I'm not dreaming of a white Christmas

I recently heard some interesting news; Santa Claus is white.  This is according to Megyn Kelly of Fox News fame.  Like so many of you, as I have never seen Santa, I was shocked to learn that someone actually has and can give us an accurate description of his physical appearance.  I don't know how Ms. Kelly managed to get the private interview with Santa that we have all desired, but there is no doubt she is an eyewitness of the jolly old elf and if she says "Santa is white!" we have no other recourse than to believe her.

But wait!  Who is this Santa Claus, really?  Isn't he fictitious?  Is there a rotund old man who flies around with his reindeer on Christmas Eve dropping presents down chimneys?  Inquiring minds want to know!

The original Santa was indeed a kindly man.  His name was Nicholas, Bishop of Myra.  He lived in the 4th century in Myra, Lycia, Asia Minor, an area which is present-day Turkey.  He was known for his kindness and generosity, particularly towards children.  He would often help the poor, giving them gifts of food and other necessities.  Upon his death he was buried in Myra, and by the 6th century his shrine became a popular pilgrimage site.  In the 11th century his remains were stolen by Italian sailors and taken to Bari, Italy, where they still lie in a Basilica that bears his name, San Nicola.  He became the patron Saint of Russia and Greece and thousands of churches were named for him.

During the Reformation in Europe devotion to the Saints was forbidden in Protestant churches.  Only one Protestant country retained the stories and legends of the Bishop of Myra, Holland, where he was known as Sinterklaas, the Dutch version of Saint Nicholas.  The Dutch settled New Amsterdam, which became New York, and thus Sinterklaas was brought to the new world.

So what color was he?  Well, Nicholas of Myra was Greek.  Greeks in the 4th century tended to be short, dark haired, dark eyed, and swarthy.  Yes, boys and girls, Saint Nicholas was at the very least olive-complected.

Is olive-complected "white" enough for Megyn Kelly?  Will it destroy her Christmas cheer to have a dark-skinned Santa?  I always thought the popular sentiment of having a "white Christmas" referred to snow on the ground, but maybe for Ms. Kelly and others it means something else entirely.  Christmas is a celebration of the the birth of the Son of God, the very embodiment of God's love for all his children, every color included.  God is no respecter of persons, and we should be the same.

I'm dreaming of a multi-colored Christmas.  How about you?

Here is a touching rendition of my new song, "Carol of the Bigots."  Enjoy!

This a a forensic recreation of Saint Nicholas based
upon his skull.

So what's the best in America?

"The best American novel you've never read."  That's what BBC radio called Stoner, by John Williams.  I was immediately intrigued. How does the BBC know my reading habits so well?  How do they know I prefer Brit Lit and have given a pass to many great American novels, such as The Old Man and the Sea, East of Eden, and The Sound and the Fury?  I immediately googled Stoner and read a few reviews.  Sure enough, I have neglected yet another great American novel.  I will now don sackcloth and ashes to portray my shame.

It's not that I enjoy professing ignorance in this area, it's that time is short and I must pick my pleasures with care.  I prefer Hardy to Hemmingway in the same way I prefer dark chocolate to white.  The first gives me a deep, visceral pleasure.  The second merely leaves a cloying blandness on the tongue.  I will not apologize for my palate.  I may have missed out on a hefty tome or two, but America has many great and wonderful things. I have discovered some "Best American (fill in the blanks)" on my own that I will now share with you.

The Best American Opera You've Never Seen - The Aspern Papers, by Dominic Argento.  This is an exquisitely lovely work that deserves to enter the repertoire of major opera houses and stick around for awhile.  The music is lush and romantic, a bit Straussian, and the story involves a love triangle, a composer, and his missing music.  Listen to this opening aria sung by Susan Graham and then beg your local opera company to stage it.

The Best American Band You've Never Listened To - Whisper Sands, featuring Catherine and Andrew Streeter.  Yes, they are my daughter and son-in-law, but there is no nepotism here, truly.  They have a natural, stripped-down acoustic sound with vocals so pure it will tug at your heart strings.  Take a listen to their Christmas album here, and tell them mom sent you!

The Best American BBQ Chicken You've Never Eaten - My mother's.

The Best American Art Collection You've Never Heard Of - The Barnes Foundation in Philadelphia.  This is the finest collection of post-impressionist modern art in the world.  It contains 181 Renoirs, 69 Cézannes, and 46 Picassos among it's 800 paintings.  It was collected by Dr. Albert Barnes in the early decades of the 20th century and is now estimated to be worth more than 25 billion dollars.  For years it was virtually closed to the public as Dr. Barnes intended it to be an educational institution for art students.  Last year it moved to a new building and is now open to all who care to take a peek.

The Best American Woman You Never Dated - Me!  I'm a good musician, generous to a fault, and I can cook my mom's BBQ chicken.  What's not to love?

The Best American Holiday You've Never Celebrated - Casimir Pulaski Day.  Celebrated the first Monday in March in the state of Illinois, this holiday honors the Polish soldier Casimir Pulaski who fought against the British in the Revolutionary War.  He never set foot in Illinois, which didn't even exist yet, but Illinois school children get the day off anyway.

The Best American Dream We Haven't Realized - "Give me your tired, your hungry, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free…" Sound familiar?  These words inscribed on the Statue of Liberty have been a dream to hundreds of millions of souls who long for a better life.  Yet for some reason we build fences, discriminate based on race, accent, or skin color, and marginalize those who are different.  We are reluctant to share the abundance of our country, insisting that there is not enough to go around, or that those in need are somehow unworthy.

In the spirit of all that is best in America, let's be neighbors, not strangers.  Let's be inclusive, not separatists.  Let's treat all with the love and dignity they deserve as human beings so that they, too, can say, "Here is the Best American …"

Lady Liberty

Charis' Law of Thermal Dynamics

I recently relocated from the balmy, beautiful, southeastern United States to the brilliant, bracing, northeast.  I was a transplanted southerner, having lived in six different states throughout my life.  It wasn't until I moved that I realized what a Dixie Chick I have become.  I thought I was prepared for a return to the north.  I have sweaters, mittens, gloves, and a taste for sauerkraut.  However culture shock hit me squarely in the forehead and I have been forced to contemplate the peculiarities of my new life.

I like to jog most mornings.  In the south this can frequently take much longer than you intended as all the other joggers/dog walkers/stroller pushers going by will wish you a good day, and if you aren't careful, inquire about your health and tell you all about their auntie who has a fabulous lemon tea that will help you with that cough.  Of course, I'm referring to the strangers.  Heaven help you if you run into a friend or mere acquaintance.  You might as well just stop, settle in on the front porch with a tall glass of something cool, and accept that your day will start a little later than planned.

On my first jog in my new neighborhood I cheerfully waved and called out "Good morning!" to each fellow sojourner.  No one replied.  No one even raised their eyes from the pavement in front of them.  After three months, there are now a few who will nod in my direction upon hearing my greeting.  I know what they're thinking. "There's that crazy new lady.  I'd better nod.  She looks unstable."  Two days ago and older gentleman actually said as I passed, "Going uphill is hard!" There is hope.

Another sharp contrast is the way people talk. In the south people open their mouths really wide, use lots of ah vowels,  and take their time.  For example, a popular exclamation of surprise is, "Weeeeelllllll, ahhhhhhh nevah!"  On the other hand, the denizens of my new home speak very much like the man who came to our door yesterday.  My son answered the door and I heard someone say, "Idabudafidder."  "What?" asked my son.  "Idabudafidder," the man insisted.  "Uhhhh," my son answered.  I went to the door and asked, "What is it?"  "I'm the bath fitter," the man said very slowly and distinctly, as if talking to those who don't speak his language, which surely includes me.

And they drive the way they talk.  So fast.  So very, very, fast.  They honk.  Sometimes at me.  In the south you only honk to get the attention of your friends in the car next lane over.  And they're probably in some beat up old Chevy held together with twine and duct tape, but with great rims, man!  Now as I cast my gaze upon the freeway in front of me I see an endless sea of Audis and BMWs cruising by at 85 mph.  None of them are fixed with duct tape, by the way.

So it has been perplexing, this change of hearth and home.  And I've come up with a theory.  It's called "Charis' Law of Thermal Dynamics."  It is as follows:

If you live in a climate that requires thermals, it will affect your social dynamics.

Let's look at it more closely.  In the north where it is very cold, people don't want to open their mouths for long periods of time to talk.  It lets in too much cold air.  Therefore they speak quickly and keep the lips close together.  In a similar manner they are reluctant to open their homes.  It's just too cold! In the south there is no fear of the freeze, so they open their mouths wide, homes have wide front porches and verandas to catch a bit of breeze, and their hearts are wide open as well.  

It sounds as though "Charis' Law of Thermal Dynamics" could be a depressing bit of news, but it is possible to bridge the gap.  The great American composer, Samuel Barber, was born just outside of Philadelphia in 1901 and spent his entire adult life in New York City. Yet he took the words of a great southern writer, James Agee, and composed the most beautiful song for soprano and orchestra.  It is called Knoxville: Summer of 1915.  With lyrics such as, "It has become that time of evening when people sit on their porches, rocking gently and talking gently…" you feel as though you have entered the deep south with lush harmonies and soaring woodwind melodies accompanying your path.  It is a masterful work, northern wit and wisdom meets southern soul.

If Barber can cross the Mason-Dixon line, so can I!  To my new northern friends I say, "Y'all come on down to the house and I'll fix a little something for ya."

To my old southern friends I say, "Goddacommuppavisit!"

Samuel Barber, composer

James Agee, writer

Can't You Do a Friend a Favor?

"It is not so easy to be a friend, is it Reuven?"  So says David Malter to his son, Reuven, in The Chosen by Chaim Potok.  I agree.  To be the right kind of friend at the right time is a challenge and a test of who we are as individuals.  It is easy to be the kind of friend we want to be, but can we be the kind of friend another needs us to be?

I have/had/have a good friend of many years who recently asked me to let him go, to let him shut the door on five years of family dinners, birthday parties, game nights, rehearsals, concerts, plays, camping trips, and generic hanging out.  To compound the matter, he was more than just a friend, he was a collaborative partner.  We met in a theater.  We were in many shows and were writing a musical together.  This, too, has ended.  He gave me permission to remove his name from the title page.  Per his request, I now write alone.

I am reminded of the great musical theater team of Richard Rogers and Lorenz Hart.  They collaborated on over 500 songs, including some of the greatest standards of all time, such as "My Funny Valentine" and "Blue Moon."  When a 17 year old Rogers met the older Larry Hart for the first time he said, "I left Hart's house having acquired in one afternoon a career, a partner, a best friend, and a source of permanent irritation."  I echo that sentiment.  Yet this legendary friendship and partnership also came to an end.  Hart was an alcoholic and was soon uncontrollable, drinking and partying late into the night, inevitably hungover when it was time to work.  Rogers had to find a new partner for his next musical and successfully teamed with Oscar Hammerstein II.  Meanwhile Hart, after a late night drunken binge that left him exposed to the cold and the elements, died of pneumonia at the age of 48.

The demise of my collaboration is not nearly so colorful.  No drinking, drugs, or parties are involved.  Instead there is a much more potent force, a new "friend," a fiancée, to be exact, who apparently can't abide the old friendship.  And so the choice is before me.  Do I really let him go?  How badly I want to send him a birthday card, a wedding present, an email with a funny picture I know he would enjoy.  I know where he lives, where he works, his new cell number, his parents address, all his email addresses.  Why can't I just keep in touch a little, from a distance?  There's an old Rogers and Hart song, "Can't you do a friend a favor?" with the following lyric:

You can count your friends

On the fingers of your hand.

If you're lucky, you have two.

I have just two friends,

Only two, just me and you.

That is all I demand,

And a good friend heeds a friend

When a good friend needs a friend.

I will heed.  I will end this friendship, collaboration, partnership.  I will let him walk away.  I have deleted his number from my phone, erased his texts, put away his photos, and, hardest of all, scratched his name off the title page of the musical with a black Sharpie.

Precisely because he is my friend.

Lorenz Hart

Richard Rogers

  

O Sister, Where Art Thou?

I have been fortunate indeed in my siblings.  I have two older brothers that I worshipped and adored (when I wasn't fighting them...) but just one sister.  I would sign her birthday cards, "Love, your favorite sister," to which she always replied, "I'm your only sister."  My sister and I are three and a half years apart, which was just enough for me to feel superior during those difficult teenage years.  But I always knew who was really the kinder, gentler, nicer human being.  When my parents would buy us both a candy bar, I would hide mine in my top drawer to sneak bites in private while she would break hers in half and give part to me.  If I was sick or just to tired to get off the couch she would bring me drinks, crackers, whatever I needed.  And in return for all this kindness, I suspect I was probably a supercilious jerk.

Not so, Nadia Boulanger, the most famous composition teacher of the 20th century.  She had a younger sister, Lili, for whom she solemnly promised at the age of 6 to care and protect.  Nadia aspired to be a composer, but it soon became evident that Lili had the greater talent.  Nadia nurtured and encouraged that talent.  A very young Lili accompanied Nadia to her music lessons and Nadia was her first composition teacher.  These efforts were not wasted as Lili became an outstanding composer of beautiful, delicate music with sweeping lines and passionate melodies.  Listen to this lovely Nocturne.  It is an excellent example of Lili's skill in controlling lush, post-romantic harmonies.  After Lili's early death at the age of 24, Nadia continued to program, perform, and promote her sister's music for the rest of her life.  Upon Nadia's death in 1979 at the age of 92 she was laid to rest in the same tomb as Lili, united once more.

Music proved to be the touchstone for my sister and me as well.  After I went off to college to study music and gain some maturity (thank heaven!) my sister and I became much closer.  We played Billy Joel together, her on the guitar and me banging away on the piano.  We played trumpet duets together, at which I was so terrible that she could hardly form an embouchure for laughing.  Most fun of all, I think, we sang harmony together, our particular favorite being an old Harry Belafonte song we heard on the Muppet Show in our childhood.  These opportunities to make music forged a lasting bond.

To create any work of art with another human being is to open your soul and share a piece of it.  This is a beautiful thing.  I now have many sisters from all walks of life who sculpt, paint, write, sing, direct plays, act in plays, play the piano, the list is endless.  As I have collaborated with each one I have changed and grown in ways that I didn't know I could.  This is the joy of the artistic sisterhood.  It doesn't matter if you consider yourself artistic or not, you can still experience this joy in the creation of a  meal or planting a garden.  There are many forms of expression, and they are all enhanced when they are shared with others.

So find a sister.  Take her under your wing.  Share your life and bless hers.  Nadia would be proud.

Lili Boulanger

Nadia Boulanger

If I Had a Hammer

"Don't blame Christ for the Christians."  So says one of the characters in The Parchman Hour, a riveting play by Mike Wiley about the 1961 Freedom Riders who rode interstate buses into the Deep South in an effort to end the illegal segregation of public transportation.  Many of them found themselves arrested and locked up in the Mississippi State Penitentiary, alias the Parchman Farm.  They were beaten, abused, and suffered an endless list of grievances.  At one point in the play when life has become unbearable for the inmates, one of the Freedom Riders wonders about the morality of Christ and the people who profess to worship Him.

I have absolutely no family connection to the Civil War, the Civil Rights movement, segregation, or Jim Crow laws.  Racial discrimination is not a part of my past.  While many of my neighbors' great-great-great-grand daddies were fighting for the North or the South, mine were settling the Rocky Mountain west.  They walked across the plains to Utah, Idaho, and Wyoming to be spared another notorious form of discrimination, religious.  My ancestors were apparently not Christian enough.  Evil twins, racial and religious discrimination both spawned lynchings, murder, mob violence, destruction of property, and innocent people forced from their homes.  As noted in The Parchman Hour, so much of it was perpetuated by those who claimed to be Christian.

My husband and I had a wonderful discussion after the play (art should always foster great discussions!).  We talked about how we don't understand that kind of hatred.  It is simply unfathomable to us that human beings would attack their fellow human beings over bus seats.  What are we, kindergartners? "Johnny's in my seat!" "No, I'm not!" "Yes, you are!" "No, I'm not!"  Childish, isn't it?  I have friends of many faiths including Islam, Buddhism, Hinduism, Wiccan, Judaism, and every flavor of Christianity, and not one of them is so despicable as to deny someone a bus seat, or a bench in a bus stop, a chair, a couch, a bed, a coat, or a pat on the back due to race or religion.

So who do we blame for the "Christians?"  Who do we blame for the Muslims who set off bombs?  For the Buddhists who marched prisoners to Bataan? Who do we blame for anyone who spreads the kind of intolerance we saw depicted in the theater?  It can only come from those whose narrow minds are afraid of change, afraid of learning something new, or afraid of someone who is different.  These are they who coach the rising generation in the ways of hatred.  To quote Oscar Hammerstein in the wonderful musical about prejudice, South Pacific, "You have to be carefully taught."

The Parchman Hour intersperses songs from the 1960's throughout the production.  One of my favorites has always been "If I Had a Hammer."  It's such a simple concept.  Get a hammer, and do something with it!  I found myself thinking after the performance, if I had a hammer I'd knock down some walls.  You know those walls that separate us from each other, things like bias, ignorance, grudges.  I'd take a whack at those first.  Then I'd start hammering on a few heads, just the especially hard ones, the ones full of war-mongering, rumor-making, strife-creating nonsense.  Finally, I'd use my hammer to build.  To build communities where we can all live, learn, and worship in peace and safety.

If The Parchman Hour comes to a town near you, go and see it.  It is an evening well spent.  You will sing, laugh, and be changed for the better.  Then go to Lowe's a buy a hammer.  All people regardless of race and all religions regardless of beliefs can contribute to make this world a better place.  As Stephen Schwartz tells us in his musical Godspell, "We can build a beautiful city, yes we can."

The Parchman Farm Women's Barracks

A hammer from Lowe's

It's not over 'till...when, exactly?

What constitutes the end?  The final of all finals?  The moment you know you can turn off the lights and shut the door?  It can be a very difficult thing to identify.  Listen to a Beethoven symphony.  My father likes to say, "He missed several good opportunities to end that piece," as we hear seemingly endless repetitions of cadential chords.  And consider the way Wagner spins his harmonies on and on, always delaying the cadence to some spot just a bit further than you expect it to be (and to be honest, a bit further than some of us want it to be!).

Richard Wagner, the unholy terror of the opera world, composed a magnificent opera cycle called, in the vernacular, The Ring Cycle.  It consists of four operas meant to be performed on successive evenings.  The fourth, Götterdämmerung (Twilight of the Gods) tells of the downfall of the gods and concludes with the Valkyrie Brünnhilde singing for nearly 20 minutes after which she rides her horse into a burning pyre, effectively committing suicide.  The hall she sang in then catches fire and gets flooded by the Rhine, followed by the fiery destruction of the home of the Gods, Valhalla.  Now there's an unmistakable ending!

Historically the singers who have performed the role of Brünnhilde have been large women, dressed in breastplate and winged helmet and carrying a spear.  Their ample size matched the gargantuan stamina demanded by Wagner to sing for hours on end over a 100 piece orchestra full of horns and tubas.  Hence the origin of the phrase, "It's not over 'till the fat lady sings."  When Brünnhilde was done, we could all go home.  Even the very gods were finished.  Click!  There go the lights!

But it is much more difficult to recognize the end in other aspects of our lives.  How do we know when it's time to shut the door on a career, an opportunity, a relationship?  We can consult with others whose opinions we respect, make a list of pros and cons, try to asses if it's a healthy situation, and so on.  Yet at some point we have to determine on our own if the fat lady has sung.  I believe it's all too easy to say yes, let's turn off the lights and be done.

We get hurt.  We get offended.  We want to leave painful events behind us.  This is all very understandable and very human.  It is also sometimes necessary.  However, let me suggest that we owe each other and ourselves one last chance.  One more opportunity to be kind, to forgive, to make amends, to be the bigger person, to spread the light, whatever the situation may require.  It's the right thing to do.  I nearly wrote off a good friendship of several years because I thought it was irredeemably broken.  From my perspective it had gone the way of Valhalla.  I was wrong.  Brünnhilde is still singing!  Maybe she still sings for you, too.

Lillian Nordica as Brünnhilde

I ain't white enough!

I've been reading a few editorials lately about the Washington Redskins quarterback Robert Griffin III who was so infamously disparaged by an ESPN commentator for not being "black enough."  This has caused a great deal of soul-searching on my part.  I love pad Thai, tamales, and vindaloo.  I appropriately listen to music by dead white guys (Bach, Beethoven, and John Lennon), but I also enjoy classical Persian music and Ravi Shankar.  And let's not forget Michael Jackson!  I grew up with that boy.  "Thriller" is in my soul.  I drive a VW and wouldn't be caught dead behind the wheel of a Ford pick-up.  I have shot a gun, but it was 30 years ago and was my grandfather's World War II rifle, which, my husband informed me, doesn't count.  All of this has brought a great cloud of confusion upon my mind.  Am I white enough?

I quickly checked my skin.  It's pretty pale, not white, exactly, more of a pinky-buff.  Does that mean I check the "Pinky-buff Caucasian" box on the next survey I fill out?  And what is a Caucasian, anyway?  The term was derived from the people of the southern Caucasus mountains.  An "enlightened" German anthropologist decided 200 years ago that the southern Caucasus region was the likely birthplace of the "white" race.  My genealogical research goes back a long way, and I've yet to discover anyone in my lineage from that part of the world.  But there's no"Pinky-buff Anglo Saxon with Norman and Roman roots" option on all those questionnaires.  What's a concerned member of the human race to do?  What shall we call ourselves?

Nothing.  I vote we call ourselves nothing.  Except for people, of course, or humans, Americans (or any other nationality) would be OK, or how about this, brothers and sisters?  Such divisions as African-American, Asian-American, white, can only...divide.  That is their purpose.  I have an adorable 7 year old piano student who had an assignment in her lesson book to color the drawing of a hand.  Finger one was red, finger two was blue, etc.  When she was done she said, "I want to color the palm," and she took a brown crayon from the box.  I was surprised and asked, "Why did you choose a brown crayon?"  She replied, "Miss Charis, my hand is brown."  I looked and saw, as if for the first time, her Puerto Rican brown hand.  I said, "Oh my goodness, so it is!"  And we both laughed.  It had simply never occurred to me to see her as anything than a sweet girl that I enjoy teaching.

When my oldest daughter was four years old, she had a friend over to play.  They began coloring some pictures.  My daughter began to enthusiastically color a person blue.  The friend, a very blond, very blue-eyed, very pale skinned, Campbell Soup Kid, all-American prototype said, "What are you doing?  People can't be blue. You're supposed to leave the skin white."  My daughter put down her crayon, looked the budding Barbie doll dead in the eye and said, "You're wrong.  People can be any color."  She then returned to her bit of blue humanity.

You go, girl!


Here is my newest composition, "I Ain't White Enough, How About You?"  Enjoy!

The Tale of Two Igors

Igor and I have had a love-hate relationship.  It began when I was 12.  My parents brought him home, unannounced, and I was pleasantly surprised.  He was beautiful back in the day, old even then, but shiny and clean, and a vast improvement over his predecessor, a beautifully carved, sagging upright from 1904.  I loved him then.  Igor is my piano.

Igor is a 5 foot baby grand piano that I named for one of my favorite composers, Igor Stravinsky.  Why Stravinsky, you ask?  (or perhaps you didn't ask, but I will still answer) Stravinsky is a complex, daring, adventurous composer full of mercurial moods and mischief.  I knew, even as an adolescent, that my piano and I were about to launch on some great adventures to the nooks and crannies of the musical world and Stravinsky was an appropriate role model.

My first introduction to the music of Stravinsky was at the age of 14 through the most unlikely of pieces for a modern music neophyte.  My older brother played a recording of "Petrushka" for me.  It is a magnificent ballet composed by Stravinsky in 1910-1911 for the famous Ballets Russes in Paris.  It has passion, unrequited love, jealousy, murder, you name it.  If you can feel it, it's in this ballet.  I was immediately enchanted.  I couldn't stop listening to it's evocative blend of Russian folk melodies and contemporary harmonies and rhythms.  I scrounged a copy of the score and banged it out on my piano as best I could, taking yet another fantastic sonic tour with Igor (and Igor!).

But now, decades later, I have been on one too many trips with my piano.  Igor is worn out and I have hated him.  He is badly marred, with "Kimmy" and "Love" scratched on the side by my then 5 year old daughter.  I thought it was time to get rid of him and replace him with a much younger, more attractive model.  Then I discovered through the Antique Piano Shop that Igor has worth.  He was made in the 1920's by Schroeder and Son, an American company that made outstanding quality pianos then went out of business in 1930 due to the Great Depression.  His case is Honduran mahogany and his soundboard spruce. Igor needs restoration.  Once the work is done, he will be a valuable and exquisite little piano.  Who knew?

So I wonder, what else in our lives appears to be worn out, old, in need of replacement, and yet in reality would be of great worth with a little restoration?  I have a few suggestions.

The Constitution of the United States of America - There are a few voices claiming it's time to scrap this document due to its antiquated irrelevance.  I disagree.  Let's dust it off, polish it up, and understand it instead.

Families - They may seem obsolete, but it's still the best place to raise a kid.  And don't trade in that worn out spouse!  Polish him/her up with words of kindness and affirmation.

Moral Values - How about bringing honesty, decency, courtesy, modesty, respect, and circumspect behavior back into fashion?

Friendships - We all have friends we thought we'd write off due to misunderstandings or hurt feelings.  Let's put away our pride and love them instead.  Everyone has value.

I'm sure with a little contemplation each of us will be able to identify things in our lives that deserve a second chance, that are really of great worth.  And this includes ourselves!

Igor the piano

Igor the composer

The Nutcracker Trap

It's that time of year.  That time when satiated, bloated, and over-indulged we collapse in a surfeit of too many good things and vow to ourselves never to do it again.  I myself am suffering from a profligacy of Nutcrackers.  One too many Sugar Plum Fairies have danced in my head.  Too many Mirlitons have mirtiled.  Tchaikovsky's famous Nutcracker Suite is everywhere, the grocery store, the radio, the commercials on TV. You cannot escape.  Resistance is futile.  And so I succumbed to the triviality of it all and fell into my annual sappy music coma.

Years ago in college I played oboe in the school orchestra.  Every Christmas for four years we would drag out the Nutcracker Suite, rehearse ad naseum, and then perform it multiple times for the many Christmas concerts given on campus.  By the time we put it back in the dusty folders, I could hardly stand to look at the title.  Part of this, of course, was due to the lack of imagination in the oboe part.  All instrumentalists, whether they admit it or not, are to some degree biased by the quality of their individual part in any given piece, and Mr. Tchaikovsky didn't do much for the oboe section.  Other than a brief solo for English Horn in the Arabian Dance, we got nothin'.  So I enjoyed bad-mouthing Tchaikovsky, ruining his reputation, and forgetting him until the next year.

My last year of college I was asked to play in the pit orchestra for a production of the full ballet.  It sounded like sonic torture, but the money was good, so I accepted the gig and showed up at the first rehearsal, ready to dis the man.  The conductor raised his baton, and we began.  We played, and we played, and soon I was astounded at the beauty of the music.  Tchaikovsky left all the good parts in the ballet.  How many have ever heard the Snow Fairy music?  Or the Act 1 pas de deux?  "Peter Illych," I inwardly groaned, "What were you thinking?  The breadth, the depth of emotion, the angst, the fire and ice, it's all here, in the ballet.  Why isn't it in the Suite?"  Well, as I am not a medium, Peter Illych did not answer, but the fact remains that the dances in the Nutcracker Suite are not the best of the ballet.  Perhaps he was thinking of what would be an easy "sell," of what would appeal to the lowest common denominator.  We'll never know.

But I started to wonder how often do I do the same?  Do I always present the very best I have to offer, or do I sometimes go for the easy path, particularly if I think no one will care or notice.  It's so easy, when given any kind of assignment, to say, "Oh, this is good enough" when I should really say, "This is my very best."  What if every congressman always gave his very best?  Would we have had a "fiscal cliff?"  Even more ominous, what if Island Records demanded the very best of it's recording artists?  Would we have Justin Bieber?  At the start of a new year, I challenge us all to avoid the Nutcracker Trap and never settle for "good enough."  There's plenty of mediocrity in the world.  Put out the very best, always, every time.  Let's see what difference it can make.

                 My favorite version of the Nutcracker Suite with Les Brown and his Band of Renown.