A week on the road

Wednesday, July 3: A beginning

Mrs C. helped me carry my gear to the car. "I want to see you get everything in," she said. I am traveling alone, but I will be on the road for eighteen days and have packed many things. I have what I need to sleep in the car; I have what I need for the Hymn Society conference; I have food for many days, mostly dried fruit, nuts and seeds, whole wheat tortillas, a box of granola bars, a gallon of water which I plan to replenish at rest areas. Mrs. C. shakes her head at the quantity of baggage.

Everything fits.

I am driving the new 2013 Toyota Corolla; 312 miles on the odometer as I begin what will be a journey of almost three thousand miles. One of the principal objectives of this trip is to gently break in this vehicle. The first thousand miles are critical, and if driven carefully, the engine and transmission are on their way to a long life, God willing.

I eschew the interstates for this purpose, seeking to vary the highway speed in a range from 45 to 55 miles per hour, up to 60 if I must make a foray onto the interstate (as soon proves to be the case, when part of my chosen route is closed because of flooding, with a detour to I-80, and later another twenty miles on I-74). I plan on taking frequent and long breaks, having read that in this initial break-in, one should stop for an hour or so after every two hours of driving.

This is precisely the manner in which I most love to travel cross-country.

First stop: a civic park on U.S. 6 in small-town Iowa for Matins. I have brought my Hebrew Psalter, so the appointed psalms take about a half-hour to read. Halfway through Psalm 16, an elderly man crosses the street and comes straight up to me. "Where are you from?" he asks; it is a sufficiently small town that he knows I don't live there. I tell him, and add that I am on my way Out East to visit family. I lay my office books aside and chat. His name is Skip; he is 83 years old, retired from a career as a barber; his shop used to be right across the street. We talk of the notable restaurant that used to be next to his shop; until it closed, I would try to time my trips along this road to arrive at dinnertime. Their macaroni salad, their potato salad, their versatility with what used to be called "congealed salads," were legendary. I have heard that their pork tenderloin was equally memorable, though I cannot speak to that from experience. The restaurant is no more; even the building is gone, replaced by a parking lot.

Second stop: another attempt at Matins, at a rest area on I-74 in Illinois. It is almost noon by now, and a family is having a picnic lunch nearby. The two small children eye me with curiosity. The second lesson is Philip and the Ethiopian, a good story for a day on the road. Like him, I proceed "on my way rejoicing."

Third stop: a civic park in a mid-sized town on U.S. 24, still in Illinois. It is almost 4:00 by now, and hot. I find a shaded picnic table in the deserted park and spend an hour writing of the day.

July 3, 1863, one hundred and fifty years ago today: the third day of the Battle of Gettysburg, with Pickett's Charge. "Always remember that you are from Old Virginia," he cried to the men as they started across the field. As ever, my mind fills with "what ifs." What if Jackson had lived, and led his corps on the first day? What if Longstreet had not been so obstinate? What if the artillery had not overshot the Union lines as the guns grew hot, spending most of their ammunition with little damage to the foe? Despite it all, they almost did it; they reached the Union lines and almost broke them.

But they didn't. So many brave men -- Virginians, Carolinians, Georgians, men of Mississippi, Alabama, Florida, Texas, Tennessee, units from every state in the Confederacy -- men from my home town among them -- dead on that field.

May they rest in peace, and their Union brothers with them.
May I always remember them, and remember that I too am from Old Virginia.

Independence Day

West Virginia, that would be. It became a state that summer of 1863, though there was almost no Union sympathy in my part of the state. My feelings about the making of West Virginia are a mixture of pride in the mountains and their cantankerous, independent people; and shame that we left Old Virginia and the Confederacy. Well: Jackson and many of his men were from what is now the Mountain State. There is no shame in that.

I sing Matins on this Independence Day in the parking area across the street from the birthplace of a man who did more for this country than most: Ulysses S Grant. As with the Battle of Gettysburg, this week marks the 150th anniversary of one of General Grant's triumphs: the surrender of Vicksburg after a long siege. In this campaign, Grant showed his considerable perseverance.

On travel days, I am mostly silent except for the Daily Office. But the Toyota has a modern audio system with a CD player. We have never had one of these in a vehicle, so I packed the three-CD soundtrack to the Lord of the Rings movies. Today is rainy, so I worked through all of them as the day progressed, repeating many of the tracks as I went.

For a project such as LOTR, the composer Howard Shore drew heavily on Wagner. As I listen this day, I find more influence from Bruckner than I had remembered, especially in the use of horns and low brass, and the choral voicings (very much like those in the second Mass setting of Bruckner, the one in eight parts with wind orchestra). It is good music, suitable for its purpose. That purpose, the accompaniment of visual action, causes it to be disjointed, held together mostly by its leitmotifs and the relationships of key centers, but the same can be said of Wagner's operas. I will not pretend that Shore's music is the equal of Bruckner's or Wagner's, but there is much that I can learn from it.

The rain continues all day, heavily at times. I finish the day at my base of operations for the next two days: the travel plaza on I-77 in Beckley. It proves a good vantage for the city's fireworks display. Before saying Compline and drifting off to sleep, I sit in the Toyota watching the fireworks and listening to the final tracks of Return of the King.

Lay down your sweet and weary head;
Night is falling, you have come to journey's end.
Sleep now, and dream of the ones who came before;
They are calling from across the distant shore...
(from the closing song, "Into the West")

July 5: Kinfolk

I visit three of my cousins, and decant a shot of white lightning from its mason jar, saved from my uncle's funeral. We toast our ancestors and talk of old times. I lived in that little valley for a while; I could have stayed. But my vocation lay elsewhere.

I return to the travel plaza for the night, which becomes rainy and cool; a good night for sleeping. The windows fog, the rain beats on the roof. I settle into the passenger seat under my sleeping bag and bless the Lord.

July 6: Memorials and collard greens

Onward: this is the day to visit the graves of my parents. I bring them white daisies and read part of the Burial Office, Rite One. I eat at the cafeteria where I used to take my mother; their collard greens, mashed potatoes, and soft rolls are as splendid as I had remembered.

I visit also the Confederate Memorial and the graves of those who died in defense of this town. Someone has planted old-time perennial flowers around the granite monument. I do not go by the old home place, but I look for the oak tree from the memorial; yes, there it is. My head spins in sudden memory of standing on that spot, a boy of eight or nine years, doing the same -- looking for our oak tree.

Onward again: to East Tennessee for the Lord's Day.

July 7: A Sunday among Presbyterians

Summer mornings come gently out here. I eat breakfast and sing Matins from the edge of a truck stop parking lot. The hills are shrouded in mist; the sun rises through the clouds. It is fully 10:00 before the morning clouds and mists disperse into a clear day. When I lived briefly in the Caribbean many years ago, I longed for mornings like this. There I was surrounded by sunshine, but my dreams were of foggy mountains, of grey soft mornings like those of the southern Appalachians.

I have returned to the town where we lived for seventeen years, probably the best and most productive of my years in this life. I miss this place.

The fine long main street now has many restaurants and antique shops where there had been empty storefronts. The upper storeys of some of these buildings have been made into lofts, luxury condominiums. But I when I turn left into the neighborhood of my former church and our home across the street, almost nothing has changed.

When we lived there, two dogwoods, two large holly trees, and an old lilac bush graced the front yard; all are now gone save one dogwood. The house is unchanged. The old garage, already bedraggled in our time, now leans slightly to the left.

Across the street at the church, I am most struck by the trees. I remember the planting of a row of saplings along the street; they are now thirty feet tall. The old single-pane windows in the office-and-classroom wing have been replaced with energy efficient (and, I learn, un-openable) windows. And they have air-conditioned the choir room and music office. I think of the long sultry afternoons at my desk, sweat pouring down in the ninety-degree temperature, or at the piano in the choir room, the windows wide open to the natural world. I miss those days.

The church has a front lawn of about two acres, needing only a flock of sheep to remind one of certain English cathedrals. A few years ago, they dug up this expanse of lawn, laid several miles of crisscrossing pipes, and installed geothermal heating and cooling as a commitment to environmental sustainability. Blessings be on them for this.

I last attended a service at F.P.C. fourteen years ago, and wondered whether anyone would recognize me, or I them. The moment I walked into the nave, Bob and Betty and their daughter Scottie saw me and immediately recognized me. Soon I was surrounded by a group of old-timers. I was deeply moved that they had not forgotten me.

Later, at the offertory, the usher that handed me an offering plate was K., a veteran of the girls' choir and former piano student, now grown plump and looking much like I remember her mother. She almost dropped the plate when she recognized me, a smile of delight on her face. After church I met her husband and two children, and we talked. "Are you still composing?" she asked. Nonplussed at such a question, I answered: "When I have to." She told me that the two pieces she most remembered from choir were Rutter's "All things bright and beautiful" and one that I wrote for the girls and had almost forgotten, a setting of the Genevan text and tune for Psalm 43. "I enjoyed choir," she said, "but I didn't realize what we had until my children got to choir age and I saw what they sang. Little children's songs." She paused, and added: "You taught us to sing quality music. Thank you."

The singing choirs are on vacation: the handbell choir plays a prelude, part of a hymn accompaniment, and a piece at the offertory that I had taught them. Three of the ringers date from my tenure, and I talked of old-timers with them afterwards: Jim, Lou, Bonnie - who I learned is now married to Gene, who (then and now) is a tenor in the singing choir.

I sit at church with Pat and Beth. It is a delight to sing the hymns with them: Pat's fine clear tenor, Beth's clear intelligent alto, all three of us singing the harmony parts. I notice how well they sing, with good phrase shape and diction. I had made music with them for seventeen years, but never until today had I sung at their side.

Several passages in the Revelation of St. John the Divine imply that the Body of Christ will finally be one, fulfilling the prayer of John 17, only when we sing together (e.g., Rev. 5:8-14). Today, singing with these old friends, is a glimpse of that day.

They take me around the church. The parish hall has been redone, now primarily designed as the worship space for their contemporary congregation, with stage, drumset, microphones, amps, speakers, screens, and no cross or other Christian symbol in sight. It is the larger of the two Sunday congregations.

The old Chapel is about the same, with its fine 19th century stained glass, moved from the congregation's previous building. The Hammond organ is gone, but the fine old wooden chairs remain. In room after room I encounter more old friends -- the pianos I used to tend. The church used to have thirteen upright pianos; I see six today, and others may be in the education wing. The old choir room Baldwin grand is now in the chapel, replacing the Hammond; the big nine-foot Knabe that was rebuilt during my tenure is still in the front of the nave; the seven-foot Steinway (which I had restrung) has been moved from the organ gallery to the choir room. Most of all, the pipe organ that was installed during my tenure remains in place, impressive and full-bodied.

In the evening, Pat and Beth make a dinner for me. The guests are Al and Loretta, whose three girls were choristers, and whom (all of them) I had grown to love; Ann and Pete, who sang in the church choir and whose two girls were also choristers; Steve and Vicki, my successors at the church. I am pleased to finally meet them, and even more pleased to see how deeply they have immersed themselves in this congregation and community. They have done excellent work, better than mine.

[Before church, I had stepped into the parish library, unchanged from my days, and saluted the portrait of my predecessor of blessed memory, Clifford L. He was there longer than any of us, almost forty years, and was the one who made F.P.C. a place for good music.]

I am glad that I came back. I miss this place and these people. But my parting from them is not forever.

From the "About Me" sidebar of this blog:

There is no greater privilege for a church musician than to help the congregation give voice to its prayers and praise. I sing the Daily Offices; the constant flow of Psalmody, Scripture and prayer are the foundations of my life... I look "for that blessed hope, and the glorious appearing of the great God and our Saviour Jesus Christ" (Titus 2:13). I hope to follow him as long as this life lasts, and be granted mercy when I see him face to face. I hope to sing his praises forever, alongside the choristers I have worked with in this life and alongside every creature in heaven and on earth.