Some of us had a very good day

Not Toby, who would not face it!

Four cans of bird seed 

Filled five bird feeders, just in the nick of time.

And, Laura made jazz band.

She's so excited!

While waiting for the snow to melt…

Today was in the forties, but we have beau coup snow left. Like waiting for paint to dry, especially as it will rain, then snow tomorrow.

Emily and Hamilton performed in their winter concerts last night. No pictures were taken; nothing has changed except Emily’s hair is shorter, and Hamilton and I had our bi-monthly haircuts last weekend. Emily is still first chair, second row, White Band flute; Hamilton is still second chair, Blue Band trombone.

Emily believes she will challenge for last chair, first row flute. She prefers playing those notes and “is better than last chair first row,” who she would challenge. I love these self imposed competitions. I asked if she ever practiced first row, just for fun. Not only that, she accidentally played a line for first row at practice. “What happened?” “Mrs. Foulkes just stared at me!” “Hmm, accident or marker?” “Could be,” said Miss Em.

I went to keep Laura company while she took extra credit notes on the high school bands. An evening of symphonic band is not high on my list. But, the White Band brought me to tears with their closing number, The Light Eternal, written in honor of the 605 men, of 904 aboard, who lost their lives when the SS Dorchester troop transport sank in February, 1943. Four of the men lost were army chaplains, representing four different faiths. I looked over at Laura when the tension peaked and the siren called General Quarters. She was focused and intent. Later, “It frightened me!” Well done, White Band.

Then the Blue Band, good, then the Percussion Ensemble and Shock Factor. Even I could admit it needed students spotted around the audience to help the ensemble shout Shock!

Finally, the Wind Symphony. I wasn't following along the program in my pocket, and was surprised when Mrs. O’Connor announced Variations on a Korean Folk Song, additionally announcing it was one of the requirements of state band contest rankings. The Wind Symphony will participate in one such tomorrow.

For those of you not old hippies, we learned Arirang from Pete Seeger. So, from my expertise, I can tell you the Wind Symphony should get a solid A+ for their version of the song at their competition tomorrow. They took us there, they took us around, then brought us back with their version.

Here is Arirang by Pete. Don’t be put off by the mild criticism of Pete’s back story to the song on the YouTube site. Some day they will grow old and realize that is the nature of a folk song; the melody lives forever and serves other purposes from time to time.

The words in the music

I've read little in blogland on the passing of Pete Seeger late last month. I did read the complete transcript of his appearance before the House Committee on Un-American Activities. He was certainly as relentless as his questioners.

Pete Seeger was my gateway to both folk music and activism. I stumbled into the music easily enough, in the first weeks of my freshman year at college. Soon there was a group of us, sitting around a big record player, listening to each other’s records.

The group was so diverse; Ernesto, whose family escaped Hungary just before their revolution. He had incredible Italian and Hungarian albums. Mim, an English girl, with Weavers albums. Two German fellows, Hans (red hair!), and the other an American, Alan. Me, Irish. And more, listening to the music, analyzing, criticizing.

I've mentioned once or twice, I’m tone deaf. Cannot carry any tune. If I sing in the car, my sister turns on the radio.  So little appreciation! Even I know, belting out a song, alone in my car, I am an awful singer. But, it’s the words that matter.

The words were about ideas, issues, history. I didn't learn Irish history from The Clancy Brothers, but I learned concepts, events, times to look up. I didn't learn activism from Pete Seeger or Woody Gutherie, I learned where to look in the library for the history of the labor movement and social activism. Young Bob Dylan carried Woody Guthrie’s torch for us; remember Deportees, together with Joan Baez? Wow.

I didn't get on a bus to protest, but I marched to protest the bombing of Cambodia. I didn't go to the March on Washington, but I did stand with locked arms in front of bulldozers intending to demolish a street of trees to widen a boulevard in Cleveland. Almost fifty years ago, and trees still line the old boulevard.

It took a Pete Seeger and his magnificent voice to help the country to integration. Deep in my heart I do believe, we shall overcome some day, his voice soaring to the heavens to lift the movement along. Hollering to us to join in.

The generation moved along into their thirties; we got responsibilities. The war and the urgency ended, save for the new environmental activists like Pete Seeger and the Hudson River he set out to save, single handedly if need be.

I got tickets round for some friends when Pete Seeger and Arlo Guthrie were in Cleveland. Old friends, but newer than my college days. They were up for a night out. Pete warmed us up a bit, then demanded to know how many were drug there! Laughter. He demanded a show of hands, and a sea of hands went up. Another round of laughter. “You having a good time?” A resounding “Yes!”

I almost met him once, at a folk festival. He was talking to my sister, behind me. I heard him say, “This has been nice. Now I need to find Mother.”

“Who was that,” I asked when I could turn around. “I think his name is Pete Seeger,” my sister replied.

LUCAS JACKSON / REUTERS/LANDOV

Click on the picture, make it big, read the banjo head:

This machine surrounds hate and forces it to surrender.

Woody Guthrie's banjo surrounded fascism, to force it to surrender.

Leadbelly's 12 string guitar didn't say anything, but spoke just as loud.

First coronet

Disclaimer:  post written by a tin eared grandma.

At the end of last semester Uncle Tom and I went to Laura’s band performance.  There are two bands in her elementary school, the Tuesday/Thursday and the Wednesday/Friday.  Each has sixty five or so members.  At the end of the performance the band teacher said we heard the group all playing the same note; next semester they will learn harmony.

Uncle Tom said that little girl plays a nice trumpet; with a little more direction she could be even better.  Now, Uncle Tom knows how music is made.  He played trumpet in his own high school band back in 1960-something and he never hesitated to send her back to replay the last ten minutes of her twenty minutes per evening of practice, or make a change in her breathing, or whatever one does to a trumpet.

For Christmas he gave her a music stand for practice.  “She sits on her bed, looking down at that music, and that’s no way to play a trumpet!”  So, every evening, after the dishes, we are treated to twenty minutes of trumpet notes floating down the stairs.  I enjoy it, and often can name the tune.  Sometimes Uncle Tom remarks on the music and goes up to make a correction.

Laura took some teasing at the supper table recently; apparently Emily and Hamilton, who also play musical instruments in the high school band, realized Laura has put in a lot of time on a single piece lately.  Uncle Tom cut off their teasing; even if Laura didn’t play a good little trumpet, she’s his favorite great niece. “Tell them what you’re doing, Laura.”

“I’m trying out for first coronet.”

Some time was spent explaining to grandma that a trumpet can play the coronet part.  Several little trumpet players were given the music and there will be a tryout soon.  The piece is called Snap, Crackle, Bop.

Hamilton teased Laura, she was challenging the other players.

“No I’m not; I’ll just play it the best.”

I told Laura it was admirable to strive to do her very best.

“Yes, Gramma.  I want to sit in first chair, too.”

Red berry trees on a cold and dreary day

Emily’s high school band, and many, many others, are playing at Severance Hall in Cleveland, today.  A beautiful concert hall.  I bought tickets around for family members who don’t share my tin ear.  Tom and Hamilton dropped Emily at her school bus and went on up to Cleveland.  Tom wouldn’t miss this for anything and Hamilton is interested in hearing how his new band performs.

That boy will be just fine.  He sat in on their swing band practice the other night and a regular band class during the week.  His trombone is in the shop, but we hope to have it back in his hands tonight.   At supper Emily teased him about being at the back of the pack of trombones in the band.  He snorted.  “I’m better than the best of them!”  Now, I’ve never raised boys, and I had to grin.  “You still need to try out, Mister,” she reminded him.  Good to have him here.

Coming back from an errand we pulled into a drive to take a picture of a red berry tree, half stripped of berries, but plenty left for the birds. I have no idea what tree this is, many have red berries in winter.  They are cheerful to see on such a dreary day.