Emily Who?

     I love travel writing and I love well-written humor. I found both in the books of Emily Kimbrough.

      Emily (I can't call her Ms Kimbrough; she's been one of my "kinsmen of the shelf" -- to quote another Emily -- for far too long) was born in Muncie, Indiana in 1899 and died in Manhattan in 1989. She is perhaps best known in the book lovers' world as having co-authored, with actress Cornelia Otis Skinner, the delightful 1942 memoir Our Hearts were Young and Gay, which recounts their misadventures as young women on their first trip abroad in the early '20s. I emitted many a guffaw when I first read it, and subsequent readings have been just as pleasurable. This popular book inspired a film (1944) starring Gail Russell and Diana Lynn, the screenplay of which Emily and Cornelia collaborated on with Sheridan Gibney. Emily also wrote the book's amusing sequel, We Followed Our Hearts to Hollywood, relating Cornelia's and her experiences working on the film.

     It wasn't Our Hearts were Young and Gay, however, that introduced me to Emily; it was one of her later books, Pleasure by the Busload, which I stumbled upon during my very first visit to the legendary Powell's Books in Portland, Oregon. The book's dustjacket blurb described it as a humorous account of a Volkswagen van trip in Greece that Emily took with some friends, among whom was the renowned Greek concert pianist Gina Bachauer. Being a great fan of Bachauer, I was naturally intrigued and bought the book on the spot. It's been twelve years since I read it, and I only read it once; my memory being the rusty sieve it is, I can't recall details, but I do recall having loved it and being eager to find more of Emily's books, all of which are memoirs. You can imagine how pleased I was to find several of them together on the bottom shelf of the dimly lit back room of a dusty antiquarian bookshop in San Antonio. All the books were in good shape and still had their dustjackets. Some other titles I purchased online.

     Aside from the fact that I love travel writing, especially about Europe, the main appeal of Emily's books is Emily herself. Here is a middle-aged, very proper woman, portrayed in the books' cartoon-like line drawings with hair in a demure bun, taking these seemingly carefee trips with her friends but finding herself in one comical situation after another, and writing about them with such a winning combination of wit, wryness, self-deprecation, and obvious intelligence. Her writing style brings to mind a grammatically mindful school marm who unknowingly has a large portion of slip showing from beneath her skirt.

     Unfortunately, the only one of Emily's books in print today is Our Hearts were Young and Gay. However, most of them, because they were so widely read in their day, can easily be found through the internet. My favorite online source for buying used books is AddAll. It searches Abebooks, Alibris, Amazon, etc. and many independents (including Powell's), 24 in all.

Here is a list of Emily Kimbrough's titles:

Our Hearts were Young and Gay (with Cornelia Otis Skinner)
Forty Plus and Fancy Free - Italy and England, including Queen Elizabeth's coronation
Floating Island - a barge trip on the canals in France
So Near and Yet So Far - New Orleans
We Followed Our Hearts to Hollywood
How Dear to My Heart
Now and Then
Time Enough - a barge trip on the river Shannon
Forever Old, Forever New
It Gives Me Great Pleasure - her experiences as a public speaker
Water, Water Everywhere - Aegean Islands, Yugoslavia, Paris, London
Pleasure by the Busload
The Innocents from Indiana
Through Charley's Door - her first job, at the original Marshall Field's
Better than Oceans
And a Right Good Crew - a barge trip on England's canals

Music Monday: David Hyde Pierce Sings Porter, Berlin, Kander, and Herman

    

     I don't know why I, David Hyde Pierce Mega-Fan, didn't think of posting this sooner.

     Michael Feinstein, singer, pianist, and stalwart champion of American song, has been doing a radio series called "Song Travels with Michael Feinstein," produced by South Carolina ETV and distributed by NPR. Among his recent guests were Liza Minnelli, Bette Midler, classical violinist Joshua Bell, pianist Jeremy Denk, and ... David Hyde Pierce. As one would expect, David is great at patter songs and character numbers, but he also handles ballades very well. His renditions in this program of Kander's "Your Face" and Porter's "Dream Dancing" are really quite affecting. As a vocalist, David reminds me very much of Fred Astaire (who I think is a sadly underrated singer) -- their precision with text, the way they "turn" a phrase, and even their vocal range and the way they both approach higher notes. Cole Porter preferred Astaire to other, more vocally gifted singers, because of Astaire's impeccable style and, more importantly, his musicianship and adherence to the written notes and rhythms -- Astaire rarely altered rhythms, and almost never "riffed." These things are also true about David, and I think if Porter were alive today, he would be very pleased with the way David sings his music.  I hope you enjoy this delightful hour-long segment of song and conversation by clicking this link:

David Hyde Pierce on "Song Travels with Michael Feinstein"
    
Program order:

     Irving Berlin: "A Pretty Girl is Like a Melody" - Pierce (voice), Feinstein (piano)

     Beethoven: Piano Concerto no. 1 (fragments) - Pierce (piano)

     John Kander: "Lunch Counter Mornings and Coffee Shop Nights" 
     from the Original Cast Recording of Curtains - Pierce (voice) with Jill Paice

     Jerry Herman: "Penny in My Pocket" - Pierce (voice), Feinstein (piano)

     John Kander: "Your Face" - Pierce (voice), Feinstein (piano)

     Rodgers & Hart: "Blue Moon" - Feinstein (voice and piano)

     DuPrez & Idle: "You Won't Succeed on Broadway" (fragment)
     from the Original Cast Recording of Spamalot - Pierce (voice)
     [click here to watch a live video of the whole hilarious number]

     Cole Porter: "Dream Dancing" from You'll Never Get Rich - Pierce (voice), Feinstein (piano)

     Cole Porter: "You're the Top" - Pierce (voice), Feinstein (voice and piano)

Actor David Hyde Pierce arrives for the opening night of the Broadway show 'Evita' in New York, April 5, 2012. REUTERS/Carlo Allegri

God is Not in the Music

     After my return to the Church in the early 2000's, I established a particular Easter tradition. At that time living by myself in Houston, away from my family, I elected to spend Easter alone, unless any of my really close friends were also alone, in town, and available for a nice dinner out.

     On Easter afternoon, in the quiet solitude of my apartment, I would put on my favorite CD of Handel's Messiah, as performed by the Monteverdi Choir and the English Baroque Soloists under the direction of John Eliot Gardiner. I'd sit on my couch, perfectly still with eyes closed, not moving a muscle for the entire length of the oratorio, which is over three hours. In this way, I reflected on the life of Christ, from Isaiah's prophecy of his birth to his eternal reign in Heaven as told by John in Revelation. Handel's music, far from being a distraction, or so I thought, only served to deepen the experience. Glorious as it is, inspired by God as it must surely have been, it illuminated the Scripture texts for me, compelling me to listen not just with my mind but with my heart. In that nascent phase of my spiritual life, it was the most prayerful way I knew to spend Easter Sunday, after Mass.

     In the monastery, Easter Sunday is of course very special, as is all of Holy Week. The communal celebrations of the day override any private, personal devotions. As for the rest of the year, listening to music in general is not an everyday indulgence, but one that's reserved for the evening meal every Sunday, which is also communal. In other words, private listening is rare. This was, admittedly, a great sacrifice for me, and most especially on Easter, when I sorely missed listening to Messiah.

     The afternoon of Good Friday in the monastery is the most intensely prayerful, most spiritually powerful time of the whole year. From noon till three, all the nuns shut themselves in their cells for silent prayer and meditation. There is no sound, save the birds in the woods. No sound – including music. My first year there, I asked my novice directress if I could, through headphones, listen to Messiah in my cell during those three hours. My request was denied. "It's a very holy time," she told me, "and we spend it in silent prayer, with absolutely no distractions." I was heartbroken. She just didn't understand, I thought, that for me music is prayer, that for me music is God's voice in another guise.

     It took me a good while, maybe a year, to realize that she was right. I had mistaken mood and feeling for meditation and prayer. Music may help to put me on the track, but it is not the track. It may turn me towards God, but it is not God. It is a gift, but it is not the Giver. As a religious in formation, it was vitally important for me to learn the difference. Just as God was not in the wind or the earthquake (1 Kings 19:11), he is not in the music – but in the still, small voice that is heard in the core of one's soul.

Saturday at the Opera: La Bohème

     When I was in college, just beginning to love opera, I earned extra money playing for voice lessons and choir. I decided to use that money to start building my opera scores and recordings library. A very good source for cheap, used recordings in great condition (this was during the late 70's, early 80's, so we're talking about LPs and cassettes) was Half-Price Books, a chain that is still in existence, but limited to certain states. I can't tell you how many wonderful LPs I bought from Half-Price! And I have them still -- fortunately, I also have a turntable, so I can still enjoy the warmth and depth of sound which CDs simply don't have. My very first purchase, for a whopping five dollars, was the 1956 La Bohème with Jussi Bjoerling, Victoria de los Angeles, Robert Merrill, Lucine Amara, John Reardon, and Giorgio Tozzi, commonly known as "the Beecham Bohème." This was the only Puccini opera that conductor Sir Thomas Beecham ever recorded in full, and it is truly a gem and indisputed classic. In fact, many, myself included, consider this to be one of the two or three finest recordings of Puccini's beloved opera. (I'm also very partial to Karajan's recording with Pavarotti and Freni.) Certainly no opera collection is complete without it, and it is an excellent choice for a neophyte's first purchase.

    Here is a synopsis of the opera, for those who are not familiar with it. The excerpt below is the second half of Act 3 from the Beecham recording, beginning at Rodolfo's "Marcello. Finalmente!"



Holding History in Your Hand

     One of the oldest books I own is a 1785 Dublin edition of Oliver Goldsmith's Poems and Plays. I bought it during my period of collecting for collecting's sake; that is, the period when I bought books simply to own and drool over, not necessarily to read. (I'm long done with that phase, thank goodness.) This particular tome really isn't much to look at, though  -- small, thin, bound in unadorned dark brown calf that over the centuries has been rubbed at the corners down to the paper boards; the front hinge is badly cracked from the top to halfway down; there are an enthusiastic child's black crayon markings on the back cover, and the gilt of the spine's bands and title is completely gone, leaving only the barely discernable indentations of the title's letters. The leaves (that's "pages" to the layman) are almost as soft as cloth, have a good deal of foxing (the reddish-brown discoloration common in old books), and are a bit too fragile for safe reading. One or two pages are torn clean across to the spine, but still attached to it. The book is really a rather pitiful physical speciman.

     So what prompted me to buy it? you may ask. When, many years ago, I opened its front cover in a local bookshop, I beheld, at the top right corner of the title page, the name "Samuel Avery" written in beautiful script -- with a quill pen, surely; the metal nib wasn't patented till 1803. (Of course, Samuel Avery could have been a later owner of the book, but I prefer to stick with my quill theory; it's much more romantic.) The letters are as perfectly even and uniform as copper plate, the capital "A" looks exactly like Jane Austen's, and the loop of the "y" is voluptuously plump, its tail curling out a good quarter inch beyond the rest of the signature. What's more, this Samuel Avery obviously didn't bother to take the time to blot after writing, because the mirror image of his name had bled onto the facing page. (Was he in a hurry, shutting the book immediately after putting his name to it? Or was he simply careless? Is that extravagant "y," that appears almost defiant in the face of its carefully formed fellow letters, a telling sign of the writer's inner fire beneath a cool exterior?) Also on the facing page, below the mirror image, is written in pencil "John Humphrey Avery" -- not quite as beautifully precise, but the formation of the letters is identical to that of the Samuel Avery signature. As pencil lead was not invented until the 1790's, I assume this signature was written after the one in ink (also assuming that my quill theory is correct). Was John Humphrey Samuel's son? Did his father write his name for him, and why not in ink? Was it to try out that newfangled thing called the pencil? And why wasn't it written on the title page? Furthermore, were those black crayon marks on the back cover scribbled there by the young John (yes, artist's crayon had already been invented long before then), and was Papa Avery very upset with Johnny over the defacement of his (then) fine book?

     I have lately found the answers to some of these questions. I do have a vague idea, thanks to the internet, as to who Samuel and John Humphrey Avery were (the Samuel of the signature was either John's grandfather or great-grandfather, both of whom were named Samuel), and that they probably lived in Connecticut. I also know that they must have been at least pretty well off financially, as books were costly in those days, and having them bound in leather even more so. The dark brown calf of this particular book was probably a favorite material of Mr Avery's, so he would have had many more of his books bound the same way. Perhaps all of his Oliver Goldsmiths were so clad. As to how the book made its way to that dusty little antiquarian bookshop and into my own shelves -- well, I should have asked the bookshop owner. Too late now, sadly; he died many years ago.

     The thing is, I don't care so much about knowing as I am about speculating. To me, old books are more than their text, more than their binding. Just seeing a name, an inscription, even random crayon scribbles, sets my imagination on fire; being able to rub the tip of my finger over the imprint of a gilt-less title, to feel the rough texture of the rag paper, is a pleasure only true bibliophiles understand. Though I now only buy books to read, not just to fondle, my interest in their provenance (previous ownership) is avid as ever. Still to be able, in this age of the e-book, to hold in one's hand a piece of literary history, however worn and modest, is a privilege to be cherished.

Fallen Castles

     There is a chapter in Little Women in which the four March sisters and Laurie tell each other the kind of life they'd like to have someday; they called them their "castles in the air," which, incidentally, is the title of that chapter. After they tell about their castles, Jo proposes that they all meet ten years hence, to see if any of their castles have been built, so to speak. Indeed, in the last chapter of the book (or of Good Wives, if you read the two-volume version), the chapter called "Harvest Time," the entire March family—Marmee, Father, sisters, husbands, children—are gathered for a picnic, and the sisters recall that day they told of their dream castles. None of them really came true, though Meg asserts that hers came the closest.

     We all have castles in the air when we're young. As a teenager, mine was to marry, build a cabin in the mountains, have twenty children, and live off the land. This was during my guitar-toting, John Denver-crooning, wildflower-picking days. A few years later, after I retired my guitar and John Denver records, the cabin changed to a large, posh London townhouse furnished with antiques; my independently wealthy husband devoted himself to my concert pianist career; we had no children, but had a live-in housekeeper and cook. I even went so far as to plan, in minute detail, my wedding—actually, two different weddings; I couldn't make up my mind which I preferred. One included a wind ensemble playing Mozart; my bridesmaids and I wore Austen-inspired empire gowns in varying shades of dusty rose and lavender; my bouquet was an assortment of lilies, and there was a choice of chicken crepes or Dover sole at a garden-themed luncheon. The other had a string ensemble playing Bach; the gowns were jewel-toned Baroque (mine in ivory, of course, with blush undertones), my bouquet was antique roses, and the reception was an evening banquet featuring prime rib or lobster. My ring was a not-too-ostentatious but out-of-the-ordinary 1.5 carat emerald-cut aquamarine in a platinum setting (I didn't like diamonds then).

     Ten years later, like the March girls, I found myself in a castle entirely different from the ones I had built in the air. But instead of lamenting the ruins, I smiled indulgently at their architects: an idealistic optimist who asked only for the bare basics, and a pretentious romantic dazzled by the elegant and glamorous. The reality, ten years after, lay somewhere in between, or, more accurately, had elements of both: I was a work horse who lived with the bare basics and had Niles Crane tastes. And now, even more years later, I find myself in a castle not my own, but content to help look after it. I've learned to leave the drafting and planning to the Master Architect. 

     Oscar Wilde famously said, "There are only two tragedies in life: one is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it." But would I deem it a tragedy that I have not the mountain cabin, nor the posh townhouse, nor husband nor children, and never had a wedding—Baroque or Regency? Of course not. We play as best we can the cards we are dealt. Or rather, we furnish and maintain as best we can the castle given us.

   

Drought (and I Don't Just Mean the Weather)

     It is the first of August; 2012 is two-thirds gone. And I have written exactly two new poems so far this year. Two. This, from someone who, four years ago, wrote nine poems in August alone. Not that any or all of them were gems, mind you. I relegated most of them to my "reject" file, to be picked over some day in search of an odd phrase or two that might be salvaged. But at least I was creating.

     I've been through dry spells before, but nothing like this. Not only is my muse temporarily (one hopes) paralyzed; I haven't even been motivated to send anything out to editors. I haven't sent anything out in a year. My last poem in print came out this past April -- which was only four months ago, but it feels like fourteen.

     During another dry spell about two years ago, a friend of mine who writes the odd poem between raising her children and singing in the chorus at HGO, gave me a first line prompt to get me started on a new one. This was the result:

          DROUGHT

          Upon a jagged precipice, I stand
          poised, parched, a poet's heart in hand,
          beneath me, withered brook and furrowed land.

          There was a time not long ago, the grass
          swayed, surged, an undulating mass
          that fissured where the fleeter-footed passed.

          There was a time not long ago, I stood
          poised, plied, surrounded by its good,
          behind me, siskins singing in the wood.

         © Leticia Austria 2010. First published in Decanto.

     I might just ask my friend to toss me another prompt. Who knows, it might produce a decent poem and chip me out of this sand trap onto the green, or at least the fairway. "Oh, Kelley ... !"