The music we hear as a child shapes us, doesn’t it? Last week, I wrote about “Night on Bald Mountain” in response to the Saturday Stream of Consciousness prompt. I can still picture the sleeve for the vinyl record we had.
This week, as soon as I saw the prompt, starts with gl–, my mind went to a song that my father used to play. He loved a Scottish tenor named Kenneth McKellar. If I close my eyes, I can still hear “Roamin’ in the Gloamin'” sung in that magnificent voice.
I remember asking my father what gloaming is. It’s evening or dusk. The song is about a fellow walking at that time of day with his sweetheart.
I think dawn and dusk ARE the prettiest times of day. There’s something about the liminal time, when it’s not quite one thing or the other, that makes it magical.
As the song says, “When the sun has gone to rest, that’s the time that we love best — Oh, it’s lovely roamin’ in the gloamin’.”
Today’s SoC prompt is Bald, Balled, Bawled. I fell asleep last night trying to think about the last time I bawled so I could write about it. When was it? I couldn’t remember.
When I sat down to write this morning, bawled was out the window and bald was in. This is what came out —
A few weeks I was in Maine. On one of the days, we hiked and reached an overlook that had one of those pictures that identified the mountains we were seeing. One of them was called Bald Mountain — and immediately I was transported to my childhood.
We had a vinyl record that I listened to often. On one side was The Sorcerer’s Apprentice – Fantasia, and, because of that, Mickey Mouse was on the album sleeve. On the other side was Mussorgsky’s Night on Bald Mountain.
I started singing Night on Bald Mountain to my friend — DAH DAH Da-Da-Da-DAH DA-DA da-da-da-DAH DAH! He looked at my like I had two heads. How does one sing a piece of classical music?
Truth be told, the Mickey Mouse side — The Sorcerer’s Apprentice was too scary for me, so I preferred the foreboding music of Bald Mountain.
And the day we were on the hike, the weather kept thinking about raining, although not a thunderstorm. Still the vista was cloudy and gave me the sense of potential storm, as on Bald Mountain.
This may or may not be the vista that identified Bald Mountain, but it was from that same day.
If you’re not familiar with the music, take a few minutes and listen to the Mussorgsky piece. Picture a little girl putting it on the record player in her room and falling asleep to it. That may explain a lot about me.
Hmm… when I thought about cooking songs, the theme song for Milton the Monster immediately came to mind. This show ran 1965 – 68. It’s about a Frankenstein-like monster created in a spooky looking mansion by a mad professor. At a key moment in the process though, Professor Weirdo’s elbow is bumped and too much “Tincture of Tenderness” goes in. The result — a very goofy monster named Milton. I still can sing every word of the intro song.
Is Tincture of Tenderness a spice? It certainly adds “flavor.” Honestly, a lot of folks these days could use an elbow-bump of it.
Narrator: On top of old Horror Hill, in a secret laboratory Professor Weirdo and Count Kook were in their monstrous glory
Professor Weirdo: Six drops of The Essence of Terror Five drops of Sinister Sauce
Count Kook: When the stirring’s done, may I lick the spoon?
Professor Weirdo: Of course! A-ha! Of course! Now for the Tincture of Tenderness But I must use only a touch For without a touch of tenderness It might destroy me…
[Kook accidentally knocks Weirdo’s arm]
Professor Weirdo: …Oops! Too much! Better hold your breath, it’s starting to tick!
Count Kook: Better hold my hand, I’m feeling sick!
[the monster arises]
Milton the Monster: Hello, Daddy!
Professor Weirdo: What have I done?
Milton the Monster: I’m Milton, your brand new son!
The other song that came to mind was “Wild Mountain Thyme.” Below is a video of Kate Rusby — whose voice is GORGEOUS — singing this traditional irish/Scottish song. In the 18th century, poet Robert Tannahill wrote “The Braes of Balquhither.” Then, in the 1950s, Belfast musician Francis McPeake adapted these lyrics and melody into the version known today. The song goes by many names — “Wild Mountain Thyme”, “Blooming Heather”, “Purple Heather”, and “Will Ye Go, Lassie, Go.”
I know — thyme is an herb, not a spice. You’ll have to agree, though, that this is a lovely song.
Lyrics: Oh, the summer time is coming, And the trees are sweetly blooming, And the wild mountain thyme Grows around the blooming heather.
Will you go, lassie, will you go? And we’ll all go together To pull wild mountain thyme All around the blooming heather, Will you go, lassie, go?
I will build my love a bower By yon clear and crystal fountain, And all around the bower, I’ll pile flowers from the mountain.
I will roam the country o’er Through that dark land so dreary; And all the spoils I find, I’ll bring to my darling dearie.
If my true love, she won’t have me, I will surely find another To pull wild mountain thyme All around the blooming heather.
Oh, the summertime is coming And thre trees are blooming And the wild mountain thyme Grows around the blooming heather.
I cheered when I saw that he was born in August — because that’s the challenge for this week’s Song Lyric Sunday. This week the theme is to find a song that was written or performed by someone who was born in the month of August. It proved not to be an easy task.
Richard Shindell is an American folk singer. He wrote a response song to The Beatles’ song She’s Leaving Home. I’ll put both songs below. If you’re not familiar with The Beatles’ song, skip down and listen to that first. Without it, Shindell’s song, Bye Bye, may not make sense. Somewhere I remember reading that Shindell had written his song as a song-writing exercise, trying to imagine what life would have been like for the parents of the girl who left home and just left a note behind.
Ten years to the day her father’s in the garden He’s kept it as it was the day she went away On every life some rain must fall It doesn’t mean we let the roses go
Ten years to the day her mother’s in the kitchen She’s standing at the backdoor, “Come, love, have some tea.” It took a bit of getting used to Only setting out two places
I could bring her back to them With a few strokes of this fountain pen All’s forgiven, start again
I could put her in a taxi idling at the corner Working up her nerve and wondering what she’ll say Remembering how she left that morning Recalling how they both were snoring
I could bring her back to them With a few strokes of this fountain pen All’s forgiven, start again
That man from the motor trade Ran off with a meter maid
Roses, wild, have spilled into the alley Backdoor off its hinges, the grass grown high Ten years to the day and counting That little note she wrote? That’s all she wrote
I could bring her back to them With a few strokes of this fountain pen All’s forgiven, start again
But I can’t bring her back to them That’s not how this story ends As is written so it ends Bye-bye
Wednesday morning at five o’clock As the day begins Silently closing her bedroom door Leaving the note that she hoped would say more
She goes down the stairs to the kitchen Clutching her handkerchief Quietly turning the backdoor key Stepping outside, she is free
She, … (we gave her most of our lives) Is leaving (sacrified most of our lives) Home (we gave her everything money could buy)
Father snores as his wife gets into her dressing gown Picks up the letter that’s lying there Standing alone at the top of the stairs She breaks down and cries to her husband Daddy, our baby’s gone. Why would she treat us so thoughtlessly? How could she do this to me?
She (we never thought of ourselves) Is leaving (never a thought for ourselves) Home (we struggled hard all our lives to get by) She’s leaving home, after living alone, for so many years
Friday morning, at nine o’clock She is far away Waiting to keep the appointment she made Greeting a man from the Motortrade
She (what did we do that was wrong) Is Having (we didn’t know it was wrong) Fun (fun is the one thing that money can’t buy)
Something inside, that was always denied, for so many years, . She’s leaving home
Music weaves its way through the fabric of the days at Laity Lodge.
The sessions begin and end with song, usually old hymns for which the hymnbook may only be half-necessary.
Like the time we sang, “Shall We Gather at the River.” I don’t really know all the verses to that one — just the chorus — so I used the hymnal. I got really confused, however, when the melody we sang didn’t match the music in front of me. It’s the plight of a music-reader to notice such things.
My favorite part of a concert is when the performer forgets their lyrics. At that moment, something shifts from a performance to a sharing of imperfections, from an act on a stage to a friend who is willing to open up and reveal some deeper truth about themselves.
At the concert on the last night at Laity Lodge, the musicians sang their songs, forgot a few lyrics, and then gave us the privilege of hearing some new material.
“You mind if I share a new song?”
No, no, we didn’t mind at all when both Andrew Peterson and Andy Gullahorn asked that question. It was a pleasure to be their guinea pigs.
AP singing a new song
At times, the vulnerability made me want to look away.
How hard it must be to expose fears and struggles — from a stage. A few lines from one new AP song —
I tried to be brave and I hid in the dark.
I sat in that cave and I prayed for a spark
To burn up all the pain that remained in my heart,
But the rain kept falling down.
AP also sang a song dedicated to his wife asking if they would survive and I ached inside for them. At that moment, I wished my husband were beside me so I could slide my hand into his warmer, larger hand, and feel the squeeze of reassurance.
Beauty lives in the hard places — and we need to be reminded of that.
We do survive.
And even those who don’t can experience new life in other ways.
Easter is especially a time to be mindful of that.
The only photograph I could find from my time at Mid-State Baptist Camp
When I was a teenager, I worked at a small Baptist camp in the wilds of upstate New York.
I was initially hired as the cook — don’t ask me how — but eventually was moved into the lifeguard position after they tasted my cooking and the other lifeguard left.
To my Baptist friends, forgive me, but sometimes Baptists can be stodgy.
Although I attended a Baptist church at the time (which wasn’t stodgy), I was unprepared for the strictness of this camp.
I had to sign some sort of statement of faith to work there, and, being 18, gave it only a cursory reading. Yep, I agreed (or so I thought) and quickly scrawled out my signature.
Trouble arrived on two fronts. One had to do with speaking in tongues.
For the record, I do not speak in tongues. I speak English and know a smattering of other languages. In worship services, I speak in the tongues of men – mostly American — not angels. I told someone else at the camp (I’ve never really been sure who) that I believed that the gift of tongues could still exist today. Before I knew it, I was called in before a panel of pastors to discuss the matter.
You have to picture it — I was a slip of a girl, blonde, freckled, unschooled in theology, wearing t-shirt and shorts — and, in my mind’s eye, I still see them wearing suit coats, sitting in a semi-circle around me, grilling me about the charismatic movement, of which I was not a part. I stood my ground, though. I do believe the gift of tongues could still exist. In the end I had to promise never to discuss tongues with any campers, and they would allow me to continue working.
The other problem was music. The dining hall was a long low building with a kitchen at one end, rows of tables and folding chairs in the middle, and a turntable with speakers at the far end. I had just discovered Andrae Crouch and the Disciples. His album, Keep on Singing, lived on that turntable.
While I worked in the kitchen alone, I blasted Andrae Crouch over those speakers and sang at the top of my lungs.
Take me back. Take me back, dear Lord.
To the place, where I first believed…
I closed my eyes, clasped my hands, and swayed while I sang:
How can I say thanks
for the things You have done for me?
Things, so undeserved,
Yet You gave to prove Your love to me.
The voices of a million angels
Could not express my gratitude.
All that I am,
And ever hope to be,
I owe it all to Thee.
I opened my eyes to find two Baptist ladies staring at me.
“Turn that music down,” one said.
“You can’t play music like that here,” the other one added.
I turned it down temporarily, but, oh, I still played Andrae Crouch — for two solid weeks. He kept me company and lifted my spirits. He gave me confidence. Trouble came from time to time, but that’s all right, I learned not to be the worrying kind.
Maybe that was why they booted me from the kitchen.
Andrae Crouch passed away yesterday. I’m sure he’s singing now in heaven.
But one summer, I sang his songs on a mountaintop. Today, I just gotta tell somebody.
Hot Dogs and Marmalade 