HAPPY BIRTHDAY, THORNTON BURGESS

Over 140 years ago a baby was born in my house at 6 School Street in Sandwich, Massachusetts. A fierce snowstorm made travel impossible on that January 14 in 1874, even the trains were unable to get through to Boston and Provincetown. But Caroline Burgess, then 22 years old, probably had plenty of help in the home delivery, for both she and her young husband Thornton had parents, aunts, uncles, and cousins, as well as many friends in town. When their first and only child was born, they named him Thornton Waldo Burgess, Jr. after his father who would die later that year of tuberculosis. 

   

Presumably Thornton Burgess himself took the above photo of his birthplace. It was sent to me by David Cesan, son of Ernestine Johnson, Burgess’ secretary and loyal friend in his later years in Hampden, Massachusetts. The picture was still in the original envelope that Burgess, a meticulous man, kept it in.

 The return address was:  Burgess Radio Nature League

                                                Hotel Bradford

                                                      Boston, Mass.

                                                Hotel Kimball
                                                     Springfield, Mass.

 We who live in old New England houses are generally realistic about our occupancy and accept that we are more caretakers than owners. Burgess’ birthplace on School Street, now my home, was built more or less around 1835, around the time of the Battle of the Alamo and Andrew Jackson’s Presidency; eight more presidents would follow Jackson before Abraham Lincoln was inaugurated in 1861. When the foundation stones of my house were being laid and square-headed nails being pounded into its wooden timbers, there were only 25 states in the Union.

A decade before Thornton Burgess was born here, people would have sat on my front porch in rockers like the ones in the picture above, discussing national events like the outbreak of the American Civil War, the horrific, bloody battles at Bull Run, Antietam, Fredericksburg, and Gettysburg, and the assassination of Lincoln in 1865. Hundreds have preceded me in living in this house at 6 School Street, and hundreds more will undoubtedly follow.

But it is hard to imagine that any of them achieved or will achieve more than Thornton Burgess.

During a long and active career, he played an important role in the dawn of children’s literature, in the early days of environmental conservation and education, and in the introduction of radio technology. In 1925 his Radio Nature League went on the air. Within its first week, the children’s nature program attracted thousands of listeners, some as far away as England.

His first children’s book was published in 1910; by the end of 1914 he had written 14 more. In 1915 he added to his beloved Bedtime Story-Books series with volumes on the adventures of Danny Meadow Mouse, Grandfather Frog, Chatterer the Red Squirrel, and Sammy Jay, as well as his last of four novels on Boy Scouts and three other books, nine in all that year alone. Half of his 70 books are still in print.

A 1973 cartoon based on his animal stories was created for Japanese television. Within six years it was distributed internationally as "Fables of the Green Forest" and is today on YouTube. He was honored by the New York Zoological Society and the Boston Museum of Science (see my post on Bradford Washburn award).

The distinguished Dr. Theodore Reed, director of the National Zoological Park commented, “In the realm of wildlife conservation and natural history education, there is one name in the United States that must not be forgotten: Thornton W. Burgess.”

 Happy Birthday, Mr. Burgess! Thanks for your lifelong effort to promote appreciation and stewardship for the wild creatures we share our planet with, whether mice or bears or hawks or spiders, and for sharing your enduring, deep respect for the environmental ties that link us all.  

…and happy birthday too to Chuck Roth, one of the naturalist’s greatest fans and a longtime advocate for the environment as education director at the Mass Audubon Society, and to Bob King, President Emeritus and longtime supporter of the Thornton W. Burgess Society. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

DO YOU HEAR WHAT I HEAR?

                                       

An essential part of Thanksgiving and Christmas for me is music. So I hold my breath until it’s confirmed that my brother Bill and his wife Cathy and daughters Christa and Abigail are 1) making the annual Thanksgiving trek to Cape Cod from Frederick, Maryland, and 2) bringing their instruments. Then I know for sure that when the Thanksgiving table is cleared and the kitchen is more or less under control, (thanks to sister Nancy a.k.a. the Dish Fairy” and others) we will reconvene in my living room to savor the holiday’s last, glorious treat: the gift of music.  

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.