Posts Tagged ‘holiday’

America is not one nation.

It’s more like an ever-simmering cauldron of local and regional allegiances and grudges — social, moral, political, geographical and financial.

And good luck to any man — whether a president, a preacher, a restaurateur or a pop singer — who would dare try to keep everybody happy for more than five minutes at a time.

It’s interesting, if not always pleasant, when two opposing niches of America rub up against each other. There’s always a chance that a scuffle will break out, like when two captive rhinos shoulder toward the same food trough.

Other times, the factions pass in the night, with barely more than a raised eyebrow on either side: So that’s what happens on the other side of the fence.

I’m guessing that’s what happened in this week’s calendar entry, which features an event my grandfather never celebrated.

January 18 and 19, 1974.

January 18 and 19, 1974. Apropos de nada, that’s a pretty radical temperature shift over 24 hours.

How do I know my grandpa never celebrated Robert E. Lee’s birthday?

He wasn’t a Southerner by birth, residence or self-proclamation. In ninety-plus years of life, it’s likely that he never crossed the Mason-Dixon line. Like Gil Scott-Heron’s old Uncle Henry, he was never known to board an airplane, either.

Compared to my grandpa, I am positively worldly, having savored boiled peanuts in Charleston, red beans and rice in New Orleans, tacos in San Antonio, and Piggly Wiggly house-brand soda in Savannah.

That said, I had no idea people celebrated Robert E. Lee’s birthday in a widespread fashion, and I was surprised to see it come pre-printed on a wall calendar. It’s not on any of the ones in my house, I’m sure of that.

According to Wiki, no fewer than seven Southern states mark the Confederate military leader’s birthday.

Three of them commemorate it on the same day as Martin Luther King Jr. Day. That strikes me as the sort of folly that future generations will find risible, like duck-and-cover drills or witch trials. (Does any other country produce queasy retroactive laughs quite like America?)

I suppose you could argue that every state should embrace Robert E. Lee Day, though, because the old general was pretty much America on a horse.

By all accounts, he was a gentleman of intelligence, grace, piety and humility, not to mention a strong military leader.

And yet, the inescapable bottom line is that he put all of these qualities to work in support of a brutal and inhuman social system. He flew the flag for home, honor — and the right of one human being to buy and sell another.

The collision of the righteous and the venal, the lofty and the self-serving, the honorable and the crabbed, the pure and the fouled … is that not America?

Perhaps it is not American nature but human nature that is so bitterly divided. Still, the story of Robert E. Lee makes me picture a country that can see the right things to do, but cannot bring itself to commit to them. That’s what I see in the mirror, and in the headlines, and in the sky on the Fourth of July.

I am not sure what my grandpa did when he got frustrated with his country — as he surely did, being a thoughtful man in a turbulent time. Perhaps he went to bed, and hoped the freezing rain and glare ice would melt away in the morning.

That sounds pretty good.

Happy belated Robert E. Lee Day.


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“The Reverend, Rabbi and Rod” sounds like the start of a walks-into-a-bar joke.

In real life, it was a minor chapter in the long history of community radio … a small part of a nationwide movement to bring popular music into the church … and a curious footnote to a long-ago Christmas.

Put aside your last-minute wrapping, then, and switch on the Wayback Radio. (Are the tubes glowing? Good. We’ll proceed.)

December 25-26, 1964.

December 25-26, 1964.

“The Rev” mentioned above was Rev. E. King Hempel of the North Stamford Congregational Church. The rabbi’s name is lost to history, at least among the Blumenau family.

Together, the men of the cloth hosted a weekly talk show on WSTC-AM, Stamford’s longtime local news and talk radio station.

This sort of Upstanding, Thoughtful Community Programming was once a staple of America’s locally owned, community-focused radio stations. I’m sure this kind of show carries on today in the world of low-budget local radio, interrupted only by the occasional teenage jokester calling in to request “Free Bird.”

(The Interwebs tell me “WSTC” stood for STamford, Connecticut, as indeed it probably did. Radio call letters are a marvelous topic of discussion … there is a station in Massachusetts that will forever be known to me as Wet Porno Love Music. But I digress, big-time.)

“Rod” was my father, a sage 21 years old at the time. He wasn’t a regular panelist on “The Reverend and the Rabbi,” not having the necessary qualifications.

Instead, he was in front of the mic as a special guest, discussing a most contemporary topic — the marriage of worship and popular music.

The day after the Rev., the Rabbi and Rod rocked the mic together, my dad led a special jazz worship service at North Stamford Congregational Church. He pulled together a small combo to play music he wrote himself. (Today he dismisses it as “lousy.” No recording survives.)

An ad for the jazz service. Presumably this hung in Stamford's hipper hangouts.

An ad for the jazz service, courtesy the Rod Blumenau Collection. Presumably this flyer hung in Stamford’s hipper hash dens.

My dad, in a small way, was part of a nationwide movement of musicians looking for ways to combine faith and jazz.

By the mid-’60s, Duke Ellington and Vince Guaraldi were composing and performing in church settings, while John Coltrane, Albert Ayler and others were cutting music that was deeply spiritual, if not directly intended for performance in church.

Tenor saxophonist Ed Summerlin is often credited with pioneering the movement with his 1959 composition Requiem for Mary Jo, which he followed up with similarly themed pieces like Jazz Vesper Services.

Summerlin appeared on national TV in 1960 to discuss his “liturgical jazz,” which leaned more toward the cerebral than the gutbucket. (He also performed, around the same time, at the Methodist church across the street from my grandparents’ house on Hope Street. My dad attended.)

The idea of jazz in church spread quickly. My dad’s band director at Stamford High, Russ Martino, performed a local jazz service in the early ’60s. And Herb Hodgson, the Protestant chaplain at the college my dad attended, was enthusiastic about new ideas. My dad remembers him as “a really cool guy,” a rare accolade for a man of the cloth.

So, in 1963, with Hodgson’s encouragement, my dad rounded up some musician friends at college and performed a musical service of his own at a church in downtown Troy, N.Y. He reprised the music, with some of the same musicians, in Stamford in December 1964.

The idea, he says now, was to promote the legitimacy of jazz as a music capable of expressing spirituality and connecting with a 20th-century audience. (This was much the same point he made on the radio with the Reverend and the Rabbi, too.)

In his words:

I didn’t believe in a religion that said you have to say the same words in the same language as Jesus did, or people in Rome did. I thought you could express your feelings in a modern way. … I thought, “Jazz is legitimate, serious music with which one can contemplate the meaning of life just as much as Bach or Beethoven. Why not?”

There was no burning bush or flash of light … I just thought it would be kind of fun.

# # # # #

The service in Stamford was a special event held in the evening and was promoted as a “Demonstration Service,” which rubbed my dad wrong:

That suggested even E. King wasn’t convinced of my position. In Troy, we did it in a downtown church, and it was their Sunday morning service — take it or leave it.

The faith-jazz trend, as it turned out, would have larger obstacles to overcome than the misgivings of local reverends.

While the movement would produce some memorable recordings, such as Ellington’s first Sacred Concert, jazz’s niche popularity limited its penetration into mainstream church services. By the Seventies, the guitar, not the tenor sax, would become the chosen weapon of preachers trying to reach the masses in Their Own Language.

My dad says:

The fallacy of my reasoning, which I did not realize at the time, is what a small minority of the U.S. population jazz lovers were. I thought jazz represented youth, modernity; in actuality, that died with WWII. Elvis Presley and Chuck Berry represented youth and modernity!

Today many churches feature house bands which play their (amateur) stylistic interpretation of the “music du jour.” Probably a large percentage of their congregation views this music as their own, and therefore, this does a better job of making liturgy more meaningful than jazz ever did.

That doesn’t stop musicians from continuing to bring jazz into churches. My dad performed jazz services many times when I was growing up. Those were blowing sessions, rather than formally programmed liturgical music. And they usually drew a full house or close to it.

The Sixties vision of jazz as a link to the common man will probably never come true.

But if every man prays in his own language, then there seems no reason why jazz can’t be one of them.

# # # #

As a side note, check out my grandpa’s Christmas calendar entry: A record high of 63 degrees on Christmas Day, 1964, followed by 60 degrees the next day.

I doubt that’s still the record, but it’s warm, even by today’s standards. (As I write this, the National Weather Service is calling for a high of 36 degrees in Stamford on Christmas Day 2012.)

My grandfather’s illustrations try to capture a sense of holiday gaiety. I love the intricate blue-and-white ornament; he put some time and effort into that. But the green grass underneath the tree makes it clear this was no white Christmas.

Thanks for reading and have happy holidays, whether they’re green, white or somewhere in between.

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Thanksgiving is probably the quintessential holiday I associate with 1107 Hope Street — very traditional, very family-oriented, a little bit on the stodgy/unhip side, but certainly heartfelt.

I can still imagine the smell of a turkey roasting there, as well as the smell of baking bread rolls, one of my grandma’s go-to side dishes for fancy meals.

In fact, when I smell a turkey roasting (it doesn’t happen often), it usually makes me think of my grandparents’ house, more so than any other place where I have ever been in the company of a roasting turkey.

Perhaps it is odd, then, that Thanksgiving doesn’t seem to have inspired my grandpa to any great flights of fancy on 15 years of calendars.

No annual drawing of a turkey bewitched to a dark gold, or a jar of cranberry sauce, or an Indian and Pilgrim breaking bread together, or anything like that.

Still, Thanksgiving mentions of one form or another cropped up on various calendars over the years. We’ll take a look at a couple this week.

November 27, 1975. The “J’s” were my other grandparents who lived in Stamford. Sorry for the poor picture quality.

Thanksgiving 1974 has already been covered in a previous blog entry here. Dinner at the J’s on Thanksgiving; another dinner on Hope Street the next night; and my grandpa had laryngitis.

The Thanksgiving 1973 entry has a minor distinction in the world of this blog: The header image of Hope Street (“Heavy Frost,” “Frost,” etc.) is taken from my grandpa’s calendar entries of Nov. 20-22, 1973. Here’s the image in full.

November 20-22, 1973. Looks like I spent my first Thanksgiving on the road. I’ll be at home for this one, like the Detroit Lions.

From there we jump to Thanksgiving 1968. Not sure what motivated my grandparents to make punch, as boozy indulgence was not common in their house. Maybe it was for a church event.

November 27-28, 1968.

And that, believe it or not, is all I have.

I’m sure my grandparents’ Thanksgiving plans were referenced on the calendar each year. But I didn’t see fit to take pictures of them when I looked at the calendars, so they must not have been that interesting or revelatory.

Whatever your plans for the day and week are, I hope you enjoy them, and that they bring you some degree of warmth and comfort.

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