Tenebrae Factae Sunt
The mighty Fritts organ at St. Joseph Cathedral in downtown Columbus, Ohio.
It may seem odd to look forward to Good Friday with eager anticipation, yet I confess that this is precisely what I have done for the last several years, ever since my brother and I attended our first Office of Tenebrae at St. Joseph Cathedral in downtown Columbus. Intended as a somber reflection on Christ's passion, the service features choral and organ music accompanied by the gradual extinction of candlelight. Near the end, the last remaining candle is removed from the altar, leaving the cathedral in darkness. The congregation then joins in the strepitus, a "sustained noise with hand or book" that evokes the earthquake described in the gospels. Finally, the lone candle returns, its presence a symbol of hope in the Resurrection, and everyone files out of the cathedral in silence.
When I read about Tenebrae in the paper, I knew I had to go. It sounded like the most wondrous mix of majestic architecture, thundering pipe organ, and meditative theater. David was similarly intrigued, and as we settled into a pew among the capacity crowd that first night, I thumbed through the program and noted translations of the Latin verses that were to be sung by the Cathedral Schola. Though my pronunciation of Latin is shaky, I thought it would be interesting to at least try to follow along.
Whatchoo Talkin’ ‘Bout, Willis?!
Gripe all you want about the name change, but Sears Tower never had the Ledge.
I assume that the majority of humanity sympathizes with my distaste for the proliferation of corporate naming rights and the way this trend has altered tradition in the name of better market branding. Whether it's a renamed annual event or a rechristened sports venue, I resent having the identities and logos of corporate America shoved in my face simply because the offending companies forked over enough dough to make it so. For example, one used to be able to go to downtown Cleveland and enjoy a game at Jacobs Field or Gund Arena, two facilities with nondescript names that did not overshadow the entities of their famous residents, the Cleveland Indians and the Cleveland Cavaliers. Now, however, sports fans must tolerate the dumb moniker Progressive Field and the even worse Quicken Loans Arena.
There is a certain chutzpah to waving a magical monetary wand and renaming cherished landmarks, a crass practice that I pondered on a recent trip with my family to Chicago. Short on time and wanting to make the most of our moment in the Windy City, we decided to ascend Sears Tower. Only there is no Sears Tower, technically speaking. A British insurance broker, Willis Group Holdings, became a major tenant in 2009, long after the folks from Sears had literally left the building. The owners threw in naming rights as part of the deal, and just like that, Sears Tower became Willis Tower. I don't know what annoys me more, the fact that yet another architectural icon has been renamed by a big insurance company, or the insult that the tallest building in America now bears the name of a foreign corporation. If I have an anti-corporate sentiment, at least it's patriotic.
Blessed Are The Unhandy…
...for they shall learn to depend upon the charity of others.
If mechanical aptitude and general handiness are heritable traits, then they are present in my family only as the most recessive of genes. My siblings and I would be among the last picked on a construction site. We have a working knowledge of basic hand tool use and light bulb replacement, but not much else. Collectively, the six of us boast plenty of academic degrees and professional success. Ask any of us to help hang drywall or panel a basement, though, and we're about as useful as a metric wrench on a domestic car.
Speaking as the only married male of the group, I can attest to the emasculating effect of this deficiency. You live with your spouse in a house that, inevitably, requires maintenance in order to remain sound. Other husbands are visible scurrying about their properties making improvements, replacing shingles on the roof, applying a fresh coat of asphalt to the driveway, putting in a new front door, or lugging an old toilet out to the curb having successfully installed its replacement. Then your wife looks at you and asks what might be done about the handrail to the living room stairs, the bottom of which has wobbled like a tuning fork ever since a replacement screw broke off in the anchor block when you tried to put the railing back on after painting the wall five years ago. You shrug your shoulders impotently and hope that she's still won over by your positive qualities, because knowing what to do with that stair railing sure as hell isn't one of them. If only there were a man in the house...
April Fool’s Day: A Brief History
April Fool's Day has long been a socially sanctioned occasion for lighthearted pranks. Like many traditions, the roots of this celebration of tomfoolery belie its modern celebration. In fact, April Fool's Day has a somewhat sinister origin that is seldom recognized today.
The genesis of the April Fool is said to have arisen some time during the early reign of Julius Caesar, prior to the adoption of the Julian calendar in 46 BCE. In those days, there was no month of April, and Martius (March) segued directly into Maius (May). As a means of testing the mental fortitude and gullibility of new recruits, Roman centurions used this time to perform a secret annual hazing of the rookies among their ranks.
On the last day of Martius, the greenest of the garrison were informed with great solemnity that Emperor Caesar's beloved dog, Aprilis, had unexpectedly died that morning. The young soldiers were further told that Caesar was subsequently so distraught that he had ordered a special day of mourning for his departed pet. All citizens were to stay indoors for the entirety of the next day, with business to resume as usual the day after that. Naturally, it was added, Caesar would be highly offended if he were to see anyone, even a Roman soldier, out and about on this day of collective grief.
And When I Die
Not far from my neighborhood stands a handsome, two-story, brick house on an expansive corner lot bordered with dozens of trees. I've passed it on many evenings, admiring the warm glow of a lamp in the front window and wondering whether the interior is complemented by genuine wood floors, rectangular archways, built-in bookcases, or any other such quaint details. It looks like that kind of place. Should the house ever go on the market, it would be hard to resist, especially because the price would likely be very reasonable. After all, it is the sole residence on the grounds of a cemetery.
Many people would consider the location to be a deal-breaker, but not me. Just the opposite, in fact. You mean, I get to have a house like this, and I get to live in a cemetery?! For anyone who appreciates the splendor of solitude, it's the ideal place to get away from it all. Sure, you would have to put up with the occasional mourner, and teenagers might breach the gates on a dare every now and then, but for the most part, it would be the ultimate peaceful neighborhood.
Breaking The Rules
James Turrell's enticing and mysterious Trace Elements.
Everyone knows that, unless there are specific directions to the contrary, you're not supposed to touch the works in an art museum. I wouldn't go so far as to suggest that this is instinctive knowledge, for I have seen the extended arms of curious students who are unschooled in cultural etiquette. Those of the age of reason quickly retreat at a docent's reprimand, but I once witnessed a harrowing incident involving a toddler who had broken loose from his mother. The boy ran right across the yellow tape line that served as a border and was soon directly underneath an installation of hanging glass sculptures by Lino Tagliapietra, his arms flailing within inches of delicately crafted suspended vessels. Everyone from the museum guard to the boy's mother to myself turned ashen at this savage and reckless behavior. Thankfully, nothing was harmed. Outside of the very young and uneducated, however, keeping your hands off the art is a rule as obvious as the paintings on the walls.
I am very much a follower of rules when it comes to observing protocol in museums. I appreciate the value and uniqueness of a collection, and I wouldn't think of compromising any piece by contaminating it with my touch. Except once. And I must say that, in that particular instance, I am glad that I had the foolish nerve to break the rules, as what resulted was my most memorable interaction with a work of art.
The Old Man And The Sea
There's nothing like an unqualified pummelling to inspire a practical respect for the power of nature. I thought about that as I lay curled in a fetal position on the hotel bed, enduring waves of nausea and wanting nothing more than to drift off into unconsciousness.
"Are you alright?" asked my wife, and I assured her that I was just fine, only I could use a few more minutes of resting limp as a rag doll, if she didn't mind looking after the girls during that time. To my surprise, I felt remarkably better within an hour, and we were able to resume our vacation with no further delay. For a brief period, however, I felt like I had been set upon by a gang of thugs and left for dead in an alley. All because I didn't have the good sense to recognize the difference between harmless fun and obvious danger.
Sharpening Student Skills
When it comes to hitting the mark on test scores, one innovative educator at a San Diego charter school may be onto something. Ron Owens, a fifth-grade teacher at Cosner Exceptional Academy, has daringly defied conventional wisdom by putting pocket knives in the hands of elementary students. While many educators might cry foul at the very idea of ignoring zero-tolerance weapons policy, Owens has the full support of CEA's CEO and principal, Horace Cosner.
"The results speak for themselves," gloats Cosner. "Children who regularly participate in Mr. Owens' Mumblety Peg Club score anywhere from fifteen to thirty-seven percent higher than their peers on the Language Arts and Math portions of their state STAR tests."
Yes, mumblety peg, the quaint knife-tossing game that disappeared from schoolyards generations ago, is making a comeback thanks to Owens, and while no one can conclusively prove a causal connection, there is no denying that a correlation between the pastime and higher test scores apparently exists. What is it about this erstwhile bygone pursuit, a series of motions in which players fling knives from their wrists, elbows, shoulders and heads, that seems to sharpen student skills?
Touch And Go
A few things I learned on a recent Saturday afternoon:
- If you want to send someone's car into an uncontrollable spin, simply veer sharply into the side of the vehicle just ahead of the rear wheel.
- The back seat of a police cruiser is not upholstered.
- Concrete median barriers are a really good idea.
- Never assume that a stranger has an active moral conscience.
- My brother and I are lucky to be alive and uninjured.
It would be the last time that Brian would drive his late-model Saturn, though neither of us could have known. Like most days that are later defined by a singular incident, this particular Saturday began as unremarkably as any other. We simply thought it would be fun to have lunch on the other side of town, and 670 was the way to go. We had just passed the Neil Avenue exit, enjoying an animated conversation, and I was right in the middle of saying something when Brian suddenly muttered a tense word of alarm. Someone in the lane to our left had just run into our rear driver side.
Guess What Today Is!
I consider myself an Anglophile. I have an inherent fascination with English life, from its customs to its colloquialisms. I like listening to BBC Radio. My pop culture preferences warmly embrace The Beatles, ELP, Pink Floyd, and all things Python. I'm charmed by E.F. Benson's Lucia novels and captivated by Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes. I have ancestral ties to Cornwall (my maternal grandfather was born and raised in Truro). Nothing would please me more than to spend a lengthy sabbatical exploring Britain. Yet for all my natural interest in England, I cannot muster so much as a dollop of enthusiasm for today's royal wedding.
Apparently that puts me in good standing with two-thirds of the British population, the demographic block identified by pollsters as those who will not be watching the ceremony. According to CBS News, half of the United Kingdom claims to be "actively uninterested" in the whole affair, and I share their passionate apathy. The relentless news coverage is bad enough here; I can only imagine how unavoidable it must be in England.