Tuesday, December 15, 2020

The Tune in the Christmas Cracker

This post is something I put up as a "Note" on Facebook back in 2013. It generated a considerable and gratifying amount of discussion among my friends who are into Irish music. Because it's been several years since I posted it, and because Facebook recently made some changes that have rendered "notes" extremely difficult for people to find, I've decided to re-post the story here. I take this opportunity to add some illustrations. Comments are again very much welcome!    -- December, 2020

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Some years ago I bought a copy of Capt. Francis O'Neill's Dance Music of Ireland off eBay from a seller somewhere in the UK. This was not a first edition of the 1001 Gems, but is a relatively old one. It's identified on the cover as the "11th Edition." This edition was "Edited and arranged by" Selena O'Neill (a protege of, but no relation to, the good Captain), and published by her in 1940. It carries a hand-written ownership statement identifying it as having once been the property of one J. McTernan, of Oscott College, Sutton Coldfield. Google maps tells me that this is just northeast of Birmingham, England.

While this is cool in and of itself, the book carried a hidden treasure--a single sheet of music manuscript paper on which are two meticulously hand-written tunes. The toy inside the Christmas cracker, as it were. Because one of the tunes is the reel that Irish musicians all know as "Christmas Eve"--identified on the sheet by the name of its composer, Tommy Cohen (sic: Coen)--we offer it here as a small seasonal gift for all our friends, musicians and non-musicians alike. (See below for a reproduction of the entire manuscript page.)


On the back of the sheet is a note: "With all the Compliments of Liam Donnelly," and was given to Hugh McTernan, presumably a relative of the person who originally owned the O'Neill book. At the time I acquired this, we queried fiddler Seamus Connolly to see if he knew either Donnelly or McTernan. My memory of his response is a bit dim, but I believe that he did know, or at least knew of, Mr. Donnelly. We have since learned that Liam Donnelly was a fairly well-known figure in Irish music circles and did the musical orthography for a large book of tunes compiled by fiddler Martin Mulvihill.


Seamus also told us that the tune acquired the title "Christmas Eve" because it was debuted on that night on Ciaran MacMathuna's radio program sometime in the 1950s. The "W. Brown" named on the ms. sheet was a Billy Brown who played accordion on the broadcast. Seamus related that Tommy Coen himself never liked the title "Christmas Eve" for the tune, though whether or not he had a preferred alternative we don't know.

In any event, we hope that our friends will enjoy this greeting from us. Peace and joy to all!

--Paul and Sally Wells

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[Click on any image to get a larger copy]

Image of entire ms. page; "Mulhair's No. 5" is commonly known as "Limestone Rock":

Front cover of O'Neill book:

Ownership statement from title page:

Selena O'Neill, editor and publisher of this edition of 1001 Gems:


Saturday, August 29, 2020

August: The Golden Month

August is the Golden Month. It is the month when Goldenrod fills open fields, turning them into oceans of amber. It's the month when Black-eyed Susans grow wild in meadows and along roadsides, and bring a big splash of cheer to our home gardens.




































It's the month when Monarch butterflies begin to cruise through and light on Dahlias, Phlox, Cornflowers, and whatever else happens to be blooming, before laying their eggs on milkweed, setting in motion the process of perpetuating the species.



It's the month when marsh grasses mature and impart a lovely, multi-hued aura to lands near the coast, with greens and browns mixed in with the golds.

 
August is the month when sunflowers, towering above everything else in the garden, reach their maturity. Young Goldfinches, among the last songbirds to be fledged for the summer, come with their parents to pluck the ripe seeds out of the centers of the blossoms. 

But not all the August flora is golden. Queen Anne's Lace, with its complex, delicate, seemingly otherworldly beauty, blooms alongside the Goldenrod and Black-eyed Susans. 


It is the month when Argiope aurantia makes her welcome return to our flower beds. She nightly spins her beautiful webs, luring unsuspecting flies and beetles to their doom. At the same time, ripe, juicy blackberries lure me into their thorny midst, to endure scratched arms and legs for the sake of gathering a few tasty treats!

Numerous other seasonal events also define August. It is the month when the Perseid meteor showers tempt us to venture out late at night, in the hope of witnessing a celestial light show. It is the month for marveling at the acrobatic maneuvers of flocks of Nighthawks, as they hunt insects at dusk; their long, pointy wings with transverse white stripes make them unmistakable even to casual observers. It is the time for mowing rowen, and the chance to enjoy another display of avian acrobatics, from swallows this time, before they make their early exit from New England and head south for the winter. It's the month of agricultural fairs, of corn on the cob, of ripening apples, of wearing t-shirts and shorts during the hot days and bundling up in sweaters and sweatshirts during the chilly nights.

For so many years, when the cycle of my life was tied to the academic calendar, August was a time of, if not exactly dread, of less-than-eager anticipation of the changes that September would inevitably bring. As a kid, the prospect of exchanging the carefree, unstructured time of Summer for the regimen of the school day was unwelcome, to say the least. As an adult, working in a university, August meant that the relative quiet of a thinly-populated summer campus would soon be transformed into a time of chaos and commotion, as hordes of students returned, and faculty and staff were plunged into a seemingly endless series of meetings and receptions. 

One of the great joys of retirement has been that I can now enjoy August--in all its golden splendor--as never before. Yet it remains a time that brings out uncertain and ambiguous emotions. Can summer really be over already? But I never quite got around to doing X, Y, and Z as I had planned. I'm tired of mowing the lawn and weeding & watering the gardens...but I'm not ready to think about raking leaves, and certainly not about shoveling snow. Is it time to put away the air conditioners and fans? But what if we get a very warm "Indian summer"? (Now there's a term that needs to go away!*) The Fall foliage should be beautiful...but it's been so dry. Will we get much of a display?

I find Sylvia Plath's characterization of August to be quite cogent: 
The best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd, uneven time.
And so it goes.
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*For an exploration of the term "Indian Summer" and some of its cultural and historical meanings, see Beneath the Second Sun, by Adam Sweeting.

Sunday, July 19, 2020

"Behold, a lovely vine"

"Lovely Vine," from Jeremiah Ingalls' Christian Harmony, 1805
Now that I have retired and moved back to my native New England I find that what had always been a decidedly, if not deliberately, latent interest in the music of the early New England psalmodists, has risen more to the fore in my mind. It's not that I had no curiosity about the music of William Billings, Justin Morgan, Daniel Read, Supply Belcher, and their numerous contemporaries--far from it, in fact--but it was an interest that always bubbled under the surface as I pursued topics of greater intellectual and musical priority to me personally. One reason for my relative disinterest was the fact that the music of the "First New England School" of American composers has been well-mined by American musicologists. It was one of the principal areas of American music that received serious attention from the dedicated cadre of renegade musicologists who fought to have American topics accepted by the academy at a time when "musicology" meant only the study of the music of European composers.

By the time I became a serious player in the world of American music studies in the 1980s, however, the field had grown enough that work on Billings, et al., was becoming unfashionable. My contemporaries and I waged our own battles to burst the doors open further for scholarship in folk music, country music, African American music, music by female composers, and 20th century topics in general. Including--gasp!--rock 'n' roll! I had no desire to pursue research in a field that had been so thoroughly, and ably, plowed by others.

From my current position on the sidelines of the academic world, and living back in the world of small(-ish) town New England in which I was raised (albeit in a different state), my priorities have shifted. If I may be permitted a god-awful cliche, I've been re-connecting with my roots--and very much enjoying doing so. This re-connecting has proceeded along a couple of lines.

The first has been engaging in a good deal of serious reflection about my formative years on the family farm in western Massachusetts, as can be seen in some of the other posts in this blog. Beyond simply re-visiting memories from earlier times and indulging in self-centered nostalgia, I have been striving to get a better understanding of the cultural and historical context of the rural New England life that is my family's heritage. The fact that it is a way of life that has all but disappeared has no doubt contributed to my interest in exploring it.


The second has been strengthening and expanding my long-standing interest in music of the region. The study of New England fiddle music has been the biggest part of this interest, and the one that has largely defined my academic identity. Living in the area again has inspired me to pick up where I left off in the realm of fiddle research and scholarship more than 30 years ago. As a player I have regained much of the repertoire of Yankee and Franco-American tunes that I had in the 1970s but which had lain fallow during the many years I lived in California and Tennessee. My wife and I also co-host a weekly radio show devoted to traditional music of New England and Atlantic Canada.

But in addition to fiddle music, I now find myself quite happily delving into the world of the music of the New England psalmodists of the late 18th and early 19th century, the music that previously I had so consciously skirted. My academic explorations have been enhanced greatly by having an opportunity to bring some of this music to life in performance via involvement in the music program of our local village church.

It is a serendipitous treat when my explorations and ruminations along these two paths converge, when the realm of agrarian life of an earlier time becomes manifest in some fashion in the world of early New England sacred music. Which brings me to the real subject of this post.

One major source of guidance into the world of early New England psalmody has been recordings and live performances by various artists, principally the Boston Camerata. Their recording of "Lovely Vine," Vermont psalmodist Jeremiah Ingalls' setting of a text by Joshua Smith, published in Ingalls' Christian Harmony in 1805, has long been a favorite. 

Apart from the fact that "Lovely Vine" has a melody that is, well, lovely, a big reason for its appeal to me personally is the imagery of grapes on the vine, and the thoughts this evokes of my own upbringing. On the farm where I was raised there is a very old Concord grape vine. Just how old, I don't know, but it has been there for as long as I have been alive, and I have reason to believe that it pre-dates my father's birth in 1911. I wrote a bit about the vine a couple of years back in a post about the local agricultural fair, and the produce that my grandfather exhibited there (which included Concord grapes) around the time my father was born. In that earlier post I mentioned the fond memories I have of enjoying the products of that vine on many a late summer or early autumn day.


A few years back, in 2016 I think, I obtained a bit of root stock of the old vine, courtesy of my cousins who now own the family place. I planted it in our yard in Maine where it survived, but did not exactly thrive...until last year when the aforementioned cousin came and built an arbor for it. Since then it has done remarkably well -- see photo below!

 

By late September--voila!--nice, fat, juicy, sweet Concords, ready to eat! When I bit down on the first one I was immediately hit with a flood of memories of eating them as a kid. (We only got to enjoy about half the crop before some critters--raccoons, I suspect--helped themselves to the rest, but that's another story.) 

As I write in mid-July 2020, the vines are again flourishing in their second year on the arbor. There are green grapes a-plenty; bunches of bunches, as it were. Every time I walk past the arbor the sight calls forth Ingalls' tune and Smith's poetry: 
Behold a lovely vine, here in this desert ground,
The blossoms shoot, and promise fruit,
And tender grapes are found.


This coming together of two aspects of my New England heritage, music and agriculture, is immensely gratifying. 

The grape vine is just one of the bits of the family farm that I have brought with me to my home in southern Maine. I still own the small lot on the farm where the sugarhouse once stood and have used that as the source of most of what I have transported here. Six young sugar maples from that lot now line one side of our driveway. A few years back I disassembled a rather nondescript shed that had served variously as sleeping quarters for hired hands in years past, as a chicken house, and as an ad hoc storage building. I've re-purposed materials from that project in numerous ways: exterior boards became siding for a new garden shed; the heavy beams of the frame now serve as edging for our vegetable garden; some stones from the foundation went into a border for a new flower garden; others were used to make a patio in front of the new shed; and the 3" x 5" timbers from inside the walls work perfectly as the frame of the grape arbor. 

All of these things are important for their value in connecting me not only to my own past, but also to the deeper culture and heritage of my family and region. Yet, it is perhaps the grapevine that provides the strongest link from the past to the present. The fact that it is a scion of the same vine that has produced fruit that has been enjoyed by six generations of my family is pretty impressive. It is, indeed, a "lovely vine," eminently worthy of being celebrated in song.

One can easily point to other pieces from the early New England sacred repertoire that employ agrarian motifs. "Jesus Christ, the Apple Tree," another personal favorite is, not surprisingly, again the work of Jeremiah Ingalls--though he was just one of several composers who have done settings of a text written by Richard Hutchins. The Shaker song, "O, We Have a Lovely Vine," seems to be an adaptation of Smith's poetry, if not Ingalls' music. (See Patterson, p. 205) Harvest metaphors, and imagery of trees, birds, and farm animals abound. These all speak to the close ties between the corporeal and spiritual realms that formed the backbone of the world view of early Yankee farmers. They had to believe that with enough hard labor on their part, and perhaps a bit of Divine assistance, the earth would provide.

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Postscript: Concord grapes are themselves a product of New England's agrarian heritage. Their story begins in the town in eastern Massachusetts whose name they bear. They were developed by a man named Ephraim Wales Bull (1806-1895). Bull was born in Boston and moved the 20 or so miles west to Concord in 1836. Concord was at this time a thriving center of literary and intellectual activity; Bull could count Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, the Alcott Family, and Nathaniel Hawthorne among his neighbors. Prior to moving to Concord, Bull had made his living as a "goldbeater"--making gold leaf--but in his new home he developed a passion for horticulture. He set about to breed a variety of grape that would be suitable both for fresh eating and for making wine, and that would be hardy enough to survive a New England winter. He began working with a native wild grape (probably fox grapes) that possessed some of the characteristics of sweetness and hardiness that he found desirable. After several years of experimentation he introduced his new variety at the 1853 meeting of the Massachusetts Horticultural Society. It became widely popular, but Bull profited little from his invention. The marker on his grave in Concord carries the wistful epitaph: "He sowed, others reaped." 

New England Historical Society
Post-postscript:
 Lending credence to my belief that the vine from which my cutting was derived is well over a century old, is the fact that Bull's original vine is said to still be growing at his home in Concord. There's a better-than-even chance that Bull himself was still alive when whatever level of great-ancestor it was who planted "our" vine did so. I suppose it is even within the realm of possibility that the vine was there when my great-grandfather, Alexius Wells, bought the farm in 1864, and that its presence is due to the fact that someone responded to an ad like this one from 1859, touting Concord grapes as the latest and greatest. (Click on the image for a larger copy.)


Sources: 
Long article on Bull in Arnoldia, the quarterly magazine of the Arnold Arboretum at Harvard University. 
New England Historical Society article on Bull
Daniel Patterson, The Shaker Spiritual, Princeton Univ. Press, 1979.
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"Lovely Vine" transcribed into modern notation, with simple piano accompaniment added (click on the image for larger copy:


Saturday, November 2, 2019

"Just Farmering": Remembrances of an Extraordinary Ordinary Man

Every year during the first week of November memories of my father dominate my thoughts. I write on November 2, 2019, the nineteenth anniversary of the day he passed away. As seems to happen with many people, the date of his death was very close to the date of his birth; he was born on November 5. He was a Good Man, well-liked and well-respected by all who knew him. He is with me every day of my life; I'm sure my siblings would say the same thing. 

When it came time to plan his memorial service I volunteered to write the eulogy. This was simultaneously one of the most difficult things I've ever done, and one of the most rewarding. Writing it gave me the opportunity to collect my thoughts about the man, and to reflect on both his life and my own. I shall be forever grateful to my siblings for affording me this privilege. I offer the eulogy here, with the addition of a few photos to illustrate a bit of Frannie's long and rich life. (In the piece I refer to two of the other readings that were part of the service: the famous lines from Ecclesiastes about seasons, and a light-hearted poem that Dick Wilbur wrote for my father and read at the reception given for him the first time he retired from the town Board of Selectmen.)
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Francis Richard Wells
November 5, 1911 – November 2, 2000

How well do we ever really know our fathers? The person who is one of the central figures in our lives, who is responsible for giving us life, often remains a figure defined by role rather than by his own qualities as a person. Over the course of our lives, how much time do we really spend in the company of our fathers, especially in this era of increased mobility, when few people live their lives in the same community in which they were raised, surrounded by family? We grow up and leave home just when we’re getting to the age when we can begin to appreciate our fathers.

It was only after I had been away from my hometown of Cummington, Massachusetts, for many years and had completed my education, gotten married, and had a child—in short, had gotten a good dose of life on my own—that it finally dawned on me what an extraordinary man my father was. He never had a lot of the things that so many people quest for in life—no power, wealth, or fame—yet I have never known anyone who was more content with his life. He was a man who knew himself, knew the world he lived in, and who spent his life surrounded by family and friends.

After my siblings and I left home—and long before the days of e-mail!—our mother faithfully wrote to us at least once, often twice a week.  Letters from our father, though, were a much rarer commodity. I think I received three. Their scarcity rendered them all the more meaningful, and I still have them all today. In one he responded to my plan, in 1983, to leave Los Angeles, where my first wife, young son, and I were living at the time, and come back to Cummington to try our hand at making a living in a less stressful manner. Pop wrote in support of the idea, and philosophized about his work on the farm. He said: “Many of my friends ask me—‘how come you seem to be so happy all the time?’  I tell them that I am doing what I like to do best, and most of the time I understand what it is that I am up to.”

That sentence has stuck with me ever since. “I am doing what I like to do best, and most of the time I understand what it is that I am up to.” How many of us can say that about our own lives and careers? All the career counselors and psychologists in the world could not come up with a clearer, more sure-fire prescription for how to achieve happiness in life.

What my father liked to do best was to be out on the farm working—driving his tractors, cutting wood, getting in hay, making maple syrup, fixing fence, tending cattle, planting corn, or weeding his garden. It was what he did all his life, and what defined him as a person.

He had a great word to describe this way of life, a word that I never heard him use until one day in the early 1980s, during the time when I lived in Cummington again for a couple of years. He and I were down in the village somewhere, going about whatever business it was that we had that day, when we ran into Lincoln Howes. Linc gave my father a hearty greeting, in his usual manner: “Hello Francis! What are you boys up to today?” To which my father replied: “Oh not much…the same old thing...just farmering.”

I thought: “’Farmering.’  What a great word!” It evokes so much more than does simply saying that one farms for a living, or that one is a farmer. It implies a way of being in the world, and describes an approach to life rather than a mere occupation. 


This is a life that is very much tied to the rhythms of the year—to take the words of Ecclesiates 3:1-8 quite literally, for everything in my father’s life there was indeed a season, and a time for every purpose. Spring meant sugaring, and then planting corn, fixing fence, and putting in the garden. Summer meant haying, and at the end of the summer, the Cummington Fair. Fall was time for picking sweet corn and getting in silage, while winter was for cutting and hauling wood. There was always something different to do so the work stayed interesting, yet the constancy of the yearly cycle provided a stable backdrop against which it all took place.

It is perhaps impossible for us today to understand fully the world my father knew and grew up in. To live one’s entire life in one place, to be rooted as firmly in family and community as he was, is something that is becoming remarkably rare in our society. This rootedness gave my father a solid sense of self and purpose, and this sense was inextricably bound to place—to the farm, and to Cummington.

Students at Bryant Schoolhouse, Cummington, MA, c. 1920. Frannie standing far right, under corner of window.

Look at the dates his life spanned—one decade shy of the entire 20th century—and think of the astounding changes to our culture and way of life that he witnessed! Literal horse power gave way to the internal combustion engine. When he was a boy, a one-way trip to Northampton meant a day’s travel, and long-distance communication was limited to the range of one’s voice. He was born into a world much quieter and more slower-paced than what we know now, a world in which hard, manual labor was the only way to get things done. His was perhaps the last generation to grow up in this world, in the culture of the small family farm that formed the backbone of the rural New England economy for so many years, and that our family has been part of since the first Wells ancestor came to the New World in the 17th century. 

His solid grounding in this world was, I think, what allowed him to maintain his extraordinary sense of who and what he was, in the face of the great changes that he witnessed in his own community and in the world at large. It allowed him to keep farmering into the age of the Internet.

Farmering kept my father out of doors a great deal of the time and, unlike many of his peers, he developed an abiding love, appreciation, and respect for nature and the wonders of the natural world. His interest in birds was well known, and he passed this love along to many of us in the next generations. Every year he would delay cutting the hay in the meadow above the barn until the Bobolinks had finished their nesting—and he took a great deal of ribbing from some of his peers when they learned of this practice.

His face would light up with sheer delight at the sights and sounds of geese migrating in the fall. Some of my own most treasured moments with him came when we were hard at work hauling wood or taking down fence on some gray November day, and all of a sudden he would freeze and say: “Hark! Geese!” Then together we’d search the skies for a glimpse of the V of a big flock, wheeling at full throttle, high in the air on its way to wintering grounds down south. 

He had an excellent ear for identifying and remembering bird songs. He knew the songs of numerous species of warblers that he would hear only a few times a year during migration, and could make the fine distinction between the songs of the wood and hermit thrushes. All of this skill and knowledge he acquired simply through a lifetime of observation, during the course of farmering for nine decades.

But farmering was not the whole extent of my father’s life. There was, after all, the “buzzing swarm of Frannies” that friend and neighbor, poet Richard Wilbur, once described in a short tribute poem to him. He was a man devoted to public service. He served the town of Cummington as Selectman for a quarter century, from 1951 to 1976, then came out of retirement in 1982 when his services were once again needed to fill the void left by another man's death. He served on boards and committees throughout the Hilltowns and the Pioneer Valley, and through this work made many friends far beyond the bounds of Cummington. He was a lifetime member of the Massachusetts Maple Producers Association, and enjoyed many years as a member of the Harvest Club. He also drove a school bus, served as substitute rural mail carrier, and worked many winters at Berkshire Snow Basin. He maintained a lifelong interest in politics on the state and national level. In what was perhaps his final act of will, he completed his absentee ballot for the 2000 presidential election, on what turned out to be the night before he went into the hospital for the last time.

My father had his share of the contradictions and paradoxes that make human beings such interesting creatures. He was an utterly non-violent man, but his favorite sport was boxing. He was a devoted family man, but was an incorrigible flirt. He could wrap a young waitress or store clerk around his little finger in a matter of seconds, blushing profusely all the while. And I can still hear my mother, clucking in disgust: “Frannie!  Honestly!”

He always wanted to travel to see new places and to visit far-flung family members, but was itchy to get back to the farm and to Cummington after about two days away. He felt that he was unmusical, but was an enthusiastic, graceful, and skilled square dancer. He often said that he would rather square dance than eat! His formal education ceased when he graduated from high school, but he was an avid reader and was extremely knowledgeable on subjects ranging from American history, to aviation, to meteorology, to world exploration.
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To close this remembrance of my father, I would like to share a personal memory of one particular time with him. I do not know why this incident sticks in my mind as strongly as it does, but so be it.

On Christmas Eve, 1983, the two of us went to cut some wood in what our family called the Drake Pasture. It was a cold, blustery day. There was a bit of snow on the ground, but not so much that we couldn’t drive a tractor and trailer deep into the woods. We spent the day felling trees and cutting them up for firewood. Fairly late in the afternoon, probably around 3:00 or 3:30, when daylight was beginning to fade, it started to snow. Down in the woods there was little or no wind, so the snow just fell quietly to the ground. We had quit running our chain saws by this time and were loading up the trailer with wood to haul back to the house. Anyone who has ever been in the woods on a day like this knows the peculiar effect that this sort of silent, heavy snowfall can have. A profound stillness descends on the world as the snow covers up the ground and muffles all sound.

Once we had the trailer loaded, we both just sat there for awhile. No words were exchanged between us, nor were any needed. We watched the snow drift down around us, and silently marveled at the way it transformed the landscape into a beautiful world of white. After a few minutes Pop finally broke the spell and said simply, “Well, let’s go home.”

As I remember that day, I like to think that he has now  “gone home” for the final time, to greener pastures, where he is reunited with our mother, and is farmering now with God.

Paul F. Wells 
November 20, 2000

Sunday, January 13, 2019

Handel in the Hilltowns: "Messiah" as an Exercise in Community Music-making

On the last Sunday of December we traveled to my hometown of Cummington, Massachusetts, to participate in the 54th annual sing-through of George Frideric Handel's popular oratorio, Messiah. The sing is always held on the first Sunday after Christmas in the Village Church on Main Street in town. The deal here, for those unfamiliar with the concept of a Messiah sing, is that it is not a performance, but rather an exercise in participatory, informal music-making. Professional, or quasi-professional, vocal soloists are engaged to sing the recitatives and arias, and a pro conductor leads the proceedings. But all the singers in the chorus and all the instrumentalists are folks who just show up and sight-read through the score. They don't tackle the entirety of Handel's work, but do all of Part One (that deals with the Nativity) and selected arias and choruses from Parts Two and Three. Hey, ya gotta do "The Trumpet Shall Sound" (from Part Three), and end the proceedings with the "Hallelujah" chorus (from Part Two)! In spite of it not really being a performance, there is always a small audience of appreciative folks who come just to listen and enjoy.

This was our fourth straight year of traveling from our home in southern Maine in order to take part. Cummington is in the western part of Massachusetts, roughly equidistant from the borders of Vermont, New York, and Connecticut. It is one of the towns that comprise the somewhat loosely-defined area known as the Hilltowns, that includes communities in parts of Hampshire, Berkshire, Hampden, and Franklin counties. All the Hilltowns are small, with populations in the range of 1,000-2,500 people. Historically, the demographic make-up of the Hilltowns has consisted primarily of folks of old Yankee stock -- farmers, tradesmen, loggers, practitioners of other blue-collar jobs -- but it is an area that also has nurtured a fair share of folks engaged in more creative and intellectual pursuits.

Bryant's birthplace in Cummington
Cummington in particular has produced or attracted a good many artists, poets, musicians, and writers over the years. The town's most famous native son was William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878), poet and long-time editor of the New York Post. More recently, Richard Wilbur (1921-2017), one of the most esteemed American poets of the 20th century, made his home there. Many young musicians have spent productive summers honing their skills at Greenwood Music Camp, established in Cummington in 1940. During my youth, the now-defunct Cummington School of the Arts (later: ...Community...) provided a congenial environment for mature artists and musicians to immerse themselves in their craft for a month or so.

Though the arts are by no means the defining cultural strain in town, the strong, long-standing presence and acceptance of art and music in the community has permitted an event like the annual Messiah sing to exist as a tradition for over half a century. But I get ahead of myself...

It is about a four-hour drive from our home in southern Maine to Cummington. When we go there for the Messiah sing we always work in some visits with family members in the area, and celebrate our January 1st wedding anniversary with a nice dinner in Northampton or Amherst (where we spend a night) in order to make the trek worthwhile. This year we enjoyed nice weather and hassle-free traveling in both directions.

We got to Cummington far enough in advance of the 4:00 p.m. start time of the sing to spend a couple of hours catching up with cousins at the family farm before heading to the church. There's always a strong turnout for the sing and parking around the church can get tight, so an early arrival is warranted. We were delighted to snag a spot right behind the building. The back door leads directly to the church kitchen and on into the vestry, where preparations for the post-sing reception were already in full swing.

We threaded our way through the group of busy workers, stopped briefly to exchange some pleasantries with old friends, then staked out good spots in the singers' areas in the sanctuary--Sally with the altos, me with the basses. We visited a bit with our section neighbors while the place began to fill up. Most of those around me were long-time veterans of Cummington Messiah sings. I was pleased to make the acquaintance of a man several years my senior from the neighboring town of Plainfield who had known my late mother, not only from previous Messiahs but also from the Hilltown Choral Society (HCS), a long-standing community choir. The Messiah sing in many ways is an outgrowth of the HCS, a subject to which I shall return in a bit.

 The Cummington Village Church is a lovely old building, dedicated in 1839. It is typical, in many ways, of other New England village churches, but not without its distinctive features. Foremost among these is the beautiful trompe-l'Å“il painting on the back wall of the sanctuary. This was added in 1951, in memory of Eugene W. Lyman (1872-1948), a Cummington native and noted theologian; he taught at Union Theological Seminary in New York for many years. The painting is the work of New York artist and interior decorator Lyman Martin (1928-1992).


Another noteworthy feature of the church is the lovely tracker action organ. It was built c. 1880 by Pomplitz and Company of Baltimore, Maryland; it is their Opus 214. Cummington is not its first home; it was installed initially in the Trinity Protestant Episcopal Church in Staunton, Virginia in 1881 and moved to Cummington in 1903. It was a gift to the town from Worcester Reed Warner (1846-1929), another native son, who was a successful mechanical engineer and businessman. It is a beautiful, small gem of an instrument.

The organ survived an effort in 1961, at a time when it needed repairs, to have it junked and replaced with a fully-electronic instrument (!!!!). Fortunately, saner heads prevailed and money for repairs was found. In the late 1970s a major fund-raising campaign was mounted in order to pay for a complete renovation of the instrument. Messrs. Czelusniak et Dugal, Inc. were engaged for the task and did a wonderful job. It was re-dedicated at the time of the town's bicentennial celebration in 1979. Regrettably, the organ was not played at this year's Messiah. Scuttlebutt had it that no organist was available to play that day. Conductor Gregory Hayes (who has taught at Greenwood Music Camp for many years) provided the continuo parts for the recitatives and arias on a portative organ. Nice, but not quite the same.

In earlier times the church would be packed to the doors with singers on Messiah day, and there were plenty of good string players on hand. For the past couple of years, however, I've been more than a little dismayed to note a drop-off in the number of participants. I don't know that anyone keeps a precise tabulation but the ranks had definitely thinned out from what I remember them to have been in the mid-1980s. A shortage of strong string players was particularly evident. Things were better this year. We had a nearly full sanctuary of singers as well as more, and more skilled, string players--though there were still a few cringe-inducing moments when the intonation was, shall we say, somewhat less than ideal.

This year's vocal soloists were consistently strong: Kristi Spencer, soprano; Cynthia Sanner, mezzo; Dario Coletta, tenor; and Steve Curylo, bass. All have good resumes as performers and/or teachers. Special mention must be made of tenor Dario Coletta who has sung the role each of the years that we've attended. He has considerable experience singing opera and musical theater, and is simply outstanding. He works now as a stone mason in Plainfield. A wry note in the program for this year's Messiah informs us that he "also serves as the tenor section of the Plainfield Congregational Church choir." Sheldon Ross was the featured trumpet soloist on "The Trumpet Shall Sound."

As usual, a good time was had by all. Conductor Hayes kept things on track with skill, artistry, and good humor. I'm still chuckling over his admonition to the singers, before we launched into "For unto Us a Child is Born," to remember that the word "us" is, in fact, a separate word; he did not want to hear anyone singing "For unto wuss..."  As noted, this was not, nor was it intended to be, a polished performance. Speaking for myself, I missed a couple of entrances in the more difficult choruses--as did most of the guys around me! But the key feature of an event such as this is that folks come out and do it. People of all skill levels come together and make music as a body, simply for the sheer joy of doing so. Sally and I thoroughly enjoyed ourselves; we look forward to taking part again next year.
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I have dim memories of the inception of the Cummington sing. The first one was held in 1964, the year that I graduated from the local elementary school. Credit for its creation lies with the late Roberta Cowell, a local woman who was the driving force behind many musical activities in the area--as well as being a very fine soprano herself. A few years earlier (1957) she had founded the aforementioned Hilltown Choral Society and served as its director well into the 1980s. She was also my first music teacher in elementary school.

According to an article by Lawrence Raab in the Berkshire Eagle (Pittsfield, Mass.) of December 23, 1967, Mrs. Cowell had originally thought to have the HCS perform Handel's work but felt that the group was too small to do so. "Instead," Raab noted, "the conception was expanded to encompass the whole community of Cummington. Anyone who knew and enjoyed "The Messiah" [sic] was asked to the church to 'perform' it."

For many years I was under the impression that the Cummington sing was unique. Of course this is not the case, as there are countless participatory Messiah sing-throughs in the world; there is even a Wikipedia entry about such things. In fact I'm not 100% sure that the idea of an informal sing-through in Cummington was something that Mrs. Cowell invented out of whole cloth. I seem to recall reading that she was inspired by a similar event somewhere else in the country (Chicago?) but am not certain of this. In any case, starting the one in Cummington was a fairly natural extension of her work with the HCS, as another way to engage the local folks with music.

L to R: Kathy Wells, Margaret Allen
My late mother, Helen Wells, who was a long-time member of the Hilltown Choral Society, was also an early and enthusiastic supporter of the Messiah sings. She sang in them every year until late in her life. My older sister, Kathy, joined her on many occasions while she was still at home. Throughout my high school and college years my mother tried in vain to interest me in taking part. It was not until the early 1980s, when I again lived in Cummington for a couple of years that I finally decided to give it a go -- at which point I immediately regretted that I had not done so earlier! We learn too late to listen to our mothers, don't we?  

Alto section, 1967: Helen and Kathy Wells, front, far right.
A move to Tennessee in 1985 made it impractical for me to attend for many years but after relocating to southern Maine, and extolling the pleasures of the annual sing to Sally for a few Christmases, we finally got our act together and attended our first sing in 2015. We now factor a trip to Cummington on the Sunday after Christmas into our annual planning for the holiday season.

It was after taking part in my second Messiah sing (which, if I've calculated correctly, was on December 30, 1984) that I had a bit of a revelation about the importance of an event such as this. At the time I was serving as chair of the church's Music Committee. This meant that when it came time to get ready for the Messiah sing it was up to me to engage the vocal soloists, secure the conductor, line up an organist, try to get the word out to instrumentalists, arrange for the loan of vocal scores from Forbes Library in Northampton, and ensure that there would be ample staff and goodies on hand for the post-sing reception.

It also meant that I was the person who got the call the following Monday from a reporter at the Daily Hampshire Gazette in Northampton, looking for material for a post-event story. I recall talking with him about the concept of the sing being a non-performance, and that although it had a few rough edges, its real value lay in the fact that it was "democratic, community music-making." I'll admit to being kinda pleased when the paper ended up using that as the pull quote that ran with a photo of folks singing that appeared on the front page the next day.
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The business of community music-making, just for the fun of it, is something about which I feel strongly. Of course, there is nothing remarkable about people playing music together primarily for their own enjoyment; it happens all the time in Irish pub sessions, at bluegrass and old-time music festivals, during after-hours sessions of jazz musicians in nightclubs, when friends gather for house parties, or when teenagers take over their parents' garages to act out their rock star fantasies. Amateur music-making, in both private and public situations, is a big part of our musical culture.

But this is Handel we're dealing with here, for Pete's sake! And a piece of music that is held in high esteem throughout much of the western world. It is typically performed in major concert halls and churches by top-caliber musicians and singers. It is by no means simple music--we're not talking 16-bar reels and jigs, or three-chord rock songs. There are high-minded critics who sniff at the whole idea of participatory sing-throughs of Messiah, and dismiss them as amateurish affronts to Handel's genius. Many classical musicians regard Messiah as a tired, over-done work that they must endure every Christmas season for the sake of a gig or two.

Nevertheless, it is unquestionably loved by, and meaningful to, lots of folks, and many (like us) derive great joy from having the opportunity to sing it. And it is not so very complex that amateurs cannot enjoy taking a stab at it. Its widespread popularity has helped make it accessible to people who otherwise would never engage with "classical" music. I see this as a Good Thing. A Very Good Thing.

In the 1967 Berkshire Eagle article mentioned earlier, writer Lawrence Raab noted that Handel tailored Messiah to the rather modest performing resources he had available for the 1741 Dublin premiere. For this reason, Raab says, the composer kept things simpler than he might have under other circumstances. He goes on to argue: "Thus, 'The Messiah' [sic] in all its greatness is particularly attractive to groups in small communities. So it may become a kind of 'folk' music, a music which people can learn and take to heart."

Well, um, no. Not quite. Speaking as a trained folklorist and traditional musician, I wouldn't go that far, or even close to that far. While there famously is no hard and fast definition of "folk music," there are a few characteristics that are more or less generally agreed on:
  1. traditional tunes and songs exist in differing versions with no single, authoritative "correct" version; 
  2. it is music that typically is learned and performed via oral/aural means; 
  3. it is performer-based music rather than composer-based; i.e., everyone who performs traditional material re-shapes it in accordance with their own taste and abilities.
Handel's score for Messiah defines what the work is (yeah, I know, he made umpteen revisions...). People invariably sing and play it from printed music. There is no appreciable room for improvisation, except perhaps at the hands of skilled musicians who are conversant with Baroque performance practice. It is not, by any stretch of the imagination, or definition, a piece of folk music.

Where Raab is on-target--and the point I want to make with this post--is that the value of an event such as the Cummington Messiah sing lies not in whatever artistic merit it may have, but in its importance to the community in which it takes place; in its role in defining the cultural life of that community. Those of us who study folk music--folklorists and ethnomusicologists--put great value on looking at music as an aspect of the culture in which it exists; indeed, ethnomusicology is often defined as the study of music in its social and cultural context. This is in contrast to the approach taken by historical musicologists, i.e. the scholars who study "classical" music. Their approach has typically been to focus on the music for its own sake; the "text" of the music, as it were, rather than the context.

Happily, this has changed within the last generation or so. Musicologists of all stripes are taking a broader view of things. Still, it is unusual for academics to include activities in "classical" music in studies of music in communities, or to take a truly inclusive approach to the study of music in place. I know of only one book that is relevant: The Hidden Musicians: Music-Making in an English Town, by Ruth Finnegan, first published in 1989, and brought out in a revised edition in 2007.

A publisher's blurb for the book notes that it  "...focuses on the practices rather than the texts or theory of music, rejecting the idea that only selected musical traditions, 'great names,' or professional musicians are worth studying." Another description goes into more detail, noting that Finnegan's book "...presents in vivid detail the contrasting yet overlapping worlds of classical orchestras, church choirs, brass bands, amateur operatic societies, and amateur bands playing jazz, rock, folk, and country."

Or, as Finnegan herself puts it early on in the book (p. 6) , it is: “about what people actually do--about ‘is’ not ‘ought.’” Hear, hear!

What might I say about the broader context of music in Cummington, into which the annual Messiah sing fits? Not a great deal, I'm afraid, since I have not lived there for many years. But I have already mentioned the Hilltown Choral Society, and Greenwood Music Camp. Greenwood students and faculty (including Greg Hayes) perform in the Village Church when camp is in session in the summer. The church functions as a locus for other musical activity as well, including a popular "Friday Night Cafe" series of acoustic music concerts. A second church in town, the West Cummington Congregational Church, hosts occasional musical events as well.

There are no doubt many things musical that go on in the town of which I am not aware. The importance of much of the music-making in Cummington and in other small towns like it stems not from the fact that it does or does not represent some sort of musical excellence, but from the simple fact that people do it, that it is a vibrant and vital part of the local culture. 

In much of our writing and thinking about music we define music by place. We talk of Cape Breton fiddling, or New Orleans R&B, or Kentucky bluegrass. Perhaps we should think more about defining place in terms of the music that is made there.

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Notes on sources

I am indebted to both my mother, Helen Wells, and her mother, Ada Howes, for their tendency to hang onto things that others might have thrown away. They retained many newspaper articles and clippings about Cummington in file folders, notebooks, and boxes that have now come to me. Gram Howes in particular had a strong sense of the importance of local history. She was a long-time member of the Cummington Historical Commission and co-authored the chapter on Cummington in The Hampshire History: Celebrating 300 Years of Hampshire County Massachusetts (Northampton, Mass: Hampshire County Commissioners, 1964). I credit her with instilling in me my own strong love of local history. She would probably be pleased to know that one of her grandsons was the director of an archive for much of his professional life.

Among the newspaper pieces Gram saved are two that I found especially useful in providing background information on the church, the organ, and the local Messiah sings:
     Martha Beaver, "A Joyous Occasion for the Cummington Village Church," Daily Hampshire Gazette (Northampton, MA), Saturday, December 31, 1966. Feature about the history of the trompe l'oeil painting in the church, and about a time when Lyman Martin had been called in to refurbish it after some necessary repair work had been done in the sanctuary. My grandmother paper clipped a hand-written note to this article that had a few other bits of useful information.
    Lawrence Raab, "Instant 'Messiah'," Berkshire Eagle (Pittsfield, MA), Saturday, December 23, 1967. Feature about the history of the Cummington Messiah sing, accompanied by several photos taken by Joel Librizzi and Michael Miller. I have shamelessly used two of their photos (of my mother and sister) here. At this time the sing was apparently held prior to Christmas; in the article Raab notes that it was held "Late last Sunday afternoon..." viz. December 17, 1967.

Two years after the 1979 overhaul of the Pomplitz organ was completed, organist Thomas Murray of Newbury, Massachusetts, performed a solo recital on the instrument. As an adjunct to the recital, the firm of Messrs. Czelusniak et Dugal, who had carried out the restoration work, prepared a marvelous 12-page program booklet that contains an extensive history of the instrument. This was enormously valuable in my research for this post.

Two histories of Cummington were also useful resources:   
     Olive Thayer, Cummington, 1779-1979. (Cummington: Souvenir Committee of the Cummington Bicentennial, [1979]). Modest history of the town. Copiously illustrated with historic postcards and other photos.
     Helen H. Foster and William W. Streeter, Only One Cummington. (Cummington, Mass: Cummington Historical Commission, 1974.) Substantial, meticulously-researched history.
   

Monday, April 9, 2018

"You can observe a lot by just watching" -- Laurence Peter Berra


This past Sunday Sally and I decided to have church outside. Our weather has been so quirky this winter and early spring that we have not been able to indulge in much outdoor recreation; we were hungry for the sort of spiritual renewal that only a good dose of contact with the natural world can provide. Although the previous week had been chilly and generally nasty, with biting winds and even a surprise (and surprisingly heavy) snowfall at the end of the week, the day promised to be much more pleasant. So, with hiking boots on our feet and binoculars in hand, we ventured out.

After a stop at the Maine Diner in Wells for some pre-hike sustenance, we headed for the Wells Reserve. The site of an old farm, the Reserve is a favorite destination for  many area birders, walkers, and general nature lovers. It encompasses a marvelous range of habitats: mixed woodlands, open meadows, overgrown orchard & pasture, marshland, and oceanfront; there's an extensive trail system through the property that allows visitors to sample them all.

The annual spring migration is just in the early stages, so our expectations for seeing a lot of birds were rather low. We hoped perhaps to pick up a few FOYs (birderspeak for "first of year") and since our primary objective was simply to get outside, we figured that any sightings would be gravy; we'd be happy with whatever birds we happened to see.

Things were, indeed, quite slow on the birding front, but we managed to conjure up a few interesting species: a pair of American Kestrels; a half-dozen or more Turkey Vultures;  a gorgeous Great Blue Heron; a couple of Eastern Phoebes; several White-breasted Nuthatches; a few Song Sparrows; numerous American Robins; and the odd Canada Goose or so.

The relative dearth of birdlife notwithstanding, this is an interesting time of year to be out and about in the woods and fields. The snow is almost all gone--the new that fell on Friday disappeared almost as quickly as it came--so, apart from a bit of mud, the trails are all clear. It will be another few weeks before the foliage opens up, so many things are visible now that won't be once the trees and bushes leaf out. Signs of seasonal change are plentiful. One aspect of this re-awakening that we quite enjoyed seeing was the emergent Skunk Cabbage which was abundant in the wet areas near the edge of the marsh. Whatever unpleasant associations its name might invoke, it is really quite beautiful in its early phases of maturation. The flower looks something like a sea urchin without its spines. It is usually concealed by the leaves, but lies exposed in the plant in the photo above right, on which the leaves have been either broken off or eaten. (Click on this--and any other photo--to enlarge it.)

 

Our route had taken us first down the Knight Trail (see map) through the old orchard, then to the beach and back via the Barrier Beach Trail. From there we strolled the boardwalk of the Laird-Norton Trail, which connects with the Farley Trail. There is a (welcome) bench on the Farley Trail, in the vicinity of the marker for the trail on the map. This is a favorite spot to stop for a bit, not only to rest our old legs but also because it offers a fine opportunity to sit quietly and observe whatever the local avifauna might be up to.

The photo at the top of this post shows our view from the bench. Note the small island of brush across the open field from the sitters' vantage point; this provides excellent cover for birds and other critters. The area around the bench is similarly bird-friendly. There are several old apple trees and, again, a good deal of brush; see the photo to the right.

For the first few minutes that we sat there we saw no birds moving around but, soon enough, the wisdom of Yogi Berra, and his words that serve as the title for this post, was revealed. Sally spotted a raptor flying high overhead, high enough so we could not discern much in the way of marking. But the long, pointed wings, slim tail, somewhat-smaller-than-a-crow size, general coloration, and the occasional glimpse of patterning on its face made the ID fairly easy: Peregrine Falcon. His or her presence may have accounted for the lack of activity on the part of any smaller birds closer to our level, though it was high enough to perhaps have been undetectable by any songbirds. And the Peregrine gave no indication of being on the lookout for Sunday brunch.

There may or may not have been any cause-and-effect at work here, but soon after the falcon passed over, the action around us began to pick up. We spotted another Kestrel perched atop a tree in the far corner of the field. A Blue Jay soon chased him from his perch. Numerous Robins began searching the field for food. A couple of Song Sparrows started to announce their presence with authority. A male Northern Cardinal flew out of the bushes to our left, traversed the field, and did his best to disappear in the brush in the mid-field brush island. His mate soon followed; she was more successful in concealing herself.

The real treat, though, came as were beginning to think about resuming our walk. When I got up from the bench to take the photo above I was astonished to look up and see a beautiful female Northern Harrier headed in our direction! Neither of us saw where she came from; all of a sudden she was just there. She tilted her way across the field, then came down less than fifty yards from where we were  positioned. She did not stay on the ground long, and did not seem to have caught anything. She soon lifted off again and went on her merry way. We were left with huge smiles on our faces over having had such a close encounter--the closest I've ever had--with such a magnificent bird.

In the 20-30 minutes we spent sitting on the bench our patience had been rewarded many times over. Another sports cliche came to mind as we reminded ourselves that, when birding, it is oftentimes best to "let the game come to you."



We continued our walk along the Farley Trail. Before it went back into the woods we spotted this old nest in the tall grass along the edge of the field. I suspect that it was last year's work of Red-winged Blackbirds. Red-wings are among the species that are just now beginning to arrive in Maine for the summer.





  The woods in this section of the reserve property are dominated by pines. We encountered abundant evidence of the importance of pines as a source of food for denizens of the woods; squirrels had used fallen trees and old stumps for lunch counters as they feasted on pine nuts.



We also ran across reminders, such as this venerable stump girdled by old fencing, that this property had, indeed, once been a working farm.  


At the point where the trail re-emerges from the woods a pair of White-breasted Nuthatches was bopping around the trunk of a large old pine. After watching them for a bit we realized that they were going in and out of a small hole about 10-12 feet up the trunk. A telltale white smear around the bottom arc of the hole was a pretty clear indication that this was their nesting hole! A male Downy Woodpecker was also working the branches of the big pine, finding whatever it is that Downy Woodpeckers find to eat. A bit further on we were delighted to see a Brown Creeper circling his way up a medium-sized Red Maple tree, and making occasional forays to the smaller trees around it.

We finally made our way back to the parking lot, again heeding Yogi's advice by taking every fork in the trail that we came to. Our bodies were a bit tired but our spirits refreshed. I had started the morning in a bad mood but, happily, my grumpiness dissipated somewhere between spotting the first Kestrel and the close encounter with the Harrier. As expected, we had not seen great numbers of birds, but were quite pleased with the variety of species we had found. We took some pleasure in having re-learned, for the umpteenth time, that you can, indeed, observe a lot by just watching.

Coda:
We were rewarded with one final avian treat on our way out of the reserve -- a female Pileated Woodpecker was whanging away at a tree right beside the road, very near the entrance gate. I stopped the car, and since nobody was behind me we sat and watched her for as long as we cared to. She did not seem in the least bit bothered by, or even aware of, our presence. Sweet.

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The Wells Reserve is a local treasure. We feel very fortunate to have such a resource so close at hand and have long been members/supporters. Perhaps some who read this would consider supporting it as well.