Life on the Mississippi, revisited

It’s Fathers’ Day. This is a reprise of something I posted on this blog in February of 2013, and trot out occasionally on this day.

In a dusty, fading memory of a National Geographic of my youth, among the bare-breasted African ladies and stripe-shirted Parisians, there is a sunny picture of a lad on a raft, his toes swirling the Mississippi River. His father had taken him out of school for a year of rafting on that mythic Father of Dreams, not only waters. Why could not I have a father like that, I grieved.

My own father thought peace, not adventure, was the greatest gift. He was born and grew in Latvia, in a forest of kin, as much a part of his place as the oak trees planted for the native sons. A small stone house, a well, three oaks and a horizon of fields. A burial ground nearby sheltered his ancestors on both sides; their names are gone now, weathered away like the wooden crosses that marked their graves. But he was there, where he belonged, in the embrace of family, living and dead.

When I was a boy, I would stand in front of the door of my house, looking outside, wishing and wondering. I think he was like that. Bye and bye, whatever was beyond the fields of oats and rye beckoned, and he answered. In a fit of irrational exuberance, he joined the army.

Not bad, really, at least at first. It was a free country, for that brief period between the great wars, and nothing for soldiers to do but dream of dying under foreign skies, all brave and noble. They certainly had the songs for it. He went off to Riga, to the War College. It was a blast. Bright lights, big city, no way to keep him down on the farm after that. He married a girl with an eighth grade education and a mind that was quicker than a hare chased by two foxes and an alley cat. No slouch himself, he thought she was normal. They had a couple of children. You know that feeling, in a dream, when you’ve climbed to the highest peak to look at the world, and you turn around to discover the mountain has disappeared while you weren’t paying attention?

Russians. Germans, then Russians again. The world was in one of its fits. This part of the story is a haze of half glimpsed hopes and fears, mostly projections on my part. Like one of those stunts on a magician’s stage : a loud noise, a lot of smoke, and when it all clears, everything is different. In a camp in Germany, full of shattered dreams, I was born, much to the chagrin, I’m betting, of my brothers.

The father I knew had had enough adventures, thank you. He had made some promises to God when all else had crumbled; he did his best to see that his children fulfilled them. Keep this in mind when you promise things to God: don’t involve others. Faust probably had a better deal.

These days, I live near the Mississippi, and occasionally, when I drive upriver, I see that kid on the raft in my mind. I’m older now than my father ever got. I hope I’ve done as well as he did.

Joshua and the wuss

I’m in Riga, where there’s always music.  This year, it’s the venue for the World Choir Olympics.  I had never heard of such a thing, but never mind, it appears that lots of other people have.  The place is positively buzzing, with venues all across town, and impromptu street corner concerts for those who can’t get enough.

It’s grand.

Everywhere you look, groups large and small, all ages, in minimal or maximal choir attire, can be seen bustling about, off to some urgent event or another.  It wouldn’t be hard to be bowled over if you’re not careful.  The apartment I’m renting is directly on the path, it seems, between the Olympic Stadium and everywhere else, and all day long a chorus of languages files by, magnificent in its diversity, that would have made Babylon despair of towers forever

It seems every country in the world is represented, some more than once.  I’ve seen Russians, Bulgarians, Koreans, and even two flavors of Americans from the US.  I specify US to differentiate them from several Latin American groups.

Nor do they limit themselves to their own cultural heritage.  Just now, I’m walking past an outdoor bandstand, where a choir from somewhere in Asia is singing

Josha fixed a battle of Jericho
And the wuss come a ‘tumblin down

Gotta love it.

Musical Riga: a photo essay

Riga is music; any season, but in summer, everything and everyone moves outdoors. The winters are long, dark, and cold, and Latvians figure to get the sun and fresh air while it’s available; plenty of time to rest after the leaves start to fall.  Everywhere you look, people are picnicking in the parks, or boating on the canal, or just sitting at cafes.  Nobody sleeps, really.  Many are the deep, peaceful slumbers, when it finally gets dark, interrupted by a full-throated early morning choir of well-lubricated revelers, their songs echoing back and forth between the buildings, much as they themselves might bounce between the same walls.  Latvians love their beer, and it is excellent; this fact in turn invites like-minded tourists to join in.  The saving grace is that the most violence you’re likely to see is perpetrated against the principles of harmony, and not people.  My view is that if I must put up with drunks, I much prefer them prone to outbursts of song than to outbursts of violence!

There is a plethora of music in official venues: concert halls, arenas, amphitheaters, and bars.  But to me, what really defines Riga in the summertime is the street music.  It is actively encouraged; the many local music schools even send their students out on the streets to perform, as a way of getting experience.  And, of course, there is the usual variety of street buskers, although it’s not everywhere that they set up complete with generators and amplified instruments.  The sheer range of talent and production value on the street is astonishing.

I wish I could have sampled the sounds for you, but I’m afraid it’s beyond my small competence to putt something like that together.  So here’s a photographic journey instead.

Enjoy!

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This trio was playing a Boccherini quartet.  If they had another person, I guess they could have gone for a quintet.  They were fantastic.

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There was even the occasional official paid gig, like this one at an upscale hotel.  Outdoors, of course.

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Big production number here; very professional, great vocalist.  They had a gas generator with a long enough extension cord so that it didn’t interfere too much.

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Then there was this guy, a marvelous operatic baritone.

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Cello chiller.

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I actually thought I might know this blues harp player from my checkered past.  Then I realized I’m old enough to be his father.

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They start young.  Good posture, sweet sound.

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A one-woman band, and with an attitude.  Her schtick was to ask passers-by to sing a verse of their national anthem.  Then she would make it sound like everything else she played.

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Ragtime Cowboy Joe.

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Not a cowboy.  Some people apparently just needed the money.  The quality of this group was variable, but you had to give them credit for doing something, and not just begging.

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Even Anonymous apparently was represented.  An interesting cure for stage fright!

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Very proper, and with a beautiful clear voice.  She played a traditional instrument and sang Latvian folk songs, even dressed the part.

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Of course, it’s always nice if you have a buddy to help with the music.

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Uh, no comment.

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More solid traditional music, despite the cowboy hats.

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Some interesting combinations…

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Lots of brass bands.  These guys were excellent; no need for amps here!

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Or here, for Mr.Cool.

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Another brass band.

That’s all, folks!

Mail order bride

On a long bus ride into the past, watching Riga Center slip by, I become aware of the two voices from the seat behind me. He speaks American English, slow, measured, clearly enunciated. She speaks language-school English, without undue inflection, practiced.

– Riga is a very nice city.
– Yes, very nice.
– I saw a sign somewhere, on the Maxima, I think. It said 00-24.
– Yes, it’s means it’s open 24/7.
– So, if it says 8-22…
– Yes, of course.

(pause)

– Once I walked 2 hours to buy a book. I will show you where; it’s on this line.
– You walked 2 hours?
– I wanted just to walk.
– I hope it was a good book.
– Look, there it is, the bookstore.

(pause)

– There’s a bus with a thing to connect to wires overhead.
– Yes, we call them trolley busses.
– In Paris and London, they have subways.
– They wanted to build a subway here…
– But the electricity is in the rails, not overhead, like here.
– But it was not popular.
– Oh, look, there’s one on rails. They stopped those in San Francisco. Too hard to maintain.
– Yes.
– My ex-wife wants 50% of everything. She will only get 25%.

(pause)

– Graffiti. That means it’s not a good place.
– Yes, outskirts, not so nice.
– Suburbs.
– No, outskirts.
– No. City, suburbs, then country.
– No. Outskirts.

(pause)

– Nothing to do out here, I guess.
– No, it’s nice.

My stop, time to get off. I can’t resist turning around. I see a grey man in his 50s, either fashionably unshaven, or just lazy, can’t tell. Beside him is a rather plump young girl, attractive, a determined look on her pleasant face. I hope it works out. I’m not very optimistic.