Dillon Beach

the kata of Dillon Beach

Herbert Howells 17 October 1892 – 23 February 1983
Just a heads up, most 14-voice church choirs do not sing the work of Herbert Howells. They are huge, dense pieces of essential 20th-century choral music,  debuted by  Gloucester, Winchester  and Christ Church, Oxford. Now, let me tell you what we did this weekend.
Last summer it was Placerville. This year it was the dreamy, foggy shore of Drake’s Bay. St. Paul’s Choir went to Dillon Beach, West Marin County for our choir retreat. This retreat is a weekend away where all we can to is eat, drink, talk and sing and sing. It is our version of an all-day sing with supper on the ground. Our first rehearsal call was for 4:30 pm on Saturday the first of September. From Oakland it takes about an hour and a half to get there and it’s worth the drive. And it is a drive through the cattle on a thousand hills of West Marin. At this time of year, these rolling coastal hills are soft gold dotted with cattle and black green live oaks. You get to my old love, Petaluma, and take a left. It is
We were late. We are always late and P was very grumpy. But with a splendid reading of the Missa Solemnis on the car cd and a lovely ride, we got to the base of operations. There were three houses, described by Vicki as Papa (the base) Mama (our digs) and Baby (where V & R and were). The rehearsals were held in the kitchen of the Papa Bear house. I was responsible for supper that evening so was working behind the kitchen island as the rest of them sang. Ok, how do I describe this. It was a kitchen with what could be an eating area on the far side of the island. (If it was a very small table and only two chairs.) Into this space was forced an electric piano and enough seating for ten, most of the sopranos standing, and we rehearsed. So I was behind the the island making quiche. The leeks were prepped, all of the cheeses were shredded and the dough was made. Oh I was so organized. Except I didn’t bring flour to roll out the pie dough. Why did I think that a perishable comestible would be available at a beach rental property? But then, through my panic came John’s voice of reason: “Just crush up some crackers and use that.” What you need to know is that John is a musicologist, sings baritone with us and is blind. His service dog Joelle is the smartest, mellowest, sweetest pup in the whole world. John’s wisdom saved me and made for rather tasty, crunchy couple of quiches.
(It might be useful to know the make up of this choir in this tiny space. We are talking about ten Episcopalians, two Congregationalists, two Reform Jews who helped us and brought the perfect baby, one cradle Catholic and a still in recovering lapsed Baptist. Now, may I address the above mentioned perfect baby. His name is Zephyr, he is 6 months old, he has almost no hair and is the very best party boy in the world. He can sleep through any amount of singing.)
We rehearsed on Saturday and sang Sunday morning service for the sweet folks at St. Stephen’s Episcopal, Sebastopol. As we do so often, the rehearsal was for shit for the morning service. Why is Christopher so forgiving ? But we pulled it together, it being the Byrd Five-Voice mass, the first movement of the Howells Requiem that we are slaving over for All Souls Day and our old favorite, “Jesus Christ the Apple Tree” by Poston (I do love it so). We sang for our new friends, had an interesting theological question (look up the word “filioque” if you want a really good time) and shared coffee with this very welcoming congregation. But we had important business at the Gravenstein Grill, which was the only local that could accommodate a party of rowdy Episcopalians. They put us in their side patio, well enough away from normal, proper Sunday brunchers that our noise would not impinge on the other diners.
We were very comfortable, with a wonderful flamenco guitarist and a great lead waitress. It was she who suggested the house gazpacho Bloody Marys and these were simply the best of that drink I have ever had. Oh my dears, you gotta go to this place, especially in tomato season. We ate, talked, drank and ogled the perfect baby. Have you ever watched 20 adults try to pay on only five checks? Joshua became our banker and with Paypal, cash and other apps we were able to make it work. (Note to restauranteurs: separate checks are simply not that hard. In this particular case, Joshua wanted the milage points, but still, it ain’t that hard.)
We went back to the various digs, changed out of our Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes and wandered back to the smallest choral rehearsal space in the universe. Really my loves, there are walk in closets that have more space than where we crammed 14 singers, an electric piano, a totally mad choir director and don’t forget the baby. I was sitting next to John, he of the perfect service Joelle and elegant baritone, with Joshua (my section leader and co-first tenor) behind us. It must be understood that I do not sing solfeggio. If you tell me the key a piece is in, it simply does not matter to me. What I have is tone matching directly from God, through Robert Parker Jenkins, and trained by six years of playing the violin. Director Christopher now thinks I can read music. No boss, you can read, Philip can read as can many in this miraculous choir. I listen to Joshua and make the same tone. So if he makes it incorrectly, we both go down the rabbit hole. I just copy the tone and the spaces between the notes fill in the rest.
But back to Joelle, who was sitting patiently between John and me. After about 45 minutes of singing Herbert Howells, she set her beautiful head on my knee. I gave her ear scritches and a few pets then her father explained. “She does that when she’s bored. What she is saying is ‘Aunt Elizabeth, please take me outside where I can find some interesting thing. Please Auntie, be nice to your Joelle, I am so bored.’” This went on till we broke for dinner. Sausages were grilled, salads were made and the normal St. Paul’s Choir party ensued.
Monday morning we were all breaking up, breakfasting and I was wild to get on the road home. I do not know why but, when the road points home, I need to be on it. I will say travel well to everyone else and run to the car. Vicki and Richard wanted to see our digs so we met them on our way out and gave our dear friends sketchy instructions into the house so they could look around. I hope they saw what they wanted but I so needed to be on the road. Once all were hugged and loved and bidden farewell, the little Blue Opera House took its road to Oakland. And that’s where the voice on the phone comes in.
Two years ago Philip and I traversed Portland under the direction of a map app. She, unlike Siri or Alexa, does not have a name, so I will call her Hecate, the one who stands where two roads cross. She tells us how to get where we want to go. Now I will agree, there is no direct road from Dillon Beach to the 101. It is possible that Hecate has noticed the way we like to travel. When going Up The Hill, we like either the 20 or the 4, informing our travel advisor that we like backroads. Thus she sent us over the hills and far away from Dillon Beach to the 101. Rather than sending us back up to Sebastopol and to the 101 directly, we went out the Dillon Beach Road and thence to Tomales Road. The roads got narrow, sometimes just two lanes, through the beautiful dairy lands of Western Sonoma. There are all of the cows who make our cream, milk and cheese. Finally Hecate brought us to the southernmost exit for Petaluma and onto the dreaded 101. The goddess of the crossroads does not like the 101 and avoids it until the very last minute. So we drove through the golden hills behind Petaluma before we joined the great highway.
When Christopher first suggested a choir retreat I did not understand why. Retreats have always had a corporate team-building vibe and I don’t like corporate. Now, after the second St. Paul’s Choir retreat, I understand. It was a kitchen, it was really cramped and we sang a whole lot of Herbert Howells into each other’s ears. The retreats separate us from our regular lives and focus our hearts on music. That we have such a good time with each other is pure gravy. Ok Christopher, you were right. We needed a weekend at the beach.  

kata of salad

the kata of salad
(a song for Gene)

Definition of salad for English Language Learners. : a mixture of raw green vegetables (such as different types of lettuce) usually combined with other raw vegetables. : a mixture of small pieces of raw or cooked food (such as pasta, meat, fruit, eggs, or vegetables) combined usually with a dressing and served cold.
Liz and I were dining with our our divine hostess Gene in a Manhattan restaurant. The salad was served and made of romaine. “Why are all the salads in New York made of romaine?” I asked with innocent guile. Gene laughed and said, “Because it comes from California on the Salad Bowl Express.” This was a train that used to bring fresh greens from CA to NY. When Gene would grace us in Alhambra with her sweet presence she would request two things: a ride on a big freeway (well that was easy, because I picked her up at LAX at least once), and to go to the grocery store. Not just any store but a supermarket. Gene (Genevive) wanted to stand in front of the lettuce aisle of a Vons or Albertsons or Hughes and just look. I, being a spoiled rotten Californian, simply did not understand.
Growing up in plenty, being used to seeing its pastures on the 5, the 101 or even the dreaded 99, I have taken it for granted that in California, there is no season for iceberg, greenleaf, butter, or any other lettuces, they are always in the store. With three lettuce-growing seasons a year in the Central and Salinas valleys, I cannot imagine a grocery store without at least five kinds of lettuce, cabbage (napa, savoy, bok choy, red and white) four types of onions (green, white, sweet and red), carrots, celery and all the rest. Being a Californian this is not a birthright it’s just normal.
Which is why the existence of food deserts in this most blessed state is not just wrong. It is evil.
Oil and vinegar, salt, pepper and some other flavors, this is all it takes to make salad dressing. I, being a lazy slug, use Good Seasons Italian as my base. One of my salad stories is from the “Cooking with Claudine” series by Jacques Pepin. Claudine is making salad in the French style, the elements of the dressing going into the bowl first. As she mixes her father opines, “You put in too much vinegar.” To which the daughter of the great man pertly responds, “Not for Mom and me.”
And ah, my dears, there is the rub. How much oil, how much vinegar is the eternal question. The ancient adage, “Be a spendthrift for the oil and a miser for the vinegar,” just doesn’t work . I know what I like, close to half and half. I put the contents of the G S envelope into my jar and add tomato paste or mustard or anchovy paste, depending on my mood and what I’ve got in the house, and granulated garlic and Old Bay. And finally it all comes down to what’s in the bowl.
I love this time of year because it is peach and tomato time. I am a terrible tomato snob, only buying them fresh in August and September. Philip goes to the Saturday Grand Ave. farmer’s market late, about 1pm. The vendors are packing up and don’t want to haul the leftovers back home and are ready to deal. There is a guy who comes all the way from Sanger (the anvil of the Sun) and he has the best tomatoes. The perfect husband comes home with flats of these tomatoes and I go precisely hog wild. Raw tomatoes are in every salad but there are also sandwiches, you know the ones with just good bread, mayo and sharp cheddar cheese, and there is marinara. The big baking sheet comes out, the oven set at 350° and the tomatoes are cored, set on the sheet with onions, everything gets roasted, then into the food processor then into the freezer. It never lasts long. A couple of suppers or a Compline Dinner and the marinara is gone. We just eat tomatoes till our mouths are raw, tomatoes are gold.

Peaches, some of you might not think of them and salad, but I do. Only in these months of cheap,
freestone peaches do I indulge. These slightly green fruit are perfect with ham or any other leftover pork. When not in peach season, apples will be very nice and even raisins. But let us discuss a simple salad. Only recently have I turned my bowl to single leaf salads and that was, as usual, by necessity. How does romaine or greenleaf or even iceberg taste? Romaine is slightly bitter and deeply green. Iceberg does have flavor and it is delicate, but its primary attraction is the texture. There are many who badmouth iceberg but I do love it, probably because of the way I was raised. You cannot have wedge salad (ala Scandia, of blessed memory) without iceberg lettuce. Just eat it because you love it.
So finally, we are simply blessed. We are blessed to be children of California, to live in this state of 3 to 4 growing seasons a year. There is no salad green or cabbage we cannot have. And greens are the cheapest vegetables available. Put the leftovers in it, cut the fruit up in it, fry the bread cubes in duck fat and throw them in. Feta, cheddar and Monterey Jack, just shred or cube them up into the mix. Salad is the easiest and best thing to make for supper and Gene loves salad.

Compline

the kata of Compline

  Compline: prayer for the end of the day. From the Latin meaning ‘completion.’

We had a lovely mother-and-daughter team staying with us for a couple of nights. Airbnb has space on the review page to leave a private note to the host (that would be us.) The daughter of the duo was very kind and gently suggested that if we were going to throw a big party, we might want to warn our guests. Well, yes, that is very true. But we didn’t throw a big party. We just had some people over after Compline. We do it every month.

Slowly, at the age of 63, I am beginning to understand that the rest of the world doesn’t live the way I do. Compline dinner is automatic. I send out a group email to find out how many will be here. Celeste says she’s out of town, the Larsons are going up to Yosemite so they can’t come. And I forgot to ask Christina and Aaron but they know when Compline is and that the door is always open. And anyway, I counted wrong and ran out of pasta. I’m feeding children and have to remember how they can eat. Lauren doesn’t sing Sunday with St.Pauls any more but she still sings Compline. She left us for a paying gig at St. Mary Maytag (called that because of the way it looks.) But she and the precious Derek come just because. Friends ask very politely if they can bring their sweeties. When the Larsons aren’t with us, this crowd is 20 to 35 years younger than the hostlers of the Prancing Pony. And it’s all because of the service of Compline.

Within the Protestant confession of the Church Temporal many have Sunday evening services. The Baptists, some Methodists, Pentecostal and so many others come back to church on Sunday evenings for prayer and song to end the day. (Philip’s old home church, Bellepoint Baptist in Hinton WV, served the Lord’s Supper at the Sunday evening service.) Such is the service of Compline, one of the oldest offices in Christian liturgy, prayer at the end of day. With three chanted Psalms, collects (designated prayers spoken by the priest) and communal prayers, this ancient service is a balm to the soul and a cleansing for the mind. No one is going to ask you to confess, there is no altar call and you don’t show any bona fides at the door. Just come, sit and be. So why ain’t I there? Well..... it’s complicated.

I loved Judaism before I confessed Christ. And, as I always do, I went over the deep end in my understanding of whose text belongs to whom. Deep in my heart, dear, I would have Christian services completely devoid of any Hebrew scriptures. The Church Temporal have misused our Mother’s Scriptures for so long, I just don’t want us to use them. (I must state here that both Stephen Saxon and David SchIosser insist that there is plenty of Hebrew Scripture to share. But I do hold a grudge, and this one is against my own church.) It was in this frame of mind that I sat in the narthex (front hall) of St. Paul’s, listened to three sung psalms and decided that I didn’t like the Compline Service. But I like to cook and to serve through cooking. From this impulse came the monthly Compline dinner. 

So they walk in, come straight back to the kitchen, grab a glass from the collection under the Altar, pour themselves some wine and start talking. “What have you been doing?” becomes “What have you been singing?” Tonia tries to explain the story of the opera she is currently singing. (I humbly asked if it made more sense than “Forza del Destino,” and my very favorite soprano said, “Destino doesn’t make any sense at all.”) That’s how it goes at Compline Dinner, a whole lot of music talk, some politics and even horse racing, just a whole lot of talk and eating. Perhaps this was what concerned our overnight guests was a bunch of folks drinking and talking and making a certain amount of noise. Perhaps our guests dinners are more decorous. I never mean to offend.

So I promise that, from now on, when I have guests staying, I will warn them about Compline Dinner. I will say, “There are some folks coming over for dinner after an evening service.” That is all the warning they will get. This isn’t a big party, it’s just dinner and a lot of talk.

learning to read

learning to read

a kata for Janet B.

How does anyone learn to read English? this impossible mess of five different tongues: Anglo-Saxon, French, Danish, Gaelic, with some German thrown in for good measure. You layer these one on the other through consolidation and invasion like some linguistic pastry. Oh yes, then throw in a huge vowel shift in the middle of the 14th century CE and you get the beginning of English. Once folks start to write this madness, then we get to duke out the spelling. Kit Marlowe, Will Shakespeare and their fellow Elizabethan poets and playwrights just made words up. They spelt stuff the way words sounded when spoken. By the tine God’s Secretaries put their glorious minds to translating the Bible for James the First, agreed-upon spelling for English had calmed down a little. But grammar had not. Hell, we didn’t get a dictionary until Sam Johnson in the mid 18th century and the Oxford English Dictionary is still a work in progress,

So, considering all of this, how does anyone manage to learn to read this mad amalgam? To be very simple and rather cruel, by putting our heads down and learning by rote. There is no rule of spelling or grammar or syntax that is not changed or outright broken. There are so many diphthongs that phonics is a bad joke. (Just look at that word, diphthong. It comes from the Greek and means “two sounds or tones.” Yes, a Greek word in English. And how are we supposed to know how to spell the damn thing?) I came up in the transition between whole language to phonics. I didn’t read with any facility until I was in third grade and still read rather slowly.

But there is a key to these many locks and it is human speech. Talk to the baby, the toddler and all the other small people. When you are putting up your coat when you come home, tell them what you are doing and how your day was. When you are making supper, put an apron on them, stand them on the kitchen stool and tell them what you are doing and why. (If they are really little, put their bouncy seat on the counter.) When they are sitting in your lap, read to them, read to them, read to them. And here is the the dark secret, it really does matter what you read to them. The more different words they hear the better they will read.

Years ago I have said in this space, “Don’t ask two-year-olds which book they want.” You don’t ask them if they want a sweater because you are the parent and you know how cool it is outside, and that children would run around buck nekkid if they were left to their druthers. I repeat myself but it seems necessary. The first thing they want is the sound of your voice; and the second is content. They are bringing you the Barbie or a Thomas Golden book because that is what they know. But you know so much more than you think, read them what you want. Read up! and up must include poetry. Rhyme is the servant of memory, speak the rhyme and they will remember. It starts with the divine Sandra Boynton, “One hippo all alone, calls two hippos on the phone;” and then moves on to A. A. Milne, “George found a pen but I think it was the wrong one. And James sat down on a brick.” With Robert Louis Stevenson’s A Child’s Garden of Verses we get into wonderful story telling and vivid word painting: “Dark brown is the river, golden is the sand. It flows along forever, with trees on either hand.” These worthies and their co-conspirators will teach English to your child and keep your brain from rotting. (Don’t forget Jack Prelutsky’s The Dragons are Ssinging Tonight.)

But one does not learn to read on poetry alone. So what prose does the proper parent read to the perfect child? Again, don’t read down. Save your sanity. Read old stuff. Read Edward Eager, E. Nesbitt and, I’m really not kidding, read Rudyard Kipling. Yes, he has a bad name because folks my age think of Kipling only as an imperialist. I fought with my father over Kipling when I was in high school. (By the mercy of Christ I was able to tell him that I finally knew better before he died.) The Kipling to read to young children is Just So Stories. These are animal creation myths and the language is a rolling river. How did the leopard get his spots? How did the rhinoceros get his wrinkled skin? And how did the kangaroo get his back legs? “Not always, oh best beloved, was the kangaroo as we now behold him. But a different animal entirely.” This language is as rich and complex as dark chocolate and it will prepare those young minds for what is to come.

I can hear you right now: “But they don’t like that old fashioned stuff.” They don’t know what they like and cannot like what they don’t know. It breaks my heart to see a lovely 11 year old boy, smart in so many ways, who doesn’t want to read anything more demanding than Wimpy Kid and Big Nate. That boy should be reading Asimov, Heinlein, Conan Doyle and so many others. But no one read him anything real and he was never asked to read anything real. He should have read Treasure Island and Haroun and the Sea of Stories in fourth grade so he will be ready to read Shakespeare in high school. “As long as he’s reading” simply doesn't work. It doesn’t turn him into a reader; it turns him into someone who can take the damn test without knowing the glories of his mother tongue. It is bad enough that all the girls in his class read faster and more deeply than he does. 

So read to him, read to her and read good stuff, real stuff. We have saddled these beautiful young minds with the most difficult language to learn. It doesn’t make sense, it breaks every rule it makes. But oh my dears, English is a thing of surpassing beauty and, with it’s vast vocabulary, it can describe the width and depth of the human imagination.

“Oh, for a muse of fire that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention”

Henry V: Act 1, Prolougue.

Die Fledermaus

Dear Lord I cannot write,

What shall I write?

Cats are impossible to draw. Dürer couldn’t do it, Da Vinci couldn’t do it. These worthies were so hung up on the complexity of feline musculature that they could just couldn’t get the skin or fur right.

Long ago, at his place in the Creamery, Bodega, Wally Hedrick gave my father a spectacular compliment. “Rudolph was the best draftsman I ever knew.”  Yes, my bad Daddy could draw like God and here is an example. This is a watercolor of a neighbor cat named Chacoo and it was painted in the late 1970’s. I will stand flat footed and say, “This is the best thing of his I own.” The story of why the early intimates of Robert Parker Jenkins called him Rudolph is too long to go into now. 

There she is. It’s 2:30 am and there she is with her wet little nose and a purr that could wake the dead. Rosalinda wants attention. She wants skritches and belly rubs and she is going to get them. No aloof haughty feline is our girl. She wears a diamond necklace and sings the Czardas at the bedroom door when it is closed against her. For the first three months she lived here, we could not touch her. Hell, we couldn’t touch any of them. Usually cats in this house don’t get their war names until they have lived with us for a while. (Our precious Rocket J Baby was not with us long enough to get a war name. I was pushing for Red Sonja.) But these three got their real names right away.

It was time for kittens so last early June we went to the house built by PeopleSoft for the Humane Society, just off of Hegenberger. It’s where we got Geoffrey and Jōshū. It is where we got Ramses the Charioteer, son of Seti the Great. But now Ramses was gone and I needed a new black cat. And he came with a package of two sisters. The three of them were part of a litter of 13 and they were pretty feral. Gabriel is not all black. He is a tuxie and his black is denser than any cat I’ve seen. (Even Pirate Jenny looked brown in full sunlight.) So we bring these three crazy kittens home and I put the carrier on the counter. I open it up to check on them and Gabriel von Eisenstein comes flying out, like a bat. Well, if he is Die Fledermaus (the bat) then his sisters must be Adele and Rosalinda.

(Please find three impossible kittens. Adele is on the left in tweed and Rosalinda is in the white opera gloves. Gabriel is in the middle and butter would not melt in his mouth.) These guys were nuts. At first they hid, then they learned to romp and slowly, very slowly they decided we were kinda ok. Rosalinda has to be kept out of certain rooms because she still can make messes. She really didn’t want me to tell you that.

Dogs are loyal, brave and helpful. They will take the medicine from Anchorage to Nome. They will wait for their masters at the train station, they will spend their nights on the graves of their lost ones. They have hunted with humans since we were humans. The bond between us and them is undeniable. So what is it about cats? Yes, they control vermin, think of Dick Whittington. But cats have always been suspect. They are accused of being witches’ familiars and through them, in league with the Devil. Yes, in Egypt, Bastet, the lioness/cat goddess, has been worshiped since 2800 BCE. But they are sly and slinky and insinuating. They require very different care than dogs and will they say thank you? No they will not. In fact when they can be gotten into the carrier to take them to the vet, they will sing your funeral all the way there. But they are furry and cuddly and very purry. They tear ass around the house in the middle of the night, either alone or in pairs, for no apparent reason. They will sing the songs of their people loud enough to wake your guests. Yet no house of mine can be without a cat.

So we love them, we can’t help it. I can’t help it.They are so very hard to draw or paint. Tomorrow morning, there she will be, with her wet nose and purr that would wake the dead.

Placerville

Placerville

Labor Day Weekend 2017

A choir retreat. Christopher wanted us to do a choir retreat. Well, we had waited long enough to have him as our director, so I was ok with humoring him. But I couldn’t for the life of me understand why. Retreats are for “team building” and we were already a team. Yet the new boss said retreat and we agreed to retreat, in Placerville El Dorado County, at the end of August. This rash decision was made at the end of May.

Some of you might not know El Dorado County California. It is a beautiful place that reaches from Folsom (yes, that Folsom) up to South Lake Tahoe. It is rugged, it is steep and in August it gets really hot. But we decided to go there in May and had no idea that the Bay Area would suffer its hottest summer in decades. When it’s 102 in Oakland, 106 in Placerville seems a little extreme. Just days before we were to head up the Hill, some amongst us opined that staying in our slightly cooler home might be a good idea. Then came the voice of reason, remarkably, out of the tenor section. Joshua said, “They know how to deal with heat better than we do.” And so it was.

The house itself was large and had been added onto several times. You walk into what was a front parlor and is now a dining room. To the left was the kitchen and, down a narrow hall, one of the three ensuite bedrooms. This Vickie and Richard had held for us, the late arrivals. They had their own as did Christopher and Tonia. The single people, three of each, had dorm rooms. (This is not to suggest that Joshua is single, just that Stacie did not join us.) There were also old powerful air conditioners everywhere, noisily pumping out blessedly refrigerated air. See, Joshua knew of what he spoke.

The traffic on Friday was just wretched thus we got to the digs late. And we had dinner. The house that Christopher found was very nice with a big kitchen wherein we would make our meals. Sharon, divine alto and organizer extraordinaire had all the food responsibilities worked out. I made chicken and a big salad. (I think not enough.) So when we finally chugged into the parking in front of the house, people were really relieved. Supper had arrived. We chatted and had cocktails, we dined and chatted and then the games came out. I am very bad at games and retired early. The Iron Dragon went on till 1 am and still wasn’t done. Being a slug, I slept late and only emerged from my luxurious nest because I heard the smoke alarm in the kitchen. After donning my house dress, I went into the same kitchen and gently asked if Richard and Sharon were burning the house down. They insisted that they were only making breakfast on an unfamiliar and rather recalcitrant stove. I always believe what my friends tell me.

The primary reason for the retreat was lots of rehearsal. We had a lot of music to work on but where were we going to do it? Showing off his organizational chops, our fearless leader cut a deal with Church of Our Savior, a lovely and old (established in 1861) Episcopal church who very sweetly allowed us to rehearse there in exchange for us singing at the Sunday 10:30 service. Church of Our Savior doesn’t really have a choir so we got to sing for a very appreciative congregation. One woman went so far as to worship at 8am and then return at 10:30 to hear us. The church was a whole short block from our digs. Oh life is so hard.

We are very spoiled by the acoustics of St.Paul’s, with its brick walls and wood interior buttressing. But at Church of our Savior we had a real treat, we were able to sing together. At home, the sops & altos are behind the pulpit, basses and tenors behind the lectern and the altar is in between. Thus it is very hard to hear each other and, for those of you who don’t sing chorally, hearing each other is pretty important. In the plaster and wood of the Placerville church all of the choir are on the lectern side and Christopher stood behind it. The higher voices turned toward the lower and we could really blend. That place has such nice sound. We worked on the music for the next day, we looked at music for the upcoming season and had the Monteverdi “Vespers” dangled in front of us. Sweet Jesus I do want to sing that thing. 

We broke for lunch, came back for another session and then broke for supper. Sharon made an elegant “salade nicoise” and then the games came out again. I tried to participate, I really did, but I’m just no good at games. We rose on Sunday morning, prepared, walked over to the sweet little church and did our St. Paul’s best for our gracious hosts. For those of you who are not familiar with the Episcopal Liturgy, here is how it breaks down. The choir comes behind the Cross, followed by clergy, all singing the opening hymn. Once in the stalls, there is a Collect, readings (one from the Hebrew Scriptures, one from St. Paul and, after singing the Sequence Hymn, one from a Gospel.) Then the sermon, Prayers of the People, the Confession, the passing of the Peace and announcements (this can take a while). Once the cats are herded back in their pews, the Offertory is sung by the choir. And then we celebrate the Eucharist. The Communion anthem is sung after the choir takes the same. All of this sounds rather complicated but it unites the Episcopal Communion. Different churches have their own traditions, some more high Church and some less. But the order of worship binds us to the Body of Christ and each other and that really matters.

After service we retired to the church hall, in the basement of Church of Our Savior, for coffee and chatting. We were supposed to be visiting with our hosts and some of us tried. But, we are a limited company and all ended up at the same table, planning where to go for lunch. Sharon did a whole lot of work on this trip and found a lovely little bistro on Placerville’s historic main drag. Part of this place’s real attraction is that they saved their little old downtown. The storefronts are preserved. What one does with the interiors is up to the shop owners. Thus gift, antique, book and hardware shops are right next door to restaurants. “Heyday Cafe” at 325 Main St. took very good care of us, putting multiple tables together to accommodate our large party. We had splendid service and very nice food. As usual, at least for this trip, Himself and I were late. We drove rather than walking over the freeway bridge and getting to parking took too long. My excuse is that old man Art Ritus was really kicking in but I should have walked. 

Here is an important thing about the Heyday, they will do separate checks. We are talking five or six checks at our table alone. (If anyone tells you that separate checks can’t be done at “fine dining” establishments, give them a big Bronx cheer. If the Heyday in Placerville, El Dorado Co. CA can do it, so can they.) The food was fresh and very good. They have a good beer and wine list. We had a lovely meal and then asked to settle up. That’s when it happened. We were informed by our head waiter that our lunches had been paid for. WHAT? Yes, all of our lunches, all of our drinks, all of our everything, had been paid for by an anonymous member of the Church of Our Savior. We couldn’t even say thank you.

When Philip and I first drove into town, I noticed a brew pub on the town side of the freeway. I have learned never to let a beer establishment go un-investigated. So, after our miraculous lunch, Joshua joined Philip in some beer tasting. The place is called “Jack Russell Brewery” and although it doesn’t have the charm of the old buildings the beer is good and the service is lovely. Philip and Joshua tasted and talked music, which I always love to hear. But then the subject turned to baseball and I wished I’d brought something to read.

Back at the ranch everyone was packing up. Hugs, kisses and wishes for safe travels were exchanged and we went our separate ways. Most everyone were taking the direct route, being the 50 to Sacramento and then either the 5 to Stockton or the 80 thru Vacaville. But we needed to pick up wine at Van Ruiten in Lodi and we needed to drive the Delta. I always need to drive the Delta. From Lodi we were supposed to pick up the 12 east and then a left onto the 160 and thence to the 4. That is what we asked Applemaps. I’m not really sure how we got where we did but it was a wonderful drive on a very narrow road  with water on either side. In fact the entire Delta trip was surrounded by water. There were white herons, red winged blackbirds and other marsh birds that only Alison and Liz know. All I know is that I love driving the California Delta, be it the 4, the 12 the 160 or nameless back roads . The sky is big, the land (what there is) very flat and a river runs though. 

We left out water reverie at Antioch, joined the hoards on the southern/eastern 4 heading toward the 80 and home. Some of you may have noticed that I always title a highway or freeway. This is an L A thing. To the north it stops somewhere around the Ventura Co. line, and to the south just beyond the Orange curtain. I don’t know why we speak this way, other areas have great big awful freeways, other places are ruled by their commutes. We title our great roads, the Santa Monica, the 405, the 210 (Foothill). It’s just the way we talk and others can always tell where we’re from and they laugh.

Sharon called our retreat “summer camp for grownups.” And so it was, a wonderful weekend of singing, great company and almost enough food, in a beautiful place. Christopher was right. We did need to go to Placerville in August.