LoveUbecause … you are my motorbike!

LoveUbecause …  you are my motorbike!

Call me a narcissist, or perhaps delusional. Put it down to being born at home. Gracing this world’s stage, not to be greeted by a crowd of cheering medical staff, or blinding, bright hospital lights left me a little wanting.

I prefer to think it stems from being cast in the role of an “auxiliary angel” in the school nativity play. Some kid called Ronald got to portray Joseph, the “headliner”. I didn’t get to say anything – just look awe struck when Jesus, played by a plastic doll, arrived – even he got more applause than me! There were no spotlights aimed in my direction, no curtain calls, or kudos for looking just plain angelic!

Consequently, I admit, spending much of my life looking for just that – a comfortable place in the glow of the spotlight, with a few cheers thrown in for good measure! What can I say – I shall just have to admit to being, at times, a bit of an insecure fellow.

Childhood shyness and innate nervousness didn’t really help. Neither did an upbringing, where acting up in school, bringing attention to myself in anything but a scholarly, or “within the confines of the rules” sort of way, was frowned upon. This hopeful extrovert,  wanna-be-class-clown, would have to wait.

Timing, as they say, is everything.  At age five, I watched Jimmy Stewart, fuddle and muddle to stardom as trombonist, Glen Miller in The Glen Miller Story. Miller struggled hard to create an original, big band sound, valiantly trying to make ends meet - winning the girl - almost losing the girl - winning the girl - so romantic. Well, perhaps not the part where he dies in a plane crash!

Nonetheless, for a time, destiny smiled and Miller’s band was wildly popular. In my child’s mind, what better way to blast myself into the hearts and minds of the public than to play the trombone?

Forward several years. After a good music test, some insufferable whining and a familial appreciation of the note, as my mother is one mean accordion player, it was agreed. At age eleven, I could have that shiny, brass horn! Blast I did – though elementary school, high school, university and beyond. I played lots of good notes and my share of bad. At one time, some agreed I was relatively accomplished. Whatever the review, timing had the ultimate say. Newsflash! The mass popularity of big bands faded, pretty much, thirty years ago! Duh! Go find something else to do, “Glen”!

I moved on. I wrote songs, recorded some tunes – ok, that country record was stretching it a bit. Finally that wanna-be-class-clown was released as I earned a living acting for a time portraying a demented scientist in a rather silly play. For years I also played doctors, lawyers, soldiers, policemen and a host of other characters, flashing by in the background as an extra in television shows, movies and commercials. Oh, the glamour of Hollywood North! Begrudgingly, I admit it went nowhere! Forever waiting for the “Über-audition”, the “big break” – sadly, there were no Tony, or Grammy nominations in the cards – Oscar, well that’s just the name of one of my cats - though Catherine O’Hara did once tell me she really liked the sweater I was wearing. What more could a fellow ask for?

Finally - the art! Discovering a flair for the application of paint to canvas, I found several reputable galleries willing to display and sell my work over the past sixteen years. The possibility in centuries forth, of discovering an “Olscher”, dusty and long forgotten, somewhere in an attic in a number of different countries, is actually there – the value of which - to be determined!  What more can a fellow intent on gaining a certain measure of notability hope for?  I even “Google” well!

Now it may be naïve to think that one can ever top the applause that a plastic Jesus gets in a school play, but I am definitely happy being an artist! Especially with some reassurance that once I take my easel and tumble off this mortal coil, hopefully into the froth of painterly heaven, at least I will be able to say I once had some practice at being an angel – albeit, not well lit!

But here’s the kicker! Ironically, recognition, or perhaps call it “fleeting, mobile, anonymous celebrity”, has shown itself in an unexpected and oddly satisfying way. 

Several summers ago I walked into a local motorcycle shop. There sat a gleaming, classically designed, sidecar equipped motorbike. Was I nostalgically jarred by memories of such machines in old films I habitually watched as a child with my grandparents on Sunday afternoons? Was it the spectacle of similar vehicles that trundled by as an addendum to the London to Brighton, antique, automobile race my father once took me too?  I don’t know, but I had to have it!

With promises of summer, afternoon jaunts through the lush, green, countryside and romantic weekends spent winding down the road from one B and B to the next, my wife was an easy sell.

As a neophyte rider, I took a safety course and a little nervously, the possession of our bike. Prepared for the reaction? Not! A vehicular oddity, for sure!

People stopped, stared, pointed and waved. I was flagged down, thinking something wrong, only to be questioned whether I was driving a BMW - an antique? No – it’s a Russian Ural of the 2003 vintage, actually!

Once, a van pulled up beside us on the wrong side of the highway and just stayed there! Were they trying to pass and just ran out of steam? No, the passenger was taking a picture. My goodness, Paparazzi – at last!

It is like being the only float in the parade. My wife has perfected her queenly wave and I, the expected manly nod, for occasions unsafe to remove my hands from the grips to return a salute from another passing biker. Little children, smile and jump up and down in delight. Grown men, in pickup trucks, break into broad grins as we pass. School bus loads of kids jovially jostle at the windows to get their glimpse and

give us a thumbs up.  I have been followed by mothers, with youngsters, who want to see the bike up close when I stop. “Just like in that Dalmatians movie!” they exclaim. Donut shop and mall parking lots are a haven for the curious and old men wishing to recount and briefly relive there memories of driving similar machines in younger days. A conversation piece?  An understatement!

This three wheeled chariot can be driven, using a little common sense, year round. We don’t expect to win any races, but flipped into two wheel drive we have negotiated back roads that have turned into streams, mud and snow.  Nothing like the 85 km ride we took one New Years Day! Talk about curious onlookers!

Admittedly there have been a few ups and downs with some rather quirky, old style technology, but our dealership has given us good service when required. It would be hard to outweigh the sheer pleasure of driving this machine.

Waving, cheering, we don’t even have to try! There is nothing better than finding pleasure in the unexpected and apparently bringing joy by being the unexpected. And strangely in our anonymity, what better way to spend a Sunday afternoon. What better way to enjoy life!

Enjoying the ride …

“A” the “O” in LVE!

Share the LVE! Post or e-mail this page!   

Posted in About Love and Life, Art, Country Living, Motorcycles, Music, Sports
Tags: Art, bikers, celebrity, childhood, dreams, fame, film, life, love, motorbikes, motorcycles, movies, Music, transportation

LoveUbecause … You were a Saint, Martin

LoveUbecause …  You were a saint, Martin

re·qui·em:  Pronunciation: \ˈre-kwē-əm also ˈrā- or ˈrē-\
Etymology: Middle English, from Latin (first word of the introit of the requiem mass), accusative of requies rest, from re- + quies quiet, rest — more at while
Date: 14th century
1: a mass for the dead
2 a: a solemn chant (as a dirge) for the repose of the dead b: something that resembles such a solemn chant
3 a: a musical setting of the mass for the dead b: a musical composition in honor of the dead
(http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/requiem)

I always think it is interesting how seemingly, unrelated events occasionally, unexpectedly, fall into place and culminate in creating personal meaning out of their randomness. The pieces of the puzzle often are created over a long period of time, but whether by serendipity, or some kind of cosmic will, eventually tumble into place, creating a picture of better understanding and appreciation of those around us and those who have come before -  sometimes even in single day, or two.

My wife and I , also “A”, spent this past weekend in a small, historic, eastern Ontario town with friend’s, “B” and “S”, both of whom we have known for many years - “B”, my wife’s friend from high school days and my former university flat-mate  - “S”, his wife of almost 25 years, with whom both “A” and I share a firm friendship and I, in particular, an affinity for the same kind of British humour, as we both hail originally from “the land of Bess”,  and love of all things equine, as we both own and ride horses.

“B” is quite a remarkable man. A small town music teacher, choirmaster and church organist for some 30 years, he has brought joy and music to the communities he has worked and lived in with the unwavering generosity of the gifts of his time and very considerable musical and organizational talents.  He has  directed  and worn enough different hats while participating in, and organizing countless school and community musicals, concerts, recitals and band trips to make the Mad Hatter appear like a slouch! “S” has stood by his side, offering her moral support, skills as a hostess for an untold number of “after parties,” her home, sense of humour and culinary skills  as refuge and comfort to sundry visiting musicians, artists and actors and lent her alto voice as a participant in many of “B”’s projects – she is the veritable “Queen of Patience” - both are to be celebrated  and  admired. Most of all, I am proud to count them as my friends!

“B”’s latest project was to combine two choirs  from two local churches to form a 45 voice ensemble to  perform what is known to some as the “Brahms Requiem” and to others as  “A German Requiem” (Ein Deutsches Requiem).  Anyone in the know will tell you that this is no small musical undertaking for a professional choir, never mind a small town ensemble comprised of  members who possess a wide range of musical skill sets, yet who can never be underestimated, as any possible deficiencies can quite readily be discounted with their obvious enthusiasm, trust in “B”’s leadership and most of all, willingness to learn and perform to the very best of their ability!

The requiem is a very beautiful piece of music and both “A” and I were pleased to participate as musicians in the accompanying orchestra that “B” had assembled from a variety of resources – old friends, students, retired pros and the odd working musician sprinkled in for good measure!

For me, this piece of music has particular sentiments and memories attached as “B” and I both had the good fortune to perform it as choristers with our University choral ensemble some 33 years ago. This was the first time I had the opportunity to once again participate in its performance since - albeit in the orchestra this time, with “B” as the conductor.

What anyone unfamiliar with this piece of music should know is that as a performer the reaction one receives to the performance can potentially be a little disquieting. As a requiem it was written to honour the dead and in Brahms’ case comfort the living, so as a part of a church service, performed in its truest form as a requiem, one would not expect to receive any applause after the final note quietly trails off into an introspective silence.  But perhaps, for some a little selfishly, or more likely for the want of knowing that you communicated with your listeners, as a performer, who has put his or her heart and soul into months of preparation and the performance itself, no outward reaction to your efforts can be a little disturbing – was the audience touched, were they indeed comforted, did they appreciate the beauty, was it a worthwhile experience for them?

As performers those three decades ago, “B” and I, along with another 100 and some singers, were  honoured to perform this glorious piece of music, at a real service and memorial to the former principal of the university, who had passed away, about the time we were originally scheduled to perform it in concert.  It was indeed an emotional experience for many and I can only hope comforting for the man’s family – I think, in retrospect, that the silence that followed the ending of that last chord, cried out more volume, by its very absence of sound, than the sound of any amount of applause that the hundreds of people in attendance in that great hall could have ever provided. It was amongst the  most formidable of  “non-sounds” that I can say I have ever experienced and a testament to my former composition professor’s claim,  that silence can be one of music’s most powerful accents – in this case, even if it did occur, after the composition in question had “officially” ended!

In contrast, we were fortunate enough to perform portions of the requiem in concert, while on tour to another city and university. The reaction and applause we received, both for our ensemble and soloists,  more than provided us with the reassurance that we had not done Brahms any disservice. Both were experiences I shall never forget!

So it was with interest and perhaps a little trepidation, that I wondered what would transpire once the  final notes trailed into silence and this latest performance came to an end - especially after the woman who introduced the concert indicated that the performance would be dedicated to several members of the churches’ congregation who had passed away this past year. I momentarily wondered if the concert would be taken as just that, still a concert, or perhaps that this announcement had, in the minds of the audience, become more of a memorial to those who had passed on. Whatever was to transpire, I didn’t want “B”, or his singers to be disappointed after the months of work they had put into preparing for this one night and whether out of reflective silence, or appreciative applause, I hoped they would come to know that their efforts were worthwhile.

Happily, perhaps with a collective mind of their own, as apparently this audience was indeed comprised of clever, sensitive people, after the singers and orchestra sighed to an end, inspired by the music and performance, a required commemorative, respectful silence was intuitively observed, serving as a punctuation mark before the audience, which jammed the church to standing-room-only capacity, broke into applause, accompanied by a standing ovation. Brahms, “B”, his singers and musicians had worked the musical magic that the audience had hoped for and the evening was an all round success!

The concert ended around nine and it was just after ten o’clock when “A” and I got in the car and began our trip home -  about a two and a half hour drive.  We chatted about a variety of things - fuelled by several cups of coffee and  the warnings of many to watch for the deer that often have a bad habit of bounding Kamikaze-style in front of oncoming traffic on this particular section of highway,  I was careful to keep attentive and prompted “A” to stay awake and help keep me alert with that in mind.

“It was a little odd today,” I said about halfway through our journey.  “Do you ever think that when things repeat themselves, kind of out of the blue, that they have some kind of significance?”

“Maybe … sometimes”, “A” responded.

“Does the name ‘Martin’ mean anything to you?” I asked.

“Not really,” she said.

“Well, I thought it a bit funny. It isn’t an uncommon name, but on the other hand it isn’t that common of one either.  It came to me three times today, in a bit of a strange way.” I went on. “Remember when we went into that antique shop in town this afternoon? Do you remember what the guy said to the other man behind the counter?”

It was a small shop and I hadn’t really paid too much attention to the two men when we walked in, one of whom sat on a chair in front of the counter and one behind.

“Well I guess it’s time you kicked me out, Martin,” said the one man in front of the counter in a jovial tone, or at least very similar words to that effect. It was the name “Martin” that for some reason caught my attention, not his exact words,  as I assumed one man was in for an afternoon chat and was about to get on his way. That was all I heard of the conversation.

It was only a few moments later that I began leafing through a box of old, faded photographs that lay on a stand in the corner of the shop. Old and young faces looked back at me in sepia and black and white tones, probably captured, few with any hint of a smile, many quite glum, at the end of the nineteenth century, perhaps some at the turn of the next. There was a bride and groom, some very matronly, stern women in hats, a baby, all making me wonder who they were, what their lives had been like and how their photographs, once precious to others, ended up with a random assortment of strangers in a small town in Ontario. But it was not the mysterious faces that caught my attention so much as one particular photograph that had a brown cardboard frame glued to it. “Martin Photography” was engraved in gold letters along the edge – significant at the time, catching my attention, only because I had heard that name spoken only moments before.

“I don’t really know why that all came to mind,” I said to “A” as we continued our journey, “but this afternoon when we were at “B” and “S”’s. I was sitting in front of the fire and picked up a British newspaper that was laying there – the Weekly Telegraph, I think it was called. “S” told me she likes to pick it up occasionally.”

The newspaper contained an interesting article about an Italian woman who was looking for the family of a British soldier. The story went like this. During the war, the woman’s mother, who was about to give birth to her and her twin sister, ran into some medical difficulties. The British soldier risked his life, eluding sniper fire and braving mined roads and horrendous, winter weather conditions to bring the woman’s mother to safety and a hospital which could provide appropriate medical attention and aid with the birth of her children. A few days after the babies were born, the soldier left the woman a photograph of his two young children to remember him by. Unfortunately, shortly afterwards he was killed in action. The older woman had always wanted to track down his family to tell them what he had done for her and her daughters and to return the photograph. She died recently and now the daughter was hoping to find the family of the fallen soldier by publishing the picture and reunite them with the photograph, on her mother’s behalf. 

“The only thing she, or her mother knew about the soldier was that his name was ‘Martin’!  Kind of odd, eh?  Martin – three times in a day.”

“I guess,” said “A”

I suppose I was tired and getting a little “punchy”  from all the coffee and was starting to convince myself rather irrationally that the name “Martin” had some significance. Three times in one day – the rule of threes – things happen in threes and all that nonsense.  

At one time when we were kids my best friend had another friend called Martin, my father has a cousin called Martin, I thought.

“Our neighbours used to be called Martin. My first martial arts instructor was called Martin,” I offered. “… can’t quite think why this would be anything about them.”

We continued a few more kilometres. “I seem to remember something about Saint Martin’s Day, when I was kid in England. I think maybe we used to celebrate it at school or something.  Or maybe there was a story from my mother and how they celebrated it when she was a child in Germany,”  I finally said, “I just don’t quite remember. Does it have something to do with Easter? Wouldn’t it be funny if today was Saint Martin’s Day! ”

“I really don’t know,” my wife concluded patiently, now more interested in getting a few minutes of sleep before we arrived home. “but I am sure you will get on the Internet as soon as we get home and look it up, won’t you?”

And so I did, sometime around one o’clock in the morning,  finding out why for me, and perhaps for those who read this, the name “Martin” was by chance, or design, of significance.

It turns out that Saint Martin of Tours was a  reluctant, Roman soldier, who later became a monk. He was noted for his kindness to a needy beggar who he came upon freezing in the snow. Ripping his cloak in half and giving one portion to the beggar, the poor man was saved by Martin from certain death.

Just by coincidence, Saint Martin’s day falls on November 11th, also known as Remembrance Day, Armistice Day, or Veteran’s Day, when people from many countries around the world commemorate the ending of hostilities at the end of World War I, as well as those servicemen and women who served and died in subsequent wars.

I couldn’t help but think back to the rehearsal for the Requiem a couple of days before.  As an instrumentalist, there were two movements in which I didn’t play, so I went to the back of the church to listen to the choir and orchestra. As I lent against a wall, I noticed a memorial plaque to several  soldiers who had  been killed in the First World War. Vimy, the Somme, Ypres were all listed as battles in which these young men had fought and perished. Vimy, a place I visited a number of years ago, I am familiar with. I toured the battlefield, visited the imposing memorial, the small Canadian and British cemeteries that dot the surrounding countryside, as well as the massive German cemetery, which provides a resting place for over 44,000. I even wrote an article for the Toronto Star about the experience. 

I find that memorial plaques, war memorials and war cemeteries often give me a similar feeling to viewing old photographs, just like the ones I leafed through in the antique shop. I can’t help but read the names, or look into the faces and wonder who these people really were.

Did they live good lives, especially the young men, before being thrown into the quagmire of the war and meeting premature deaths? Who were they as human beings, before becoming soldiers? What might have become of them? What might their contribution have been, had they not died?  How many would have become men, like my good friend “B”, and made similar remarkable contributions to their communities?

There is obviously a sadness to such places, but moreover, I often feel a great loneliness, a sense that though memorialised by  plaques and grave stones, that perhaps some of these men would  still feel forgotten, were they able. And so it was,  as I lent on that church wall, reading their names and wondering about their lives, both lived and lost, that I couldn’t think of a more appropriate time to be listening the Brahms Requiem - this beautiful piece of music, written to honour the dead and comfort the living –   a remembrance to them and a brief salvation from that loneliness.

Just by chance, I suppose, that I happened to hear the name, “Martin” three times in a day, think about Saint Martin and find out a little bit more about him. Just by coincidence, Saint Martin’s Day falls on Remembrance Day.  But these last few days - the weekend – has been for me, in its own right,  a kind of  Remembrance Day - the performance of the Brahms Requiem significant,  the reading of the article about the soldier, Martin,  who had in his own right saved another, just like Saint Martin, by providing his own form of a “cloak” to save the woman and her unborn twin daughters. There was  the link from the old photos in the antique shop, to similar ones printed in the newspaper of Martin’s children. It all served as a reminder to me, and hopefully to you, as you read my story, that we should spend a little more than one day a year thinking about those who lost their lives in war and the untold human cost in terms of human relationships and lost contributions.

I hate the notion of war, or stories that sanitize it and strip it of its real ugliness.  As civilized people, we should be beyond all that and be able to recognize it for what it is. But the story of the British soldier, Martin and that of Saint Martin, are really both about acts of humanity, not about soldiers and the “glory” of the cause – right, or wrong, if there ever is really such a thing.

I hope one day Martin’s children will get their photograph back and learn of the heroics of their father - that is the very least they deserve. But whether we choose to remember Martin, and others like him, with a requiem, silence, a prayer, applause, or by passing on the stories of those who chose to “divide and share their cloak”,  the most important thing is to do just that - remember. I am guessing there is probably one Italian woman, looking for the family of a British soldier, who couldn’t agree more …

“A” the “O” in LVE!

Share the LVE! Post or e-mail this page!   

Posted in About Love and Life, Music, Politics, Uncategorized
Tags: Brahms, community, life, love, Music, people, Politics, remembrance, requiem, sacrifice, war

LoveUbecause … you shared your music!

LoveUbecause … you shared your music!

Not wanting to be cliché, but there’s nothing like walking in another man’s shoes to get the full appreciation of an extraordinary situation and create empathy from what may have been felt as sympathy, or perhaps even indifference in the past.

I am a musician - going on 40 years now - jazz, classical, country, folk – and I have to tell you, I have been fortunate to perform in dozens, if not hundreds of “concerts” over the years. I put “concerts” in quotations because to me, though I have been blessed through serendipity, if not arguably ability, to perform in a few world class concert halls, a “concert” can take place just about anywhere there is a listener to appreciate your performance. Whether it be strumming a guitar around a camp fire, playing Christmas carols with a brass quintet in a nursing home, or conducting a Beethoven piano concert in a church where the beauty of the stained glass is only surpassed by the beauty of string players who play in tune and French horns producing notes soaring, seemingly, to the heavens above, the “concert” is by nature as much about the listener as it is about the performer - though as a performer I have sometimes actually, perhaps selfishly, forgotten that.

You see, I tend to be a bad spectator. Though having admittedly witnessed some spellbinding performances over the years, I yearn to be on the stage as opposed to sitting in the front row. I much prefer to be the artist in the gallery, as opposed to the visitor to the exhibition. Though perhaps detrimental to my well being, my preference is to be the player on the ice or field, even though that might have involved getting my nose ground into the dirt, or being bounced unceremoniously off the boards, while in younger years, playing rugby or hockey, because for the most part, I unfortunately don’t “do” sports as well as I would like - though not for a lack of trying!

So that gets me to the point – my epiphany for the day, I guess you may say. Christmas this year has not been as expected. Unfortunately my son has not been well and I spent much of the past twelve days at his side in hospital. In one sense, I tried to forget Christmas. “It can be any day,” I said to my wife, “we can wait till February, or March, as far as I am concerned. My first priority and only concern is that “M” gets better,” I insisted.

It is not that I don’t like Christmas, appreciate the spirit or couldn’t care. It was more that my first reaction as a parent was the want to see my child well and focus all my positive energy on that. But then it occurred to me just how “dumb” that was. How can you, however well intentioned, expect another to lay in bed over Christmas “just getting better”? Wouldn’t the lack of Christmas cheer make the road to recovery just a little bit longer? “Doh!”

So, on Christmas Eve I purchased a collection of Christmas decorations from a local shop and back I went to the hospital to see my son. Though well beyond still believing that Santa, St. Nick, Father Christmas, or whatever you want to call the old fella is a reality in anything but our imaginations, – you see “M” is 20 – from his smile I may as well have been the jolly old guy himself. Ok the Christmas tree was only cardboard, but taped to the wall, standing almost five feet tall, augmented with a large assortment of colourful Santa, reindeer and little Christmas tree cut outs, a velvet stocking and a string of gold metallic snowflakes pinned to the curtain that separated him from the three other patients in his room, there was indeed an air of festivity created.

But it was the distant sound of voices singing Christmas carols that really made the day and became a most welcome accompaniment to a visit from “M”’s Granny and Grandpa and a festive prelude to the visits from his gift laden aunt, uncle and cousin that followed later in the evening. Eventually the faint melodies became a full chorus of 20 or so voices gathered in the hallway outside “M”’s room. There were smiling faces, some of the carollers waved, as smiling, they stood by the doorway. But most of all it was the music that really touched me and “M”. To be the recipients of this Christmas gift of music, - strangers in need - so generously voiced by so many people, who gave up so much of their Christmas Eve, when they could have just as easily been home with their families, was something I will never forget. It made for an enchanted, truly special evening in a sterile hospital environment, forgotten, however momentarily with Christmas decorations and music. But perhaps just as importantly, it gave me a much better appreciation and renewed good feeling about concerts I have participated in over the years. It never really struck me just how important my music might have been to others and how it might have touched them for a variety of reasons. Not that I haven’t received their compliments graciously, but it is all too easy to lose the appreciation yourself for what you do – let the gift you have been given become mundane, at least in your own mind - and perhaps selfishly think more about your own performance instead of your audience. Not that the two are unrelated, but really, which is more important?

So, LoveUbecause … you shared your music and made me aware of what that really means at a time when another human being is feeling low. And, perhaps just as importantly, inspiring me to get out again and give back what you offered, with a better understanding of what that can mean to another!

With love and a better understanding of the world around me,

“A” the “O” in LVE!

Share the LVE! Post or e-mail this page!   

Posted in Christmas, Holiday and Seasonal, Music, Uncategorized
Tags: Christmas, holiday, life, lifestyles, love, Music, philosophy, seasonal, sharing