By Kevin on May 8, 2017
This essay has to do with while I am here and secondly, when I am gone.
An Australian composer of great note recently produced a memorable work which he called, "While I Am Here." His name is John Munro. He is originally from Scotland and has long since assumed Australian citizenship. After listening to John Munro's epic piece about "While I Am Here," my thoughts ran to a prose piece which for want of a better title is called "When I Am Gone." John Munro's piece is written in poetic form while my piece is in my own pedestrian prose. Needless to say, it may be more interesting to listen to the Munro piece than to my story of "When I Am Gone."
In the Munro piece, along about the fourth line from the top, there is a reference to doing "the best you can." My mother did not have a copyright on doing the best you can but she claimed authorship of that title in my estimation in August of 1942 when her youngest child departed for the American Army. So let us deal first with the Munro piece. As I said, near the beginning of John Munro's lyrics appears the line about doing the best you can. This triggered a thought that has been with me for more than 70 years.
On the morning that I left to join the American Army in August of 1942, there was a memorable exchange between Lillie Carr, my mother, and myself. I knew that my mother harbored ill feelings about the way that the English treated the Irish during their 800 years of occupation. But there was an uprising by the Irish on Easter Day in Dublin in 1916. As usual, the Irish were decimated and their leader, James Connolly, was so wounded that he could not stand. The Brits ordered Connolly's execution. He could not stand so they shot him in the chair where he was sitting. Or if you believe another story, Connolly was shot while lying down.
My mother and her sisters felt very strongly about their Irish ancestry. One of them, Aunt Nora, used to play a game with me when I was a small child. As soon as she came into the house, Aunt Nora would say, "Boy, what would you be if you were not Irish?" I knew the answer. It was, "I would be ashamed." But from James Connolly's execution in 1916 until her death in 1961, the feeling my mother had for the British Empire could be categorized largely as hatred.
Our home in Richmond Heights, Missouri was constructed largely through the efforts of my father. The two-car garage was separated from the house by about 25 feet. This was the custom in those days, having to do with engine fires. In front of the garage was a concrete slab which was for maneuvering to get the cars into the garage. As I was leaving for the Army, my mother accompanied me to this concrete driveway. At that point, when it came time to say goodbye, my mother issued the usual warnings about writing home often. Then she began to talk about the dangers I would face. Her four brothers were in the First World War and were subjected to gas attacks by the Germans.
I attempted to soothe my mother's fears by telling her how much help we would have in fighting the war. I told her about the Canadians and the Frenchmen. I told her about the Norwegians and the Danes, and mostly about the Poles. She had warm feelings for the Poles because their help was greatly appreciated by my parents when they were running the Lilac Roost Dairy Farm. And then inexplicably I said that we would have the help of Great Britain. My mother would have none of this "Great Britain" stuff. Immediately, she said, "You mean the English?" I must have shrugged my confirmation of her thoughts about the English. Immediately, she said to me, "Son, in that case you will have to do the best you can." With that, she turned on her heel and retired to her kitchen. I knew at that point that the interview was ended.
I could not figure out how I could have made such a blunder. But there was only one thing to do, which was to walk the half mile to the streetcar stop where I would board the Kirkwood-Ferguson streetcar. It took about two hours for the streetcar to reach Jefferson Barracks after about three transfers. All the way from beginning to end, I was cursing myself for mentioning England to my mother. She came to see me at Jefferson Barracks before I was shipped to basic training. It was the last time I saw her for nearly two and a half years.
So aside from the Munro piece having to do with "While I Am Here," when I play that piece I always have a feeling of poignancy about the phrase "doing the best you can." My mother did not invent those lines about doing the best you can, but she used them with great effectiveness on the day that I departed our home to join the American Army.
Now that we have tended to the "While I Am Here" story, I am ready to turn to my thoughts about what I would miss when I am gone. It is obvious that I will miss my friends and my relatives. There are my wife, two daughters and their husbands, and five grandchildren. One of my essays, called "Love Her, Love Her, Love Her," was written as a tribute to my wife. But I am determined not to fall into the trap of identifying which friend or which relative I will miss the most.
Quite to the contrary, I believe that what I will miss the most will be music. Reviewing these thoughts that accompany this essay, it seems to me that music that tells a story with a good melody and harmony is essential to producing a good song. I suspect that Miss Ashbaugh, our grade school choral director, and Georgia Walker, our high school director of music, must have made a bigger impression upon me than I had thought before.
In the early days, I used to escort my elder sister when she sang in the chorus in the St. Louis Grand Opera. From attending the Grand Opera, I learned to appreciate a piece of music. I do not consider the music of the rock and roll variety to be good music. There is a performer here named Bruce Springsteen who shouts the lyrics to all his music. I do not consider that music acceptable. Naturally I have a soft spot in my heart for tunes with an Irish background, another soft spot for spirituals and a further soft spot for opera arias.
There is an accompanying CD to this essay which includes a small sample of some of the songs that I will miss. When I joined the Army, I was probably humming "Whispering Grass" which is included in this very limited selection of tunes. If I were to send you every song that I will miss, the list would be endless. The songs included here have been chosen selectively to give you a flavor of what I will miss.
The point I am attempting to make is that when I am gone, I will miss good music tremendously.
So this essay has two unrelated points to it. The first is the inspiration of John Munro when he wrote his song "While I Am Here" with reference to the old phrase of doing the best you can. The second part would be what I will miss when I am gone.
I saw my cardiologist a few days ago and he assured me that I will be around for a while in spite of my Methuselah-like age. Well, there you have it about the whiles and the whens. I am delighted that John Munro has composed this piece and I am also delighted that his efforts have led me to this period of contemplation about what I will miss when I am gone.
It has been a great pleasure to dictate this essay because it deals with music. If there is a higher calling than producing a great piece of music, it remains for me to discover it. And so I hope that you have enjoyed this essay about music as much as I have.
I wonder if Judy could get me a tracklist for that essay — I'd post it here!
Here's a song by Munro on Campbell, who indeed was shot in a chair at Kilmainham Gaol. I visited recently and saw the grounds where it happened!
This entry is filed under 2012, Favorite, Ireland, Music.
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