Forty-eight years ago I was a freshman composition major at a School of Music that claims to be the world’s largest.

It was then, and still is, I suppose, a place where major musical figures come and go, appearing and disappearing like capricious gods in a mythic tale.

Rudolf Serkin had just given a spectacular piano recital and the School was abuzz. No one was more excited about it than my impetuous roommate, Ben, a freshman piano major.

The day after the recital, Ben and I were walking through the Student Union when a tall, balding, bespectacled man came strolling down the hall toward us.

My heart stopped as I recognized him. I grabbed Ben's arm and gasped, “Ben, do you realize who that is?”

Ben dashed up to him, all but jumping up and down, and rattled off, “Oh, Mr. Serkin, your playing was so, so ... you’re just .... I never heard anything like it ... what you did with that sonata ... oh, Mr. Serkin ...”

Waiting to get a word in, the gentleman smiled modestly and finally said, “I’m sorry to disappoint you .... but .... I’m Aaron Copland.”

Ben’s jaw dropped. Nodding, he managed to say, “Oh… well, you’re … you're great, too.”

“Thank you,” said America’s greatest living composer. Then he and Ben and I continued on our separate ways.

Some say they hear echoes of Copland in my music. I hope it’s true. I’d be proud to carry his tradition forward.

To hear “Barn Dance” from my Spring Fever Suite for two cellos, both parts played by Teresa Villani, click on the link above.

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

Rick Sowash
Cincinnati, OH
August 28, 2016

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A big fuss has been made over the undersigned during the three weeks since my second knee replacement. Jo tended me at all hours; friends visited, bringing meals and good cheer.

(Right now, feet up, I’m sitting here with one of my biggest fans. A three-speed Cool Master. We got it on sale at Sears.)

Thank you, all! I am very well-cared for.

Oops. Mustn’t end with a preposition. But if you don’t put it at the end, then where DO you put it? Put anywhere else in the sentence and you sound like Yoda:
"Hmmm! Very well cared for, I am.”

What did I have to bring that subject I don't like to deal with up for?

Oops. Did it again.

Let’s try this: Up for what with did I have to bring that subject I don't like to deal?

Sigh.

Rules, grammatically-speaking-wise … or ought one to say grammatically-wise-speaking? …

Rules and more rules. It makes you wonder ... to what is coming the world?

All this is by way of demonstrating that the best way I know to keep up one's spirits is to try to be funny. What’s funny about losing an entire summer while recovering from surgery? The truth is I’ve suffered pain, which I expected, but also depression, anxiety, mild hallucinations, the unexpected side effects of the pain-relieving narcotics. I cannot recall a more difficult summer.

To quote Stan Laurel’s last words, I’d rather be skiing.

Just before he died, Stanley told his nurse he would rather be skiing. The nurse said, "Are you a skier, Mr Laurel?" He replied, "I'm not, but I'd rather be doing that than having these needles stuck in me.” A few minutes later he died, exiting with a joke.

My only joke about this second knee replacement is that I will never have to go through this again owing to the fact that by a lucky chance I happen NOT to have been born with three knees.

My hospital stay was no fun at all, though it might have been. I had planned all sorts of shenanigans.

I was going to knot my sheets and drape them out the open window; then hide in the bathroom, leaving the door open just a crack so that I could watch all the fun that would ensue when the nurse found my bed empty and knotted sheets hanging out the window.

I was going to surreptitiously place a half-inch segment of spaghetti up my nose, just out of sight, and then, with the nurse watching, blow it out into a tissue and display it, explaining that I’ve been experiencing a "sort of a noodle-y feeling" in my nose all morning and suggesting that it be sent to the lab for assessment.

I was going to ask the Candy Striper to take the jello of my lunch to the good-looking female patient who had caught my eye in the room across the hall, with instructions to explain that the jello had been sent over by the old guy in #503. Then, when she looked my way, I was going to give her a big smile and a wave and call out, “Hi-ya, toots! Hope ya like jello!"

I was going to bring along a bit of string and when no one was looking, tie one end around my ear, inserting the other end into the corner of my mouth. Then, when the nurse came to check on me, I was going to wait until she noticed it and then, snap! before she could inquire, I was going to give her a baleful look and grumpily demand to know, "How long do I have to keep this damn string in my mouth?"

I was going to hide one of those brittle plastic drinking cups under my armpit, out of sight, inside my pajamas, and then, when the doc came in, ask, “Doc, do you think this is normal?" and, real quick, take my jaw in one hand and the back of my head in my other hand and then give my neck a sharp, chiropractic twist, crushing the cup under my armpit while doing so. When demolished in this way, a plastic cup makes a horrendous crunching sound which, being somewhat muffled under my armpit and pajamas, convincingly sounds as if it's coming from my insides. I know of what I speak. I’ve pulled this trick many a time, usually at picnics, though never at a hospital. It would have been fun.

Unfortunately, during my twenty-seven hour stay at the hospital, I was almost completely ‘out of it.' I didn’t get to do anything fun.

I can’t pull stuff like that here at home. Jo knows all my tricks. I’m just going to have to hold off until the next time I have to be in a hospital, if I ever I do, which hopefully I won’t have to. Oops. Darn. There I go again. Perorating with a preposition. I guess I should say, "Hopefully, to have I won’t."

Let’s listen to some funny music. Or lively anyway. Listen for the quotation from Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus at 3:11, “and He shall reign forever and ever.”

To hear “Peasant Dance” from my Spring Fever Suite for two cellos, both parts played by Teresa Villani, click on the link above.

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

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My Sunday morning ‘e-pistles’ have been mighty serious of late.

Today, a funny story.

The music I want to share today is ‘about’ daffodils (insofar as music can really be ‘about’ anything). I love daffodils and have enjoyed them immensely these past few weeks.

I just don’t have much to say about them. I could quote Wordsworth, note that they are pretty and cheerful, a sure sign of Spring, all that. I could observe that a daffodil, like a good piece of music, doesn't need explaining.

Lao Tzu says:

“Those who know don’t talk.
Those who talk don’t know.”

And where does he say that? In his great book the Tao Te Ching, which is five thousand words long. What a blabbermouth!

Instead, let's turn our thoughts to Green Lake, Wisconsin!

Ah, such a lovely place!

Among its other charms, it’s the home of the Green Lake Festival of Music at which I was once the featured composer for a week.

The Mirecourt Trio (violinist Ken Goldsmith, cellist Terry King, pianist John Jensen) made the festival their summer home and finagled an invitation for me to be among the festival's ‘visiting artists.'.

A young composer, in my early thirties, I was thrilled. I was invited to present a talk or two, rehearse the musicians, my music would be performed, I would take a few bows, hang out, schmooze, “confer, converse and otherwise hobknob,” (as the Wizard of Oz says), with my fellow musicians.

A good time would be had by all.

The only fly in the ointment was the sleeping arrangements. I was assigned to a room in an old wooden structure, a sort of barracks that had served as sleeping quarters for summer camp attendees in years gone by. There were two twin beds in the room; one for me and one for the Mirecourt Trio’s fiddler, Kenny Goldsmith.

It was OK with me. I’m a Boy Scout, used to sharing a tent. I liked Kenny, a brilliant violinist with abundant enthusiasm for my music.

Kenny and I unpacked our things, chose which bed would be ours, then went downstairs to socialize until the wee hours with the other musicians, telling stories, laughing and at last ascending to our room.

We jumped into our jammies and hit the sack. I set a course for the Land of Nod.

After what seemed only a few minutes I was abruptly awakened by a hideous performance, a combination of violent crunching, vigorous sawing, impassioned gasping and porcine oinking.

It was Kenny, snoring.

I tossed and turned all night. There was no sleeping with that racket going on. Kenny was seventeen years older than myself and I had enormous respect for him. He was awe-inspiring. It didn’t seem proper for a fledgling composer such as myself, to get up, shake the great musician’s shoulder and issue a shouted entreaty that he stop snoring. He wasn’t doing it on purpose, after all.

That night, I slept not at all, or so it seemed. When I opened my eyes, sunlight was streaming in the window and Kenny’s bed was empty. I figured he must be down the hall, taking a shower.

I went downstairs in desperate need of coffee. Steaming mug in hand, I sat down at a table across from clarinetist Russ Harlow, another ‘visiting artist,’ who promptly opined, “You look terrible.”

“I feel terrible,” I said. “I didn’t sleep a wink all night. Kenny snores.”

“Oh, that doesn’t have to be a problem,” he said. “There’s an easy solution. When I was with the Utah Symphony, we toured Europe and I had to share a hotel room every night with another musician who snored like the dickens. But all I had to do -- and all you have to do -- is snap your fingers three or four times and he’ll stop on a dime. Or you can whistle, like this.” He let out a series of short, sharp whistling sounds. “Nothing to it. Works every time.”

“Good to know!” I said. “Duly noted!” and thanked him for this valuable inside information.

I didn’t see Kenny much that next day and when I climbed upstairs to our room he was already in bed, asleep. I jumped into my jammies, curled up under my blanket and fell into the arms of Morpheus.

After what seemed, again, like a very short time, Kenny began another performance, as fierce and fervid as the night before. I snapped my fingers four or five times and he immediately stopped snoring.

Some time later he was snoring again. This time, for variety, I let out a series of short, sharp whistles. Once again, boom, he stopped. Silence. I fell back asleep.

I slept pretty well that second night and the next morning I was up and at ‘em, early. Kenny being still asleep, I quietly slipped out of the room, had my shower, and descended in my robe to the dining hall.

An hour or so later, I was sitting at the table with some other musicians, chatting over coffee, when Kenny entered the room. He looked terrible. He approached our table, staring at me with a wild, intense look.

I was going to say, “You look terrible,” but before I could form the words he pointed at me and exclaimed, “You are a TRUE and TOTAL composer! Even in your SLEEP, you’re snapping your fingers, you’re whistling motifs! You’re composing in your SLEEP, for God’s sake! I couldn’t sleep a wink all night!”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

To hear “Daffodils” from my Spring Fever Suite for two cellos, both parts played by Teresa Villani, click on the link above.

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

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Ferns! A windfall of ferns, a fronded wealth, green and golden, unfurled on the forest floor, as far as the eye could see.

This wealth was mine to enjoy -- to spend, if you like -- all day, every day, for more than a week when, in June of 1989, I backpacked, alone, the 80-mile length of Pennsylvania's Laurel Highlands Trail.

I had as many ferns that week as a billionaire has greenbacks. My bounty of ferns was, I think, a more tasteful display of affluence than a billionaire’s gratuitous space flights, gaudy yachts or grandiose mansions.

As everybody knows, in this greatest of all democracies, where all men are created equal and there is liberty and justice for all, billionaires pay no taxes. I was no exception. The fortune of ferns I amassed that week was tax free!

I did not encounter any billionaires on the Laurel Highlands Trail, but if I had, I could have stood toe-to-toe with ‘em and looked ‘em in the eye. If Elon M. or Jeff B. had come ambling down the trail from the opposite direction and paused in front of me, we could have jutted our chins at one another, the way rich dudes do and said, smugly, “Only chumps pay taxes. Not smart guys like us. God bless America! Heh, heh, heh.”

In the slanting, yellowy, early morning light, innumerable, tiny, buttery globes of glistening dew hung from every frond-tip, each a sparkling gem. All morning, as the sun traversed the blue sky above the trees, I traversed the shaded path beneath them, a hedge of ferns brushing my knees on either side. Some people invest in ‘hedge funds.’ With me, it was ‘hedge fronds.’ In the afternoon light, they turned Kelly green. Evenings, in the fading light, I watched those greens go gray and finally black.

My ferns one-upped the Frick. One gallery after the next, for eighty miles! With a careless wave, a gesture of magnanimity, I showed off my fern collection to any of my fellow hikers who cared to gaze upon it. I granted them free admission.

Time moves slant-wise in the democracy of ferns, but it moves all the same. My eight days as an immigrant passing through that happy and well-governed land slipped away “like coins between a dying miser’s fingers.”

My ferns slipped away, too. By the end of my hike, the entire fern fortune I had acquired was spent. I carried no ferns out of the woods, neither in my pockets nor in my wallet. I left my fortune behind, just as, in God’s good time, Elon and Jeff will leave theirs behind as well.

The pertinent proverb is: “You can’t take it with you.”

At this time of year, when a few dozen unfold in our garden, I remember that hike and my windfall of ferns.

But enough sly moralizing, enough purple prose!

My piece, "Ferns Unfolding,” is one of the movements in my Spring Fever Suite for two cellos. As I think you’ll hear in the music, these are very American ferns! If Copland had composed for two cellos, it might have sounded something like this (only leaner, crisper, a little more disjunct and angular).

If you can spare two minutes to hear “Ferns Unfolding,” with both parts played by Teresa Villani, click on the link above.

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