As individual professional musicians this Palmer crew has soloed
vocally and instrumentally, taught fiddle, harp, and Irish step dancing, recorded
numerous albums, and composed songs; as a family, they have been performing
together at the Maryland Renaissance Festival for nearly 30 years. And I get
them live in my living room!!
A born musician with an excellent voice, my brother Bill
plays 12- and 6-string guitars and octave mandolin, as well as bodhran and djembe
drums, all with a fluidity and grace that takes away my breath. His ability to
inspire listeners was unforgettably witnessed by those sitting with him one
summer day on the steps of my Cape Cod front porch. Bill was playing his djembe
like a tribesman sending messages across an African plain. Apparently they were
heard. Suddenly, out of the house directly across the street burst a man. My
neighbor, the irrepressible Mickey McManus, claimed the street as his stage to imitate
Bill’s increasingly wild drum beats. We still savor that fine memory of Life
Unscripted.
Cathy has played fiddle since she was a teenager and has a
special ability in teaching children. I love watching the complete control she
has over the strings and bow of a challenging instrument made in 1890. Many of
the Celtic songs she plays are ancient pieces, undoubtedly sung with relish five
hundred years ago by people living in unheated huts and castles.
She often closes her eyes as she plays, smiling I believe for
the sheer joy of making music with her family, including grown daughters
Christa and Abigail, both in their 20s. Abigail keeps a harp nearby the way a
journalist keeps a notebook, just in case. She idly plucks her harp during a conversation,
producing what most of us would consider performance-ready music, but when she
plays seriously she is a maestro orchestrating reflections on darkness, light,
joy, or hope. Abigail has a personal relationship with her numerous harps, just
as Christa has with her grandfather’s silver flute, which she plays so
elegantly and effortlessly, and with her dancing shoes which she was devastated
to nearly lose recently.
I cherish the Thanksgiving memory of Christa’s step dancing
on the wood floor in front of my fireplace, those supple legs flying chest high,
her blue eyes sparkling with laughter. This year I watched these four, my
family, perform a Renaissance
dance called Sellenger’s Round together.
As they circled and twirled Abigail played her harp and Christa played
her flute, never missing a beat, a step, or a note. Cathy smiled at the joy while
Bill, I suspect, was quietly bursting with pride.
The rich and timeless sounds my talented family produces
with wood, metal, gut and hide, as well as with feet, hands, and voice, resonate
profoundly in my grateful heart. I know
that music is a higher language. And I know
that musicians receive the gift of music as fully as, or perhaps more than, their
listeners.
*
* *
Many years ago I impulsively responded to what I saw as a
shameful lack of responsibility by my church in meeting the needs of an
underserved if daunting population: junior high kids. Since I had one of my
own, I knew what I was getting into, but we moralistic folk often find
ourselves on the far end of a thin branch. So I volunteered to teach junior
high Sunday school.
I am confident no lives were changed or re-directed, but I
had the time of my life when I realized that you could ask 12- and 13-year-olds
ANYTHING and they, unlike most adults, would give it their very best shot.
I’d long been fascinated by the indefinable power and might
of music, a substance-less something that can make you cry when you are
perfectly happy or raise the hairs on your arms when you are sitting, calmly eating
a poached egg. How can something you
simply hear, something completely without immediate context, sooth or wrench the
very heart within your chest?
So one Sunday out of sheer curiosity I asked my Sunday
school class: what is music? I was unable to imagine what they might say but confident
any answer would be an original thought, fresh as a snowflake, not memorized or
learned, offered by a young person hovering between childhood and adulthood.
After the slightest pause, an answer was provided by Jean
Paul, and I’ve quoted him often: “Music is a noise that makes you feel good.”
See what I mean.
* * *
My best Christmas memories will always include one
particular time my folk trio was hired to provide live Christmas entertainment
at the Falmouth Mall. The trade-off for harried, often indifferent shoppers was
great acoustics and, of course, payment. We always brought baskets of small
instruments to pass out to children, encouraging them to join us in “Jingle
Bells” and “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.”
At that early morning hour only a few people were in the
mall, and all of them were hurrying to get their shopping done. Except one very
small boy. The little fellow’s face shone with delight as he stopped to listen
to our guitars and flute. His father stood a few paces behind him, smiling
broadly as he watched his child play jingle bells, sing “Rudolph the Red-Nosed
Reindeer” and other songs with us, and dance.
Soon another father and son joined them. The boy was older,
a teenager apparently with a developmental disorder, and he also beamed with
pleasure at hearing our music. He too began dancing, with considerably more
proficiency than the younger child, and his father also looked on with enjoyment
and obvious pride.
When it came time for us to do a periodic stroll through the
mall with our instruments, we invited the boys and the dads to join us. Soon our
short but enthusiastic parade was making its way through the Falmouth Mall: three
middle-aged women in long skirts, followed by a little boy, a teenager, and two
fathers, all singing loudly and playing instruments.
The gift of music, indeed.
Look on www.abigailpalmer.com for information on harpist Abigail Palmer’s
CD “Sow Hope” which includes many songs she uses in music therapy programs for
Hospice and other organizations. She wrote the title song and others on “Wine
in the Knitting Basket,” a 2014 CD she recorded with her mother Cathy.
No comments:
Post a Comment