‘Twas time to put the paint brushes down and drive to far Western Massachusetts for our every year hit of rustic high culture. Old friends Sue & ‘Ar have a cabin (New Englanders appear to prefer the word “camp”) outside the tiny town of Otis and invite various friends at various times over the warm season to share their beautiful get away. We belong to a little band of six (the number of beds available, and includes Jackie and Judy) who come, in our case for an annual Tanglewood adventure.
We felt a little bad that this was pretty much our summer vacation this year, but it isn’t suitable in several ways for auntie. But not bad enough to not do it, so we made sure she had all the supplies she needed for two nights and three days, and took off in our trusty Subaru for the wilds of Western MA. With Highway 146 cutting more or less straight north our driving time from Providence turned out to be pretty much the same as it was when we lived in Newton.
Jan doesn’t like to leave work early on Fridays, but last year we actually missed the seating time in Tanglewood’s shed and had to sit through the first half in the outer ring, despite having rather expensive tickets. This year we took the day “off” tending to household obligations (like trying to line up plumber, electrician and tiler/painter for the upstairs bathroom…) through the morning and earliest afternoon, and left for our adventure just a tad past three o’clock.
This time we arrived at Tanglewood in time to actually eat a sit down dinner before going to our preferred parking by the Lion’s Gate and leisurely making our way via the Glass House and past the roiling party of picnickers to our seats.
Last year was avant-guard, with two opera selections, both following macabre themes. Those who know me are fully aware I’m not deeply cultured and know vastly less than most North Americans about music, and the truth be said, I’m invited mainly by sufferance and the fact people really like Jan who is considerably more cultured than most (as they say any family needs no more than one intellectual…); but let me say, it was more difficult than usual to stay awake that evening. Opera ain’t my forte…
Not so this time around.
This weekend was all Beethoven all the time.
And even a complete philistine like myself cannot help but be carried away with Beethoven’s genius.
(A student of the way came to Hsuansha and asked how to enter the great way. The master asked if the student heard the burbling of the stream just beyond the gate of the temple. The student replied, yes. Hsuansha replied, “you can enter right there.”
Right here.
Listen…)
Friday evening we were treated to his Mass in C for solo voices, chorus, orchestra and organ, Opus 86. I had not heard it before and the notes asserted it as an earlier and lesser work. But lesser than what, one must ask? Was great. And then following the intermission we got his 5th. What a treat!
We returned to the camp and fell into the sleep of the just.
Early the next morning with a cuppa coffee in hand I walked out to the car and fiddled with the radio until through the static I learned Senator Obama had selected Senator Biden as his running mate. I had a flash of disappointed run through me in it not being Senator Clinton. Although I have to admit I also felt without a doubt Mr Biden will prove an asset both on the campaign trail, and if our country is so lucky, as an active and engaged vice-president. (I’d long felt he was my pick for secretary of state…)
Later that morning Jan and I were indulged by our friends and we all went to Country Woodcraft, a Mennonite owned furniture store, where we purchased our new sofa. Even though I’m now sixty, the truth be known, our family has few sticks of furniture that are above “graduate student.” But now we are the proud owners of a lovely mission sofa, on its way to being hand made by charming young Mennonites, whom we actually met on a tour of their workshop.
This was followed by our mandatory blueberry picking, our traditional nap, and the drive back to Tanglewood for our annual picnic at what we call Charlie’s meadow (for a beloved friend who has now died). The meadow, which doesn’t have an official name on the map, gives an astonishing view of the Stockbridge Bowl and ranks of New England mountains, the lovely, lovely Berkshires Hills.
That evening we were treated first with Beethoven’s 2nd, which I’m sure I’d heard before but couldn’t recall any part of. After the intermission we heard his 3rd. Hunks of which even this philistine recognizes… So, so, lovely…
(Enter the great way here.
Didn’t get it?
How about entering here?)
Normally the adventure continues well into Sunday, but household obligations nag, and so we decided to return to Providence as soon as we had our traditional waffle and blueberry breakfast…
We’re now back, and after a bit of a nap it is time to look at solving the car problem…
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