Gratitude Monday: All Souls

It’s been rather a tough year for me in terms of losing friends to death, so let me take advantage of Gratitude Monday coinciding with All Souls' Day to pull back—pull in—and both mourn and rejoice for two of them in particular.

I’ve written about John and Leilah before, even though of course there aren’t enough words. You have loved ones like them, too, if you’re lucky.

Over the weekend I’ve been dosing myself with requiems—mostly Verdi’s and Mozart’s. But I don’t think you need to come here for 60 to 90 minutes’ worth of solemnity. El Día de los Muertos is about celebrating the dead and knowing that some day we’ll be among them, either corporeally or spiritually, however you view such things.

So here are a couple of shorter pieces that are indelibly entwined in my memory with my two friends. First, “Poor Wand’ring One”, from Pirates of Penzance, which John introduced me to in my junior year of college. (I well recall Julie, a fellow student in my military history class, giving me a précis of this particular song, including the cadenza.)

This version is from the D’Oyly Carte, the company John loved the best for Gilbert & Sullivan.

Leilah’s song is Mary Black’s cover of “Bless the Road”, here paired with her “Speaking with the Angel”. She loved this piece; her sweet companion was her son, Anthony. It was on a DC I made for her to give him when he was in hospital.

We’re heading into the dark time of the year, when we step up our efforts to fill the night with light both literally and metaphorically. All Souls' Day gives us the opportunity to step between life and death, to consider those who’ve gone ahead of us and perhaps reflect on how we’ll make that journey ourselves. There was a time when this was meaningless to me, but I get it now. And I’m grateful for it.

Appomattox April

When we last left the Army of Northern Virginia and the Army of the Potomac, they were arrayed around Petersburg, with the former, under Robert E. Lee, defending and the latter, commanded by Ulysses S. Grant, positioning to take Richmond, 20 miles or so to the north.

That siege started in June of 1864, and it didn’t break until 1 April 1865, when Phil Sheridan’s cavalry turned Lee’s flank at the Battle of Five Forks. Grant followed through the next day, ending the siege. The Confederates evacuated the next night. Lee had intended to regroup, connect with Joe Johnston’s Army of Tennessee and find a way to turn against Grant, but he lost time when his men had to forage for provisions.

(It was always a wonder to me that the eleven states that seceded from the Union actually chose a confederate form of government—a loose affiliation with little power and even less will to enforce laws across state boundaries. Since this form of government had totally screwed the pooch when the original 13 states had attempted it following independence from Britain. A “confederated” government meant that fielding armies in fighting strength with all the equipment, supplies and services such forces require, was always pretty much a crap shoot. And that was even before the various Federal armies cut their supply lines.)

By the time Lee got to Appomattox Station, where a supply train was waiting, his army was down to one cavalry and two small infantry corps. Grant’s men harried them along the way, with Sheridan’s cavalry cutting right through the Army of Northern Virginia.

On 7 April, when Grant sent Lee a note inviting his surrender, Lee refused, but inquired about terms. By that time he’d been cut off from the hoped-for supplied, had lost considerable portions of his force and was running out of plans to realistically pull his men out of the Union vise.

There was a battle early on 9 April, but what that basically did was make it blindingly obvious that Lee’s army was vastly outnumbered. He sent a note to Grant requesting terms of surrender. Grant, en route to meet with Sheridan, replied inviting Lee to name a meeting place: The Confederates scouted the little village of Appomattox Court House and chose the house of Wilmer McLean as the best option.

(It is a true irony that McLean had lived near Manassas Junction in 1861. He’d fled Northern Virginia to escape the violence of the war, and had resettled in Appomattox. He witnessed the beginnings of the war in Virginia, and he hosted its end.)

It’s passed into lore how Lee received Grant wearing an immaculate uniform. You wonder how he was able to do that, given the condition of his army, but then you never hear of Lee being out of uniform, or mussed or dusty or rain-soaked, no matter what. Grant, on the other hand, showed up unshaven and muddy, from his boots to his rumpled shirt. Anyone viewing it from a distance would have thought he was the hired hand meeting with the boss. Or that he was the one surrendering his army.

And yet, it was Grant who—with the power hand in the relationship—was generous and scrupulous in his surrender terms. You have to understand that there were Radical Republicans in Congress and the Administration who wanted every Confederate commander and politician hanging as traitors from trees lining the roads from Richmond to Washington. Grant had considerable power to set terms that would shape subsequent surrenders and set the tone—one way or the other—for policies toward the Confederacy.

Officers gave parole not to take up arms against the Union; company and regimental commanders took responsibility for similar commitments by their men. Arms, artillery pieces and public property to be collected and turned over to Grant’s designated agent. Officers could keep their sidearms, personal horses and effects.

And then, “each officer and man will be allowed to return to their homes, not to be disturbed by United States authority so long as they observe their paroles and the laws in force where they may reside.”

Grant also permitted soldiers to take their personal horses and mules home for the spring planting, and he directed that a supply of rations be handed over to the gaunt army.

When all was agreed, the two generals shook hands and Lee rode away. At first the Federals cheered in celebration, but Grant put a stop to it. It took a few days to get everything sorted; for one thing, no Confederate commander wanted to subject his troops to a formal surrender ceremony. But on 12 April Lee’s armies massed to stack arms and colors in accordance with the terms of surrender.

Grant had assigned General Joshua L. Chamberlain (one of my personal heroes and the embodiment of the idea of a citizen-soldier) to oversee the parade. Chamberlain was still in pain from the wound he suffered in the battle of the Crater (and fortunate to be alive; it was deemed mortal at the time).

First up was General John B. Gordon’s division, marching in column between Chamberlain’s troops lined up on either side of the road. Chamberlain ordered his men to come to attention and “carry arms”, a profound gesture of respect. In his account:

“Gordon, at the head of the marching column, outdoes us in courtesy. He was riding with downcast eyes and more than pensive look, but at this clatter of arms he raises his eyes and instantly catching the significance, wheels his horse with that superb grace of which he is master, drops the point of his sword to his stirrup, gives a command, at which the great Confederate ensign following him is dipped and his decimated brigades, as they reach our right, respond to the ‘carry.’ All the while on our part not a sound of trumpet or drum, not a cheer, nor a word nor motion of man, but awful stillness as if it were the passing of the dead.”

Chamberlain knew that his order might generate blowback from Unionists, and it did. But it was the on-the-spot manifestation of the spirit of Grant’s terms—no gloating or retaliation, just respectful acknowledgement. His troops were just about as tired as Gordon’s and all the successive divisions; better fed and equipped, maybe, but every bit as ready to shed their uniforms and go home, where they could take a bath, kiss a loved one and do anything that didn’t involve discharging weapons at other men.

It’s odd—the mythos that has come down to us about the surrender at Appomattox is built heavily around the dignity and gallantry of Lee, his immaculate uniform, his grave demeanor, his impeccable manners all contrasting with Grant’s slovenliness. And yet if you look only at the actions and the results, Grant was the one who set the tone for respect, reconciliation and rebuilding a stronger, fraternal Union. No reparations; no hostages; no prisoners. Feed the hungry, discharge them with the means of livelihood to go home.

“Go home”—possibly the only two words any soldier ever wants to hear after so much as one campaign. After four years…they must have brought entire divisions to tears.

Because it brings me to tears even now, 150 years later.

Four cups and five Haggadot

In addition to Good Friday, today also brings us (at sundown) the beginning of Passover. If you’re in need of an extra Haggadah, it turns out that I have five of them:

They all have the Seder story in Hebrew, of course, but two of them are also in English, two in French (including one with commentary by Elie Wiesel) and one—Haggadah from the Four Corners of the Earth—has English, French, Spanish and Russian wrapped around the Hebrew on each page.

I find it interesting that German isn’t one of the languages of the four corners of the earth.

Also, one of the English ones has really beautiful illustrations, almost illuminations:

What these books remind me of (in addition to Seders I have been part of) is a long weekend in Paris and buying so many books that I had to take a taxi back to the Gare du Nord to get home. (Yes, I bought all of the Haggadot—including the English ones—in France. Along with a shedload of other books.) Because if I’d gone via the Métro, I’d have had to change lines and lug the damned things through long corridors and up and down steps.

I always forget about logistics when it comes to buying books, and looking at these beautiful things, I’m glad I didn’t when they crossed my path.

And if you need a Haggadah for the next few days, I've got some to spare.

Farewell, sweet child

Oh, man—the world lost a beautiful melody this week. Songwriter-guitarist and all-around musical magician John Renbourn has died of an apparent heart attack. He was 70.

I knew him as a principal in Pentangle, a group that wove traditional folk songs through modern world rhythms and produced a unique, haunting sound. I’ll admit that his voice was not his strong suit, but lordy, could that man play the guitar.

Renbourn had a puckish sense of humor, which emerged in interviews over the years. He claimed that he came to music as a means of avoiding obligatory boxing and cross-country running at his school. If so, hurrah for us, because we won. I can’t think of anything by him that’s not a delight.

Renbourn never stopped—his body was discovered on Thursday, because he failed to show up for a gig. There’s a man who lived his passion.

And here’s an example for you to remember him by:

Changing guard at WaPo

Well—big news in the, uh, news business: The Washington Post Company announced yesterday that it’s sold its flagship property, The Washington Post, to Amazon founder/CEO Jeff Bezos, for $250M.

Some interesting things about this sale:

WaPo senior management kept the fact that the paper was on the block secret from everyone, including its own employees. Reaction all over the place was stunned disbelief. I don’t know what that says about their newsroom’s investigative abilities.

Bezos, 49, has bought the paper as a private individual. It’s not Amazon making the purchase. But there have been some wags on Twitter capitalizing on the connection between the man and his company:

Apparently $250M is chump change to Bezos, who has a personal worth of $25.2B, according to Forbes.

I don’t know what to say about this—I loved WaPo. It was one of the best things about living in the D.C. area, having a first-class newspaper to read every morning.

When I moved to the UK, I was appalled by what passed for journalism there, the conflating of news and editorial commentary, the massive delta between the quality of national/international and local coverage, the lack of comics and coupons. I was accustomed to having a local paper what was also national, staffed by professionals (with one or two exceptions, like Janet Cooke) who were great news people and fabulous writers. I used to check WaPo regularly online to get my reportage.

Back in Virginia at the end of 2001, and without a job, I still had the consolation of a first-class newspaper to curl up with everyday.

But, of course, you don’t step into the same river twice, and the news industry has been struggling with the changes wrought by the Internet for at least a decade. A lot of great newspapers have come as near as dammit to folding; WaPo itself has had several rounds of lay-offs/early retirement offers that have changed the nature of its coverage.

After Ken Ringle left, to tell the truth, it just wasn’t the same for me.

Even now, as I went to their site to get the Bezos sale story from the horse’s mouth, I was greeted by a popup telling me I’ve used one of my 20 free story views for the month. Sigh.

Bezos issued a six-paragraph letter to WaPo employees. In it he assures them to the extent possible that the transition will be smooth, he’s not going to be involved in day-to-day management, etc. But there will be change. (Or death, but of course he didn’t say that.)

Here’s one graf that gives me some hope that the paper won’t turn into a three-times-a-week publication, or a scandal-rag:

“Journalism plays a critical role in a free society, and The Washington Post – as the hometown paper of the capital city of the United States – is especially important. I would highlight two kinds of courage the Grahams have shown as owners that I hope to channel. The first is the courage to say wait, be sure, slow down, get another source. Real people and their reputations, livelihoods and families are at stake. The second is the courage to say follow the story, no matter the cost. While I hope no one ever threatens to put one of my body parts through a wringer, if they do, thanks to Mrs. Graham’s example, I’ll be ready.”

Well—he certainly understands the purpose and the past of this paper. I hope to God he equips it for the future. I’d like to move back there and have it to read everyday again.

Policing up the area

You may or may not care that today they’re burying Margaret Thatcher, who died earlier this month, aged 87.

I’m interested because she was a piece of work and I sometimes wonder what the UK would be like if she hadn’t had a death-grip on its society for 11 years.

But I’m also interested because the Brits know how to throw a funeral and there’s been a tremendous fracas over the details of Thatcher’s. The party in power—the Tories—has basically planned for a state funeral in everything but name; everyone else is bitching about both the intent and the cost.

(They’re also silencing the bells in Big Ben and the Great Clock at Westminster for the duration of the proceedings; but since that’s free there’s only a continuo of grumbling. Something to the effect that not even the Luftwaffe silenced Big Ben. But, of course, there are those who hold that the Iron Lady could have whupped Hermann Goering’s ass with just her handbag.)

So the planners are tut-tutting that it’s not going to cost all that much, really. But what’s interesting is that they’re, ah, fudging the figures—pulling out the costs of the military and police participating. Francis Maude, Minister for the Cabinet Office and Paymaster General (and I swear I’m not making that up) announced on BBC Radio 4 that, you can’t count those salaries of “people doing their ordinary jobs”. These are “costs which are being borne in any event. We have not hired more soldiers, we haven't hired more police. There is no one who has been hired who would not be doing their ordinary jobs which they would not be doing in any event. We are not hiring more police.”

(By way of reference, the last state funeral was for the Queen Mother, in 2002, and about half the £8M price-tag was for police.)

Well, no—not hiring more police; but if all the coppers are performing crowd-control duties or mounting an anti-terrorism watch for half the day, then they aren’t out actually, you know, policing. This would be a prime time to knock over a liquor store or take out that annoying neighbor of yours, because the cops aren’t doing their ordinary jobs.

You know—the ones they’re actually paid to do.

Wondrous love

While I was driving home yesterday I heard the news that guitarist Bert Jansch has died of cancer. He was 67.

Jansch was a founding member of Pentangle, a folk group whose distinctive style informed my youth. Jansch, John Renbourn and Jacqui McShee formed the heart of the sound to my mind—a distinctive mix of McShee’s extraordinarily pure voice, Jansch’s gravelly continuo and then the guitar and percussion work.

My favorite album was Sweet Child. The songs cover a terrific range from Turn Your Money Green, which has a bluesy, Claptonesque style to it (I love the "If the river were whiskey, baby, & I were a duck" verse), to Let No Man Steal Your Thyme. Jansch himself is featured on A Woman Like You, which he wrote.

The instrumental pieces aren’t bad, either.

Listen to The Trees They Do Grow High, possibly my absolute fave. Or, No More, My Lord. I have driven across the country singing those two. More than once.

They tell me Jansch was a powerful influence on other guitarists, including Neil Young, Jimmy Paige and Paul Simon. And that’s great. But what I loved was the direct connection to his music, his playing and his singing.

Bert—what a gift you’ve given us over the years. Truly Wondrous Love.

Terrible beauty

Nine-eleven. Two numbers in sequence that have to be more instantly recognizable and carry more emotional weight than any other numerical combination in history.


That was the day where we saw the worst and the best of humanity.

I wasn’t going to write anything about the tenth anniversary of the attacks. I pretty much revisited the pain when the SEALs took down Bin Laden.

As it is, I can’t watch any of the glut of television programs dedicated to it that have been running for the past week. I can barely make it thru the radio pieces on NPR. This one in particular got to me.

It seems I drive around in tears a lot these days. And I’m looking for some kind of solace.

SF Opera is premiering “Heart of a Soldier”, about Rick Rescorla, the head of security for Morgan Stanley. Through his prescience, preparedness and perseverance, all the staff in his charge escaped. The medium of opera is appropriate because Rescorla literally sang his charges down the stairs of the South Tower.

You can watch the History Channel docu on him here. Be prepared to cry.

But I also commend to you a video put together by the husband of one of my fellow sopranos in the old, pre-9/11 choir at Saint Anne’s in Reston.

Nine-eleven. That was the day all changed, changed utterly. I know I did.

Staff of life

It’s with great sadness that I report the WSJ’s wine columnists, Dorothy J. Gaiter Brecher and John Brecher, are hanging up their little tasting cups.

They don’t say why, but they do go out on a high: their list of delicious finds in 2009.

They also leave us with some wine resolutions for 2010. I especially like #3, take a wine trip. After spending two weeks in France—with wine not the focus, yet still playing a great part—I heartily recommend spending at least a day in pursuit of a wine adventure.

On the above-mentioned trip, I had lunch at a café across from the Tour Saint Jacques, what’s left of the church that was the official starting point for medieval pilgrims bound for Santiago de Compostela. On my original trip 30 years ago, I’d stumbled onto the tower accidentally, then made sure to tag it on my way out to Santiago on my bicycle.

On two subsequent trips I found it again without intending to, & each time had a coffee in this café, so I wanted to reconnect this time.

It was a grey, rainy, cold Sunday afternoon, a good day to be inside watching the world. A good day for onion soup. An excellent day for Champagne.

So that's what I had for lunch.

That’s one of the things I love about France. It’s always time for Champagne.

(I did have the soup, too, in case anyone’s concerned.)

So my idea of heaven would be a week in Champagne, trying all types of Champagne; possibly with some food to accompany it, too.

It'll help me weather the loss of Dorothy and John.

Touch the happy isles

It’s certainly a cliché, but the death of Ted Kennedy really does mark the end of an era. The last of his generation of Kennedys dedicated to the concept of public service.

I wasn’t a particularly huge fan, but it’s clear that he was a driving force in the Senate for at least 35 years. (He held back for the first few years in office.) & he won the respect of colleagues on both sides of the aisle.

Can’t say that of too many incumbents these days. In any legislature.

News reports are citing Kennedy’s concession to Carter at the 1980 Democratic Convention as his greatest speech. In it he quoted some lines from Tennyson that he said were close to both his brothers & himself:

"I am a part of all that I have met....
Tho much is taken, much abides....
That which we are, we are—
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."

That’s a cobbled-together mashup of “Ulysses”, one of my own favorite poems from the romantic period. It’s interesting that Kennedy was then 48 when he cited it; & that his brothers were both in their forties when they were murdered, & had already latched onto the poem.

The reason I find it interesting is that “Ulysses” is the musing of the hero of the Trojan war—as an aged man all too aware of his growing feebleness. The king of Ithaca is looking back at his long life & ahead at a future that can’t possibly live up to the past. It’s an old man’s tale, not a young one’s.

What is certainly applicable to Kennedy (& perhaps to his brothers, too) is Ulysses’ resolution to not go gentle into that good night, even at his age & condition. “I will live life to the lees,” he vows.

“How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this grey spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.”

I rather think of Ted Kennedy, working phones from his sickbed to garner support for his lifelong cause of healthcare for all Americans, as scorning to rust unburnished. There was a grey spirit yearning in desire to follow knowledge if ever there was one.

Ulysses talks of the responsibility of statesmanship, of the decades of governing his people & the legacy he’s leaving to his son, Telemachus.

& the final section is him planning another voyage—gathering the lads from his old unit, outfitting a ship & setting sail into the unknown. Here are the complete last lines:

“Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”

& that’s a picture of Ted Kennedy-made weak by time & disease, but strong in will—& never yielding.