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| 2016/07/30 06:31:36瀏覽155｜回應0｜推薦0 | |
| Sowash: the second movement of “ Father’s Day Suite” for violin, viola, cello. After two days of heavy rain, the morning of Father’s Day arrived in Sharon, Connecticut (where we were house-sitting for friends), clear, sunny and inviting. I’m an early riser; while Jo was still asleep, I set out for Kent, by a back route, on my bicycle. The back road from Sharon to Kent is one of the best rides I know, tracing a long but manageable climb up and over Skiff Mountain. The road rises, then very considerately levels off, then rises again, then goes level again. A thoughtful road, a humane road, a civilized road! At length the slow climb is rewarded with a long, leisurely descent through lovely Macedonia Brook State Park. Dense pine forests, a wealth of ferns, quaint little log bridges across the brook, campers happily rustling up breakfast, an occasional whiff of frying bacon on the breeze. Paradise! It was my first ride wearing my new helmet. Black with gray trim, very handsome, contrasting quite nicely, I’ve been told, with my white beard and mustache. I always wear black shorts when I bike. Usually I wear dark purple woolen socks, but those were wet in the washer so I had put on my black socks. As it happened, I had pulled on a black t-shirt. As I crossed the Housatonic, I suddenly realized that I was all in black. Like Zorro. Like hunky young Marlon Brando in his motorcycle jacket. Like Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones in "Men in Black.” Like “V,” the shadowy opponent of oppression in “V for Vendetta." Cool. Who would I be? “The Black Bikesman.” That’s who! Thus, it was with a ‘certain air of savoir faire’ that I pulled into Kent, pleasantly conscious that I "cut a figure." Not only was I lookin’ good, but I had just completed a vigorous, healthful ride of about 17 miles over the mountain, a stunt not every 60-something can pull off. Father’s Day. With my kids far away, my daughter in Washington DC, my son back in Cincinnati, I decided to treat myself. I locked my bike to a tree and made for the nearest sidewalk cafe, crowded with interesting-looking people, New Yorkers weekending in Connecticut. After a bit, I secured coffee and a raisin-oatmeal cookie. As I exited through the crowd, a young man said, "Excuse me, sir. I thought you might like to know that your t-shirt is inside-out." I thanked him, though I would have preferred to have remained ignorant. I chose a chair among the sidewalk tables that would allow me to sit with my back to the wall, hoping no one else would notice the big white t-shirt tag on the nape of my neck. I dunked my cookie and drank my coffee, my enjoyment somewhat compromised. Finally, I got up, tossed my paper cup in the trashcan and hit the sidewalks. I felt the eyes of my fellow pedestrians behind me. “Pathetic old guy,” they’d be thinking. “Can’t even put on his t-shirt correctly anymore.” I had to get my t-shirt right-side-out. The question was where to do it. I didn't want to strip off my t-shirt and present myself bare-chested, however briefly, on a crowded sidewalk. Connecticut was settled by Puritans and their influence lingers yet in the state’s “Blue Laws.” For all I knew, going shirtless on a public sidewalk in Connecticut could be a misdemeanor. There are many shops in Kent, mostly in houses that were formerly homes. I made my way to the backyard of one of these and went behind a big, old maple tree. I looked around, to be sure that I was unobserved. That was when I noticed a woman staring at me from inside. She rapped her knuckles on the window, wagging her forefinger, shaking her head, frowning. She had obviously formed the notion that I was about to relieve myself on her tree. At a loss as to how to convey to her my actual intention by pantomiming, I returned to the sidewalk, trying to think what to do. I went into a classy dress shop and asked if I could use a dressing room. "I just need to take off my shirt and then put it right back on," I explained to the clerk. This gave her pause. It must have come across as a facile fib, cloaking darker intentions. She gave me a long look and then said that dressing rooms were for customers only and directed me to the public restrooms, several blocks away. I headed that direction. The sidewalks were crowded with families, couples young and old, attractive women of all ages and many men, all of whom had managed to don their t-shirts right side out. I could imagine a young mother observing me closely from behind and telling her children, "This is why you must be alert, pay attention and do well in school -- so that, when you are old, you don't end up walking around in public with your t-shirt inside out." When I got to the public restroom, there was another man in there, standing, making appropriate use of the facility. Somehow I didn't want to take off my shirt while he was there. However, I had no other reason for being in the restroom and it is not a place for lingering. So, just to be doing something, I washed my hands. Soon, he was at the sink next to mine, washing his hands, too. “Your t-shirt’s inside-out," he observed. "Yes, I know," I said. "That's the way they're wearing them now. It's like wearing your base-ball cap backwards. It makes a statement." I caught his face at an angle, in the mirror. He rolled his eyes, sighed, and left without another word. Finally alone and out of sight of my public, I quickly yanked my t-shirt off, turned it right-side-out and pulled it back on. My confidence regained, I went outside. The Black Bikesman was back. To hear violinist Kris Frankenfeld, violist Belinda Burge and cellist Ellen Shertzer play the second movement from my Father’s Day Suite, click here: http://www.sowash.com/ To see a PDF of the score, click here: http://www.sowash.com/ |
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