Looking down from my United Airlines window shortly after takeoff from Burlington I’m able to discern Rosslyn’s waterfront and backland, recognizable despite distortion caused by the crazed, milky portal bless. My eye-in-the-sky perspective of Essex, New York (and our Adirondack Coast “home sweet home”) tickled a lyric into my mind, and before I knew it I was humming Phillip Phillips’ catchy tune “Home”. With belated apologies to the stranger seated beside me, I hummed most of the lyrics, but it was impossible not to voice the refrain: “‘Cause I’m gonna make this place your home…”
Make this Place Your Home (Photo: Geo Davis)
This song is catchy. An earworm. And for me it’s one of many that has woven its way into my subconscious because it resonates with our Rosslyn relationship.
Hold on to me as we go As we roll down this unfamiliar road And although this wave (wave) is stringing us along Just know you’re not alone ‘Cause I’m gonna make this place your home
Settle down, it’ll all be clear Don’t pay no mind to the demons They fill you with fear The trouble, it might drag you down If you get lost, you can always be found
Just know you’re not alone ‘Cause I’m gonna make this place your home
(Source: Phillip Phillips, “Home”, by Drew Pearson and Greg Holden)
That’s the gist, although it does revisit those lyrics to prolongue the catchy tune. It’s that last line that gets me. “I’m gonna make this place your home”.
I recently talked to part of our dynamic crew working on the icehouse rehab about the circumstances — at least a couple of the most significant circumstances — that contributed to our decision to purchase Rosslyn back in 2006. For now let’s just say that it was an inflection point at a singularly challenging time for us. It was an “unfamiliar road” with troubles aplenty dragging us down. And, in many respects, the challenges continued, some worsening, during the first couple of years after — and in no small part because of — purchasing Rosslyn. But this pledge (mine to Susan, and Susan’s to me) to persevere in order to “make this place your home” became our mantra. And it worked!
“Settle down,” the lyrics urge, as if homemaking (I prefer “homing” to homemaking for reasons explained elsewhere) ensures analgesia in troubled times. Yes, the trouble “might drag you down” but “you’re not alone”. Together we could fend off the demons. Together we would make Rosslyn our sanctuary.
Phillips first performed the song [“Home”] on the [American Idol] season’s final performance night on May 22, 2012, and then again on the finale after he was declared the winner. (Source: Wikipedia)
Almost six years out of sync with our purchase of Rosslyn, we unfortunately weren’t able to crank up Phillips’ song to boost our morale in times of need. But when the song began to blanket the airwaves a few years after we finally completed most of the most significant work on the house and boathouse, it instantly felt familiar. It conjured the tribulations we’d navigated as well as the strength we’d found — and rely upon to this day — in our union.
As we explore what life might look like after Rosslyn — an inevitable if not imminent consideration — we contemplate what it will take to transform a new property into our sanctuary. But this time we understand home and homeness a little bit differently. To “make this place your home” we simply need to be together. Coming home is returning to my bride after time apart (as I did last night after a week away.)
Chronicler or Artist I: waterfront variations (Photo: Geo Davis)
I really *should* post an update on our loft flooring “research”, copper flashing (aka drip edge) installation, east elevation gable window framing, revised drawings from Tiho that address a few outstanding items like column, stairway, railing, and other trim details (plus lighting, electric, and mechanicals),… But I’m going to postpone these already postponed updates a little longer to talk instead about a recurring subplot in recent months.
Okay, maybe it’s unfair to dub it a subplot since so far it’s defied definition. At heart it’s a grappling with mission. And permission. As I pour over sixteen years’ worth of memories and plans and artifacts and notes and photos and stories and poems and intertwined lives and ephemera there’s an inner struggle at work. Am I simply gathering the strings of a vast collection, curating its diverse snippets into a sort of chronicle, a history, a retrospective map? Or am I creating from these fragments something new and unique? Am I more of an historian or a mosaic maker? Am I chronicler or artist?
Chronicler or Artist II: waterfront variations (Photo: Geo Davis)
“He chooses; he synthesizes; in short, he has ceased to be the chronicler; he has become an artist.” — Virginia Woolf (Source: The Art of Biography)
There’s an inevitable tensions between the duty of stewardship and the affinity for storytelling and poetic truth. Between the responsibility to document important details for future Rosslyn homeowners and the creative freedom to explore textures and layers, melodies and harmonies, whimsical what-ifs and errant adventures.
But it’s more than this. It’s verisimilitude. Veracity…
I believe that there are different kinds of accuracy. I am a storyteller, not an historian, and though I strive for verisimilitude, some truths are more effectively preserved and conveyed through stories than history or vaults. (Source: Remembering and Recounting)
And so I pendulum between two muses, each jealous of the other, both second guessing, both casting aspersions.
Some days I toil like an archeologist amidst a midden heap of artifacts, rewinding time’s mysteries, deciphering the prior summer’s garden vegetables from this season’s rich, dark compost. Other days I seduce and charm and coerce the artifacts to share longer forgotten truths. (Source: Remembering and Recounting)
Chronicler or Artist III: waterfront variations (Photo: Geo Davis)
And there’s the not too subtle complication of recollection. My memory muddles — more of the composting variety than the austere archival variety — appreciating the possibilities of parallax, and grafting whimsical paisley’s onto sturdier scions to ensure that they survive the tempestuous toils of time.
I am startled to discover that these precise, unambiguous reference points frequently contradict my recollection. Dramatic events indelibly etched into my brain at the time have already blurred despite the brief lapse of time. I curse my mischievous mind and then accept that 100% accuracy will inevitably elude me. My mind’s imperfect cataloging at once humbles and liberates me. Though an unreliable historian, I am a chronicler and curator of stories, not facts. (Source: Remembering and Recounting)
So there it is. I’ve flirted with this truth before, and I double down today. Caveat emptor. Ask not of me the court stenographer’s unblinking authority. And I’ll not ask of you the jury’s verdict or the judges conviction.
According to Garcia Marquez life is not only the experiences, the moments lived. Life is also the rendering of those experiences into stories, the recollecting, the filtering, the imagining, the sharing. (Source: Remembering and Recounting)
Recollecting, filtering, imagining, choosing, curating, synthesizing, sharing,… This is the map I use. Chronicler or artist? Yes, but mostly the latter.
Perhaps even with history we become overconfident that the facts are irrefutable… Absent an omnipresent video camera that documents my life as I bump along, capturing every minute detail precisely, permanently, Garcia Marquez’s perspective offers reassuring guidance. Though I frequently daydream about a collaborative memoir comprised of the recollections of everyone who participated in the rebirth of Rosslyn, my story is an eclectic nexus of personal experiences, filtered, aggregated and cobbled into narrative cohesion by me. (Source: Remembering and Recounting)
Chronicler or Artist IV: waterfront variations (Photo: Geo Davis)
And yet the challenge of a dual mission permeates this 16-year exercise. There’s an inevitable tendency, a responsibility even, to document. To archive. To showcase. And there’s the omnipresent siren song of wonder and whimsy. While I still endeavor to provide a responsible accounting of our life, love, and toil at/with Rosslyn, I’m succumbing to the beguiling song of the sirens.
My quest for permission needn’t require such wayward roving. It is first and foremost my own consent I’m questing after. And part of accepting this is granting myself permission to embrace art above chronicle. I’ve suspected this. Dithered. Wondered. Worried. But this morning a confident confluence is flowing. And I’m ready… (Source: Quest for Permission)
Fair warning, then, while I dive into the reflective waters simultaneously mirroring the misty morning and revealing the pebbly depths. I’ll be back. Soon.
Let’s rewind back to my discovery of this early 20th century song.
Care to join me for a singalong? Today I’d like to share with you the sheet music cover image for the song, “On Lake Champlain” by Alfred Bryan and Albert Gumble.
[…]
So for now I’ll pause this post in the hope that the vintage color lithograph for Alfred Bryan and Albert Gumble’s sheet music will miraculously move us closer to an audible version of “On Lake Champlain”. If fortune smiles upon us, I’ll update this post. (Source: “On Lake Champlain” Song by Alfred Bryan and Albert Gumble)
I have some good news for you. Today I’m ready to pass along the original sheet music, several early recordings (pops, scratches, and all), and a stripped down midi recording if you’d like to rig up your own karaoke.
Columbia Record’s “On Lake Champlain” by Sterling Trio (Alfred Bryan and Albert Gumble)
Sterling Trio & Mills Brothers
Without further ado, I invite you to hear the song as it was originally recorded. Enjoy.
If you experiment with pitch and tempo, you might modernize this ditty by a few decades, possibly rendering it a little catchier in the process.
Silvertone’s “On Lake Champlain” by Sterling Trio (Alfred Bryan and Albert Gumble)
MIDI Sans Vocals
The time distorted sound of an old 78 speed LP is evocative and slightly romantic, but what if you’re ready for a “On Lake Champlain” singalong? More good news! You can download Geoff Grainger‘s midi recording of “On Lake Champlain” (part of his online repository and resource called Ditty Box Enterprise) for hours of fireside enjoyment. Of course, you might need to play around with the raw file to make replay convenient. I just slurped it into Garage Band and then output it as an MP3. Good luck.
“On Lake Champlain” by Alfred Bryan and Albert Gumble (song sheet, p.3)
“On Lake Champlain” by Alfred Bryan and Albert Gumble (song sheet, p.4)
“On Lake Champlain” by Alfred Bryan and Albert Gumble (song sheet, p.5)
“On Lake Champlain” Sheet Music
Now if you’re feeling ready to invite the neighbors over and spark off the bonfire, I encourage you to first download the sheet music from Duke University’s David M. Rubenstein Rare Book & Manuscript Library so that everyone can join in the revelry. After all what fun is an “On Lake Champlain” singalong if you’re solo-ing through two verses while everyone else roasts marshmallows?
And, once you’re good and comfortable with your new-old song, how about recording it and sending it my way?! Thanks in advance.
Hroth sent me the photograph above so that we could troubleshoot some subtle details for the old/new icehouse entrance and the relationship between the door and the still-to-come exterior landing. I think we’re 99% in sync, but we’ll hash out the details tomorrow so that we’re 100% in sync. In the meantime, I’m enchanted with this photo. The significant evidence of progress toward a new chapter in the life of Rosslyn’s icehouse. The new floor visible within. The shadowed but perceptible interior framing for windows and doors on the far western elevation. A through-view of the area west of the icehouse where lie the gardens and orchard, and where — on a less overcast day — the sun will set into Boquet Mountain a few tree lines beyond Rosslyn’s meadows and woods…
Entrancing Icehouse Entrance
Ever since 2006 when we removed the existing windows and closed up the gaping openings on the north and south elevations of the icehouse in order to re-stabilize the structural integrity of the building, this handsome edifice has been a shrouded utility building primarily employed for off-season storage of deck furniture, hammock stands, unused building materials, and almost decades’ worth of architectural salvage.
But the vision illuminating our rehab project is of a light filled space, a delicate balance between the finite volume of such a small structure and the uninhibited openness of vaulted ceilings and generous fenestration. Rosslyn’s icehouse is mid-journey between dark and constrained to light and open. It’s a transformation from merely functional to inviting, inspirational, invigorating, and multifunctional. A tall order? Perhaps. But the photo above suggests to me that we’re heading in the right direction.
Phoenix Rising: A Haiku
Auburn and umber, where embers are memories, phoenix from ashes. — Geo Davis
This micropoem draws upon the hues of the nearly century and a half old building, naked without siding, textured with time. And it associates these with earthen pigments and with the fading signs of fire. Ashes. Memories. On the one hand this photograph captures a moment on the quest for redemption. Rebirth as a new sort of utility building, relevant in the 21st century as opposed to an icehouse no longer fulfilling its original need. On the other hand, this photograph, as a tiny puzzle piece in my ongoing conversation and collaboration with Hroth, alludes to his still recent, still raw firsthand experience with the Calf Canyon/Hermit’s Peak blaze, the largest wildfire in New Mexico history.
Rising from the Ashes
I detect the energy of this post getting away from me. I intended to reflect briefly on Hroth’s photo, an aperture into the icehouse itself and into the vision for its future. But I feel the mounting wind pulling free the threads of my narrative. The focus is scattered and the motif is blurring.
A more entangled tale is untucking itself, fluttering and flapping, vying for attention. I understand that I can’t contain it forever, but I’d like — a little longer, at least — to discipline my post, my posts to march in a phalanx toward, well, toward the moment of truth. Or unraveling. Or arrival. Or departure.
I feel the azure dome spinning overhead, and the earth below. I realize I’ve been restraining this mythological force for months, for years. It surfaces and I acknowledge it, but then hasten on. Like a hummingbird or a butterfly lighting brightly, then buzzing on, fluttering on.
Here, for example.
Sometimes setbacks are actually the inspiration to regroup, reboot, and outperform original expectations. Sometimes fiasco fans the fires of triumph. Sometimes the phoenix rises from the ashes.
While our carpenter fiasco of the previous year might be summed up as a run-of-the-mill “crash and burn” story, this summer’s refreshing sequel was a quintessential “phoenix rising” story of mythic proportions.
Two fleeting mentions. And then this less oblique reference.
I’m hoping to eventually persuade Hroth Ottosen to share his very personal decision to roadtrip east from Santa Fe… after the 2022 catastrophic wildfire season that ravaged the southwest… Hroth reminds us that it is possible to emerge from calamitous circumstances braver, wiser, stronger, and freer than we were beforehand… Like I’ve already suggested, a phoenix rising from the ashes!
But now I’ll abbreviate this reference to Hroth, as the story is his to tell, if and when he’s ready. Instead let’s bring some semblance of closure to this curious clutch of field notes.
What Does Phoenix Rising Mean?
Without further muddling the message, I’ll step back and offer a sounder source.
To rise like a phoenix from the ashes means to emerge from a catastrophe stronger, smarter and more powerful. An example of rising like a phoenix from the ashes is someone who opens a new, successful business after his previous business has failed. Another example is someone who builds a new house after his previous house has been destroyed in a tornado.
Familiar? Here’s a look into the mythological origins of this familiar “born again” story.
The phoenix bird is a mythical bird from Greek mythology. It was a feathered creature of great size with talons and wings, its plumage radiant and beautiful. The phoenix lived for 500 years before it built its own funeral pyre, burst into flame, and died, consumed in its own fiery inferno. Soon after, the mythical creature rose out of the ashes, in a transformation from death to life…
1942 recording of “In Old Champlain” by Mills Brothers (Decca Records, 78rpm)
It’s time for another fun, local-ish song (or so I hope to discover) that just might celebrate the greatest of lakes, our one and only Lake Champlain. From the scarce little I’ve been able to learn about “In Old Champlain” (released in 1942 by Decca Records, performed by Mills Brothers, and music/lyrics by Cliff Friend and Charlie Tobias) it more likely pertains to a small town located near Rouses Point, New York.
Of course, I’m not even 100% certain that it relates to either, but I’m hoping that maybe, just maybe somebody out there — you, perhaps? — might able to help solve this mystery.
That’s right, today I’m sharing this crackly old audio recording (and an intriguing video montage based on the recording) with my perennial optimism that crowdsourcing this so far dead-ended research might illuminate it’s geographic/cartographic mooring. And I’m also hoping that lyrics — somewhat difficult to make out in this timeworn 78 — might manifest from the magical interwebs as well.
Audio of “In Old Champlain”
Enough with the details. “Can we skip to the good part?” No, not that good part. The poppy-scratchy but still pretty groovy 78 recording of “In Old Champlain” by Mills Brothers. Here. It. Is.
Hope you enjoyed that. And hope even more that you (or somebody within your rhizomic reach) can demystify the where this song is celebrating. Which Champlain are the Mills Brothers singing about?
Video Montage of “In Old Champlain”
I stumbled across this likely answer to my question. Champlain, New York is about a 45-50 minute drive north of us, close to the Canadian border. This video montage offers a pretty convince visual argument that the song is about this town located on the western shore of Lake Champlain. But, is the creator correct? Or merely inspired by the song’s title and lyrics?
If you enjoyed the song, spread the word. If you thought it stinks, spread the word. 😉 And maybe somebody will be able to help out. Thanks.
I associate amaryllis with the winter holidays. An exotic flower for us, gifted when we’re fortunate, and occupying a central and highly visible perch, usually in the kitchen. Not sure why the kitchen except that there’s water handy, and life revolves around the kitchen this time of year, so the progress — from voluminous bulb to strappy leaves and robust stems to extravagant blooms — is omnipresent. We comment on the the rising and the unfolding, each time surprised by how much grandeur can explode out of that bursting bulb.
And like so many blooms that we cultivate, that we await and monitor and celebrate, the amaryllis is part of the elusive collection-cum-constellation I’ve been attempting to corral, the ingredients for a home. My home. For homeness. My homeness. What makes a house a home? Well, somewhere high on the list are plants. And this time of year there may be no more regal reminder of how beholden I am to these exuberant houseguests.
Today, I’ll defer to these blooms, a gift from our friend, Jennifer Isaacson, and the words of three poets who’ve grappled with the mysterious amaryllis. I’ll start with the two middle stanzas from Connie Wanek’s “Amaryllis”.
Months ago the gigantic onion of a bulb
half above the soil
stuck out its green tongue
and slowly, day by day,
the flower itself entered our world,
closed, like hands that captured a moth,
then open, as eyes open,
and the amaryllis, seeing us,
was somehow undiscouraged.
It stands before us now…
— Connie Wanek, “Amaryllis” (Source: Poetry Foundation)
Superb! This is the procession of anticipated joys, first small, then larger, then bigger than life. From this literal, accessible, potently visual poem of Wanek’s I turn to two separate section in Henri Cole’s “My Amaryllis” that speak to this current journey in ways I can only cite and not explain. Not yet at least. Hopefully soon.
Like my amaryllis, I need a stone in my pot
as a ballast.
— Henri Cole, “My Amaryllis” (Source: The Atlantic)
The enigmatic push-pull I’ve been grappling with lately, this relationship with Rosslyn that has outlived our original expectations fourfold and yet that nurtures us and revitalizes us, the recognition that this ballast rights us in heavy seas, buoys us in a storm, this conundrum cloaked in an evening gown simultaneously whisks me off my feet and holds me steady. Where from here?
Midwinter Amaryllis (Photo: Geo Davis)
At present, the where resolves itself by slipping down a few lines to this.
Vain as Picasso,
mechanical as a beetle, I want to make
a thing I haven’t made that says,
Look how he’s evolved.
— Henri Cole, “My Amaryllis” (Source: The Atlantic)
I’ll step aside and let this stand on its own. Well done, Henri Cole!
Midwinter Amaryllis (Photo: Geo Davis)
And for my last point of reference, my final poetic meditation on the enchanting amaryllis, I refer you to “Amaryllis” by Glen Mott. Of the three, this poem is at once the most complex and the most intoxicating. I’ll spare Mott my clumsy scalpel, resist the temptation to cull lines that resonate, and instead crib the writer’s observation about the poem.
“Desert nightfall in a border town, an evening of estranged emotions at the edge of articulation, harder to name than pliant happiness. Something in the form of an epitaph for lapsed solemnity. A mendicant’s bouquet.” – Glenn Mott (Source: Academy of American Poets)
It’s not often that a footnote to a poem carries the same muscle, music, and mystery as the poetry it seeks to clarify, but there it is. Plaudits, poet.
Midwinter Amaryllis (Photo: Geo Davis)
I imagine that the work of a mosaic artist might not always involve compelling fragments to coalesce around the artist’s vision. I imagine that sometimes it is enough to gather the ingredients, to push them into proximity with one another, and then to retreat. This evening I will test out this theory. Either I will succeed. Or I will fail.
In either case a new blossom is opening, and the midwinter amaryllis will be even more exhilarating tomorrow.
I’ve waxed whimsical on autumn before, and I’ve celebrated wonder-filled winter aplenty, but what of the blurry overlap between the two? Well, today I’d like to pause a moment betwixt both current seasons. Or astride the two, one foot in autumn and the other in winter. To borrow a morning metaphor from my breakfast, let’s pause for persimmons (as a way to grok — and hopefully embrace — our present seasonality.)
What?!?!
For the time being let’s sidestep the vexing fact that almost a dozen years into cultivating three persimmon trees in Rosslyn’s orchard we’ve never produced a single edible persimmon. Instead let’s look at persimmoning in terms of this morning’s sweet and sour, ripe and rotten persimmon episode.
Fuyu Persimmon, Sliced (Photo: Geo Davis)
I’ve been monitoring two pretty persimmons in the fruit bowl. I’ve been checking them daily for ripeness. Firm, firm, firm, less firm, slightly supple, soft, ready! Or so I thought this morning. I lifted the first much anticipated fruit in the lightless shadows of 5:00am. If felt perfect. I gathered the second and grabbed a small cutting board. I prefer to allow my mornings to illuminate naturally, calibrating by circadian rhythms holistically, so I generally avoid turning on the lights, even this time of year when 5:00am is still shoe polish dark. As I prepared to plunge a knife into the first persimmon, I detected something unsettling. The slick surface of the persimmon had a fuzzy spot about the size of a quarter. I turned on the light, low, but enough to show that I’d missed my moment with the persimmon. It was rotten. Moldy. Both. I’d literally been checking daily, often lifting both fruit from the bowl to examine them, but somehow this previously perfect fruit had suddenly become rotten. The second fruit showed not fuzzy rot spot. I carefully cut out the leafy stem, and sniffed the inside of the persimmon. Perfection. Somewhere between the consistency of gelatinous custard and viscous liquid, the persimmon was divine.
Fuyu Persimmon, Sliced (Photo: Geo Davis)
At this point seasoned persimmon aficionados are aware that I’ve been recounting an experience with hachiya persimmons (rather than fuyu persimmons), and the photos portray the latter. You are correct astute reader/persimmon connoisseur. And as my prologue likely betrays this morning’s experience was not well suited to photography. But it did remind me of a previous persimmon apropos of the actual topic I’d expected to explore in this post (but have so far mostly skirted.) And that memory, of a similar morning anticipating and then partially enjoying a persimmon is what lead me to these photographs. Why partially, I can hear you think. I partially enjoyed that persimmon, a fuyu persimmon, because the first few slices were ripe and delicious. But partway though the small fruit the sweet turned to astringent. And this puckering experience is a sure sign that the fruit is not yet fully ripe. Now, lest I’m misleading you again, I’m sorry to say, the photographs in this post are not of that persimmon either, though they are, in fact a fuyu persimmon. And, as a discerning eye might note, this photographed persimmon was delicious throughout.
So why all the persimmoning? The memories of this morning’s fruit and the part ripe, part unripe fruit a year or two ago, offer me a glimpse into the sort of autumn-into-winter transition we’re in right now. Almost ready, almost ready, over ready! And sometimes ripe and unripe at the same time. And, as I understand it, persimmons are often culturally associated with joy, good fortune, and longevity. I am hopeful that our present season change, still in limbo, but creeping closer and closer to that transition from autumning to wintering, from autumn vibes to winter vibes, might — like persimmons in the best of circumstances — may portent joy, goof fortune, and longevity for the rehabilitation projects underway in the icehouse, the boathouse, and our home.
1-1/2” ZIP System insulated panels reading for installation (Photo: Hroth Ottosen)
Willing Winter Away a Little Longer
There’s something meditative about this time of year, a marginal meditation on interstices, on the span between autumn and winter, harvesting and larder hunting, biking and skiing, Thanksgiving and Christmas,… This liminal space is tied with winter-to-spring for most dramatic transitions in the circle of seasonality. And yet some years, this year, the switch is far from binary. There are moments when we appear to be on the crux, the hinging moment between the most abundant season and the leanest season. And other moments we’re currently in both concurrently. Ripe and rotten. Well, not rotten, really, but in terms of exterior carpentry, the going gets exponentially more challenging once snow arrives and temperatures plunge.
And so, for a while longer, we’re willing winter away. Tomorrow we’ll be installing the first round of spray foam insulation inside the icehouse, and we’ll *hopefully* begin installing the ZIP System paneling outside the icehouse. In other words, we’re getting really close to having the icehouse ready for winterier weather. The boathouse isn’t really winterizable, however, and temperate conditions are a huge boon as we forge ahead. At the risk of temping fate I’ll admit that it’s almost as if nature is holding her breath, stalling between autumn and winter. With luck, we’ll be able to take advantage of a little more borrowed time. But she can’t hold her breath forever, and we’re all aware of that…
This non-harvest, autumning haiku was born of Carley‘s lethargic mid-morning siesta by the fireplace. Contentment, canine style. It’s a tough life.
https://www.instagram.com/reel/CljJSOFgoFV/
Wintering: unhaiku
Between blushing vegetation and gingerbread outbuildings, what name for this season?
Hustling pre-hibernation and melting flurries with breath, what post apple appellation? What pre skating designation?
I echo my own refrain again into the autumn interstices ringing with wintering song.
Willing Autumn Linger Longer
Like ripening persimmons, the transition from unripe to overripe happens whether we’re watching for it or not. Likewise fall vibes have been exiting gradually, and winter’s stark contrasts have been insinuating themselves into the autumnless voids. It’s inevitable that winter will arrive, and it will be glorious in its own right when it does. But here’s hoping fortune smiles upon us a little longer, that we can dwell in this construction-centric liminality for another week or three. Or right up until Christmas!
Back in 2013, I wrote a series of posts on Rev. George Orlia Webster for the Essex on Lake Champlain community blog. I had become interested in this former Essex resident, pastor of the Federated Church in Essex, and prolific composer of liturgical music because of his hymn, “Essex-on-Champlain.”
Today I’ve collected (with the able assistance of Katie Shepard) and lightly curated my earlier posts into a single feature on George O. Webster’s life and career in the enduring hope that it may encourage a new performance (or even a recording!) of “Essex-on-Champlain.”
Reverend George Orlia Webster (Photo credit: Thomas Palmer)
Reverend George Orlia Webster
If the name Reverend George Orlia Webster sounds familiar to you, it’s likely because you’ve heard (or read) the hymn “Essex-on-Champlain” which he wrote in 1929. Or because you’ve read the commemorative plaque at the Essex Community Church (aka the Federated Church) in Essex, NY.
Son of a Baptist minister, Webster attended school at Saxon’s River Academy. His first pastorate after ordination was in St. Johnsbury, Vermont. Of his over 50 years of service as a minister, over 30 were spent in non-denominational settings, often in combined churches with Methodist, Presbyterian, and Baptist members. In later years, Webster was pastor of the Federated Church at Essex, New York, where there is a plaque in his memory. (Hymnary.org)
Reverend George Orlia Webster
In 2013 I received word from two great grandchildren of Rev. George Orlia Webster (1866-1942), Jane Palmer Baker of South Padre Island, Texas and her brother, Thomas Palmer of Galion, Ohio. In addition to a handsome photo of her great grandfather, Ms. Baker shared the brief biography above and the following details which will prove especially helpful to genealogists.
George Orlia Webster (1866-1942) Born: April 25, 1866, Fort Ann, New York. Died: October 1, 1942, Essex, New York. Buried: Bolton Landing, New York.
(Source: Jane Palmer Baker)
Essex resident Norma Goff responded to Ms. Baker’s Facebook post with a poignant personal connection to Rev. George Orlia Webster.
“I have heard much about your great Grandfather, George Webster. I am quite sure he married my parents here in Essex in 1935, and know he was a beloved pastor in this town. I think he is also responsible for writing many hymns, among them, one about Essex!” (Source: Norma Goff)
Undoubtedly many other past and present Essex residents and visitors remember George Orlia Webster as well, and I invite you to share your memories and stories so that we can share them with the community.
POETIC DESTINY
Turning to Webster’s creative legacy, “Essex-on-Champlain” is likely the most famous of his hymns among Essex, NY residents and seasonal habitues, but it represents a mere fraction of this prolific man’s creative output over the years.
Back in 2013, Thomas Palmer shared a wealth of information on his great grandfather, George O. Webster, including the following.
George was born in 1866 to Joseph B. and Francis Webster, his father being a minister himself as well as a Civil War veteran. When George was young, the family had a visit from a lady known as “Aunt Lucy,” who “read” the bumps on heads (“phrenology”). She proclaimed that young George had a “poetic” bump, and sure enough, he went on to author several hundred published hymns, cantatas, musicals, and other works.” (Source: Thomas Palmer)
Apparently Aunt Lucy was on to something. George O. Webster became a prolific author of hymns. Included at the end of this post is a list of 229 hymns that George O. Webster is known to have composed. “Essex-on-Champlain” does not appear on the list, an indication that there may be other hymns likewise overlooked.
I also have scrapbook of his correspondence with well-known hymn writers he knew and/or collaborated with, such as Charles H. Gabriel (who wrote hymns such as “His Eye is on the Sparrow,” “Will the Circle be Unbroken,” etc.) and many others.
Great Grandpa’s best-known hymn is probably “I Need Jesus,” although there are many more that were well-known in their day. That hymn is almost always played or sung at family funerals and important events – it was played at my own wedding. (Source: Thomas Palmer)
Palmer augmented George O. Webster’s biography and provided a manuscript from a newspaper article written by Billy Burger for “The Adirondacker” column in The Record-Post, Au Sable Forks, NY, on Thursday, October 2, 1941. The following excerpts helps illustrate why George O. Webster was considered “one of the most amazing Adirondack personalities” by Record-Post columnist, Billy Burger.
Essex Community Church (aka Federated Church) c. 1930s/40s
A family story relays that Rev. Joseph Webster baptized George as a young man by carving a hole in an icy river in the middle of winter. George received his education at Saxon’s River Academy in Vermont (which is still in operation and known as Vermont Academy). Shortly after graduation, he was ordained as a minister, and his first pastorate was of a Baptist church in Saint Johnsbury, Vermont.
Rev. Webster spent the remainder of his life as a minister and farmer, and had pastorates in Warrensburg, Utica, and Franfort, New York. His last post was as pastor of the Federated Church in Essex, which I believed he considered the culmination of his career as a minister. I know he lived there for many, many years. He lived there with his last wife, Winifred (my own great grandmother had passed away at the age of 26, just a month after my grandmother was born). His two youngest daughters were there a lot as well, Marilla and Agnes.
I know for certain that he had a deep love for the Adirondacks in general and Essex in particular. (Source: Thomas Palmer)
THE SKY PILOT’S PULPIT
The Record-Post columnist Billy Burger profiled George O. Webster in “Sky Pilot” on October 2, 1941, amplifying the portrait offered by Palmer.
After his mother’s death, which occurred soon after Aunt Lucy’s visit, Mr. Webster went to a charge in Vermont and George ran wild. But not for long. Presently a famous lecturer and humorist, “Bob” Burdette, preached a couple of summers in the North River church. He got a grip on George, and this resulted in George’s conversion… George now turned definitely to the Baptist ministry, in which he has served almost fifty years. Significantly enough, although he says he can never be anything but, a Baptist at heart, thirty of the fifty years have been spent in undenominational work. His Federated church at Essex contains Methodist, Baptist and Presbyterian groups and he is also Methodist minister at Whallonsburg.
Because of ill health of the present Mrs. Webster, he was forced to spend twelve years on a farm near Glens Falls. But the old farm just couldn’t keep George out of the pulpit. Before he realized what he was doing he was conducting, with Mrs. Webster’s help, four services a Sunday. The farm chores sandwiched in between. (Billy Burger, “Sky Pilot,” The Adirondacker. The Record-Post, Au Sable Forks, N. Y., October 2, 1941)
As pastor, farmer and hymn composer, George O. Webster appears to have been a veritable renaissance man.
Essex-on-Champlain, by Rev. George O. Webster
ESSEX-ON-CHAMPLAIN, BY GEORGE O. WEBSTER
I’ve wished time and again that there will one day be an opportunity for an “Essex-on-Champlain” sing-a-long, but so far the hymn’s music exists only in my imagination.
If you have not had the opportunity to sing, hear or even read Rev. George O. Webster’s “Essex-on-Champlain” we’ve transcribed the hymn’s lyrics for you below. Although I was made aware that a recording of the hymn was made at one point (and that some of our readers have even listened to the recording), so far I’ve been unsuccessful at locating a copy of the recording. If you can help out, please let me know.
ESSEX-ON-CHAMPLAIN
There’s a wonderland of beauty,
One that has ten thousand charms,
At Essex, old Essex-on-Champlain;
Its attractions grip and hold you
Like some giant lover’s arms,
Dear Essex, dear Essex-on-Champlain.
Then here’s three cheers for Essex,
The fairest spot on the Champlain shore,
Where the moonlight plays like fountains
O’er the crystal lake and mountains,
Dear, dear old Essex, Essex-on-Champlain.
All who know her sing the praises
Of our village by the lake,
Of Essex, old Essex-on-Champlain;
And, with each returning season,
Here their thirst for beauty slake,
At Essex, dear Essex-on-Champlain.
Then here’s three cheers for Essex,
The fairest spot on the Champlain shore,
Where the moonlight plays like fountains
O’er the crystal lake and mountains,
Dear, dear old Essex, Essex-on-Champlain.
Summer skies or wint’ry weather
Have their charms for those who care
For Essex, old Essex-on-Champlain;
And her friends are now a legion
You can find them everywhere,
Dear Essex, dear Essex-on-Champlain.
Then here’s three cheers for Essex,
The fairest spot on the Champlain shore,
Where the moonlight plays like fountains
O’er the crystal lake and mountains,
Dear, dear old Essex, Essex-on-Champlain.
So we sing a song for Essex,
‘Tis a song from out the heart
For Essex, old Essex-on-Champlain;
Wheresoe’er her name is spoken
Fondest mem’ries always start,
Of Essex, dear Essex-on-Champlain.
Then here’s three cheers for Essex,
The fairest spot on the Champlain shore,
Where the moonlight plays like fountains
O’er the crystal lake and mountains,
Dear, dear old Essex, Essex-on-Champlain.
Ever since I began reading about George O. Webster’s “Essex-on-Champlain” I’ve yearned to hear it performed. I hope that one day in the not too distant future it might be possible to make a recording, sung and performed on the Warren A. Cross memorial pipe organ at the Essex Community Church. And back in 2013 there was even rumor that Rev. Webster’s great grandson, Thomas Palmer, a church organist and pianist with a direct-DNA link to the composer may have worked on an audio recording of “Essex-on-Champlain.” Fingers crossed!
GEORGE O. WEBSTER HYMNS
In addition to “Essex-on-Champlain”, Rev. George O. Webster composed literally hundreds of additional hymns. While “Essex-on-Champlain” may be the most hallowed of George O. Webster hymns for Essex residents and visitors, it by no means represents a unique accomplishment. In fact, it didn’t even appear in this impressive directory of hymns composed by Webster, opening the possibility that Webster may have composed additional hymns that are not properly credited. We’ve taken the liberty of updating the list with “Essex-on-Champlain” and we hope you’ll let us know if we’re missing any others.
America, Beloved
Are You Building on the Rock?
Are You Over Borne by Trials?
Arise, Arise, a Voice Is Sounding
Arise, Arise, for Lo, the Night Is Past
Arise, Arise, for Men
Army with Banners Is Marching Along, An
As We March Along, We Will Sing a Song
Awake, O Ye Blossoms
Away in Yonder Forest
Be Loyal to Your Colors
Blossoms Lift Their Sunny Faces
Boys and Girls Repeat
Breaking Through the Clouds Above Us
Call Rings Through the Land, A
Can a Boy Forget His Mother?
Can I Forget the Debt I Owe?
Captain Calls for Volunteers, The
Changeful May Be My Lot
Clericus Hymn, The
Clovers White and Clovers Red
Come Home, Come Home
Conflict Is Raging of Right Against Wrong, A
Cry to Arms Is Heard, The
Day When Heaven and Earth Unite
Do the Storm Clouds Gather So?
Earth’s Victors with Garlands of Flowers
Essex-on-Champlain
Faith Will Keep the Sunlight Shining
Father, So Holy
Fear Not, but Trust
Fill Each Swiftly Passing Day
For His Dear Sake Who Carried
For the Summer’s Golden Hours
For Your Flag and My Flag
Forward, Forward, Soldiers of the Cross
From the Garden of the Heart
From the Heaven’s Opened Portals
From the Riven Side of Jesus
Gates of Life, The
Gird on Your Armor
Go Forward, Go Forward in Jesus’ Conquering Name
God Leads to Victory
God Will Take Care of Me, Why Should I Fear?
God’s Will I Know Is Best for Me
Going Forth to Serve for Jesus
Golden Hours Are Gliding On, The
Guiding Hand I Clearly See, A
Hail to the Great Creator
Have We Climbed the Mount of Vision?
Have You Heard the Call to Battle?
He Took My Place
Hear the Sweet Voice That Is Calling to Thee
Hear You Not the Savior’s Loving Call?
Holy Father, Thou, Throned on High
How Wonderful, How Marvelous
I Am Happy in My Savior
I Have a Mighty Savior
I Know That My Lord Watches o’er Me
I Need Jesus
I Wandered on Life’s Careless Way
I Will Tell the Wondrous Story of Redeeming Love
I Would Go Where Jesus Sends Me
Idly Standing in the Market
If Christ Should Come to Me
If Jesus Will Make Me a Blessing Today
If the Clouds Are Dark and Dreary
If the Way Leads Down
If the Way Seems Hard with the March
If You Can Smile
If You Cannot Cross the Place
If You Will Just Be Happy
If You Would Walk in the Narrow Way
I’m Redeemed with a Price
In Every Hour of Trial
In My Heart He Set the Music Ringing
In My Heart There Swells a Song
In the Great World Field
Is It Well with My Soul
Jesus Gave Himself for Me
Jesus Is a Friend of Mine
Jesus Loves Us
Jesus Set the Music Ringing
Jesus Took the Little Ones
Jesus, Who Knows and Cares
Just a Ray of Sunshine
Just a Whispered Prayer
Keep in Touch with Jesus
Keep the Joy-Note Ringing
King of the Ages
Let a Song of Praise from Our Hearts Upraise
Let the Children of the King
Let the Glory Crowned Banner of Jesus Today
Let the Nations Hear the News of Full Salvation
Let Us Cheer and Help Each Other
Let Us Now the Heart’s Door
Let Us Run Our Race
Let Us Sing for Joy
Let Your Life Be Set
Life Is a Book
Life Is a Friendly Road
Lift Today Your Heads, Ye Mighty Gates
Lift Up Your Heads, Lift Up Your Heads
Listen to the Strain
Lo the Rosy Gleam of the Morn’s First Beam
Long Years I Had Wandered
Lord Is Calling for Men to Serve Him, The
Lord of Life Is Victor Now, The
Lord, Teach Us to Pray
Love Led Him to Calvary
Love Led the Savior, in Days Long Ago
Love of Christ the Savior, The
Lovingly, Tenderly, Tell the Sweet Story
Make Your Life a Means of Blessing
Manger, a Mother, a Baby So Fair, A
Many, Many Years Ago
Many May Strive
March Forth for the King
Men of Our America, The
Mighty God, the King of Life Immortal, The
Mighty Hosts of Sin and Wrong, The
Morning Breaks, I Face the Way Ahead, The
My Heart Is Aglow with a Love Light Divine
Now, in the Pride of the Strength of Thy Youth
O, Fallen Brother, Heed the Call
O Gift Divine, God’s Boundless Love Revealing
O Holy Spirit, Breathe upon Us Now
O Jesus, Lad of Nazareth
O My Brother, Worn
O Precious Word of Jesus
O Savior Dear, My Heart O’erflows with Gladness
When I originally published the series of posts on Webster, I encouraged readers to augment the list, and we did receive two comments filling in some missing information including the following from George O. Webster’s granddaughter, Mary Hartman.
I am G.O. Webster’s granddaughter – Mary Caroline (Palmer) Hartman. Born in Battle Creek, MI in 1939 to Lawrence and Mabel (Webster) Palmer. I am now widowed and reside in Texas. There is an old song book in my possession – “Spiritual Melodies” published by Pilgrim Publishing House in 1942 that contains four hymns you are missing on your list. These are songs with lyrics and music written by George:
Praise His Name
Jesus is Leading Me On
I Met the Christ
My Guide Will Bring Me Home
(Source: Mary Hartman, June 1, 2015)
Well done, Ms. Hartman!
The following was received from Teri Canty.
I have found a piece, mostly known as a descant (or an obbligato) with Silent Night. The two were blended in an arrangement by Anita Smisek. I believe the original hymn may have been known by the title “O Night of Holy Memory”. The text is attributed to George Webster and the music to Ira Wilson. Here are the lyrics:
Neath the silent stars the town is sleeping.
Shepherds on the hills their watch are keeping
Flocks are safe within the fold, secure from danger, want or cold.
Silent, silent night, Holy, Holy night,
Sleep in peace, sleep in heavenly peace, sleep in peace.
O’er the moonlit plains were angels winging.
From the realms afar glad tidings bringing
See their robes of glistening gold, reflecting a celestial light.
Silent, silent night. Holy, holy night
Christ, the Saviour, Christ, the Saviour is born, Christ is born.
Now the dawn grows near the town is waking.
Magi on the hills their goal approaching.
Their gifts are safe within their arms, their hearts have found the loving light
Glorious, glorious night. Heavenly host sing alleluia
Jesus is born.
I haven’t found a music setting for JUST this text; it is always blended with Silent Night. If you have any luck locating the original setting, I’d love to know about it. (Source: Teri Canty, December 30, 2018)
The wonders of crowdsourcing! Now if we can inspire a performance and recording…
Care to join me for a singalong? Today I’d like to share with you the sheet music cover image for the song, “On Lake Champlain Song”, by Alfred Bryan and Albert Gumble. I’ve added this song to my hyperlocal music wishlist along with “Essex-on-Champlain“, a hymn composed by George Webster.
Lithograph cover for sheet music of “On Lake Champlain” song by Alfred Bryan and Albert Gumble.
Call it sentimentality. Or nostalgia. Or burning curiosity. (After all, I may well be spiritually and nominally descended from Curious George.) Whatever you call it, it’s unlikely you’ve overlooked my wandering wonder. Inquisitiveness may have proved troublesome for some fabled feline (although I’m not 100% confident in this oft parroted truism about curiosity and the cat), but I’m no cat, and my wandering wonder has invested my half century with no end of good adventures.
I hope that Alfred Bryan and Albert Gumble’s “On Lake Champlain” will not prove to be an exception. After all, music (a ballad, I suspect) celebrating our magnificent Lake Champlain? Perfect!
I was fortunate enough to stumble across this sheet music, but I’ve now misplaced it. I vaguely suspect I lent it out in the hopes of soliciting a performance or a recording. But that may be my overly optimistic imagination stepping in to assist m memory. No doubt I’ll reconnect with this artifact anon, and perhaps then I’ll have more luck transforming sheet music into audible music.
In the mean time, I’d like to see if someone out there might be able to boost this wishlist item a bit. Let’s learn this song! Here’s a little more information to [hopefully] catalyze some sort of progress toward a listenable and eventually singalong-able version on “On Lake Champlain” by Alfred Bryan and Albert Gumble.
Instrumentation: voice; piano City of Publication: New York Illustrator: L.P.N. DCMI Type: Still Image Is Part Of: 1910-1920 Publisher: Jerome H. Remick
(Source: Duke Libraries)
What else do we know? It looks like “On Lake Champlain” was composed in 1916, Albert Gumble lived from 1881 to 1946, and previous collaborations with Alfred Bryan included:
1908
“Are You Sincere?”
“When I Marry You”
“Can’t You See?”
1910
“I’m Afraid of You”
“I Won’t Be Back ‘Till August”
“Get a Girl to Love You”
“Winter”
1911
“You’ll Do the Same Thing Over Again”
1912
“Somebody Else Will if You Don’t”
“When I Waltz with You”
“When You’re Married”
1913
“I’m Goin’ to Stay Right Here in Town”
“Think of Me When I Am Near”
“Flow Along River Tennessee (To the Home of the Girl I Love)”
“You’re Never Too Old to Love” (Note: w/William Jerome)
So for now I’ll pause this post in the hope that the vintage color lithograph for Alfred Bryan and Albert Gumble’s sheet music will miraculously move us closer to an audible version of “On Lake Champlain”. If fortune smiles upon us, I’ll update this post.
Rosslyn’s boathouse was flooded and severely damaged in 1983. (Source: Dianne Lansing)
You may have noticed that my blog posts are sporadic. Sometimes a post almost writes itself, exploding into the blogosphere as if channeled from the universe itself. Other times lengthy lapses betray my distracted dithering. Today’s soggy sentiments fall into the latter category.
Nevertheless, it’s a shame that more than two years have come and gone since Essex neighbor and friend Dianne Lansing sent me that sorrowful photograph of our boathouse succumbing to Lake Champlain‘s bullying. Shame on me!
Here are a few excerpts from my exchange with Dianne during the 2015 winter/spring.
Dianne Lansing: All those mallards are hoping you will turn on your bubbler as the ice is closing in on them and they really don’t want to leave. I was surprised to find them in my yard under the oak tree eating acorns a couple of afternoons. Never knew that could be part of their diet…
Geo Davis: What a wonderful (and horrifying) photograph of Rosslyn’s boathouse! Thank you for digging it up and passing it along. Did you take the photograph? Do you recollect the back story? Normal spring flooding? Is this what prompted George McNutly’s mid-1980s boathouse rebuild (when LCT’s crane barge, Miss Piggy) assisted?
Dianne Lansing: Glad you liked the photo… I don’t know if I took the photo or David [Dianne’s husband, David Lansing] did. Probably me but I don’t remember any of it. Don’t recall seeing the boat house in such disrepair. I’m pretty sure, however, that it was ‘normal’ spring flooding as I don’t recall any other event that would have caused the roof to collapse. I’m glad you have restored it to its former glory…
Geo Davis: Thank you! A wonderful gift and ominous warning to always act as responsible stewards of that quirky little building. I’ll credit both of you, and we’ll let posterity sort it out.
While it pains me to see Rosslyn boathouse underwater (and collapsing!), it’s a reminder that we’ve made some headway over the last eleven years. There’s never any guarantee, and I’m well aware that flooding could bring the pretty boathouse to her knees once again. But I’m optimistic. After all, it beats worrying!
Thanks again, Dianne, for this bittersweet illustration of Rosslyn boathouse’s wet-dry-wet-dry heritage. Fingers crossed that we won’t repeat history any time soon.
Vintage Sherwood Inn Postcard (Source: Rosslyn Private Collection)
Almost two months ago I shared a reel on Instagram. I’m still new to reels, so I’ve been experimenting, playing really, exploring the potential. I actually really enjoy the ultra short format videos, and I’ve found the music matching and recommendation capacity provided by Instagram to be a little bit addictive. Sometimes the music recommended is spot on! Or at leas it seems to be…
Instagram recommended a clip from Rhiannon Giddens (@rhiannongiddens) “Build a House” and it seemed perfect! Hauntingly beautiful melody, Yo-Yo Ma (@yoyoma) accompanying on cello, and a message that seemed custom curated for what I was thinking about.
So then I traveled far and wide, far and wide, far and wide And then I traveled far and wide until I found a home
— Rhiannon Giddens (“Build a House”)
It turns out my haste and enthusiasm got the better of me. Here’s the Instagram Reel.
https://www.instagram.com/reel/CjjLMpSAr9x/
Arresting voice, mesmerizing lyric, and just plain captivating. Paired with a couple moody mugs of Rosslyn, it felt like a worthwhile experiment in Reel-creation. The platform does a remarkable job of empowering creativity, and I’ve found that the best way to learn is simply to try things out. Sort of like my approach to learning languages. Jump in. You might look silly sometimes, but jettisoning restraint and self consciousness definitely accelerates the learning curve.
But…
I should have done a little more research. Twenty-twenty hindsight. Yes, Rhiannon Giddens and Yo-Yo Ma breath life into “Build A House” in this hypnotic, haunting earworm. But this tiny excerpt of the lyrics — a couplet perfectly paired to my goals — is actually part of a potent song-story that is decidedly ill served by my pairing. In fact, I realize that I’ve flirted uncomfortably close with cultural appropriation. I understand that now.
Here’s Ms. Giddens on the song which was premiered on June 19, 2020.
“This song came knocking about a week ago and I had to open the door and let it in. What can I say about what’s been happening, what has happened, and what is continuing to happen, in this country, in the world? There’s too many words and none, all at once. So I let the music speak, as usual. What a thing to mark this 155th anniversary of Juneteenth with that beautiful soul Yo-Yo Ma. Honored to have it out in the world.” — Rhiannon Giddens
Here’s a clear eyed couple of couplets that add irony to my misappropriation of the verse, of the audio excerpt.
“I learned your words and wrote a song, wrote a song, wrote a song I learned your words and wrote a song to put my story down
But then you came and took my song, took my song, took my song But then you came and took my song, playing it for your own”
Rhiannon Giddens (Build a House)
Wow! I don’t think I can do much work in explaining how it felt to realize that I too had come along and taken her song, playing it for my own. Surreal.
Needless to say, I was tempted to remove the reel, to hang my head for perpetuating the pain captured so poignantly in the lyrics. But pretending I hadn’t made the mistake would be disingenuous. Own it. Humbly. Aware that this is not my song. It is borrowed. Out of context. Here’s the correct context.
That’s Rhiannon Giddens and Yo-Yo Ma performing “Build a House”. I’m certain you can’t watch/listen just once. Gidden’s song (and signing) woven into a musical story with Yo-Yo Ma’s unrivalled cello playing is like a pair of human voices sharing a memories, maybe a constellation of memories, a heritage. But rather than quaking under the burden of this heritage, the voices sing, rising and falling, repeating almost playfully. This song invites the listener to join in the infectious lyrics, daring the listener to become active, to join the song, to join the lament, help carry the burdensome heritage.
This interpretation, mine and decidedly unacademic, to be sure, seems to be consistent with the fact that Ms. Giddens song is also a book. For children. For adults. For all of us. There’s an accessibility, an infectious accessibility that “Build a House” vibrates into existence that wraps us all in the embrace of the story, that asks us all to carry the song forward. Even those of us inclined to hastily adopt it as out own, even if it might not appear to be our own.
Here’s the song as a video walkthrough of the illustrated book.
So I finish, conflicted with why I feel so compelled with this song despite the painful lyrics, why the rhythm and energy and spirit of the song continue to embrace me even as I recognize my initial misstep. No conclusions yet. But I’ve decided to leave the reel and acknowledge it here, to examine it honestly. If I offend, please accept my apologies. But if I have possibly brought this important song to you, and if it has germinated within your psyche as it has within my own, then perhaps my decision is not in vain. I certainly hope that will be the case.
Update: We Become One
A fee days have passed since I shared this post, and I’m still unable to let it go. Today I received a subtle hint from the universe. I like to think of moments when life rhymes, when, for a moment, we hear the singing underneath. I’ve just had one of those moments. I received an invitation to attend the upcoming Christmas caroling “pop-ups” that will be performed in coming weeks by the Santa Fe Desert Chorale. And linking through to the website I watched a video that included Joshua Haberman, Artistic Director for the Santa Fe Desert Chorale, talking about the power of chorale music. Specifically he was talking about lone individuals walking into Santa Fe Sings performances with a bit of trepidation because they arrived alone. But once inside, once the singing began, these individuals ceased to be alone. “Singing together we become one voice, one human family.” This struck me as the answer, or at least part of the answer, that I’ve been searching for. The power of music, especially music that invites us to sing or dance or sing-and-dance, is that it joins us together. We become one family.
Can’t do it! Redneck, city slicker, suburbanite, exurbanite, whatever… If you give this energetic summer anthem a second or two you’ll be hooked. Scoff if you need to. Turn up your nose if your tastes are too refined for the Redneck Yacht Club. But I’m gambling that the next time you hear it pumping out the window of a slow-passing pickup truck you’ll smile. And hum the chorus. And admit to yourself that it’s a pretty catchy tune.
Here’s a little taste of the chorus. Try to read it without singing/humming the melody. Just try!
Basstrackers, Bayliners and a party barge, strung together like a floating trailer park, anchored out and gettin loud. All summer long, side by side, there’s five houseboat, front porches astroturf, lawn chairs and tiki torches, regular Joes rocking the boat. That’s us, the redneck yacht club.
(CowboyLyrics.com)
See what I mean? So, your Chris Craft tastes don’t feel comfy with a song about Bayliners and party barges… So what? Stop judging and start bobbing your head!
I did.
You see, for the first year (or two?) that my bride and I were renovating/rehabilitating Rosslyn, Redneck Yacht Club played on always-on WOKO again and again. I don’t remember for sure, but I may have scoffed outwardly (and hummed inwardly) the first time I heard the song. But not the second. I laughed. I sang along. I went out and bought the album! Several years later, WOKO is no longer the default radio channel at Rosslyn, but I still hear the song from time to time. And when I do, it transports me instantly to the days of demolition, of surprises (mold, rot, bad electric, bad plumbing) and a mushrooming scope of work. It also takes me back to a house full of laughing contractors, rambling stories, off-color jokes and meals shared on sawhorses and upturned compound buckets.
