Intersections Of A Different Sort

The fun in travel is discovering new intersections – not so much of roads – but of relationships. On our recent Christmas in England, we had several examples of the role serendipity plays in making travel interesting and often amusing.

On the flight to London, I happened to have brief exchange with one of the flight attendants, a jolly middle-aged blonde named Susan. It was about the fact that “cream” in airline lingo does not mean cream at all, but half-and- half. That was all they had on the flight, but then she asked when we were coming back. Upon hearing the date, she said she was assigned to that flight and would sneak some proper cream from the first class cabin so that my coffee would be as I liked it. Uh-huh, thought I.

At the cabin door ten days later, she greeted me as the “cream man,” and before take-off, we had a fine chat. Turns out she hadn’t been home much at Christmas, home being Salt Lake City, but she and her husband were coming to London early in the new year for a few days “without the kids.”

We did not know that our first intersection would be in the air enroute to England, but we shall treasure it, because she made us feel like good acquaintances and not like sheep in a pen heading for the abbatoir.

In fact her generosity of spirit was the first of several presents we received along the way.

Oh, and the cream was deeeeeeelish! Many thanks, Susan. Happy New Year to you and yours, and many smooth flights in the years ahead. You were delightful.

One day, we were coming out of the tube and near the top of the stairs we saw a young woman struggling to get her bright yellow suitcase up that last step. “Old guy ready to help,” I shouted and manged to assist her in getting her case to the top and level ground. She was quite young and smiled in relief. “I have taken the train all the way from Switzerland today,” she exclaimed, “and I live just over there,” she added with a pointed finger in exclamation.” She thanked us and added “Happy New Year” with a great big smile and crossed the street on the way to her 2010.

The last morning, we were finishing breakfast at Carluccio’s just across from the South Kensington tube station (both highly recommended). In getting up, I inadvertently knocked over my chair which hit the floor with a tremendous crack and thus frightening the woman at the table behind. I apologized and noticed her son had an iPhone. So do I, so I asked him how many apps he had. “Too many,” interrupted his father.

I asked the lad if he had “Lumosity,” and when he said he did not, I encouraged him to get it so that he could beat his father and so get even more apps. Turns out the father attended the choir school at King’s College, Cambridge, an institution with which I have had a long relationship. More Happy New Years wishes and several variations of “Have a safe trip.”

Getting off the tube at Heathrow, we took a lift with a young woman who seemed very concerned. Once off the elevator, she started looking around for her flight. Karen sensed her concern and stopped to help. Her flight for home in Athens left several hours later and - like the rest of us - a new language and new airline procedures left her anxious and fearful. So Karen went to work, calmed her down, and as we had a flight to catch shortly, we headed off, but the young woman we left was now calmer, and the last thing she said to us was, "God bless you." Another gift happily received.

We have several friends in London, Cambridge, and Norfolk, and every one we saw during our adventure made a special effort to help us celebrate Christmas – not always an easy task so far from home. From leaving home in the suburbs to join us for a meal and events in London, to adding us to a Christmas celebration and preparing meals which were memorable. One of these included the following libations – sparkling white wine, aquavit, red wine, and whisky. That no one suffered a hangover after this was something of a minor miracle.

And the friends we travelled with were positive, supporting, curious, independent, kind, generous, and tolerant. While this Christmas had few of what most would describe as presents, we were surrounded by gifts from friends and strangers, and the result was a Christmas which will live in our memories forever.

Riding on waves of kindness from friends and strangers -there could be no better to slip into January.

Happy New Year to you and yours!

When I began blogging some years ago, I was always surprised and delighted when a reaction to something I'd written arrived on the electronic doorstep. Seven years ago, I received a response from Terry Riley, this year's guest Christmas screedist. Terry remained hard to find, but each year he would send along his reaction to what I'd written, and I've always liked what he thought and his way of expressing his ideas.

My schedule this year made it difficult for me to think about writing something, but - for the first time - Terry beat me to it. I asked his permission to reproduce his message, and he generously gave it. I look forward to providing him with my reaction when I come up for air. All good wishes of the season to you and yours.

Nick Nash

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16th December 2009

Dear Nick,

As you are closing early for Christmas this year I wasn’t sure if you were going to be able to squeeze in a 2009 Christmas Screed. And as it is my tradition to read and offer a (hopefully) thoughtful response I figured I better fire off a pre-emptive Christmas Screed note.

You may be wondering why I write once a year. To be honest I’ve always had intentions of writing more frequently. But I guess you know what they say about good intentions. But I think my motivation for writing comes from my interest in and desire to talk about Christmas and its meanings. Add to that the phenomena of changing attitudes to how we embrace (or not) the holiday season as we get older. I guess it’s a time for reflection, not just on Christmas itself but on our lives, relationships and ways in which we interact with the world.

I also write because I met you once. I actually interviewed for a job with your company back in the early 90s. I’ve since gone on to work at a variety of companies in the Twin Cities, and am currently doing market research-related work in White Bear Lake. I found you to be an interesting, thoughtful person, in addition to being brave enough to launch your own business.

At any rate, the first time I read one of your essays -- Christmas of 2002 I believe – I had a strong emotional reaction. You seemed to hit the nail on the head in terms of how I approach Christmas conceptually, but for which I am usually not articulate enough to express. I just had to say, in the form of a response, how much I appreciated your thoughtful words.

To me Christmas is a many-splendored, bittersweet, lovely and melancholy time, incorporating a variety of elements and emotions. Although I was raised as a Catholic, I’m by no means devout in the practice of that particular flavor. I’m in the believer camp, however, and certainly the Nativity and all its glories comprise a rather large chunk of my personal holiday hodge-podge. There are other elements as well, many of which date back to pagan times and which we still incorporate in our celebrating. And of course the feelings of warmth, generosity and general good will that seem to bubble up at this time of year. There seems to be a strong need to reconnect with friends and family at Christmastide that is not as strong at other times of the year.

And I usually have no trouble conjuring up a decent dose of Christmas spirit and pride myself on being able to cut through the commercialism and extraneous clutter to keep Christmas in a personal way. This year, however, I’m experiencing extreme CSD – Christmas Spirit Dysfunction. I just can’t seem to get it going. I need to, however, as I have two small children who are still in the wonderment stages of their lives with respect to Christmas. But maybe my age (50) is working against me. Mid-life angst could be a drag on the whole thing I suppose.

I’m sorry if I’m telling you things you may have already experienced in your own life, like I’m the first one to experience them. I will say, however, that I’m not giving up yet, and will do my best to keep Christmas, if any man alive possesses the knowledge (to borrow from Dickens).

I'd like to close with a few of the words from what has recently become one of my favorite English carols -- "See Amid the Winter Snow."

Teach o teach us holy Child,
By thy face so meek and mild,
Teach us to resemble thee,
In thy sweet humility

I think we all would do well to consider these words this Christmastide and in the coming new year.

Terry Riley

Remembering Elisabeth Söderström

I first fell in love with the Swedish soprano Elisabeth Söderström as a teenager listening to a long playing record which my father played frequently. She sounded convincing and exquisite, but at that age, I was unable to learn much about her.

Decades later, I was working in public radio and on a trip to London discovered the BBC had made some spoken word programs with her, and I asked to listen to a couple of them. I did and fell in love with several quite different aspects of her voice - her intelligence, her sensitivity, her sense of humor, and her commitment to the art of singing.

In an instant, I decided that I needed to make a radio program with her...something to help people better understand both the art of song and the art song. Because I knew nothing about music, who better to open my eyes and ears than Elisabeth?

In her recitals, she often spoke about the next song to give the audience a perspective on it and to help deepen their understanding; I believe that she thought very carefully about what she was going to say, and the words were essential to the full appreciation of the performance. Her way of doing this helped the audience appreciate not just the voice and the performance but also the warm, funny, and intelligent person behind the notes.

About the same time, I met the Swedish baritone Håkan Hagegård; he was intrigued with the idea of working with Elisabeth, and then the American accompanist Warren Jones joined our group. I had developed some contacts with Swedish Radio, and they were intrigued and agreed to participate as the lead producer.

And so I fell in love with Elisabeth yet again. We made the programs in western Sweden, in Håkan's local church, and our time together was one of the highlights of my life - to work with highly talented performers, producers, and technicians was such a great privilege. Three one hour programs in both English and Swedish, culminating in a recital at Berwald Hall in Stockholm. I wanted to call the programs "Take Me To Your Lieder," but the Swedes preferred "Sing Me A Song," and they prevailed. (I still prefer my idea [naturally].

Our lunch break was not in the church but in a hostel across the road. The wife cooked, and the husband served, and at the end of the meal every day, Elisabeth would head into the kitchen. After a couple of days, I asked her why she did that. "To thank the cook," she said, adding, "It takes so little, and it seems to mean something."

Elisabeth was a consummate artist who could handle the great gestures of grand opera, but she provided all the little gestures, too. Her eyes were on the stars, but her feet were solidly on the ground. Always.

Hard to believe it was twenty two years ago because the memories are still so fresh. After the series was broadcast, I saw Elisabeth in Stockholm, London, and New York. Eventually she retired after a turn at running the Drottiningholm Court Theatre where she made her debut, and I heard that she had been having some major health problems.

She slipped off life's stage earlier this week, leaving many of us deeply saddened. If you saw her in performance you never forgot her; if you heard her tell a story, it remained indelibly told. No one's eyes sparkled like hers, no one had a laugh like hers. Just being around her made the day special.

She was one of a kind, and I feel triply blessed to have known her a little bit and to have been one of the multitudes of people who loved her for her art, heart, and, more importantly, for her humanity.

Something Old, Something New

Having reached my three score and seven, I have pretty much given up on contemporary music. Hell, with the exception of Carly Simon, I gave up on contemporary music something over four decades ago. I have always thought that decision to have been a good one...until last week.

I was listening to Wake Up With Wogan on BBC's Radio Two. He's probably the best I've ever heard in morning radio (and I've heard and know some great ones), but next month he's retiring, even though he is clearly still at the top of his game. The Beeb is giving him some sort of weekly show, so that the next young bucko can come into the morning and try to hold onto Wogan's very large audience.

But I digress.

Last week, I was in my office working on some orders while I listened to Wogan, and he played a song called "Story." I couldn't quite figure out the lyrics, but the performance and arrangement knocked me over. I couldn't quite get the name of the artist, so I checked the play list on the BBC's web-site (thank you, thank you), and I found that the artist is Leddra Chapman (aka Anna Leddra-Chapman in some places), and she writes her own material. Based on what I've heard, she's off to a great start.

Her first album comes out later this month in the UK, and so, after all these years, I've succumbed - again - to the blandishments of the music of the young and talented and happily so.

Have a look-see and a listen....

Postscript: I downloaded a couple of tracks from her MySpace web-site, burned them to a CD, and I have found great pleasure in listening to them over and over as I drive around. Either some element of my own youth has been reawakened, or I am losing it sooner than I thought I would. But I'm reasonably certain it's the former.

I said reasonably.

Bottom line is that her CD will be out in the states next month, and when I'm across the pond for Christmas, guess what CD I'll be looking for....and hoping for printed copies of her lyrics to be included?

.

I'd be interested in hearing your reactions....

And if you think I've slipped my moorings, I'd like to hear that, too.

Persistence Is All

You don't know Roberta Scherf, but you should.

I came to know Roberta when she worked for me in a large non-profit in Saint Paul...this was back in the Dark Ages. Anyway, I decided to hire her after I blabbered about the job description and asked her what she knew about the organization. She told me what she had learned about from her visits to the public library, so she was the only logical choice for the job. A decision I have never regretted.

Well, decades have gone by, and for the last few years she's been developing a product to help kids. As it turns out it helps kids and oldsters, and seems especially well-suited for those with ADD, autism, and related problems.

The product, called "MeMoves" came out of Roberta's experience with a daughter who appeared to be headed for a special education program. Roberta was convinced that this would be a mistake, so she began working with her child doing physical and musical games and such. One day, not long after she began this work, her daughter began to put letters into words, and shortly thereafter she was reading books. (The daughter has grown into the kind of child any parent would want - bright, funny, with dimensions to her thinking and creativity that entrance all who know her.)

With this success Roberta began to teach herself about the relationships between the kind of thing she was doing with her daughter and the results of research into this area of learning and doing. She has gotten to know many of the researchers in the field, and the program she has developed derives from scholarship going on in schools, school systems, treatment centers, geriatric programs, colleges, and universities.

What does this program do? Decreases stress, improves mood, and enhances cognitive focus.

But here's the thing - we live in a world where everything has to be fast, loud, and colorful for adults to be convinced that kids will like it. Yeah, well look at how a cardboard box engages a nine year old.

This program is not fast, not loud, and is thoughtfully colorful. What matters is that it just works - this combination of hand movements and music (great music by the way).

Let me repeat that - it just works. One of my friends described it as a moving meditation, and I think that's about right.

MeMoves is not very expensive and can be used by nearly everyone who needs a break from the breakneck pace of life.

So if you know someone like that, whether they're nine, nineteen, or ninety, please go visit and have a look.

Talk about a present that could last a lifetime...even extend it.

To have a look at MeMoves, click here. If you're intrigued with what you see and hear (and do), then think of a friend with a child who might be having some difficulty in school or a parent who could use an easy-to-do mental "boost," and pass along the web address.

You won't be sorry, and they might well be grateful.

Economic Rage

I was driving back to the office from my monthly Investment Club meeting on one of our freeways. A black sedan entered in the usual way, and I glanced over to confirm that the driver's intentions did not include crashing into the right side of my vehicle.

And for an instant, just an instant, I looked into the eyes of a youngish women with black hair, who gave me a look I have never seen in my life. Honestly. I felt that she wished me not to frying in Hell, or dead, at the very least.

A few seconds later, she dropped back, slid two lanes to get by me, and then she took off, driving like a NASCAR racer, using all four lanes of the free way as her playground. Soon she had disappeared from view.

I said my silent request for a highway patrol person to be around to observe her and to slap her with a very expensive ticket, and I continue to hope.

Her behavior got me wondering about why there seems to be so much aggressive driving these days - people sitting on your bumper at 65 miles per hour, unsignalled lane shifts and turns, headlights off in deep twilight, gestures using single digits, all that.

In the context of the climate of fear, anger, distress, frustration, and loss surrounding us for the last year (with no clear end in sight), perhaps it's easy to understand why so many of us are "acting out," on the highways.

But not excusable.

On other hand, I tend to drive the speed limit, slow down in the rain, and leave my turn signal on accidentally, so I need to understand that I am a rolling obstacle for others. That might also explain why if someone behind me seems to be in such a rush, I just pull over and stop to let them go by.

Over the years, I've tried to understand that driving is a cooperative activity, not a competitive one, and that realization may be one of the benefits of accumulated years....

Walk the Walk, Shout The Talk

Islay, the beloved Scotty and I were taking our morning constitutional...or more accurately put, Islay was dragging me down to the lake near my office before trotting happily and gently back. It was a quiet summer morning, and we we happened upon Clark Avenue, a street divided by a wide grassy park with our Civil War Memorial sculpture and recently planted trees, when we heard screeching.

Turns out two of the younger ambassadors of the opposite gender were on a moderately vigorous walk, and as they made their less than stately progress shoulder to shoulder, they were shouting at each other. A friendly sort of shouting with smiles during the brief hiatus before the shouting started again.

Islay took it in and turned back to her perpetual search for that one squirrel with a really bad hip who can't get to the nearest tree and might become the first quadrupedal mammal to satisfy that ancient lusting after varmints which is her first right as a full- and hot-blooded terrier.

Being a guy, I couldn't understand what the hell the shouting was about. It was a perfectly decent morning - not much traffic about, birds twittering, the occasional boat on the lake buzzing along - and then two Wagnerian sopranos determined to include the world in their observations about the challenges in their lives.

I got that same feeling of primitive hostility which overwhelms me when some adolescent of whatever age turns up the damn boombox he's driving (it's always a he); the thump-thump-thump overwhelms my autonomic nervous system, and I understand why crimes of passion occur. I close all the car windows and turn up the volume to public radio to maintain what equilibrium I have left.

This experience was another in a continuing set of examples which explain why males persons of a certain vintage find the adjective "grumpy" somewhere in the avocational descriptors which an ignorant world uses to put them in an all-too- convenient category.

If the world knew what we know to be true....

Bumps and Such

It's been quite a while since I've posted anything, and even I have been wondering just exactly why that is, but yesterday I came upon, literally, the perfect explanation.

K and I had driven from Saint Paul up to her cabin on the shore of Lake Superior - a fine old place, simple enough to make you reconsider that hyper-electronic life you and I are living with and through these days. We brought the three essentials for a short stay, namely whisky, Islay the scottish terrier, and grub.

We'd agree to meet some friends staying near Ely, Minnesota, the jumping off point for the hardy souls who install themselves in fully laden canoes and paddle to off to discover that what they thought they might discover would be overwhelmed by what they would, in fact, discover...like the three Princes of Serendip, from whose journeys, Horace Walpole coined the word "serendipity." You could look it up.

The road to Ely from the shore of Lake Superior takes off in nearly a straight line through magnificent woodlands, exposed timeless rock, and wonderful mysterious tracks into the woods, leading to what we'll never know. Some miles outside of Ely, the road narrows and begins to resemble a flat slalom course with twists and turns to beat the band.

After a good lunch and some meandering through shops in that interesting little town, we headed homewards, and just outside of town, we came upon a traffic sign - yellow, with black printing, reading -

SCATTERED BUMPS

We laughed and drove on, but that sign struck me as a wonderful metaphor for the lives which most of us live.

The bright and good times happen, and we are pleased when they do, but it's the scattered bumps and the way we manage them which may have more to do with the persons we ultimately become.

I don't want to beat this drum too hard, but in reflecting on some of the bumps in my life - I remember two in particular - it was the bumps which were far more significant in changing the course of my life than the various good times which befell me, almost by accident it seems.

This summer I hit that decade of life which begins with a "7," changed the composition of my business, moved offices, and it's been more than a stretch of scattered bumps. But after all these years, lucky fellow that I am, I know that things will smoothe out, and I can return to exploring the passions which have been part of my life for decades.

And I wish for us all, not much more than "scattered bumps" along the way.

Trying Our Souls

I don't know about you, but I'd like a respite from this unending series of final exams called "life."

It's bad enough finding yourself on the cusp of your anecdotage, but when the banking system as we know it collapses, the economy tumbles into and nearly past a recession, one's pension takes a wallop, Arlen Specter becomes a Democrat, newspapers start to swoon all around us, the globe is warming with every passing day, most of our citizens don't have medical insurance, and now swine flu has begun to invade our lives...well where does it bloody well end?

Or is this perpetual state of angst the normal state of things for the next little while...like the rest of our time on this vale of tears? OK, my time, if you're really picky.

Maybe we should just find a good book, a wee dram of something to help us along, a comfortable chair, and just try to relax. No really.

K likes to listen to the gloom and doom guys on the radio through the night; each morning I hear about some new conspiracy designed to poison the food supply, to generate civil unrest and violence, to allow our country to be taken over by [fill in your own damn blank], and to ensure that American supremacy will come to an abrupt end.

Men don't handle these complexities very well - we want to know who won and who lost, no matter how meaningless the competition might be.

Women seem to have a knack for making sense of very complicated situations, and I think they deserve a shot. Even I am willing to learn how to manage the vacuum cleaner, and I'm already a pretty fair cook and bake a nasty good loaf of whole wheat bread. I could even catch up on Jerry Springer and Oprah and learn about new decorating ideas for the bathroom and talk to my friends about the NFL draft and the local team's prospects for the upcoming season.

And not have to worry about all this other stuff. Sounds like bliss to me.

Nearly Throwing In The Towel

I'm a native of Minnesota, and you would think that I would have figured out Mother Nature's insanely creative capacity...you know, the one where the snow begins to melt, you can feel the barest hint of Spring just there - over there - and you begin to think about putting away the caps, mittens, boots, heavy jackets  and all the other impendimenta related to winter and WHAM!

Bloody WHAM!

The skies grayed and became foreboding yesterday  with an overture of rain.  Then the symphony of snow began with heavy accents of wind, and eventually the cold of January paid us another visit.

Spring is ten days away, and it might just as well be 2.5 light years.  With the bad news swirling around our heads since last autumn, I'm surprised that more of us haven't found ourselves a cave.

Well, maybe we have - that is, if you believe that watching television has a cave equivalency value.

I do feel better now that I have all that off my chest.  Time to take the scotty for her walk, and when that's done, I think a wee celebration with something Scottish to end the day....probably a single malt, my most favorite of all "lifesavers."

Slainte, Skol, or Prost.  Here's to those of us still trying to fight the good fight!

Oh, sweet Spring, we all hope for your approach sooner than ever....

Something To Warm The Heart

OK, so the economy is slipping down the chute, we are between administrations and have been for what seems like an eternity, and here in Minnesota the wind chill this morning was around -35 (F), and yet.

And yet.

In today's New York Times, there is one of those articles that will remind you, me, us, that sometimes the stars align, people respond without regard to their personal ideology, and we are reminded about how easy it is to do good if we just join together and do, well, not very much...but something.

After reading this artice, I think you'll agree.  No, I know you will.  Click here to read it.