Even with the responsibilities of family and the demands of teaching high school music, Mike never put his commitment to singing and performing professionally on the back burner. He made room for whatever opportunities came his way—LA Master Chorale, opera chorus, soloist in church choirs and synagogues, and working on original shows that featured works from what we’ve come to think of as “The Great American Songbook.”
Honestly, although I respected Mike’s decisions when he took unpaid leaves from teaching in order to tour far away places with one or another choral group, I wasn’t always wild about the effects such decisions had on the home front. I wasn’t always wild about night after night of rehearsals for one or another performance, either, but I delighted in the outcomes. It was pure joy seeing and hearing Mike in action, whether with a formal choral production, either singing or conducting, or hamming it up with Bill Schmidt on a song and dance routine, proclaiming that only “Mad Dogs and Englishmen” go out in the noonday sun. It was a pleasure to listen as he practiced one or another song, to talk with him about possible interpretations. To cheer him on.
When my long-dormant desire to write more than shopping lists bubbled up through the hard-packed shell of practicality, I didn’t give it much credibility. Wife, mother, teacher, daughter, movies, books, living in the world—how would I ever eke out enough time to develop a writing life?
But … there was Mike, a daily living example of one who nurtured his own creativity, and “eking out” was not what he did. In this area of my life, sometimes to his chagrin, he became my role model.
Although Mike respected my decision to take an unpaid leave from teaching in order to finish a book, he wasn’t wild about the temporary cut in income. The same was true when I went off for three weeks to a writing retreat in Vermont. But, as I loved the results of his music practices, he loved the results of my writing practices. His insights and critiques of first draft materials were invaluable. He was backup at conference book sale tables. He cheered me on.
Without Mike’s sometimes challenging example, I could easily have put writing on the back burner and let daily practicality rule. Instead of having 12 published books in print, I could easily now be wondering, what if I’d finished that first book attempt, instead of going to the market, or picking up the cleaning. It was the inspiration of Mike’s dedication to music that gave me the resolve to write and keep writing, especially when the pesky details of the practical world worked so hard to draw me away.… I am grateful for all that we brought to each other….
Next, Sharon told of how, at the age of 8, soon after she started taking piano lessons from “Mr. Reynolds,” she began seeing him more often when he dropped by our house. She began noticing that her mom was having long conversations on the phone with him. She told of the gifts of talent and broader experiences he brought to our little band of three. She read “In Blackwater Woods,” by Mary Oliver, that speaks of the beauty of nature, the ubiquity of loss, the necessity of love, and the essential task to let go when the time comes.
For the previous five years, all of us who loved Mike had been working on the task of letting go. Maybe we finally could.Cindi didn’t speak during the formal part of the service, but just days after Mike’s death she posted a touching online tribute to him, complete with pictures and music. Many, many of Mike’s former students also posted online tributes.
Matt finished the immediate family segment of the service, offering a “behind the scenes” account of Mike’s life as he knew it:
Since my dad died a few weeks ago, I’ve been combing through the family archives, looking at photos and scanning images for the slideshow that will be playing in the reception hall. As you can imagine, this has been a bittersweet process. Nevertheless, I have noticed a couple of themes, the most obvious of which has been his life onstage, performing, directing, singing.
Of course, even in those pictures where he’s not onstage, he was still often performing. He had a way of always being “on.” The camera inevitably compels performance. No surprise—we tend to photograph those moments we hope will be worth saving, worth looking back on. But it’s a little uncanny how my dad seemed to have an awful lot of these moments worth remembering. This was a VERY well-documented life.
My favorite—a picture of him from 1954, in Tampa, with the Royal Palms Orchestra, age of 14 dressed in his white dinner jacket, standing at the mic in front of a big band orchestra.
But I also want to acknowledge that there was another side to my dad. He was a complex human being…. One of the many things I loved about him was his silliness. He loved corny jokes and never failed to make himself and others laugh during a round of charades.
He could also be judgmental. I won’t talk so much about that today….
He was an incredible teacher who inspired so many of his students and challenged them to take on ridiculously ambitious pieces of choral music. I had the privilege of teaching some of his students when I occasionally substituted at San Gabriel High School and heard firsthand about the impact he had on so many lives. And yet he ALWAYS COMPLAINED about his job. He never failed to express his misery about having to start a new week or having to go back after summer break.
He was deeply religious but constantly questioned the rigid dogmas he was exposed to in the various churches he was affiliated with. And while his spiritual growth was an enormous part of his life, he was without doubt one of the most materialistic people I’ve ever known. This was a man WHO LOVED HIS STUFF! He obsessed over his Royal Doulton figurines, his china and silver, his clothes, his shoes, his Waterford crystal. His favorite places of worship were not only All Saints, Hollywood Presbyterian, and the Wilshire Temple, but Bullock’s, Jacob Maarse, and Nordstrom.
One of the hardest things to watch over the last four years was the cruel transformation of this complexity into one-dimensionality…. I will never be able to forget the agony I felt every time I made the long drive to, first, Carmichael Oaks, then Porto Sicuro, then Sister Sarah’s, then Green Hill. I’m terribly sad I wasn’t able to be by his side when he left this earth, but I’m relieved I didn’t have to see him at the last institutional facility.
I also need to say how utterly grateful I am to the two people who worked the hardest behind the scenes to make sure Dad was well cared for and as comfortable as it was possible for him to be. Marg, and especially Mom, thank you. Dad was incapable of expressing or, to my knowledge, experiencing gratitude towards the end, but I know he would want me to thank you for him. I’m not sure if heaven exists, but if it does, there is a special place there for the two of you.
Even though these last few years have been so hard, there are still moments and fragments that I will cherish. The last time I saw him, this past August, most of my time with him was spent watching him shuffle past me on the perpetual loop he walked in whichever facility he was in. Every couple of passes, I could catch his eye and smile and say, “Hi, Dad.” I could hold out my arms and he would walk over to me and open his arms to me, and we would give each other a big hug, and I could tell him I loved him.
Looking at photos, I see a life VERY well lived. I see a PUBLIC person who loved and was very well loved. But I’m also grateful for the life behind the scenes, for those fragments of connection during even the most difficult times—for all the practice and hard work that made the performances seem so effortless.
Growing up, one of my favorite memories is waking up to the sound of his voice on Sunday morning. But it wasn’t a song or piece performed in its entirety. It was the exercises he would sing to warm up his voice. I could hear him down the hall of our house in Altadena, sitting at the piano in the living room, singing his own unique version of scales. This was my Sunday morning soundtrack.
So here, in honor of my dad, in memory of my experience of him behind the scenes, in the spirit of his willingness to look silly, and MOST ESPECIALLY, with apologies to you for having to listen to this, I’d like to sing a snippet of the Sunday morning song
.
To the surprise of all who knew him, Matt then sang the first five notes of a scale up and back. I would guess it to be C,D,E,F,G,F,E,D,C.
After Matt spoke, our niece, Corry, sang of lingering “Precious Memories,”
How they ever flood my soul
In the stillness of the midnight
Precious sacred scenes unfold.
I wished Mike could have stayed around long enough to see Corry’s development as a singer/songwriter.
Dale, Marg, Jeannie, Norman, Mary Rawcliffe, and Bill Schmidt, all had stories to tell. Stories of kindnesses. Stories of Mike’s shared gifts of music. Laugh-out-loud stories. So many bittersweet reminders of what we were all missing.
Bill accompanied Mary on the piano as she sang a Noel Coward song that starts, “I’ll see you again, whenever spring breaks through again…”, conjuring memories of the shows they and Mike had done together at the Pewter Plough in Cambria, or Valhalla at Lake Tahoe. If I ever feel the need to collapse in sobs, I’ll listen to our recording of that piece.
Bill played a medley of songs from Mike’s 50th birthday show, “Ages, Stages and a Few Laughs.” Roger, the present UUSS minister, read comments of appreciation from students that had come in the mail or been posted on Facebook. There was a tribute from Barbara Lazar, expressing the joys of making music with him. The Chanteuses singers did a rousing rendition of “Down by the Riverside,” a piece Mike had led them in many times. They followed that with “Sing Me to Heaven.” It was beautiful and heartfelt, and although several singers were tearful, their sound was spectacular.
For the final hymn I chose “For All the Saints,” which, although it depicts a theology neither of us subscribed to beyond adolescence, is strong and rousing, and conjures other times and other memorials—and particularly conjures Mike’s voice from Marg’s father’s memorial all those many years ago.
We invited everyone who had ever sung with Mike, or sung under his direction, to come to the front and lead the congregational singing. They lined the series of broad steps leading to the level of the pulpit and crowded several rows deep in front of the first pews. Bill gave a short introduction on the organ, and the assembled group sang out. Their voices filled the sanctuary. There was no other word for it but “glorious.”
A few closing words from Roger, then Bill put the organ through its paces, belting out a jubilant Irish jig, a postlude in keeping with Mike’s joy of dance, and music, and celebration.
Somewhere in the depths of joys and sorrows flooding through that time of assembled remembrances, Mike came back to me. He had been gone for such a long time, in such a strange way, and my interactions and attentions to the remnant of him overshadowed the Mike who had once been.
“Welcome back,” I whispered to the lingering Mike.
“COME BACK TO SORRENTO,” OR “TOMA A SURRIENTO”
2005
It is August 2005. We are in Sorrento, Italy, at L’Antica Trattatoria, a small restaurant, off the beaten path. In the soft glow of candlelight, our half-empty wine glasses rest on a crisp white linen tablecloth. A serenading violinist plays in the background, “Come Back to Sorrento.” We laugh that the scene is, except for us, like something out of a movie. Me, nearly 70, and Mike 65, we don’t exactly fit a movie image of romantic leads. Still, on this, our 38th wedding anniversary, we are romantic.
“Here’s to us,” Mike toasts with the Campania recommended by our waiter. “I’m so glad we found each other. I can’t imagine life without you.”
As we tap glasses, I quote the inscription I’d so long ago had engraved inside the ring that was to be Mike’s. “With love deepening, enduring,”
Over a long, slow dinner, we talk of shared good times and bad.
I mention our honeymoon. Two days alone in the mountains, then a trip to Florida to meet Mike’s family. My two daughters, Sharon, 9, and Cindi, 7, went with us.
“Remember how my mother insisted we take their bedroom—the one without a door?” Mike says.
We laugh, remembering that the only room in that whole house with a door on it had been the bathroom, making the bathroom our honeymoon suite.
“I think I may still have a bruise on my back from the bathtub faucet,” I say.
After the tagliolini for me—with lemon cream sauce, red prawns, and lumpfish on creamed spinach, and equally lofty lamb chops for Mike, after sipping Limoncelo and hearing yet one more plaintive rendition of “Come Back to Sorrento,” we walk the few blocks back to our hotel. It’s a balmy night, lit by a bright half moon, seasoned by a sweet bay breeze.
Getting ready for bed, Mike sidles up to me, kisses me lightly on the back of my neck and asks, “Wanna do it in the bathtub? Just for old time’s sake?”
“Let’s forgo the challenge of intrusive plumbing fixtures and make use of our comfy rented bed,” I say. And we do.
A few days later we take the train to Rome, where we meet up with the Dodsons—my brother, Dale, sister-in-law, Marg, and their grown daughter, Corry. The next day we meet my cousin’s wife, Janice, and her 11-year-old granddaughter, Taylor. I no longer remember the details and surprises of our Rome meeting. I wish I could. What I’m left with is the sense of miscommunications, chance meetings, and light-hearted laughter. Well … I do remember the Colosseum and the Vatican. The Spanish Steps and Santa Maria Trastevere, a church dating from the third century. Mostly though, I remember fond, shared laughter, coupled with a sense of wonder that we were actually in Italy, that we had all found each other in Rome.
After a few days in Rome, and with a few wrong turns, Mike and I in one rented car, the Dodsons in another, Janice and Taylor on a combination of trains and buses, we all manage to find our way to Montepulciano, where our daughter, Sharon, son-in-law Doug, and their two children, Lena, 5, and Subei, 11, are already ensconced in the picturesque villa Sharon had ferreted out online. When we arrive in the late afternoon, they are outside, sitting at a big round wooden table, shaded by two large trees the owner later identifies as “Umbrella Pines.” Quick hugs all around. Quick chatter of travel adventures. Luggage taken to individual accommodations. Quick uses of the facilities, and then we are all at the big table, in the yard that overlooks a rolling hill of grapevines. Doug opens wine, Sharon puts cheeses and bread rounds on the table, and we catch up with one another’s travel adventures.
We fall into a loose, unspoken practice of side trips from Montepulciano every morning. In small, ever-changing groups, we stroll through out-of-the-way villages. We visit Florence, so overwhelmed by the art that we make peace with the knowledge that we won’t see it all, that it’s better to experience a few pieces deeply than to impart on a self-imposed survey course. Mike and I join the group that, sensibly, hires a driver for the narrow, curvy, cliffhanging drive overlooking the Amalfi Coast. But wherever our day trips take us, we gather in the late afternoon, around the big wooden table, with whatever day’s accumulation of wines and cheeses we’ve found along the way. Laughing at mishaps, showing our wares, and always the ongoing back and forth with what has become this precious sabbatical from worries for our troubled world, the weighing and measuring of where and when to go for dinner.
On the last night in Montepulciano, with only Dale and Marg and Mike and me left at the villa, in honor of our just-passed anniversary, Dale and Marg take us to dinner at a local restaurant. Mike and I married almost exactly one year after Dale and Marg tied the proverbial knot. We married in the same church, with many of the same guests, and always, either in person or from a distance, we mark each other’s anniversaries.
I don’t remember the name of the restaurant, or what it looked like inside, though I think there were candles. I don’t remember what we ate, though I think we agreed it was one of the best meals ever. Beyond any of those details, though, here’s what I do remember: We are sitting at an outside table, on a high balcony, with a panoramic view of the night sky that is unhampered by tall buildings or rooftops. The bright, full moon is huge, bre
athtaking, shining on our little table, shining on us, as if we alone have been singled out for its radiance. Now, years later, as I sit writing of that night, I sense again the gravitational pull of that brilliant, Italian moon.
Back home in Sacramento, timed to coincide with the next full moon, Mike and I treat the Dodsons to a different sort of anniversary dinner. Jeannie and Bill Ward join us for the celebration on the Fair Oaks footbridge that spans the lower banks of the American River. We set up a card table and six of those folding canvas chairs, like the ones you see lining the fields of youth soccer games. Eschewing paper and plastic products, Mike covers the well-worn card table with a white tablecloth and a small bouquet of yellow roses. By the time the others join us on the bridge, the table is set with “real” plates and wine glasses. A pre-cooled bottle of Chardonnay nestles in one of those cylindrical marble wine chillers, and a red is opened and breathing.
Our food offerings—salads, both green and potato, fried chicken, chocolate chip cookies for desert—are not of a Montepulciano style. Nevertheless, it is a tasty meal, worthy of the Dodsons’ 39th anniversary festivity. In between stories and remembrances of the history of their years together, others who’ve come out on the bridge to enjoy the full moon, or who are simply walking from one side of the river to the other, pause to remark on our dinner set-up and to ask about the occasion. Mostly younger, the friendly passersby express awe and wonder when they learn that the featured couple are marking 39 years. That is, in turn, a source of amusement to us.
'til Death or Dementia Do Us Part Page 2
