Bonnie Susie Cleland

I'm listening to KBCS online. KBCS is a community radio station, and it's got everything from very Democrat programs (blam about the status quo and the president, basically) to wonderful programs like Folksounds, done by Eric Hardee and Jean Brendecke. Anyway, one of those Democrat programs is going on right now, CounterSpin, and I'm waiting for Folksounds. I think that someone on the show this edition is surnamed "Cleland" or something like that, which immediately made me think about "Bonnie Susie Cleland to be buried in Dundee."

I like tragic ballads, stupid or no, because they're interesting. Most of the time, the folks in the ballads are worse off than the singer, and yet any sorrow the singer has and any empathy or sympathy can be thrown in and be mixed in. And, besides, many of these tunes have the best tunes. So, that's why I like them, though I'm very soft-hearted and can't even bear to watch The Empire Strikes Back without closing my eyes about four times.

But "Bonnie Susie Cleland" is just horrorific. I've heard that the events described here might have really happened, and that horrifies me. It's worse than "Omie Wise", though that one is based on a true story.

The premise is that Susie Cleland, a pretty Scottish girl, has fallen in love with an English soldier. Her father and brothers are horrified and demand that she renounce her love and abandon him. She tells them that she won't, and so the father and brothers decide to take action--but not against the soldier, which would make some sense, nor by locking up Susie herself, which makes sense, as well.

No. Susie's family should be in Seattle--their motto is "There's got to be a harder, more complex way to deal with this." But I'm not about to go on and on about how Seattle takes forever to get around to doing stuff (even though it's true) because there aren't any Seattleites in the song. The point is, Susie's brothers get a big pile of wood, and...well, I don't even want to finish this, but they get a big pile of wood and Susie's father gets a stake, and then they tie her to the stake, and...have you read about the Spanish Inquisition? Something like that.

Now, that in and of itself is a bit extreme. There are plenty of other ways to deal with an English lover, I'd think, but burning one's daughter or sister at the stake seems rather...well...

What are you trying to do, Mr. Cleland? Are you trying to punish your daughter? Are you trying to protect her? Or are you trying to teach her lover a lesson? There are better ways to do it!!!

I suppose I better get off my soapbox now. Why start yelling at someone in a song? It won't change anything. I better just go find the happy ending version...

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!

Means to an End

We went hiking today. It was wet, and rainy, and kind of humid, but we went anyway, meeting outside of our apartment building. I went down the stairs humming "Skye Boat Song", but I stopped as soon as I got outside and met up with our English neighbor, who was hiking with us. He forgot his umbrella, so he went back up the stairs to get it, and immediately, I came in where I left off--"Many's the lad fought on that day..."

Our English neighbor has a Scottish wife, so a better way to describe them would be: "British". Except, he's incredibly English, and she's definitely Scots. One time they were listening to me play the tin whistle--which is more compact than a fiddle or a recorder, which is why I was playing it--and I accidentally played "Scotland the Brave". I hadn't thought of the implications that would bring. Anyway, Mrs. W was tapping her toe and grinning (grinning for her, I mean) and Mr. W was sitting there with a sort of a strained expression and managed to gasp out something not unfavorable, but not exactly delight, either. It was actually kind of funny, because I hadn't meant to do anything of the sort!

Up we went into the mountains. There was mist all over them, and it was beautiful. But it was tiring. There were winged insects flying around, with four wings not unlike dragonfly wings, but with really short slim bodies. They looked like butterflies, fluttering about. Mr. W said they were lacewings, then later corrected himself and said they were flying ants. Lacewings or ants, they were pretty. One got caught in a spider's web. I saw its body, drained of fluid, transparent; its wings darkening. Death in an insect is not unlike death in a person, at first glance, which is why I hate to see that. I have no moral or personal convictions against eating meat, but I cannot see the death without feeling ill and horribly depressed. The utter resignation and limp appendages dangling--it's poetic, but also terribly, horribly tragic. This should not be.

I began to wonder--not because of the dead insect or anything--just why was I hiking? I could have stayed home today. Sadly, my answer probably is: "because I'm not in good shape". I'm in terrible shape. Part of my dumpiness is attributed to that, which doesn't concern me so much as the incredible fatigue that overtakes my soul and body as I try to climb up a fairly easy trail. But I also enjoy looking at mountain scenery--truly, unspoiled by cable cars or roads. Just being out in the middle with only a trail marring the unspoiled beauty of it.

However, our first resting spot was good enough for me. I might have stayed there for a long time and then gone down, had it been up to me. I have neither the stamina nor the desire to go up to the highest altitudes. Stunning views are camera and paintbrush fodder; if they're that stunning, I'll see them eventually. Just to get to where the pines grow--that's enough for me. Then I just like to be. I like to sing...spirituals, folk songs, rebel songs...all of those. To stroll and explore a finer area instead of reaching the great heights. To just sit and do something normal--maybe even read a book--just to be in the clean mountain atmosphere. That's what I want. I'm not complaining. It was a good hike today. But it seems that to me, hiking is not the end, it is the means to an end. And the end is...atmosphere, rest. That's what I like.