Classical Music

   One evening, as Doralyn and I were making our way east through the mountains on our way back from the west coast, we found ourselves spending the night at a hot springs resort.
   After checking in and having a meal we headed for one of he mineral pools there. The water was about 107 degrees, saturated with minerals and magnificent. With the aid of flotation devices, soon we were drifting on our backs in the warm jet stream.
   Above us, speakers played soft, meditation music. As I was listening to one tune, slowly it began to sound familiar and I absent-mindedly began going through my memory banks. After awhile I realized the tune was "Streets of Laredo", a song I remember from my childhood. I was, however, unable to confirm this with Doralyn as her childhood doesn't quite coincide with mine.
   Now, "Streets of Laredo" is not classical music but it is very old and certainly has ingrained itself on my psyche. As I continued to float there in the hot springs I began to think of the many ways that more traditionally classical music has infused itself into our pop culture.
    I think the most striking example of this is the "William Tell Overture"by Rossini. If the title of this piece doesn't sound familiar, just think "The Lone Ranger". There is probably no more iconic piece of classical music than this. It seems any time you have a hero set off on some kind of mission, all hell-bent-for leather, this particular theme music seems appropriate.
   Probably my personally favourite piece of classical music is Grieg's "In the Hall of the Mountain King". Since I was a kid, it has either given me a bit of the creeps or just seemed a little maniacal. I remember putting on a play in Grade 4 and I was one of a group of huntsmen with axes who were doing this crazy dance around a fire or something to this particular piece of music. I also remember being amazed to hear it sampled in Rick Wakemen's "Journey to the Center of the Earth" and thinking that it fit in perfectly with the netherworldly feeling of that particular opus.
   Until I saw the movie "Ordinary People" I was unfamiliar with Pachelbel's "Canon in D Major". After seeing the movie and being particularly affected by the music in it, I took it upon myself to find out what that particular piece of music was. After this, it seemed as though Pachelbel's piece was every where you went, used in a variety of ways and venues. Whenever I hear it now I get ticked off with Mary Tyler Moore all over again (you really need to see the movie...)
   In much the same way, Samuel Barber's "Adagio for Strings" crept into the public consciousness as the perfect counterpoint to the death and destruction pictured in Oliver Stone's "Platoon". Put simply, it is a beautiful and haunting piece. Recently, on YouTube, it was used as the background music for videos of people jumping to their deaths from the World Trade Centre towers on 9/11. The music, coupled with the fact that these were actual people in their final moments, brought one to tears.
   Stanley Kubrick's film "2001: A Space Odyssey" opens with "Also Sprach Zarathustra" (Thus Spake Zarathustra), a work by Richard Strauss. It is a visually and emotionally arresting moment in film and the music from it now is used to signify monumental new beginnings.
   Kubrick continued to re-acquaint us with classical music in "A Clockwork Orange". Alex, the hero (villain?) of the movie finds it engaging to commit all sorts of mayhem to the backdrop of some of Beethoven's most well-known pieces. The aforementioned "William Tell Overture" gets a memorable re-working as well.

    Ravel's "Bolero", mesmerizing in its sinewy length and driving repetition, is perfect "make-out" music but possibly none of us realized this until it was so prominently featured in the movie "10". It then became both the inspiration and namesake for Torvill and Dean's ice dancing tour de force, becoming one of the  most memorable skating routines of all time. I remember hearing "Bolero" as a child but it took on a whole new meaning hearing it again as an adult.
   Once again, as a child, I have a vague recollection of one of those afternoon T.V. serials (back in the fifties) that had a couple of World War 1 pilots flying around having adventures to the tune of Wagner's "The Ride of the Valkyries". It is a stratospheric piece of music, full of power and a little bit of dread, and Francis Ford Coppola used it perfectly in "Apocalypse Now" as hordes of gunship helicopters swooped down on the hapless Vietcong.
   Hard to talk about classical music and not talk about Saturday morning cartoons. Without even realizing it, we, as children, were indoctrinated to the world of classical music as we sat there and watched Bugs and Elmer and Mickey and Daffy and listened to much of the above music plus the like of Rossini's "The Barber of Seville", Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata" and Liszt's "Hungarian Rhapsody, plus more. I remember discovering one by one that music I'd heard as a kid was classical, that it was maybe 150-200 years old and had been written by someone!
   There will always be classical music inspiring new generations of creators, whether they might be authors, filmmakers, composers, choreographers and so on. What's a little more difficult to say is what will be the classical music of the future. Something by the Beatles, Michael Jackson or Simon and Garfunkel? Or will it be more like Vangelis' "Chariots of Fire" or Randy Newman's title theme from "The Natural", both pieces of music which have taken on more significance than that for which they were intended, much the same as many of the older pieces above.
   My playlists have classical music in them, alongside many well-known contemporary songs and many of the lesser-known ones as well. I'm not shy about demostrating my love for the classics but have no interest in converting anyone. I'm also not shy about letting people know I enjoy opera and choir music. Classical music has lasted because it has touched peoples' nerves. In many ways it has been part of the fabric of our daily lives, perhaps without us even being aware of it. At times, it might have been our first introduction to the world of music and, whether we knew it or not, all else sprung from it.   
  
  
     
  

Dad, these days: Part Seven

   In "Dad, these days: Part Six", I began by describing it as the last in the series of blogs relating to my Dad's decline and passage. In retrospect, I guess a person's story doesn't always end when it ends. With this is mind, I offer this current blog. There is a temptation to describe it as the last in the series but, seeing as how I just learned my lesson on THAT one, I will refrain from doing so!
  
   A few years ago, Dad made me the executor of his estate. Along the way, I thought it might be appropriate to talk to him about the disposition of his remains. Not surprisingly, to me, he told me he wanted his ashes scattered in the ocean out in front of the old family cottage in Gibsons, B.C. It was here that his parents had retired to and where he had spent the glorious days of his youth. It is also where he and my Mum had taken us for vacations when I was a child and I was fully aware of the magic surrounding the place.
   I told my Dad at that time I would do my best to ensure that this final request was granted, not thinking that I would need to follow through on this any time soon. Sadly, though, we found ourselves in this position much more soon than we thought.
   There is no real timeline when it comes to matters such as this and I suppose we could have held on to my Dad's ashes indefinitely. I also knew that there was a certain impetus in play here, that I had been pretty well constantly involved with my Dad's affairs since he'd passed and should I suddenly stop there was the possibility that this impetus might be lost and then be hard to regain.
   With all of the above in mind, Doralyn and I set out three weeks ago to fulfill Dad's wishes.


The boundary "B"

   We flew to Calgary, rented a car there, and began our (and Dad's) journey through the mountains. Dad had always travelled through the Rockies to get us to Gibsons and it only seemed right that he would make this trip one more time.
   It is always a glorious trip through the mountains and, even with a little cloudiness and a few raindrops, this trip began the same way. Eventually we ended up in Gibsons where it was cool and drizzly for about a day and a half and then...the sun came out! And stayed for the whole rest of our trip!
   We had a day or two to explore Gibsons before my Uncle Keith (minus my Aunt Barb, who'd unfortunately had knee-replacement surgey just prior to us leaving) arrived, from Comox. As well, my cousin Cynthia and her husband Kevin joined us.

Doralyn, Kevin, Cynthia and my Uncle Keith

   We all congregated down on what family members refer to as "Gran's beach" for the ash-scattering ceremony. We arrived at low tide which we figured would give us the best opportunity to get close to the ocean water Dad had always found so near and dear. A few words were said, simply to acknowledge that Dad was finally back where he really belonged and we then scattered his ashes in the waves and the rock pools there.

Dad, flying into the ocean one last time...

   One of the other things we managed to accomplish while we were there was to find the legendary "B" which my grandfather Ernest Baker had carved into the rocky outcrop we stood on for the ceremony. My Uncle Keith had had the clearest (and only) recollection of approximately where this had been done and several sets of eyes finally managed to make it out. We marked it for clarity and it is pictured above. Over a beer after golf, Dad had many times told me the story of this letter having been carved into the stone. Probably about 75 years ago, by my uncle's reckoning, my Granddad had purchased the small lot adjacent to the family cottage. At this time he thought it would be appropriate to to go down to the beach and carve in where the new boundary line now was. Standing there as a group, looking at it that day, it was a further testament to the family history and, coupled with the reason we were there in the first place, made it that much more of a memorable moment.

Doralyn, skipping a memory stone

   Apart from my Dad's ashes, we had also brought with us "memory stones". At my Dad's memorial in London, we had asked friends and relatives to sign little messages for or about Dad on stones we had there for them. The idea then was for us to bring all the stones with us and send those messages into the ocean along with my Dad, either by skipping them in or just throwing them. Skipping stones in the ocean was something Dad had taught us as kids (as I'm sure his dad taught him) and it's been something that's stayed with us since. This was also a wonderful moment.
   We parted company shortly after this, Keith back to Comox and Cynthia and Kevin headed back to Mission, B.C. Doralyn and I had the luxury of staying in the Gibsons area for a few extra days and much sight-seeing and visiting with family friends was done. We then spent a couple of days in Vancouver before starting the trip back through the mountains.


My Sweetie, back-dropped by the Banff Springs hotel

   One our stops was in Banff. This was one of the places we'd missed when we were out that way three years ago so we wanted to make sure we didn't miss it this time. One of the other stories Dad had always told me after a round of golf was the one about the Banff Springs golf course. This was a course that Dad had played more than once, back in the late forties to early fifties. In particular, he would tell me stories about the world-renowned fourth hole, known as the "Devil's Cauldron". He would describe it in intimate detail, all the surrounding scenery, the elevated tee and the bunkered green and the large pond your ball would have to carry in order to make the green. His favourite part of the story was about the man in the rowboat who, as golfers invariably would land their shots in the water, would then fetch their balls from their watery grave and sell them back to the golfers! There was a name on the side of the boat--The Maid of the Missed--and this really was the part of the story Dad enjoyed telling the most, relating the clever little play on words the title of the boat suggested.
   With all of this golf history Dad had passed on, it was difficult to actually be in Banff and not visit the same golf course he'd told me about repeatedly. We did go and visit the course and obtained one of the yardage maps they pass out to the players. One of their staff  did give me directions to the fourth hole but it was a little too far off the beaten path to go and see and by then I was happy with our visit anyway.

"Devil's Cauldron" back in the late 40's-early 50's

Dad, teeing off, likely on the Devil's Cauldron

   When I got home, I was randomly flipping through one of Dad's older photo albums and came across some pictures taken on a golf course. When I looked at all of them, I realized that they were pictures of the Banff Springs course! And not only that, when I looked at two or three even more closely and compared them to the map of the course I'd been given in Banff, I also realized I was looking at pictures of my Dad playing the Devil's Cauldron fourth hole he'd been telling me about for so long!
    Right after Banff, we ended up in Canmore for a couple of nights and then on to Calgary for our last day. Our flight from Calgary left extremely late that night (actually early the next morning) so we had pretty well the whole day to kill. We started off by having lunch with Ralph Green, Dad's oldest and best friend. This was a "must" and only fitting, given the reason for our trip, that we have a visit with Ralph.

Doralyn and Ralph in his Stampede attire

   Ralph is a wonderful man and Doralyn fell in love with him right away. He is also very clearly a sentimental man and it was easy to see that occasionally he had a difficult time talking about Dad, as well as Marg, his wife, who had passed away a few years ago. We took some pictures, exchanged some pictures, and promised to send back the pool cue Ralph had only "lent" to Dad. We also promised to simply stay more in touch. It was a little bittersweet saying goodbye as you just never know when we'll see each other again. And, frankly, it was one of the highlights of the trip for me.

Elbow Park Community Centre--from the "ski hill"

   Finally, one of the advantages to having the whole day to ourselves was being able to find Dad's old neighbourhood when he was a boy. Once again, on our weekly talks after golf, Dad would always tell me stories about growing up in the Elbow Park area of Calgary. His fondest memory of those days was all the time he was able to spend at the Elbow Park Community Centre. He would always describe how it was bordered by this huge hill you could ski down in the wintertime and how they would flood the tennis courts, making them into hockey rinks and how you could get all this for only two dollars a year per family!

   It was an amazing trip that afforded me, along with the opportunity to fulfill Dad's wishes, the chance to see a few of the things he'd been telling me about for years, things that somehow or other in my mind had become "legendary". Each and every one of them will now be that much more special to me, as well!
  

The boundary "B"-in its pristine form

  

The Mountains, my Sweetie and Me

Moraine Lake

   I recently returned from the Rocky Mountains. Each time I am there and then need to return to Ontario I am reminded of the visceral hold they seem to have on me.
   I was a young boy when I first started visiting the Rockies, back in the late fifties to early sixties. On an almost yearly basis we made the trek from Youngstown, Ohio or Edmonton or North Vancouver to visit my grandparents who lived on the Sunshine Coast of B.C. in a little town called Gibsons.
   What I was familiar with when I wasn't in the mountains was either prairie or city. The mountains, then, became a total place of wonderment for me when I was in them the first time. It might have been the way they towered over us. It might have been the bears and the deer and the mountain goats. It could have been the cascading waterfalls or the thundering rapids. It could possibly have been the air.

Where many of my relatives need to be.

   I am sure that all of this, combined with the fact that we were headed for Gibsons at the end of it all, made these times of our lives so memorable.
   My feeling as I travel through them as an adult has changed only little. There are still wondrous things to see and the fact that it is not the first time I am seeing them makes little difference. Not even the adult responsibilities of finding hotels, gas stations and highways provide a damper--they just seem to add to the adventure.
   My ancestors were true pioneers in these same Rocky mountains a hundred and sixty years ago--my great-great grandfather arrived in the Fraser valley looking for gold way back when and eventually settled in the area that eventually took his name-Agassiz, B.C. I often wonder if this in any way contributes to my strong sense of belonging when I am in the mountains.
   "Belonging" really is the feeling I get when I am there and it is very visceral and difficult to ignore. I have had this kind of feeling once before--when I realized I was in love with the woman who is now my wife.
   Over a period of time several years ago I realized that Doralyn's presence near or around me had started to evoke a strong and undeniable sense of "belonging" as well. Then, at some point, the feeling that somehow or other we were supposed to be together simply became too strong to ignore and this then led us to where we are now. Much had to happen before we arrived here, though, many painful things had to be survived by many people. In some sense, mountains had to be moved. Mountains were moved, however, and nothing has transpired since to convince me this didn't need to happen.
   So here's a little bit of the dilemma that occurred to me while in the Rockies and then again on the west coast--I feel certain that this is where I am supposed to be so why not be there? If I was willing to go to great lengths to be with Doralyn then why not the same with Western Canada?


Someone I'm supposed to be with, somewhere I'm supposed to be

   Doralyn herself has admitted that the West would be a wonderful place to live. We both can understand why a person might go west for a visit and then just...stay there.
   We are faced, however, with the conundrum I think many Canadians must deal with--balancing where they think they would like to be with where all their loved ones are. This tears at many of us.
   We ran into many "transplanted" Easterners when we were out there. Some preferred the climate and as many simply enjoyed the lifestyle. Doralyn and I both picked up on this undercurrent of creativity which seems so prevalent out there. It was the type of undercurrent which made you want to stick around and dip your feet into it, maybe even drown in it. This was particularly true in Gibsons and then on up the Sunshine Coast. The pace seemed so much slower and, well, hard not to appreciate.
   Still, there is that aforementioned dilemma. To be where we would like to be would mean being thousands of miles away from our loved ones and family members. I saw this predicament wear away at my Dad and Jean, after they had settled on the coast. Eventually, the distance between them and their family brought them back east. And, in the long run, this was probably a better place for them to be as they aged and then became ill. So much more was facilitated for them, being surrounded by family, here.
   Realistically, here is probably where we need and have to be. At the same time, though, the mountains will not disappear in any of our lifetimes and will be there for us, someday, waiting.