The NSO

“God is a beautiful symphony, and we are blessed to play a note in His composition.”

                                                       ~ paraphrased from an overheard conversation

I am not always successful at it, but I do make a sincere effort to not look back on my life with regrets. My faith encourages me to try and understand that the decisions and choices that I have made, be they right or wrong, are for a purpose. They are all part of the journey that I am a part of. Sadly, sometimes, my resolve is not that strong and I am reduced to confronting a few regrets. I do this, then I move on.

This month has given rise to a particular regret. I’ll write about it here, then, I’ll move on.

I regret that I waited so long to regularly attend the Nashville Symphony Orchestra! 

Nashville is a mecca for music; all types of music. In our performance halls, bars, honky-tonks, arenas and even our street corners, you’ll hear some of the best music in the world played by some of the best musicians in the world. And in the heart of city stands the Schermerhorn Symphony Center, home of our Grammy award winning symphony.

I knew they were there. 

Through my years of living in Nashville I would occasionally attend a concert in the park or at the Tennessee Performing Arts Center. In fact, Gerrie and I were there to hear the last note of the last piece the symphony played at the Center prior to moving to their new home. I enjoyed these times and would say, “we need to do this more often.” But then, life would go on as usual and the thought would soon pass away.

This began to change on Friday, January 8, 2010. We attended our first concert in the new Center. That evening we were thrilled by violinist Hilary Hahn’s performance of Jennifer Higdon’s Violin Concerto. But the highlight was the Saint-Saens Symphony No. 3 in C minor, Op. 78 “The Organ Symphony.” This is perhaps among my favorite orchestral pieces. As the final movement progressed, I teared up. The music soared and it took my spirit with it.

But as before, when the music ended, we collected our programs, stepped into the cold night air and resumed our life. A year passed, but the gears were turning a little quicker now.

My wife’s favorite classical piece is the Violin Concerto in D Minor, Op. 47 by Jean Sibelius.  I learned that Stefan Jackiw was to perform the concerto with the NSO as part of their 2010-2011 season. On another January night we found ourselves at the Schermerhorn and this time it was Gerrie’s turn to soar.

Once the piece ended and the ovations were finished, she leaned over and whispered in my ear, “You know, if you were to give up your Titan’s season tickets, we could be doing this more often.”

Being quick in my response, I said, “Honey, you know, I have already been thinking about that.” And I had.

Fast forward to now.

We have just finished our first season as subscribers and have purchased our season subscription for 2012-2013. This month alone I have enjoyed the brilliance of our hometown symphony on four occasions including one magnificent performance at Carnegie Hall in New York. We’ll also be in attendance on Friday evening for the season finale of Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana. Each time I leave the hall I think, how glad I am to have finally made the decision to attend the symphony regularly. It has been one of the best decisions I've made in the last few years.

____________________

Our world moves too fast. Times that once seemed simple are now so complex. Each day is met with good and bad; positive and negative. It can be chaos. We are in a hurry for something. But as I’ve grown older I sense that God desires us to find the beauty in each day. What is beautiful to me may not be to someone else. This is alright. The point is that we each find what is beautiful to us about each day. It becomes our personal beauty. And we celebrate it!

The evenings that I spend listening to the Nashville Symphony is my beauty for that day. I celebrate as I walk up the front steps into the Symphony Center. I know that I am about to be inspired and transported. I am about to be given wings that will enable me to transcend whatever the day wrought on me. I know I will not be disappointed.

Regrets, I’ve had a few. One is that it took me so long to appreciate this precious gift of music. Now having gained that appreciation, I no longer need to look back, but ahead to hours of enjoyment. My years ahead will be filled with great music.

Greg

In One Month

It has been just over a month since Gerrie and I boarded a plane for Los Angeles. Now that we’re home and looking ahead to the long hot summer there will be many times when we’ll think back on this month. We’ll think about the visits and time spent with family and friends. We’ll think about the cities we visited and the landscapes and cityscapes we were a part of.

In one month we visited Los Angeles, Chicago and New York. We stood on the steps of the Art Institute of Chicago looking across Michigan Avenue and saw where Historic Route 66 begins. And we were on Santa Monica Pier where it ends. Twice, our train ran just beside the route.

We had some very memorable meals with wonderful food. Then, we had some meals  that were memorable solely because of where we ate, though the food was only so-so. Sometimes, after all, it is about the atmosphere.

We walked through canyons of steel and concrete and paused where towers once stood and remembered that tragic day. Yet, in our reflective moments we celebrated the American spirit as we saw men constructing the next World Trade Center. In these canyons we found quiet respites. Places like St. Paul’s and Trinity Wall Street. The Gothic Revival church is a peaceful haven away from the busyness of the streets. The churchyard is the resting place for many a distinguished people. Among them are Alexander Hamilton and Francis Lewis, a signer of the Declaration of Independence.

Our eyes enjoyed the natural beauty of magnificent blue skies, sweeping coastlines and calming sunsets. We were mesmerized by the vastness of the Southwest and the  sweeping plains of the Midwest. We delighted in the beauty of the flowers in the mission of San Juan Capistrano. 

The hours spent at the Art Institute of Chicago and the Museum of Modern Art were inspirational. We soaked in the works of Van Gogh, Picasso, Monet, Seurat, Dali, Cezanne, Gauguin, Degas, Renoir, Rousseau and Toulouse-Lautrec. Then there is Warhol, Ernst, Lichtenstein, Wyeth, Hopper and Pollock. It was a visual feast!

We laughed until our sides hurt, enjoying “Peter and the Star Catcher” on Broadway. The next evening we learned exactly why Carnegie Hall is considered one of the best performance spaces in the world. The music of the Nashville Symphony Orchestra soared in this historic place!

Washington Square Park treated us to an eclectic mix of music and styles. Central Park showed us what a park should be with its mix of activities; people running, people biking, people strolling, people lounging on the grass, people doing jazzercise somewhere in the distance and people sitting on benches simply enjoying the day. The  visit to Strawberry Fields gave us a few moments to be still, to reflect, and to listen as a lone guitarist provided a soundtrack of Lennon and McCartney for those moments. 

In one month we experienced so much! We have added more memories to an already marvelous lifetime of memories and experiences.

In our lifetime together we have visited London, Paris and Rome; living for awhile north of London. I wonder why I waited this long to visit Chicago and New York. It is a regret. There is so much richness these cities. There is so much to be explored, to be experienced, to see, to do. 

Years ago, as an aspiring young actor in community theater, I’d lay awake at night and wonder about moving to a big city like New York. I would ask myself if I had the level of talent and skill necessary to become a professional actor. In time I decided I did not. It was the right choice. On occasion I wonder what would have happened if I had tried.  

But now, in my mind games of “what if”, London or Paris top my list of “where I’d like to live” cities. I do not feel, at this point in life, that I could live in either Chicago or New York. But I do know that I wish to arrange my life so that I’ll visit these cities at least once a year. In my mind I have already began to map out plans for 3- and 4-day visits. This  one month provided a glimpse of what lies ahead for future visits. We’ve only scratched the surface of new experiences and new memories.  

Onward.

Greg

Postscript:  While viewing some of the work that passes for modern art these days, I think to myself, “I can do that.” I believe it is time to clean out and convert the garage.

People on the Train: Part II

The Union Station in Los Angeles opened in May of 1939. It combines Dutch Colonial Revival, Mission Revival and Streamline Moderne styles of architecture. Though it is smaller that other Union Stations around the country, it is considered the “Last of the Great Railway Stations.” Because of its proximity to Hollywood, it has been used as a backdrop for a number of films and television shows. It is on this canvas that we first  observe an extremely unique person.

Gerrie and I had been sitting in two old chairs in the larger terminal hall for the better part of an hour. As the time to board our train approached, we gathered our luggage and moved closer to the hallway leading to the platforms. A few chairs were available so we took a seat to wait. 

     “We saw a very colorful fellow yesterday while waiting at the Los Angeles Union Station. He was dressed in simple shoes and very colorful socks; brightly colored flowers against a black background. He wore a rust colored trouser with the legs neatly rolled up to mid-calf. His shirt was a tight fitting black and white stripe. Though he wore a belt, he had thin black suspenders attached to the belt.

     “On on belt loop he had attached a wooden slingshot and on another was a change purse. On his head he wore a gray fedora with a red carnation. And from his ears dangled long feathered earrings; a black feather on one ear and a while one on the other.

     “He was dark complected - Italian perhaps - with black hair and a well-kept black beard. His mustache curled up at the ends.

     “He used his hands, whether he was counting out a few dollar bills or arranging his luggage, like he was a magician performing a slight-of-hand trick.

     “We have seen him twice on the train now; once in the dining care last night and again this morning in the lounge car. He is very outgoing and quite the conversationalist; eager to strike up a discussion with someone, anyone.

     “His name is Mo.

     “Mo and I talked a little this morning about art. He sketches from time to time and went back to his coach seat to bring me some of his work. It is interesting.

     “Mo lives in Albuquerque and he is going to the zoo there this afternoon to draw animals.

     “Mo added a clip on bow tie to his shirt today; a bow tie, a few buttons, and a small safety pin.

     “Mo is a gypsy!

     “If he isn’t, he should be.”

This was from my journal; an entry dated 04.24.12 @ 10:10 a.m. (MT).

I wish I had asked Mo if I could take his photograph. It is isn’t often that I run across a person who obviously has such a carefree zest for life. I would like to have had more of a remembrance of him.

Mo set across from us during dinner that first night on the train. He loved his wine and he loved the conversation. Whichever direction the talk took, he was quick on the trail. He was always so courteous in manners and in how each addressed each person at his table or serving his table. This is true of all his conversations I would imagine.

We saw one last time later that day. It was on the platform in Albuquerque. We were visiting with Gerrie’s sister and brother-in-law who had come out of meet us. Coming across the tracks was Mo. He was dressed as had been since the day before; coach doesn’t allow many changes in clothing I suppose. He had a bag thrown across his shoulder. With one hand he was pulling a suitcase with a Navajo pattern blanket tied to the handle with a length in cord. In his other hand he carried a shopping bag that held two pictures he bought from a street vendor in Los Angeles and a bright blue ukulele adorned with flowers. 

While on the train Mo gave me a postcard of the Union Station. On the back it had his name and address. It is on my desk now, along with a few other postcards, bookmarks, brochures and pamphlets from the journey. I think I’ll write him someday.

Back on the platform, I said farewell to Mo. I returned to visiting with my family. He was heading to the zoo to draw animals.

People on the Train: Part I

Train travel is about people.

There is something “old world” about train travel. It may not be the world portrayed aboard The Orient Express; Hercule Poirot is not sipping his creme de menthe at the next table. Still, there is a certain romanticism about being on a train. 

Train travel takes time. It takes a willingness to have conversations with total strangers during the course of a meal. It is learning that one couple splits their year between the southwest and the midwest so they can spend time with their grandchildren, or that a businessman takes the train to escape the boredom of airplanes. It is sharing a lunch with lady and her husband who are traveling to Washington so that she can receive a literary award for her first classic mystery novel. It is spending time listening to your steward share his dreams of someday becoming a singer. It is civilized. It is choosing to invest your time in a people.

Train travel is passing time. When you’re not sharing a meal having something to do is important. Having a book to read or write in, pens and a pad to draw in, or music to listen to will help to pass the time. Taking a nap or gazing out the window is a suitable pasttime. The world looks different at a few feet versus 30,000 feet.

Train travel requires courteousness. It means patiently waiting your turn to walk down a narrow corridor to the next car. It means watching the passing countryside as you walk slowly to dinner, behind a lady with a walker. It is standing aside while a man with oxygen makes a labored ascent up the stairs. It is returning the many smiles you receive as you make your back to your room. 

Train travel means having choices from a menu during breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Train travel means not being in a hurry. It is taking more than a few hours of your life to relish the scenes through the window. It is enjoying your own thoughts as you move across the country, all the while, looking forward to the next person you meet and the story they have to share. While most flights are to be endured, train travel is to be savored. It is like a fine dining experience. It takes time as you move through the courses; each one adding to the splendor of the meal. When it is finished, you reflect on the experience with great satisfaction.

I fear that long-distance train travel is becoming a thing of the past in our country. This saddens me. It is a simpler and more elegant way to move from place to place. It is slower and more thoughtful. While it still lasts we will travel by train when we can. From our room we’ll marvel at the beauty of the countryside and when it’s time, we’ll have great conversations over a reasonable meal.

Greg

Postscript:  Gerrie and I will be traveling to New York next weekend. We will visit with Peter and the Starcatcher on Broadway, look at a few of Monet’s Water Lilies and listen to the Nashville Symphony Orchestra perform Charles Ives The Universe Symphony at Carnegie Hall. However, please visit Sharing the Good Times next Sunday. I’ll continue People on the Train by introducing you to someone.