Laugh Drops

Last Friday evening I was thrilled to be in attendance at UB’s Slee Hall for a concert featuring my nephew Matt’s internationally known and critically acclaimed percussion ensemble, Talujon.  Talujon is a “five man quartet” with more drums and percussion instruments than a music store.  Marimbas, kettle drums, chimes, bongos, cymbals, drum kits, kalimbas, gongs - you name it – the stage was overflowing.

As one might expect of a percussion concert, most of their performance was loud.  But this is a classical music hall so certain rules apply, spelled out in the program booklet – no noise allowed during the performance.  No cell phones, no talking, no humming, no coughing,  no unwrapping of candies or cough drops!

When Matt made his Lincoln Center debut a number of years ago, my sister in law, who had gathered the clan for the occasion, drummed (so to speak) into our heads that any audience noise whatsoever would have us ejected from the premises, causing a disgrace to the entire family and a blot on Matt’s permanent record.  I coughed once or twice the night before this concert and in less than five minutes she had presented me with a steaming mug of honey and lemon tea.

One piece that Talujon performed was one of those very avant garde over-the-top far-out modern pieces which consisted primarily of unorthodox materials being coaxed into even less orthodox sounds.  Two performers were at opposite sides of the stage and two others were on the right and left aisles of the audience.  We were “surrounded.”  The lads were equipped with spruce branches, wine glasses, water, trash cans, cap pistols and many other toys.  Until the cap gun part, most of the piece was excruciatingly subtle and terribly hard to hear.  Probably due to their collective unease, the audience became noisier than the performers at several points.

It was during this piece that I realized one of the audience members seated behind me was either trying to suppress a cough – or a laugh.  The sounds he was making (and I could tell it was a man making this noise) were little whimpers and sharp outbursts and intakes of breath, repressed snorts and somehow desperate-sounding shaking noises.  I thought at first that I could fish in my purse and pass back a forbidden wrapped cough drop, but thanks to my days as a preacher’s kid trying not to laugh in church, I quickly realized it was laughter he was trying to stifle, and, as far as I know, there are no such things as laugh drops.

I caught a quick glimpse of this poor man after the piece had ended and as his wife was handing him a tissue to wipe his eyes.  His face was crimson and he was still trying to catch his breath.  I believe it was the spruce branches that had gotten him started and the cap guns that had finished him off.   

So the Talujon concert was a night to remember in many more ways than one and I sincerely hope that no one ever invents anything like laugh drops.   

The Return of Blessed Lumber

As I was puttering around this afternoon in the alley behind my shop, I found a frozen T-shirt knotted up on the ground underneath my clothesline.  I can never bear to see something go to waste so I rescued the shirt, thinking if nothing else it would make a great cleaning cloth for glass.

The shirt was frozen solid but an interesting multi-colored repetitive pattern was visible – some sort of a crest with four skulls in the middle, a crown on the top, crossed swords, rampant lions – the usual fare for a crest.  Around the outside of the top of the crest are the words “Loyalty, Virtue, Nobility” – then the words “and from such” and on the bottom of each crest what I thought were the words “Blessed Lumber Returns.”  The shirt was frozen but as it thawed more of the pattern was revealed.

“Blessed Lumber Returns” – I thought I had found some rare T-shirt from an odd cult of lumberjacks or possibly woodworkers – virtuous, loyal and noble beings all – hearts like lions, ready with shiny crowns and slashing swords to leap into action at any Highland Games’ caber toss or into the sawdust labyrinth of the local woodworking warehouse.  Perhaps these guys stripped down to their tool belts and conducted drum circles in the deep woods.

I pictured this group, maybe like the members of the Possum Lodge, with sacred incantations to invoke the return of lumber.  Why they would be doing this instead of planting more trees was beyond me – but a picturesque idea nonetheless.  Perhaps they also gather to sing the famous “Lumberjack Song.” (“I’m a lumberjack, and I’m OK.  I sleep all night and I work all day.”)

As the shirt slowly thaws, finally one more letter of the motto has been revealed, partially obstructed by one of the many swords – this letter is an “s.”  So it is supposed to read “Blessed Slumber Returns.”  By which, I guess they mean if one conducts oneself in a loyal, noble and virtuous manner, one is gifted with a good night’s sleep.

 
I don’t know about anyone else, but I am going to sleep like a log tonight.

The Woods Are Full of 'Em

This morning I awoke from a dream with a recurring theme – space invaders.  No, not invaders from space, but invaders of my space – my Fortress of Solitude, my forest hermitage. 

My house is situated in the middle of over 30 acres of young woodland.  There are a couple of ancient oaks back there – but several generations ago my property was farmland so the woods today are mostly second growth.  As unspectacular as they are, however, I am enrolled in a managed forest plan and I have vowed to protect them from development for as long as I live or perhaps even beyond.  With a Voldemart only a half mile away, I like to think of my little acreage as surviving like Central Park – a bit of untamed green as a refuge for the few remaining wild things, in the midst of the rampant consumerism.

So the worst nightmares I ever experience anymore are concerned with my woods.  I have dreamt that I awake to giant yellow bulldozers crashing through my trees, leaving a trail of broken branches and raw earth.  I have dreamt of dozens of cars parked up and down my narrow driveway with people picnicking in my backyard.  I have dreamt of row upon row of little houses made of ticky-tacky, each complete with swingsets and screaming rugrats.

I have dreamt that there is a jogging path just visible on the North side of the house, about 5 feet into the woods (which are about 20 feet away from the house).  I have dreamt of camp meetings taking place on my land, with strangers sitting on my tiny porch and some of them even trying with studied determination to open my door and gain access to my house – like creatures from the Dawn of the Dead movie.  These folks set up huge tents full of folding chairs and I fully expect to see a fiery old itinerant preacher out there. 

The dream this morning was the worst so far.  I glanced out the bathroom window and to my astonishment there was a strip mall, just visible through the trees.  I looked out again and some of the trees had vanished and the mall was closer.  I saw asphalt and parked cars.  The next time I looked all of the trees had gone and there was only a paved driveway between my house and the mall.  Just before I awoke, my last horrified peek confirmed that even the paving had disappeared and now abutted to my house were a real estate broker and the whole rest of the strip mall, stretching off into the distance, all the way to Voldemart.

Maybe it would help if I put up curtains?