In the 1970’s, when I was a young broadcaster at WOSU, Columbus’ classical music radio station, I had access to a musical almanac which listed the birth dates of the Musical Greats. I wondered which Great Ones shared my birthday.

Eagerly I thumbed through the pages. Who would it be? Mahler? Sibelius? Charles Ives?

At last, ah! Here it was! The listing for January 16!

There was only one Immortal of Music listed for the sixteenth of January.

Ethel Merman.

Oh well.

My sixty-sixth birthday was yesterday and, in celebration, I’m asking you to please let me share the joyful final movement of my Father’s Day Suite for string trio.

In 2005, Ray Silvertrust, a Chicago-area cellist, commissioned me to write this trio. He wanted an original piece he could play with his two, grown, string-playing children. I named it Father’s Day Suite because Ray is a father … and to celebrate paternal bonds and the positive influence of fathers everywhere.

(I am a father myself -- the proud father of two fascinating thirty-somethings.)

To hear three fine Cincinnati musicians -- violinist Kris Frankenfeld, violist Belinda Burge and cellist Ellen Shertzer -- play the final movement from my Father’s Day Suite, click on the link above.

To see a PDF of the score, click on the link above.

Rick Sowash
Cincinnati, OH
Jan. 17, 2016

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After two days of heavy rain, the morning of Father’s Day arrived in Sharon, Connecticut (where we were house-sitting for friends), clear, sunny and inviting.

I’m an early riser; while Jo was still asleep, I set out for Kent, by a back route, on my bicycle.

The back road from Sharon to Kent is one of the best rides I know, tracing a long but manageable climb up and over Skiff Mountain. The road rises, then very considerately levels off, then rises again, then goes level again. A thoughtful road, a humane road, a civilized road!

At length the slow climb is rewarded with a long, leisurely descent through lovely Macedonia Brook State Park. Dense pine forests, a wealth of ferns, quaint little log bridges across the brook, campers happily rustling up breakfast, an occasional whiff of frying bacon on the breeze. Paradise!

It was my first ride wearing my new helmet. Black with gray trim, very handsome, contrasting quite nicely, I’ve been told, with my white beard and mustache. I always wear black shorts when I bike. Usually I wear dark purple woolen socks, but those were wet in the washer so I had put on my black socks. As it happened, I had pulled on a black t-shirt.

As I crossed the Housatonic, I suddenly realized that I was all in black. Like Zorro. Like hunky young Marlon Brando in his motorcycle jacket. Like Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones in "Men in Black.” Like “V,” the shadowy opponent of oppression in “V for Vendetta."

Cool. Who would I be? “The Black Bikesman.” That’s who!

Thus, it was with a ‘certain air of savoir faire’ that I pulled into Kent, pleasantly conscious that I "cut a figure." Not only was I lookin’ good, but I had just completed a vigorous, healthful ride of about 17 miles over the mountain, a stunt not every 60-something can pull off.

Father’s Day. With my kids far away, my daughter in Washington DC, my son back in Cincinnati, I decided to treat myself. I locked my bike to a tree and made for the nearest sidewalk cafe, crowded with interesting-looking people, New Yorkers weekending in Connecticut. After a bit, I secured coffee and a raisin-oatmeal cookie. As I exited through the crowd, a young man said, "Excuse me, sir. I thought you might like to know that your t-shirt is inside-out."

I thanked him, though I would have preferred to have remained ignorant. I chose a chair among the sidewalk tables that would allow me to sit with my back to the wall, hoping no one else would notice the big white t-shirt tag on the nape of my neck. I dunked my cookie and drank my coffee, my enjoyment somewhat compromised.

Finally, I got up, tossed my paper cup in the trashcan and hit the sidewalks. I felt the eyes of my fellow pedestrians behind me. “Pathetic old guy,” they’d be thinking. “Can’t even put on his t-shirt correctly anymore.”

I had to get my t-shirt right-side-out. The question was where to do it. I didn't want to strip off my t-shirt and present myself bare-chested, however briefly, on a crowded sidewalk. Connecticut was settled by Puritans and their influence lingers yet in the state’s “Blue Laws.” For all I knew, going shirtless on a public sidewalk in Connecticut could be a misdemeanor.

There are many shops in Kent, mostly in houses that were formerly homes. I made my way to the backyard of one of these and went behind a big, old maple tree. I looked around, to be sure that I was unobserved. That was when I noticed a woman staring at me from inside. She rapped her knuckles on the window, wagging her forefinger, shaking her head, frowning. She had obviously formed the notion that I was about to relieve myself on her tree.

At a loss as to how to convey to her my actual intention by pantomiming, I returned to the sidewalk, trying to think what to do.

I went into a classy dress shop and asked if I could use a dressing room. "I just need to take off my shirt and then put it right back on," I explained to the clerk. This gave her pause. It must have come across as a facile fib, cloaking darker intentions. She gave me a long look and then said that dressing rooms were for customers only and directed me to the public restrooms, several blocks away.

I headed that direction. The sidewalks were crowded with families, couples young and old, attractive women of all ages and many men, all of whom had managed to don their t-shirts right side out. I could imagine a young mother observing me closely from behind and telling her children, "This is why you must be alert, pay attention and do well in school -- so that, when you are old, you don't end up walking around in public with your t-shirt inside out."

When I got to the public restroom, there was another man in there, standing, making appropriate use of the facility. Somehow I didn't want to take off my shirt while he was there.

However, I had no other reason for being in the restroom and it is not a place for lingering. So, just to be doing something, I washed my hands. Soon, he was at the sink next to mine, washing his hands, too. “Your t-shirt’s inside-out," he observed.

"Yes, I know," I said. "That's the way they're wearing them now. It's like wearing your base-ball cap backwards. It makes a statement."

I caught his face at an angle, in the mirror. He rolled his eyes, sighed, and left without another word.

Finally alone and out of sight of my public, I quickly yanked my t-shirt off, turned it right-side-out and pulled it back on.

My confidence regained, I went outside.

The Black Bikesman was back.

To hear violinist Kris Frankenfeld, violist Belinda Burge and cellist Ellen Shertzer play the second movement from my Father’s Day Suite, click on the link above.

To see a PDF of the score, click on the link above.

Rick Sowash
Cincinnati, OH
June 19, 2016

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Hello —

A few weeks ago I sent you an email featuring an unusually dark and grim piece of mine, "The Song of the Marsh."

I hesitated to share it because my predominant impulse is to purvey sweetness and light, to be a reliable fount of good cheer, "enchanting one and all with my bright smile and merry sallies,” as Bertie Wooster puts it.

That’s why these Sunday morning emails have mostly offered selections of my music which are sunny and pert, gay and bobbish, suggestive of a world in which everything is okey-doke, hunkum-bunkum, even boompsa-daisy.

Who wants to hear music, I said to myself, that evokes desolation and despair? and on a Sunday morning, yet? Aren't the inherent tragedies of life and the dreary drumbeat of the daily news sufficiently difficult to bear without sorrowful music, yet?

Well, I may have been wrong. In fact, I may have got it exactly backwards. Could it be that sad music is sometimes exactly what helps us bear up? “We have art,” someone said, “so that we do not perish from the truth.” Give us, sometimes, a sad song so that we do not perish from sadness.

To my surprise, on the Sunday morning after I had finally made bold to send out my "Song of Marsh," a good friend approached me at church to tell me how much it had meant to him to discover a darker side in my work. He shared, “I’m pretty dark, you know … I don’t need everything perky all the time … in fact, I love melancholy music.”

Here’s a secret: I do, too!

Listen to my suites and you’ll often find a dark movement tucked in amongst a high-kickin’ chorus line of happy movements, flanking their dark sister on either side.

What’s that dark mugwump movement doing in a such company? you might ask.

Remember when we studied Shakespeare in High School English class? We were taught that Shakespeare inserted the gravedigger into “Hamlet” and the gatekeeper into “MacBeth” so that the audience would have some “comic relief.”

Well, I think of my occasional, isolated, mugwump movements as “tragic relief” from the jollity surrounding them.

Three of the four movements of my Father’s Day Suite are 'happy as a clam,' but today I want to share the third movement, a mournful fugue, my humble attempt to emulate the pathos and depth of feeling we find in parts of Beethoven’s probing late quartets.

To hear it beautifully played by violinist Kris Frankenfeld, violist Belinda Burge and cellist Ellen Shertzer, click on the link above.

To see a PDF of the score, click on the link above.

Rick Sowash
Cincinnati, OH
June 18, 2017

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A monument graces our garden. It does not memorialize a soldier, a leader or a beloved pet. It does not commemorate an event. It does not metaphorize a virtue. It honors something rarer and thus more precious than any of those entities.

It honors ... the Inexplicable.

It is a hunk of rock-like matter, alternately smooth and rough, about two-and-a-half feet in width and height, weighing perhaps a hundred pounds. It has holes, a dozen or so, of various widths and depths, seemingly drilled into its surface, except that there are no traces of a sharp tool having been used. What renders it strikingly beautiful is its color: a bright, almost turquoise blue, artfully marbleized with streaks of creamy white.

When something is inexplicable it is important. Ask Sherlock Holmes.

“It is of the greatest importance,” the great detective explains when presented with the problem of Lord Baskerville’s missing boot, “because it is inexplicable.”

I remember very well when and where I found it. As to its origin, I am ignorant. I have shown it to many people and few have been able to venture so much as a guess as to what it might be or how it came to be located where I found it.

I came upon it deep, deep in the woods of north central Ohio, in Richland County, the region where I passed the first half of my life. I often wandered the woods there, sometimes for many hours, following faint deer paths, exploring glens, creeks, rock formations, even a few shallow caves.

Suddenly, there it was, plop on the forest floor, at least two tenths of a mile from the nearest road. The surrounding forest was dense. How had it come to be there? Carrying it to that location from the nearest road would have been a Herculean task. I could lift it, just barely. I could not have walked, carrying it, for more than a dozen yards.

If someone had transported it from the road and set it down there, then why? Why would anyone go to such a lot of trouble, effort and strain to place a very strange rock-like object deep in a pathless wood?

Perhaps it was dropped from the sky. But why lug such a thing on board an airplane and then push it out the hatch at the precise moment when it would land in the middle of the least populated part of Jefferson Township? Was it evidence someone tried to hide? If so, then why not drop it in a farm pond or in the Clear Fork Reservoir?

Did it drop from outer space? I’ve seen a few meteors in Natural History musems; it looks nothing like a meteor, nor like any of the specimens on display in the museums’ halls of gems and minerals.

One visitor thought it might be some kind of slag, a by-product, a scabrous remnant from the manufacture of exquisite glass. But there are no glass works in Richland County and never have been.

The inexplicable is common enough in Twilight Zone episodes but a rarity in the humdrum of daily life. Virtually every object in the little bubbles we inhabit has a back story, an explanation, long known to us, for being what and where it is.

Not this. I had to possess it.

Even with the help of a friend and a two-wheel trolley, carting it out of the woods was a devil of a job. The lay of the land was uneven at best and multiple ravines criss-crossed our route back to my car, parked alongside the nearest yet distant road.

We oomphed it into the trunk. It was so heavy that the back of the car sagged low and I had to drive home very slowly for fear of scraping the vehicle’s underside on the pot-holed gravel road. We placed it among the daffodils in the backyard of our home in Bellville. When we moved to Gambier and later to Cincinnati, the baffled movers lugged it onto the moving van.

Now, in what will most likely be our last home, it graces yet another garden, this monument to the Inexplicable.

Why do I tell you this? The reason is inexplicable, having nothing to do with the music I hope to share today. It’s Father’s Day, so take my sharing of this story for what it is, the whim of an elderly father, well stricken in years, his mind now engaged in tracing backward the track of an eventful life, apparently oblivious of the present, though still in full vigor.

To hear three fine Cincinnati musicians -- violinist Kris Frankenfeld, violist Belinda Burge and cellist Ellen Shertzer -- play the second movement, titled “Sicilienne,” from my Father’s Day Suite, click on the link above.

To see a PDF of the score, click on the link above.

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“I have no experience dealing with ten-year-old boys.”

So said my son, who is dating a single mom who has a ten-year-old son named Eliot.

“Any tips?”

There are few things an old man likes more than to be asked for advice!

As it happens, I know a thing or two about dealing with boys. I learned them first hand while an adult Scout leader in my thirties and a teacher in my sixties.

Pertaining tangentially to my “Father’s Day Suite,” the finale of which I hope you’ll let me share today, the advice I offered my son is rendered below.

“Boys crave and absolutely must find affirmation from an older man who is outside their family. Without it, they are lost.

“Even the most loving dad cannot give them this affirmation. The boy enjoys the affirmation of his father but, being immature, he dismisses it because he believes that his father is “just saying that because he has to, seeing as how he is my father.”

“Denied the affirmation of an older, unrelated man, boys will seek it from one another. This is the basis of criminal gangs as well as healthy sports. But boys cannot grant this affirmation to one another. Being affirmed by your peers doesn’t mean the same thing.

“I was affirmed by Mr. Culp, my Scoutmaster, and by two music teachers, Mr. Evans and Mr. Dunlap. It was largely because of their affirmations that I became a composer. In five years of college, only one professor affirmed me. Thus, as a boy and young man, I was affirmed by just four men outside my family. It was enough. More than enough. Even just one affirmation will meet the need and never be forgotten.

“The quest for and the finding of affirmation from a male non-relative is often recounted in literature and film.

“Consider “Treasure Island.” A mysterious map, doubloons in a buried chest, sea travel, exotic islands, mutiny, pistol waving, yes, but the core of the tale is the friendship of Jim Hawkins and Long John Silver.

“Silver is no saint. The affirming older man does not have to be a paragon of virtue. Silver is a villain, shameless, conniving, even murderous. Nevertheless, Jim loves him and we love him, too, precisely because he gives Jim precisely the affirmation he needs.

“It’s simple stuff. Silver uses Jim’s name frequently and easily. He listens to Jim, thereby assuring Jim that his thoughts and ideas have value, are worth listening to. He tells Jim that Jim reminds him of himself when he was young. He laughs and smiles with Jim; they laugh together, like men. Silver speaks to Jim as an equal, a mature show of respect that is rare and precious because it is not often afforded a person with only ten years under his belt.

“Silver sometimes calls Jim “shipmate” or “Lad” or even “Mr. Hawkins.”

“I suggest that, every now and then, you call Eliot “Sir.”

“Say: “So, tell me, sir, whatcha been up to you lately?” or “Sir! Tell me what you’re thinking.” or “Sir! What do you think of this?” The ‘this’ can be anything, doesn’t matter what. And it doesn’t matter how Eliot replies. What matters is that you asked his opinion, called him ‘sir’ and listened to his reply.

“He’ll know that you’re half-joking when you him them “Sir,” but he’ll like it.

“There are many other examples. Consider how Gandalf treats Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin. He uses their names often; he listens to them; he respects their questions and never ‘sugar-coats’ his answers

“Consider Obi Wan’s treatment of Luke Skywalker.

“Consider Mr. Miyagi and Daniel in “The Karate Kid.”

“Consider Lt. Colonel Frank Slade (Al Pacino) and Charlie Simms (Chris O’Donnell) in “Scent of a Woman,” a film I love.

“Lucky D’Artagnan! He finds three affirmers: Porthos, Athos and Aramis … The Three Musketeers..

“You only have to remind yourself to do it. When there are other adults around, like Eliot’s mom, it’s easy to be so interested in her that Eliot is made to feel invisible. Be especially alert at such moments. When he is present, center your attention on him. His mom can wait.

“One other observation: young people seek The Authentic. They detest anything they perceive to be insincere, smarmy, slick, fake, packaged, ingratiating. Holden Caulfield despises “a phony.”

“They are intensely drawn to what they perceive to be REAL and TRUE. They eagerly scan an enormous range of information — songs, video games, films, books, the whole of pop culture and everyone in their immediate vicinity -- in search of Something Authentic.

“They regard we elders through that prism, asking themselves, “Is this person authentic?” Be real. Give only sincere compliments. Talk about things that genuinely interest or amuse you. Say and do things that arise from your true self. Eliot will be watching.”

Such was the advice I offered my son. You already knew all of it, right?

You also already know the tune out of which the main theme of the finale of my Father’s Day Suite grew. It’s the catchy musical logo that begins NPR’s “All Things Considered.” Modified rhythmically, the NPR fragment comprises only the opening phrase; the rest of the tune is original.

If I hadn’t tipped you off, you might not have noticed the NPR-derived fragment, though when Chris Miller overheard the musicians rehearsing this piece at church, he noticed it right away and teased me about it later. It’s OK. Having been affirmed in my youth, I can handle it!

Now you’ll have the fun of listening for it!

(Picasso said, “...artists steal.”)

To hear three fine Cincinnati musicians -- violinist Kris Frankenfeld, violist Belinda Burge and cellist Ellen Shertzer -- play the finale from my Father’s Day Suite, click on the link above.

To see a PDF of the score, click on the link above.

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“Barbeque” is an adorable American word, referring both to the much-loved entrée and to the gathering of friends and family eating the entrée, as in “we’re having a barbeque.”

One theory about the origin of the word is that it comes from the French phrase “barbe à queue,” short for “de la barbe à la queue,” meaning “from the beard to the tail.” That was how French-speaking New Orleanians expressed what we mean when we say “from head to toe.” A whole hog, head to toe, “barbe à queue,” roasted on a spit, was later termed a “barbeque” by English-speaking Americans.

As my French students loved fanciful etymologies, I sought out accounts of how certain English words grew out of French phrases:

-- “Vinegar” arose from “vin aigre,” meaning ‘bitter wine.’

-- “Dandelion” emerged from “dent de lion,” meaning ‘lion’s tooth’ (referring to the jagged shape of the leaves of that common weed).

-- “Porcupine” derives from “porc épine,” meaning ‘spiky pig.’

Then we came to “debonair,” a word and a concept that was new to them. I explained that it comes from “de bon air” meaning “of a good air,” i.e., having a positive disposition.

I elaborated. “Debonair describes someone unflappable, confident, stylish, charming and suave. In short, someone like ME!”

They laughed. In my French classes, we often laughed.

Then I added, “Or like Cary Grant.”

Who? They’d never heard of him. Shocking. I am often amazed at how little young Americans know about their own culture. What is more American than Hollywood? “Film literacy’ is ‘a thing!’

“He was the handsomest man ever,” I said. “A major movie star for forty years.” Rattling off the names of his best known films, I drew blank stares.

So I improvised “a unit” on Cary Grant. We looked at photos of him on the internet. The students agreed that he was nice looking in an old-fashioned way but none of them recognized him until we came upon a photo of him being chased through a cornfield by a bi-plane. Some of them had seen that image though they didn’t know where.

The following week, I asked, “Who can tell me what ‘debonair’ means?”

A student impulsively raised her hand and blurted out, “It has something to do with General Grant!"

Was there ever a man less debonair than U.S. Grant? I think not. No, I said, not GENERAL Grant. CARY Grant.

Sing ho for the good old days, when I was teaching French to teenagers.

I saw “To Catch a Thief” again not long ago. It made me wonder, who was this man? So I read Scott Eyman’s biography, “Cary Grant: A Brilliant Disguise.”

It was a good read though much of the story was disconcerting. The man was complex and contradictory. He often behaved very badly toward his first four hapless wives. Sometimes kind and generous, he also could be mean spirited and outrageously stingy, even with his closest friends. Douglas Fairbanks Jr. said, “Cary still has the first dime he ever earned!”

He was an obsessive perfectionist and imposed his notions on just about everyone who entered his sphere. For him, there was a correct way of turning a doorknob and woe betide a fellow actor or wife who did it incorrectly.

One wants to be charitable, to forgive or at least to understand his bad behavior. His childhood and teenage years were a nightmare. His parents were terrible people who should never have borne a child. When his mother disappeared, his vapid father told him that she had died; years later he discovered her living in an insane asylum. He arranged to have her released; he set her up in a modest apartment where she lived the rest of her life at his expense. They exchanged letters and he visited her every couple years. She was indifferent, sent him letters once in a while, hated his wives.

His insecurities explain his attempts to control everyone and everything around him. He was plagued with anxiety and stage fright, constantly in fear of being exposed as an imposter: “Archie Leach” (his real name) posing as “Cary Grant.”

He hated being recognized everywhere he went, disgustedly muttering “Yes, it’s me, it’s me, it’s me.” He brusquely refused autograph requests. He was a shrewd businessman. Having no religion, he put self-interest first. He was not someone you would want for a son-in-law, though he would certainly have looked good in the wedding photos.

And yet … he aspired to improve, to become a better person, which, by his lights, meant actually becoming the Cary Grant we see on screen. Having missed out on a high school education, he was a passionate autodidact and world traveler. He credited LSD for the hard won serenity he finally achieved in his last two decades. He was indignant at the suggestion that he had “used drugs,” regarding the monitored use of LSD as a legitimate therapy.

For all his philandering, he fathered only one child, at the age of 62, by his fourth wife. While she was in hospital giving birth, he dispensed with her dog. He disliked pets. Again, not a nice guy.

To everyone’s surprise he adored his child. Fatherhood brought him a deep joy he had never before known. When the infant Jennifer Grant entered his life, he quit the acting profession and, after a bitter divorce and custody battle, he devoted his energy and resources to Jennifer’s upbringing, showering upon her a love he had never known from his parents. His fifth marriage was successful.

The story’s happy ending was achieved when Archie Leach became, at long last, the Cary Grant of the last twenty years of his life: the kindly husband and loving father.

Which brings me to Father’s Day. If you’re a father, Happy Father’s Day! Any plans for this afternoon? Maybe a BARBEQUE? If so, you have a good story about the word’s origin to tell your family.

Ray Silvertrust is a father who will be celebrated today by his two string-playing children. “Father’s Day Suite” is the title of the neo-classical string trio he commissioned me to write in 2005.

To hear violinist Kris Frankenfeld, violist Belinda Burge and cellist Ellen Shertzer play the opening movement from my Father’s Day Suite, click on the link above.

To see a PDF of the score, click on the link above.