Universal Language

The Universal Language is supposed to be Esperanto. Actually, that's what they were trying to pull off. It hasn't worked yet. I have gone overseas and have seen English signs for posterity or for the usage ease of foreign visitors. Being an American, I have not learned a language, though my mother made me study one dialect of Chinese, and I chose to study another. With the first, I made no headway; with the second, I was able to play Uno completely in that language! Of course, I couldn't say much to the guy who completely screwed me up but "Thank you", very sarcastically. When it comes time to study my high school requirement, I'm going to learn Spanish, the language I can best use in my circumstances.

But I digress, this actually was not about words. When all the languages were scrambled, it was one of the worst punishments on earth, but there was a small compensation that helped ease the blow. The true Universal Language was left to us.

I one time performed a tin whistle solo at a talent show and was accosted the next day by a group of folks who couldn't speak English. I happened to be playing the piano at the time. They nodded at me excitedly and made motions to show that they'd seen me playing the music the night before, and stuck their thumbs up, grinning joyously at me the whole time. I then was supposed to play them something on the piano. It didn't come off as good, as my fingers had suddenly turned to bricks. Ah, for a professional's poise! I wish...

Music. That universal language. If you want people across centuries, continents, generations, to hear your exultation, your pain, your gift to the world, pull out your instrument of choice and record it. Chances are that somehow it will come out.

Of course, it's not as precise as words, but sometimes precision detracts. Obviously, one can't pull out a whistle (or a fiddle, or a guitar, or a trumpet), start playing in the Hong Kong International Airport, and expect the plethora of people from all over to understand that you mean, "Where is the #@#$ restroom? My flight to Timbuctu is in 5 minutes!", and the guy from Israel can't pull out a banjo and respond, "Wait 'til you get on the plane!" But you can take out your whistle and play it (where you're allowed to) and throw your heart into it, and somehow someone will understand.

Of course, they won't know exactly what goes on inside your heart, and they won't know exactly what you mean. But there will be that invisible link between your music and your heart and that persons ears and heart, and often, if you have no practical needs (or even if you can do but can cast aside the cares of the practical world for a moment), it's enough to create unity. I have sung a song in English while others around me have sung it in their language. It makes for a delicious cacophony, and an understanding.

I, of course, love music and chose it as one of my primary avocations (vocation? You may think so, but you have not heard me play or sing!), but it astounds me how much universality there is in that genre.

By this time, you may be thinking, "I just don't get those shrieky Celtic flute-thingys," or else, "What about that Hawaiian steel guitar that I can't stand?" Well, unfortunately, lack of understanding was there long before screwy speech, and is present in everything. Almost as important as other freedoms and tolerances is the freedom and tolerance of music. Which I need to remind myself of when I hear those steel guitars (but I do like Celtic flute-thingys; tin whistles!). And the rest comes naturally.

I'll close with a story. I had a very dear friend and dance teacher who liked us all to bring music to class. I, of course, brought Atwater-Donnelly's (I have a one-track mind sometimes!) The Blackest Crow and let her pick a song. She chose the only song on the album that I didn't care for, "Sweet Fern." I danced to it dutifully, and when we were done, she went into raptures about it. "Oh, what a lovely song! How sweet! I just love that song! Caitriona, thanks for bringing the music!"

I sat there, thinking, "Really? I can't stand that one!" But then I thought again. I liked and respected my teacher, and I didn't want to hurt her feelings. So of course I wouldn't say it aloud. I found myself automatically rescanning the whole song because my teacher loved it so. And then I found something in there, the exquisite longing and the sadness that accompanied it. Maybe it wasn't what my teacher found, but now I love the song because I found what it means to me.

So, now, excuse me while I go find a decent sample of Hawaiian music and discover what it has to say...

The Green Paintbrush

Which is, I think, what God used when He made this place in summer. The rains have come, but it was a patchwork day today, and I happened to go out just as the sun came out and kissed his lover, Mt. Flag. I stopped dead in my tracks and stared openmouthed at that green. I've never seen green liked that before. It's just...mindboggling, I think. I am not this good painter or anything, but I did mix a tint to match up with our bathroom counter a couple years ago, and was quite pleased with the result. However, neither I nor anyone else (and most people are better than I) could match that tint! Not even a camera, complete with a darkroom--digital or otherwise--could come even close. And Mum says that Emerald Ridge on Mt. Rainier is the same way!

Time ditched with the snail she had been keeping company with, and is dragging me along at a fantastic pace! Sometimes I want the snail. Sometimes I want all the stress and grief and sorrow to zip by at a faster pace. However, I'm not wearing track shoes, and my companion has a mind of her own, unfortunately. If I were in charge, we'd zip along and slow down only at important parts. But Time gets her orders from a higher source, and I'm lucky of that.

I'm sitting here alone while my mother and father judge a contest. My sister came with them, and I'm enjoying having the five-room apartment all to myself. I'm reading comics (not Unshelved, but another one) and typing alternately and also listening to Atwater-Donnelly. Sometimes a folk tune just perfectly describes what I'm thinking. Other times, it must be pulled way out of context but holds a special meaning (sometime, I must tell you about "Donkey Riding" and Palm Sunday) for me because of it. "The Road to Drumleman" is one of them. Drumleman has become my personal word for heaven-on-earth, so to speak. No place is perfectly Drumleman. I found Drumleman many times here. Will I find it when I go back "home" to Seattle? I miss the comforts of the city, but a sort of a rural-y town is relaxing.

Oh, gracious. Here I am, rambling with no purpose, really, and not singing along because I'm concentrating. I can sing along with practically every song Atwater-Donnelly does if I'm listening to a.) the selfsame recording or b.) them actually singing it, but I still have many songs to go before I can sing them alone. Life is good.

Granny, do your teeth sing?

I realize I've been kind of moody lately--and I'll be frank, it's because we're moving in a few weeks. I've only lived here for two years, but already I have a deep affinity for it, and it's breaking my heart. Well...not that bad. But the way my chest hurts when I think about it might indicate that.

But I am actually a happy person. So, in order to keep up that image (and also because I had nothing philosophical to say today), I'm going to post about a lighter subject. So, here it is...

My sister lost a tooth yesterday. She was all excited. She's ten years old but doesn't write well yet, so she asked me to write a letter to the Tooth Fairy for her. Now, in our family, we get to ask the Tooh Fairy for candy or a small trinket or food item, as well as money. The Tooth Fairy has left me something that looks suspiciously like it's from the dollar store as many times as she's helped me out of dire financial straits (one time so I could buy Bach's "Brandenburg Concertos" and another time so I could buy some plastic "jewels" for my pet frog's tank). I've often--but not as often as my sister--asked her questions, to which she replies ambiguously. Most of the time.

But yesterday, my sister asked: "Do Catherine's teeth sing?"

Which surprised me, but it shouldn't have. I sing all the time. Spirituals, folk songs, and, especially Jacobite songs--I'm working on a project I'll tell you about later--and so on. It's quite natural that my teeth should, too. The Tooth Fairy confirmed this fact, writing (in her handwriting which didn't look so much like Mum's when I was getting notes from her): "Her teeth sing all the time!"

Another singing story is that when I was playing with some friends, they were teaching us clapping games that they knew. I didn't know any, but I'd made one up to a cute folk song: "Granny, Will Your Dog Bite?"

It's a simple game. Clap your hands together, then you and your partner clap right hands, clap together again, then you and your partner clap left hands. Repeat that until you get to "No, child, no!" when you wave your pointer finger in the air and shake your head sort of in time to the music. The lyrics are this:

Granny, will your dog bite,
Hen peck, cat scratch?
Granny, will your dog bite,
Sow root in the tater patch?
Granny, will your dog bite,
Old gray goose hiss?
Granny, will your dog bite?
No, child, no!

I suggested to my friend that we up the tempo, as she had asked me where the song came from. Aubrey Atwater does it on her CD, "Daily Growing", and in that one, she starts the kids singing it responsively, then she starts playing it faster...and faster...and faster! I've seen her do this live, and it's hilarious to be a part of. You have to sing incredibly fast, and she's up there pounding away at the banjo at a speed that would probably go on the Autobahn (if she were driving a car) and by the end, everybody is giggling. Anyway, after hearing and seeing that, I can't do it really slow for too long. We did up the tempo a little bit, but not too much.

My friend's sister--my sister's friend, as well!--overheard and wanted to try. With her, we did up the tempo quite a bit, but it still didn't quite match that. For one thing, we were in a restaurant, and we were in danger of hitting patrons, knocking over glasses, and stuff like that! It was pretty funny. We did clapping games (like "Concentration") because our game of jerking the place mats around wasn't working because there were water glasses.

Now, besides sharing a couple of slightly amusing stories, I imagine you'll think I'm insane. That's fine with me. If this is insanity (which actually, I don't think it is), I might as well be insane. It's fun!

Extemporanea

It's hard starting a new blog. It's as hard as writing the first chapter in a book...or coming up with a title for your poem...or finding an introduction for the piece you're trying to arrange.

I've been doing this all, trial and error, for at least a half-hour. I finally decided I didn't have anything philosophical to say, and anyway, I must be on adrenaline or something--sobbing my heart out because of the song "Going Up Home" performed by Jerimoth Hill. I love that song; it's so true! But it doesn't generally make me cry. Must be teen hormones or something.

I thought I'd describe this room to you, but that seemed pointless. I thought I'd talk about the McIntoshes and Auchindoun castle and the ballad that sparked from that, but I didn't want to bore you with my ideas about what a great historical fiction book that could be built around that. I thought I might describe myself--but I'm no judge of who I am. How could I tell you the right thing?

So, I decided to simply start this blog. It's Gravelly Homestead--an alternate translation of my last name. I meant to start it in August, then that became July, then June...now May, because I didn't want anybody taking my address. If you spell it the British way, apparently somebody has. But I'm not British, I'm American, so I didn't need to worry.

It's raining outside, and, earlier, before the sun set, I saw it all green and gray--my favorite colors. Not even blue matches the strange mixture of mist and hills which comes with a rain. Now I'm listening to Atwater-Donnelly--my favorite music group--and their haunting, wistful harmonies and instrumentation...which make me think about rain and the strange world I built in my heart for the wispy spirits of the folksongs they sing. The rain blends eerily with them.

I love rain. I know there are folks who get depressed during winter and need to go to a sunnier place, but I love rain. Sun gets too cruel, sometimes. I just love rain and the softening of things...the feeling of gritty mud on my feet where it seeps over my sandals...the feeling of raindrops in my hair...the mist on the mountain.

On right now is Aubrey Atwater's song: "Quiet Sky", written about 9/11. I haven't heard many songs or poems in response to that, but this is the best I've ever heard. One line that sticks in my head: "Such a perfect day, in a perfect month". It did seem a perfect day that day, before I knew that, across the country, there were evil, twisted men shattering the lives of thousands.

And yet, Ms. Atwater's wistful voice, her quiet guitar doing a strange but beautiful accompaniment pattern--it all seems to match the rain, too. I suppose that's the way a song is. It starts out one way--written for one thing...but then brings more meaning to something totally different. I wish I could write like that.

I know this post is disorganized, but I think life is truly what Dorothy Parker called, ironically, "a medley of extemporanea". At least, my life is. So perhaps it's fitting that I start the blog this way.