Happy Valentine’s Day!

You might expect romantic love themes from me today, but instead let’s skip back two days to February 12, Abe Lincoln's birthday.

A British friend said to me, “You Americans have such affection for some of your presidents — Jefferson, Lincoln, Teddy Roosevelt ...”

I said, “Don’t Brits have those kinds of feelings for Disraeli or Gladstone or Lloyd George?”

She scoffed. “Oh, Heavens, no!”

This surprised me. Americans grow up loving Abraham Lincoln. We see his strange face in the famous black-and-white photos, looking sad and tired but also kind and faintly humorous. A homely face, a tall, gawky figure, yet children know that they could climb over his bony knees and curl up in his lap and feel safe and loved.

Lincolnesque is the title of the second of five movements in my "Trio con Brio" for violin, clarinet and cello. I wrote the work in 1999 for my clarinetist friend Angelo Santoro. Since Angelo planned to premiere the trio in a concert scheduled for February 12, Abe’s birthday, I decided to write a movement honoring Lincoln.

What music evokes Mr. Lincoln? Aaron Copland’s fine work for narrator and orchestra, “A Lincoln Portrait,” effectively portrays the public Lincoln -- the great leader, orator, folk hero.

With only three instruments at my disposal, I tried to write a more intimate portrait, a miniature. This music is intended to evoke the man of the Prairie, the folksy, lanky, gentle lover of books and teller of stories. Quiet and a tad wistful. A simple person, honest and authentic, in whom we sense a capacity for depth. Good natured. Patient. A reconciler.

I later made a transcription of the work for clarinet and piano. As with all my music, upon request, I’ll gladly send anyone PDFs of the score and clarinet part.

To hear Lincolnesque performed exquisitely by clarinetist Michele Gingras, violinist Kris Frankenfeld 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
Feb. 14, 2016

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A lullaby suits Christmas Eve; we like to imagine Mary administering a musical soporific to the newborn baby Jesus.

The "Lullaby” I’m administering to you on this Christmas Eve morning was written for my clarinetist friend, Cynthia Field. She is the self-proclaimed president of my fan club; when she emails me, that’s how she signs off.

Cindy asked me to write a lullaby, but not so that she would have a tune handy when and if she might need to croon an infant to sleep. For that purpose she could easily hum “Rock-a-Bye Baby” and/or Brahms’ immortal contribution to The Lullaby League.

Instead, Cindy asked me to write a sweetly sad lullaby in honor and memory of her mother, Ellen Lewis Field, whom she had recently lost.

A lullaby must be somnolent and repetitive; we sing the same little tune over and again until the audience — the tiny person to whom the tune is directed -- finally drifts across the border that separates the wakeful from The Land of Nod.

A by-the-book lullaby wouldn't cut the mustard in a work of chamber music. Musicians and listeners would quickly tire of a simple tune played over and again with no development or expansion. This lullaby, the fourth movement of my five-movement “Trio con Brio,” had to offer more than somnolence and repetition if it was to stand proud and tall, with shoulders back and chin held high, alongside its sister movements.

So, while the tune itself, played by the violin at the outset of the movement, is definitely a lullaby, it’s misleading to title the movement “Lullaby.” More accurately, it’s a set of variations on a lullaby-like tune.

Yet, it would have been even more misleading to name it “Variations on a Lullaby” because that title creates expectations that would not be met by the music I envisioned.

A proper set of variations must have a certain structure: a clear statement of the tune followed by variants of the tune such as a gig version, then maybe a march, a polka, a waltz, at least one variation in a minor key, delivered with flurries of flourishes, doodads by the dozen, musical gewgaws galore.

What I wrote is more like a fantasia. I might have named it “Fantasia on a Lullaby.” But that title connotes something else that doesn’t sit right; a fantasia is supposed to offer a mixture of forms and styles tossed off with flash-and-flair. Flash-and-flair? Too flamboyant for a lullaby.

Too, a fantasia is usually a keyboard work. No keyboard in this trio, just violin, clarinet and cello.

Naming the baby is no small trick. Thought is required. I wonder how much thought Mary and Joseph gave to the naming of their baby.

I finally came full circle, titling the movement, simply, and after all, “Lullaby.”

To hear the “Lullabye" from my Trio con Brio performed very tenderly by clarinetist Michele Gingras, violinist Kris Frankenfeld and cellist Ellen Shertzer, click on the link above.

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

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When we finally, sadly, put Jake to sleep, we agreed: “No more dogs.”

During the first forty years of our marriage we owned four dogs, one at a time. Thurber, Candy, Binsche and Jake.

Four seemed enough. Without a dog, we’d be more free to travel, the apartment would be cleaner, quieter. No more midnight walks in the freezing rain, traversing the steep, icy sidewalks of Cincinnati, yanked along by a barrel-chested canine straining on a leash. Enough. All that would recede into the past, eased into memory by the tincture of Time.

However ... Jo, an ardent, life-long lover and admirer of dogs, a dog enthusiast, a dog guru, sorely missed old Jake. Suddenly she was bereft of a little furry creature to feed and to fuss over, with whom to converse, for whom to sing funny songs of her own invention.

'Then one day,' as storytellers say, a neighbor couple asked if they might leave their dog in our care during a vacation they were planning, even offering to pay for the service. Jo was thrilled to accept. No inn guest ever received a warmer welcome nor enjoyed a more satisfying stay than Huxley, a bouncy, brindle boxer.

Word spread. Soon, other neighbors were leaving their dogs with us, sometimes just for a few hours, sometimes overnight, sometimes for a weekend or longer.

Jo discovered an on-line service that links dog parents with dog sitters and soon amassed twice as many rave reviews on their website as any other dog sitter in the Queen City. Jo saw no reason to limit the number of these shaggy guests to two or three; soon we were hosting four dogs at a time, then five, then six.

We’ve been dog sitting for four years, tallying over 500 dog-stays. Our guest list includes many colorful and imaginative doggy names, including Bugsy, Bam-bam, Chompers, Zeus, Zola, Elizabeth Taylor, Gizmo, Cosmo, Enzo, Milo and Norbert.

Regarding Jo’s latter-day reinvention of herself as a businesswoman, I quote Sean Connery’ character in "The Man Who Would Be King”: “She’s more than a wife! She’s a going concern!”

My attitude toward all this? Generally positive. Back in the 1950’s, when Jo was a girl, she wanted to be a veterinarian but in that career was closed to women during that be-nighted era. (Today female vets outnumber males.)

Instead, Jo became a nurse and did important work with the mentally disabled, AIDS patients and Planned Parenthood. But her heart was with dogs.

Thus, for Jo, the dog sitting business became a partial fulfillment of her girlhood dream. She takes a keen interest in every dog's medical, psychological and social history. Prospective dog parent-customers must submit a detailed ten-page application. She carefully screens parents and dogs during a mandatory, hour-long 'meet-and-greet’ session. She has a knack for sensing which dogs will or won't ‘play well with others.’

Caring for dogs makes Jo happy and that makes me happy. She conceived and developed a profitable home-business with no up-front investment. Few can say as much!

There’s more. The care Jo gives extends well beyond the dogs. Vacations are only one reason why dogs need sitting. Tragedies, weddings, births, extended illnesses, even jury duty are among the many other reasons people need dog sitters. As Jo's rapport with the dogs’ parents quickly deepens, her skills as a listener, counselor, and friend come into play. Her peculiar vocation has grown into a ministry. Dogs' lives are short; when they die, it is Jo with whom the parents share their grief.

Me, I like dogs just fine but I impose one strict rule: there shall be no dogs allowed, ever, in my ‘back room,’ a sort of study where I write, read, phone a friend, take a nap, etc.

Dog sitting is troublous at times. Dogs have ‘accidents,’ get sick, fight over a bone or a half-empty bowl of food. Most of the time, they’re good company and fun to have around. They are always ready to play or just “relate.” Scratch their ears or their tummies and they are instantly in love with you.

They provide free entertainment. I relish their lengthy, intense tug-of-wars and mock battles, wrestling, rolling, scuffling, tussling, pretending to bite each other’s ears, necks, haunches and tails, growling in feigned ferocity, a boisterous, bogus battle-cry.

Why all this about dogs, you’re wondering? Because the music I want to share with you today reminds me, when I listen to it, of these faux doggy-wars that enliven the Sowash household.

The music is the opening movement of my Trio con Brio. The movement is named, “Intrada,” nothing to do with dogs. An Intrada is simply a musical introduction or prelude, usually the opening movement of a suite.

There is irony in this music; it is “angry” in quotation marks, i.e., tongue-in-cheek. In that respect it resembles a mock battle between dogs with all the rambunctious good humor of a counterfeit canine combat.

To hear the “Intrada" from my Trio con Brio exuberantly performed by clarinetist Michele Gingras, violinist Kris Frankenfeld and cellist Ellen Shertzer, click on the link above.

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

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It’s April Fool’s Day, 2020, but this is not the year for pranks.

Uplift? Humor? Yes.

Yesterday, I resumed teaching at my school -- which has the student-chosen name, 'Leaves of Learning’ -- albeit on-line.

It was good to see the faces and hear the voices of my students, even if only on my computer screen. We were all a little clumsy with the technology but we were patient with one another and had some laughs. Some content was imparted and absorbed.

Teaching on-line is a far cry from teaching in a classroom. But hearing “a far cry” is far better than hearing no cry at all. The mother of one of my students enlightened me by saying, “If you feel badly that you can’t give your students 100% of what you would like to give them, then believe me when I tell you that 10% of all that you have to offer is still a whole lot.”

Students need content and consistency. The latter is delivered just by showing up, just by appearing on the screen, on time, with something to offer. Just that, in itself, may be more valuable at this moment than conjugating a French verb or working through a French short story.

Still, we miss ’the good old days,’ just three weeks ago, when we hung out together in a classroom, taking it for granted.

Now, with the help of one of my students, there is a YouTube slide-show that, for three minutes, takes us back to those days.

You are also invited to visit my classroom, virtually, by viewing that YouTube.

Most of the photos in the YouTube were taken by my students. Whenever I do something eccentric, they get out their cell phones and start clicking. Later, they share the photos with their friends and sometimes send me a copy. Only because they are cute and funny, I’ve kept them in a file on my computer. Now, I’m glad I did because they make an uplifting slide-show to share with you at a time when uplift and humor are in short supply.

Too, you may feel that you know me a little better after seeing me perform as a teacher. You may see why I love teaching so much and why I can hardly grasp that I am actually paid to have this much fun and to sew, tend and harvest this much joy.

I hope the video will help you feel a little more connected.

The musical score is the third movement, “Song of Samwise,” from my Trio con Brio, exuberantly performed by clarinetist Michele Gingras, violinist Kris Frankenfeld and cellist Ellen Shertzer.

To view the video, copy and paste this link into your browser:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zBe1-1cYlTk&feature=youtu.be

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“What a great idea that was, to take a nap.”

So says columnist James Parker in a recent issue of The Atlantic:

“After lunch, perhaps, nature gently makes the suggestion. So you settle; you sink. But not too far. A delicious shallowness. You open your eyes. You’re awake again -- in a state of lamblike innocence, blinking limpidly and contentedly. Ah, it feels so good. What a great idea that was, to take a nap.”

Sheltering in place for three full seasons, going on four, I’ve gotten in the habit of napping almost every day. Sometimes twice a day!

I have the perfect-est little room for a siesta. I call it my cubbyhole. The only room on the tiny second floor of our house, it has sloping ceilings and dormer windows. A widow’s walk tops the house; the cubbyhole is the little room beneath the widow’s walk. A narrow stairway ascends from the cubbyhole to a hatch that accesses the widow’s walk. In warmer weather, I like to go up there to take in the view of the pines at the border of our property, the green sward beyond and the hills on the far side of the valley of the Little Miami River.

Jo decorated the rest of our house -- and a good thing, too; I shudder to think what our home would look like if the decorating had been left to me. But the cubbyhole is MY space. I admit it: it’s a boy’s room.

My Eagle badge, 1964 Boy Scout Jamboree neckerchief and the wooden neckerchief slide I carved when I was 12 (it’s a flintlock derringer, a vest-pocket pistol) are in plain sight.

The gems of my collection of hand-painted toy soldiers are parading or standing at attention on display shelves. There’s an elaborate toy pirate ship with red-and-white striped sails, a jolly roger flag and a crow’s nest, manned by a colorful crew which I painted. Keeping watch on my desktop are mini-statues of three inspiring eminences: Gandalf, Babar the Elephant and Teddy Roosevelt.

A large Great Seal of the State of Ohio hangs by itself on one narrow wall. Hung on another wall, alongside family photos is my great-grandfather’s ceremonial Masonic sword (his name is engraved on the blade: Martin Luther Sowash and I’m not joking). On the opposite wall are portraits of my heroes: Charles Ives, Thoreau, Odell Shepard and Binsche, our noble Springer spaniel who, like those other great souls, has gone to his reward.

Etchings by my artist friends Randy Wright and Sean Sexton hang alongside three Chagall lithographs and an ink rendering of bamboo branches that was fashioned before my wondering eyes by an artist in Taiwan who inscribed and presented it to me. A framed drawing of The Green Man represents a healthy paganism, a touch of Nature worship in my otherwise Christian theology.

My favorite hiking stick rests in the corner. A curved dagger made in East India, a Turkish yataghan (I call it my ‘Spaghetti machete’) and my Scout knife are at the ready in case of intruders.

There’s just room for one twin bed. A Hudson’s Bay blanket brings color, good cheer and a hint of French Canada to the room and offers a delicious warmth when I nap beneath it. My favorite books respose on a small bookshelf near to hand.

On the nightstand is a diorama of Robin Hood and his Merry Men practicing their archery, quarterstaff and fencing skills in a Sherwood Forest of miniature trees, stumps and rocks, realistically painted by the undersigned. Little John, Friar Tuck, Will Scarlet and Maid Marion are on hand. Robin, too, in the center, exuberantly blowing a rallying call on his cow-horn bugle. There’s a miniature stone bridge and some of the Manly Merriers are crossing it, setting out on an adventure.

In my cubbyhole, I feel very much at home.

The best thing about napping there is that upon awakening, eyes half open, head still on the pillow, I can gaze through the windows into the mass of our stately pines, ever green, even in this gray time. The branches sway gracefully in the wind, gesturing like dancers. Wordless, they nevertheless convey the assurance that, contrary to the grim daily news, things are as they ought to be. If these deeply rooted, ancient pines could put their tree-thoughts into words, they would say: “Underneath are the everlasting arms.”

To hear a nap-worthy rendering (I mean that to be a compliment) of the “Lullabye" from my Trio con Brio performed very tenderly by clarinetist Michele Gingras, violinist Kris Frankenfeld and cellist Ellen Shertzer, click on the link above.

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

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Recently, at the grocery store, I picked up a can of my favorite baked beans and right there on the label, plain for all to see, it said: "made with real onions."

I’ve enjoyed these beans for years, even cold, straight out of the can, but I had never noticed this. I considered. “Bea-ns” how the bean company was announcing this fact, I figured there must be something to it. “Caveat emptor?”

This got me to thinking. Fake onions must “be a thing” these days. The bean company alerts buyers to the situation and assures them that matters are in hand.

Probably what happened was this: the bean company’s head ‘bean counter’ discovered that fake onions are a little cheaper. The bean company’s chef tried them and found that they just weren’t as tasty as real onions. So the company did the right thing and stuck with the real ones.

Proud of their commitment to real onions, they announced it on the label.

I pondered this further. There must be fake onion farms. Which means that there must be fake onion farmers and fake onion truck drivers and, obviously, fake onion eaters. Who are these people? Do you know any?

I’m determined to support the cultivation of real onions by continuing to buy, exclusively, beans that are made with them. I trust you will do the same.

I hope that, by sharing these insights, I haven’t opened a whole new can of worms. Or should I say “real worms?”

your old pal,

Grippy (a.k.a. Dick Ferrell)

My reply:

You want to know who eats fake onions? Actors, that’s who.

Look no further than those sub-titles you see on TV commercials:

REAL PEOPLE, NOT ACTORS

Real people eat real onions. Which leaves actors, who are, apparently, not real people, to eat the fake ones.

By the way, that’s one problem composers don’t have. You never see:

REAL PEOPLE, NOT COMPOSERS

Your theory about the bean company’s ‘bean counter’ is clever, but the fact is that the truth-in-labeling policy began in the aftermath of the Great Scallion Scam of ‘66.

Some fancy restaurants were caught using sham shallots in their risotto, less-than-likely leeks in their vichyssoise and so called ‘cheatin’ chives’ over sour cream on baked potatoes.

After hearings, Congress decreed that the use of real onions and other edible members of the Amaryllidaceae family of plants must be plainly stated on menus and on the labels of canned foods. The FDA enforces this rule and woe betide the bean company that fails to “bea-n” compliance.

Anytime you need to be set straight on something, just let me know. Glad to be of assistance.

Speaking of grocery stores, have you noticed those signs in grocery carts that say, “Children not allowed to ride in carts” ?

It makes sense. Small children are unpredictable. They might suddenly stand up and tumble out, incurring injuries. No one wants that. Safety first.

To ride in a cart, then, you have to be a grownup. My question is, how old do you have to be to ride in a grocery cart?

We used to have to wait for our 21st birthday before we could vote. In our late teens, we could enlist in the armed forces, and possibly be asked to die for our country; yet we weren’t considered old enough to cast a ballot to choose our leaders. Well, they lowered the voting age, which was only right.

But to return to my question, would an 18-year-old be permitted to ride in a cart? If so, why not a 15-year-old? a 12-year-old?

In my dad’s day, a youth had to be 12 to join the Boy Scouts. When you and I joined Scouts in the early ‘60’s, the entrance age had been lowered to 11. Nowadays, it’s 10.5.

Seems like, if you’re old enough to join the Boy Scouts and go on hikes and campouts and cook your food over a campfire and all that good stuff, then you ought to be old enough to ride in a grocery cart.

When I asked the manager at Kroger’s about this he just looked at me.

your old pal,

Sodie (a.k.a. Wrick Psowash)

To hear the goofy “Finale" from my Trio con Brio performed exuberantly by clarinetist Michele Gingras, violinist Kris Frankenfeld and cellist Ellen Shertzer, click on the link above.

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

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You might like to know about something I’ve been doing for the past fifteen months: meeting with my oldest friend to read aloud, line by line, Shakespeare’s best loved plays, frequently pausing to discuss the meanings of lines and scenes we read and to take in the annotations in the superb Folger’s editions we are using.

Phil and I became acquainted when we were in the fifth grade at Lexington Elementary School in Lexington, Ohio. We quickly became close friends, went through jr. and sr. high school together and were in the same Scout troop. We were awarded our Eagle Scout badges in the same ceremony back in 1966.

It was Phil who pressed me to ask out our English teacher’s daughter, which I did -- a blind date! (Her family lived in another school district, so I had never seen her at our school.) We wed five years later.

Phil went to Harvard and I went to music school and we set out on very different paths. Nonetheless, we kept in touch. After Jo and I moved to Cincinnati 30 years ago, where Phil has made a career as a pediatrician, he and I began breakfasting together every six weeks or so.

Two years ago, at one of our breakfasts, Phil mentioned that he had never gotten next to Shakespeare, never seen a Shakespeare play performed, hadn’t read any of Shakespeare’s plays since we were in high school.

I was shocked. What do they teach at Harvard?

A successful pediatrician and a very active volunteer in various local good causes, he had never developed in that direction. He confessed that he had become, as he put it, “Shakespeare avoidant.”

After retiring in June, 2023, he immediately underwent a major surgery. He mentioned that his recovery would require about two months of impassivity. I saw an opportunity!

I told him that I would allow him four days after the procedure to get through the initial narcotic fog that would be induced by the pain relievers and then I would show up at his condo armed with two copies of “The Tempest” which we would read aloud, alternating roles.

He was intrigued and agreed with a smile. After all, he would have little else to do, collapsed in a recliner chair, constrained by braces restricting his neck and upper torso.

The great day arrived and we plunged in. Why did I choose “The Tempest”? Because it’s my favorite Shakespeare play. I identify more closely with Prospero than with any other Shakespeare character. He’s a wizard, an artist and though sometimes grumpy, he has a forgiving heart. My kind of guy!

Three three-hour sessions were needed for us to wrap up “The Tempest.” Phil LOVED it! Next we took up ”A Midsummer Night’s Dream” which is in many ways similar to “The Tempest.” Phil loved that too and exclaimed, “Why stop? Let’s do ALL of his plays.”

I don’t think we’ll do all of his plays. There are good reasons why some of his plays are less popular than others. Still, we’ve made our way through eight plays so far. We meet at his place, drink coffee, read the plays … we can cover about 1.5 acts per session, frequently pausing to try to imagine how we might stage the play if we were directing.

This is fun and something one would never do otherwise.

For example, since the script calls for MacBeth to see a bloody dagger floating in the air in front of him would we lower from the rafters an actual bloody dagger on a string? Or would we project an image of a bloody dagger on a screen at the back of the stage? Or would we use a holographic image? Or would we let the dagger remain invisible to the audience, leaving them to envision the horrific object MacBeth sees?

What’s more, Phil has wanted to attend plays presented by our local professional Shakespeare company. At his suggestion, we went to see “Hamlet” and “Much Ado,” both of which we had read.

In a couple of weeks we’re going to see “Twelfth Night” and, later in the season “MacBeth” and “The Tempest”, none of which he’s ever seen performed, but all of which we’ve read … or will have.

I kept ‘the Scottish play’ in reserve until the Halloween season, what with the three witches and all. Are they really witches? or are they the three Fates who mislead and thus victimize the hapless MacBeth? Is MacBeth a victim? No one forced him to fling himself, figuratively speaking, through the gates of Hell. He became a serial murderer because that is what he decided to do. And yet …

When the text demands that the three witches suddenly disappear, how exactly would we make that happen? A trapdoor? Smoke for dry ice? A black curtain descending in front of them? Or do they just turn heel and dash offstage?

And who is the Third Murderer? MacBeth sends two but three show up. Is it MacBeth in disguise, there to make sure his orders are followed? And perhaps to participate in the stabbings?

Looking for answers, we dip into the vast sea of scholarship … and sometimes encounter more than we bargained for. Take on board what critic Harold Goddard has to say; it makes your heart pound.

“MacBeth is at bottom any man of noble intentions who gives way to his appetites. And who at one time or another has not been that man? Who, looking back over his life, cannot perceive some moral catastrophe that he has escaped by inches.”

Gulp! I don’t know about you, but I shudder when I think certain moral catastrophes which I’ve “escaped by inches.”

After “MacBeth,” we plan to tackle “Othello” and then “Antony & Cleopatra.” And then we’ll turn to the ‘History plays,’ starting with “Henry V, Part One.” I’m very eager to read the part of Falstaff!

We meet every week or two, so those plays should take us into the Spring.

I think that some of the energy and something of “the pert and nimble spirit of mirth” which infuses our play-reading sessions can also be experienced -- by you! -- right now! -- by listening to the opening movement of my Trio con Brio for violin, clarinet and piano.

To hear the “Intrada" from my Trio con Brio exuberantly performed by clarinetist Michele Gingras, violinist Kris Frankenfeld and cellist Ellen Shertzer, click on the link above.

There's also a link to a PDF of the score.