Fairbanks that the ladies rave about.
When he arrives, who makes the wives chase all their husbands 
out? 
Why, it's Barney Google, with the goo-goo-goo-ga-ly eyes.
Barney Google is the guy who never buys.
Women take him out to dine, then he steals the waiter's dime.
Barney Google, with the goo-goo-goo-ga-ly eyes.

Barney Google, with the goo-goo-goo-ga-ly eyes.
Barney Google is the luckiest of guys.
If he fell in to the mud, he'd come up with a diamond stud.
Barney Google with the goo-goo-goo-ga-ly eyes.

Who's the greatest fire chief this country ever saw?
Who's the man who loves to hear the blazing buildings roar?
Anytime the house is burning, and the flames leap all about,
Say, tell me do, who goes, "kerchoo!" and puts the fire out?
Barney Google, with the goo-goo-goo-ga-ly eyes.
Barney Google, thought his horse could win the prize.
He got odds of ten to eight; Spark Plug came in three days late.
Barney Google, with the goo-goo-goo-ga-ly eyes.

Barney Google, with the goo-goo-goo-ga-ly eyes.
Barney Google tried to enter paradise.
When Saint Peter saw his face, he said, "Go to the other place".
Barney Google, with the goo-goo-goo-ga-ly eyes.

From the official Barney Google comic strip website:

Barney Google and Snuffy Smith is one of the longest-running comic strips in history. Created by Billy DeBeck in 1919, it first appeared in the sports section of the Chicago Herald and Examiner as "Take Barney Google, F'rinstance." It starred the cigar-smoking, sports-loving, poker-playing, girl-chasing ne'er-do-well Barney Google. By October of that year, the strip was distributed by King Features to newspapers all across the country.

In 1942, Barney Google was inherited by DeBeck's long-time assistant, Fred Lasswell, who continued to draw the strip until his death in March 2001. John Rose, who inked the strip for Lasswell, continues the tradition today.

This tremendously popular feature boasts clients in 21 countries and 11 languages. It has added several phrases to the American vernacular, including "sweet mama," "horsefeathers," "heebie-jeebies" and "hotsie-totsie." It has been the inspiration for a hit song, "Barney Google (With Your Goo-Goo-Googly Eyes)," and is one of a few historical comic strips to be honored on a special set of U.S. postage stamps.

Does the origination of Google's name have anything to do with old Barney Google? According to a blogger in France, the answer is no.....or?


Available at ebay for $2,499.99  !  (There are other vintage Barney Google and Spark Plug items at this ebay page.)

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