My childhood was a song!

And it’s a recurring melody.  I have just hummed my way through Que Sera Sera, Little Sir Echo, Mockingbird Hill, Look to the Rainbow, Somewhere and Wooden Heart. (Once again, thank you YouTube - I am young again).   It’s amazing how the lyrics come back almost word perfect.  And it’s also amazing how new lyrics suggest themselves too.  Here’s a sample (I’ve called it A Teacher’s Song!):

Sit down, be quiet;

Oh, please don’t be so rude!

Sit down, be quiet;

Be nice as li’l girls should!

Sit down, be quiet;

You must obey the rule.
Though life is no party

School could be so cool!

Children are lovely,

That’s what I was told.

Children are playful,

So happy to behold.

Little girls are sugar

And everything that’s nice.

Ribbons and pretty frocks

And life that’s full of spice.

On the day I came to school

This is what I found:

Lots and lots of little girls

Running all around.

“Miss, she took my bottle”

“Miss, she pulled my hair”

Little voices shouting loud

Here and there, and there!

Little girls as good as gold

Is truly quite a myth.

They can throw real tantrums

And make me have a fit.

And though I sometimes roll my eyes,

And shout as loud can be

I wouldn’t really change a thing -

School’s pretty fine to me!

Repeat: Sit down, be quiet....

Do you think they might listen?

Hello….

…my friends won’t you sing with me?  Yes! I’m in a cheerful mood.  Music does that to me and I’m finding a lot of it on the Net, together with an overflowing bucket of nostalgia.

So what am I listening to? Old forgotten childhood songs, all reprised on YouTube.  One remembrance leads to another and from ‘Where have you been Billy Boy?” to “Oh dear what can the matter be?’ to ‘The bear went over the mountain’ to ‘Down by the bay’ – and beyond – I’ve been humming along.  And the lyrics have been coming back (like a song!) too. Silly songs, lively tunes make for a cache of treasures.  As the memories flood in, I am amazed at the amount we learned and sang as little ones.  And if YouTube has it, the songs will be carried forward at least for another generation.  Clap if you like that.

Aiming to enlarge the repertoire, I did a recce on the Net (now, that’s one voyage of discovery that can keep one engaged for a lifetime) and came up with a whole host of new and even more delightful songs by people who are happy to share. I made a connection, too.  And thereby hangs a tale.  I searched by keywords using ‘children’s songs’, ‘songs for children on themes’ and so on.  One of the sites threw up a lovely little number – catchy lyrics, catchier tune – about one of the many ‘cycles’ in nature.  But there was no sheet music, so I took a chance and emailed the author.  Bonus upon bonus, he not only sent me the sheet music by return, but was most chuffed that his music had reached the opposite side of the globe.   Now, he wants a clip of the children singing his song.  I think that means I have a goal! So do the children. The name of the song? ‘Can you make the connection?’ It’s about a fruit bat, a tree and you!!

At present count, I have more than eighty songs playing over and over again in my mind; enough to keep me singing for a long, long, time.

In the words of that universal children’s favourite, I’m happy and I know it, so I’m shouting ‘Hello’, ‘Buon Giorno’, ‘Ola’, ‘Namaste’, ‘Guten Tag’ ‘Kalimera’, ‘Bon Jour’ ..…!!!!!

Thank you for the music….

She is a fairly active 89 nudging 90, but in my mind she is still the young nun with sparkling eyes and a happy smile.  She taught me science in school and the piano outside school hours.  There was something about her: Joy? Infectious enthusiasm? The love of children? The love of sharing? Perhaps it was a combination of all and more, but we loved her and loved to be in her company.  She taught and we learnt, seemingly effortlessly.

Sr. Genevieve is a childhood memory.  I last encountered her when I was eleven years old at Maria Goretti Convent School, Bareilly, some fifty years ago!  Another time, another place. By some strange coincidence, I was able to catch up with her again, and that too at a time in my life when I was retraining my keyboard skills after a long (make that very long) hiatus. I bumped into a couple of Canossian nuns, enquired after her and was provided a postal address in Belgaum, to which I sent a tentative missive.  Would she remember me?  She did!  And now we enjoy a sporadic correspondence.  She is still buoyant, still encouraging, still affectionate – not deterred by age or infirmity.  And she still teaches music!

I have neither training nor experience to teach, but thanks to the eternal optimism which afflicts most religious, another nun has roped me in to teach her ‘little ones’ how to sing.  It seems as though a circle has been drawn over time – what I have learnt, I will now pass on.  

I am grateful for not just the imprinted memories of ‘do-re-mi…’ and childhood songs, but also the example of patience, encouragement and the gentle humour which accompanied the lessons.  

Sr. Genevieve, you were and are the perfect mentor. Thank you for the music. Thank you for being you.

Wir bitten um das Gebet für unseren vestorbenen Mitbruder…

This is the concluding line of the necrology marking the passing of Herr Pfarrer Bertrand Georg Puchwein at the age of 87, and as I peruse the accompanying letter from friends who have conveyed the news, I endorse the prayer and the sentiment.

I met Father Puchwein, for the first time, when he was the 75-year young parish priest of St. Severin’s in Sievering, Vienna. He belonged to the Augustinian order of Canons or Choir-monks (for want of a better translation – the correct form is Augustiner Chorherr des Stiftes Klosterneuburg) of the monastery at Klosterneuburg – more about that later. And he was selected on the basis of his golden tenor. Only those who could sing could make the grade. And how he loved to sing!

We (my husband, one of my sisters-in-law and I) had barely stepped off the plane and into the parish house, when we were greeted, in a strong German accent, by this burly, red-cheeked, white haired priest: ‘Welcome, welcome!” His next words were, “Do you sing?” My husband and sis-in-law politely declined, while I responded with, “A little.” “Can you sing the Missa de Angelis?” “Yes, Father!” He had touched a chord – the sung Latin Masses are a much treasured relic from my childhood and the Mass he referred to was one that I can sing in my sleep. I was promptly trotted off, in my travelling clothes, to meet the group that was practicing for the Feast Day of a sister church. All Austrians who spoke only German and sang Latin, they welcomed me with beaming smiles and once the singing got under way, the smiles grew wider. I might have been wearing a sari and sporting a complexion of a darker hue, but I sang the same music!! There were several more practices, all of which concluded with white wine, crackers and cheese. The ‘treat’ was well earned – Fr. Puchwein was a perfectionist. And, yes, I sang with the choir at the Feast Mass at St. Vitus. The gift of music and the gift of inclusion are my lasting souvenirs of that visit.

During our stay, I got to know him and his larger than life personality, very well. After all, we were guests in his home and his hospitality was lavish. And he filled his home with music thanks to a powerful sound system - an offering from his parishioners who had known him for forty years. His knowledge of church music was wide as it was deep and he was eager to share this knowledge at every opportunity. I was an amateur and a novice, with just a smattering of German, but this did not deter him in the least! And when shadows fell, he would bring out his guitar and we would sing around the supper table the old favourites and folk songs from the region.

One of the high points of our visit (and there were many) was the visit to his monastery, the imposing Klosterneuburg with its even more magnificent wine cellars which descended three (or more?) levels underground. The vineyards and the wine were the monastery’s source of income. We were treated to a wine-tasting and attended Vespers. Both unforgettable. There is nothing so solemn or as wonderful as plainchant – invocation and response – sung by male voices (all powered by their own lungs – no microphones) under the vaulted roof of what was literally a vast castle. I was spellbound, experiencing in reality what I had only imagined of monastic life in the cloisters.

It seems more than coincidence that my present reading is The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco. Set in a fictitious monastery, the descriptive passages returned memories to life. Once again I walked within cloistered walls and felt the shadowy presence of robed monks, hooded, hands tucked in sleeves, silent except in their songs of worship.

And now, when the relevance of monastic life is being questioned and vocations are few, old stones have seen once more the passing of one who graced their existence with God’s praises. Old stones whose rafters will continue to be raised in song, but for how long?

Growl and Squeak

As I revive my very rusty keyboard skills, I am taken back in time to all those occasions when they were intermittently resurrected to accompany congregations and rag-tag choirs in two different parishes.

We had the loveliest little reed organ, in our parish church, with the sweetest sound. One needed to coordinate hands moving horizontally on the keyboard with feet pumping the pedals in vertical motion, but the resultant melody rewarded the most basic of skills with an almost professional output. Coaxed by the musician priest in our parish, I reluctantly graduated from bashing the school piano with the mandatory daily rendering of Chopsticks and the Devil’s March as we processed to class from assembly. He wrote the music, taught me the chords and the fingering and encouraged me to practice and, hopefully, improve. It also helped that he sang like an angel and while he led from the pulpit, I played confidently, comfortably hidden away behind a handy pillar and out of view of the congregation. The church used to be packed to the doorways in those days. These are some of my happiest memories. The priest is no more, but the music is still with me.

Then, I grew up, married and moved. A new home, a new parish, a new priest and the time of electronic keyboards – just plug in and play! The parish had been established for some time but the church structure was still in the making, so what we had was four walls topped with corrugated roofing. The congregations was somewhat rustic in comparison to my earlier parish, and I soon found myself playing to a tempo that galloped in contrast to the more sedate accompaniment that I had been schooled in. Buoyant and hearty would be an apt description! No matter how loud or slow the accompaniment, the congregation forged ahead in happy unison and full voice to the pace that they enjoyed. I was younger, my fingers more flexible and I soon learnt to keep up!! I was joined by a violinist and a guitarist and together with the lead vocalist, who thankfully also had a lovely voice, the music of the liturgy became an event we all looked forward to. Tucked away in memory are the Nativity and Easter vigil services, when voices soared to heaven under the stars, at the open air services. I also remember the monsoons when an umbrella had to be unfurled over the keyboard to save it from the rain coming through the holey roof. (Sorry, bad pun!) We enjoyed the sublime and the sometimes ridiculous and took it all in our stride.

Then, once again, a change of residence. This time, the parish had no need of my keyboard skills and they lay dormant for over twenty years. Other occupations and distractions kept me busy. Today, as I rediscover the keyboard in its newest avatar, with a variety of ‘bells and whistles’ at my disposal, and grope my way through key signatures, timing and tempo, I am reminded of how often I have had to adjust and readjust to the range enjoyed by the lead singer and congregation – too low and they growl, too high and they squeak. Singing is supposed to be all about the music and the melody, but one gets to encounter many unexpected sounds in the repertoire! Ultimately, it all comes right on the day. Nine times out of ten. Fingers crossed.

From all my experience, two things have remained with me: it is the splendid music of the liturgy that holds me in thrall to my faith – a tradition that has been handed down from generations and rises like incense to God. What a legacy! And the other is that, with encouragement, even a meagre talent can bloom!

Tom and Jerry

Make that Thomasina. The church cat is no stranger to the maternity ward and at least two litters of kittens have scampered around the environs of the parish house. She must be particularly well fed, because her ample, rounded belly caused me to tell our priest that she looked rather pregnant. His reaction was an alarmed, ‘No, no it isn’t possible. She’s been operated.’ But he did hazard a furtive second glance in passing. Time will tell!

She was sitting in the church compound next to a tiny black mouse. They were eyeing each other, sizing up the situation; no aggression was indicated but there was a certain feeling of suspense in the air. The mouse moved, and the cat bounded after it, but playfully. They both sat down and faced each other. The cat patted the mouse on its nose and then looked at it. The mouse for its part began to look a little puzzled – was it intended to be breakfast or not? It could have made a break for it - there are ample bushes and ground holes in the church garden - but it seemed drawn to this unusual feline. And so they sat in silent communion (or mutual admiration?). I had no clue to the mouse’s gender; perhaps they were sisters under the skin? Or, perhaps, this was the local version of the lion and the lamb!

And to add to the general feeling of bonhomie, it is rather appropriate that my present listening is a duet by Placido Domingo and John Denver – Perhaps Love. The voices are beautiful, heartfelt, soulful (I could go on, but I won’t) and the lyrics complement my thoughts:

Perhaps love is like a resting place
A shelter from the storm
It exists to give you comfort
It is there to keep you warm
And in those times of trouble
When you are most alone
The memory of love will bring you home

Perhaps love is like a window
Perhaps an open door
It invites you to come closer
It wants to show you more
And even if you lose yourself
And don't know what to do
The memory of love will see you through

Oh, love to some is like a cloud
To some as strong as steel
For some a way of living
For some a way to feel
And some say love is holding on
And some say letting go
And some say love is everything
And some say they don't know….

Dancing while I dust!

They say that only a true blue Viennese can sit perfectly still through a waltz. Well, I am neither Austrian nor a twinkle toes, but I find movement to music totally irresistible. Almost of their own volition, fingers and toes will tap in rhythm and the head will nod and sway.

From earliest memory, we seem to have had music at home with either radio or wind-up gramophone playing the songs of the times. We picked up the melodies and the lyrics on the way and contributed our voice at parties and picnics. And, of course, we learned the dances that matched the tunes: we waltzed to Bing and Frank, jived to Tommy Steele, gyrated to Elvis, cha-cha-ed to Trini and swayed to the Beatles. Radio Ceylon and All India Radio made sure that popular requests were aired very regularly enabling us to ‘develop’ a taste for certain vocalists and their refrains. So, we sang and danced our way through school and college; there was always a piano to thump on and no dearth of voices or partners!

The working world was a different place – ‘whistle while you work’ was not a practice that was encouraged and the seven dwarfs have, somehow, never found their way into management manuals! Listening to music, therefore, had to be saved for the weekends. Come Saturday morning, I would load the trusty two-in-one with the first of many tapes, let the music rip and karaoke my way through the day. Yes, I danced while I dusted (I still do!), ‘twirling’ from chair to chair and using a convenient cupboard handle for a partner. Sometimes, the dogs came in handy, which is probably why they searched for safe hiding places as soon as they heard me humming! Hubby’s two left feet were firmly set in concrete and since he refused to repair his reputation, dancing with him was reserved for the romantic rather than the energetic numbers.

For me, all of life holds a rhythm and I simply cannot imagine a world without music.

Even now, while I blog, the multimedia player on my trusty computer is spinning a disc: Placido is singing ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’, the feet are tapping, the head is nodding and the fingers are dancing on the keys.