Keep Calm and Carrilon

It's funny how you hear something for years and barely give it a thought. And then one day, you stop and say, "wow."

Carrilon, public domain image, circa 1612

For years, the nearby West Park Church of Christ has sounded the hours with a carillon. For the uninitiated, a carillon is an instrument made up of a series of bells and is operated by a keyboard. Some, like the carillon I hear daily, are set to automatically play at intervals – in this case, on the hour.

I was grilling steak in the backyard the other night, and I stopped to listen. The carillon has always carried on, and I've found it soothing. Sometimes I know the tune (like Amazing Grace). Often I don't. But the regularity of the bells and the melodic tones are most welcome. 

The carillon only sounds during daylight hours. And I suppose I barely notice it in the winter time because the windows are closed. But in the summer, the sound comes through loud and clear, a musical reminder that time passes like a freight train in the night, and if we don't take the opportunity to notice such small beauties, we'll miss out on the big stuff, too.

As I write this on a late summer evening, I hear a different kind of melody as the crickets chirp their little hearts out. I've always loved that sound. If summer were music, that's how its soundtrack would be composed – from the wings of a cricket. Or the throat of an owl. 

I'd love to hear an owl, but city girls rarely do.

Ah, well. Lovely summer evenings were also made for ice cream. And I have a fudge pop calling my name. 

Good night stars. Good night air. Good night noises everywhere.*

*From Goodnight Moon by Margaret Wise Brown.

Getting Back

We were, like, #95 on the list at the library to get The Beatles: Get Back. Every week, Mr. Ginley would check to see what position we'd reached.

The album from my collection.

Eventually, our number was up, and we went to get it before the library decided to give it to someone else.

The 3-DVD set is 468 minutes. For those of you like me who aren't the swiftest at math, this translates to nearly eight hours of The Beatles trying to make a little music.

The studio sessions were recorded in January, 1969 and included tunes that would later show up on the Abbey Road and Let it Be albums. Some kindly soul (aka Peter Jackson) poured through the 150 hours of audio and 60 hours of video that featured The Beatles wrangling tunes out of themselves and each other, extracting what presumably were the best bits – including their famous London rooftop concert, which would be their last live performance as a band. 

I was fascinated by the creative process, although I did find it frustrating when they would go over and over a tune and not get the words. 

"Come on, Paul, it's 'Sweet Loretta Martin, you twit, you know this."' It was much like watching a replay of Game 5 of the 2018 Stanley Cup Finals and sitting on the edge of my seat, biting my nails, even though I know the good guys are going to win. (Spoiler alert: Caps win.)

Surprisingly, Mr. Ginley sat through it all with me, although admittedly, we did scoot past the parts where Yoko Ono was bleating/screeching. She may not have been responsible for the Beatles breakup, but she probably caused a few burst eardrums along the way. I could almost stand the noise, but Mr. hollered at the TV every time she took the microphone, so I did a little fast-forwarding to get through it.

Watching the interplay between the four seemingly disparate young men was fascinating, nostalgic and sad. You could see the breakup coming, not from any outside force but because they were all growing up and it was time for them to go their separate ways. 

George had to leave, obviously. He wasn't going to be able to accomplish what he did under the shadow of the Lennon/McCartney duo. Ringo looked sad and bored/stoned through most of the proceedings. (I think he was unwell through part of it which may have accounted for his demeanor). Paul was Mr. Bossy Boots, but in all honesty, I don't think anything would have gotten done if he hadn't gone full-Paul. John, hooked on heroin and in the throes of puppy love with his soon-to-be second wife, goofed and gawped for the camera but eventually got down to business (sort of).

The whole process was messy but effective. It was a treat seeing the four of them together, making obscure references about this song or that time when..., playing off one another and watching the obvious affection and connection only four lads who went through Beatlemania together could understand.

As the incumbent Beatle fan, I was in the hot seat when it came to identifying whether the song they were playing was from the Let it Be album or Abbey Road, since the band was writing songs for both during the sessions. Fun fact: although the focus was on the tunes from the Let it Be album, Abbey Road was actually released first.

I'm not sure how many people who didn't live through it will enjoy the slog, but for me, it was a bittersweet treat. So many of my early memories are tied up in those songs performed by four guys who feel like older brothers, in a way. Now, with two of them gone, I feel it, like missing teeth, rooting around for where they used to be. 

I know it had to end and they all had to go off and do their own thing. But aside from George, I think they were all at the top of their game when they were the Beatles. John tempered Paul's sappy lyrics. Paul took the edge off John. Ringo brought a kind of feng shui along with a steady backbeat to the quartet. George threw in bits here and there, although, much like family, he was  treated like the little brother and often pooh-poohed for his efforts.

Mr. Ginley asked me if I wanted to buy the DVD set, and I said no. I don't think I'd want to sit through it all again, but it was pretty cool one time around. In all likelihood, the DVDs would sit around for years before (or if) I pulled them off the shelf.

I am ready to listen to both albums again, though. 

What a ride they took us on. A sort of, I don't know, Magical Mystery Tour.

Yes, I know, a totally different album...

I Want My MTV (Back)

Once upon a time, in a land long ago, MTV (which stood for Music Television) played music videos.

featuring state-of-the-art video production 

No, seriously!

Many of these music videos have found new life on YouTube, as Mr. Ginley and I discovered one night. The refrain quickly became, "Remember this one?"

Unlike MTV, YouTube doesn't feature the name of the song and who performed it in the lower corner, so some Googling was required to discern who did what.

Following this night of nostalgia, I dug out my old recordings of MTV music videos. While many were familiar, there were a few I hadn't seen in years. I won't say how many years, suffice it to say, DVDs weren't even on the horizon then.

At some point in the proceedings (I believe mid-1980s, after Dire Straits did Money for Nothing, with the refrain, "I Want My MTV"), the cable channel became host to a series of wacky game shows and reality TV and music I didn't want to listen to, and VH-1 was born. VH-1 was touted as a more mainstream alternative to MTV, so if you wanted to see pop music or classic rock, that was the place to be. (Translation: They were catering to an older crowd. Like 25 to 30.)

Eventually, even VH-1 stopped showing videos and went away, along with the whole music video genre. Nowadays, new musicians have to compete for clicks online, as thousands of other artists are also trying to be heard.

As for me, I'm the Luddite who still listens to albums, tapes and CDs. I also play a curated iTunes list on my computer. I put the music in alphabetical order and hit "play" while I'm working. (Thank you, Tim Trusken, for compiling and sharing the playlist.)

I sometimes find myself wondering what the future of music will be. If we are at the mercy of cyberspace, will someone decide that we don't need to listen to old tunes anymore and stop making them available?

Lucky for me, I have a turntable. And a cassette tape player. And a CD player...

De-Hogging

"I've got to do something about the groundhogs," I said to Mr. Ginley. "They're tearing up the backyard, and I'm afraid they're going to start on the house."

And so it was that a call was placed to a company called Critter Control, and any money I might have set aside for summer frivolity was soon to be tapped out.

The set-up was completed early that Monday morning. The first victim was what I believe was the matriarch of the clan. I was thrilled that they'd captured one so quickly. I'd always heard that groundhogs were tricky to catch, and here it was, three hours or so after the set-up, and we'd already caught one.

I called CC to let them know. They sent the guy back out. He picked up the occupied cage and left a new one. A few hours later, hog #2 was in the books. I was still happy.

The following day, two more were captured. This scenario repeated itself over and over in the days to come, my enthusiasm waning with each visit from the CC technician. 

How could there be this many of them? I even ventured to ask the owner if they trapped and released the creatures, because I was beginning to wonder if it was the same hogs returning to the scene of the crime. But no, she assured me they were euthanized.

The final count was eight when I gave up. In the meantime, we found out our neighbor on the other side caught four of the SOBs. There were two left – one juvenile and one full-grown. I had crossed my fingers that the smaller of the two would eventually take the bait, but he/she never did. I was pretty sure the older one knew better. He watched me with worldly-wise eyes, cautious and knowing. He was too smart for any trap I might put out.

Admittedly, I'd harbored fantasies of bashing in their little skulls with a ball pean hammer and leaving the bodies out as a warning. Then there were the nightmares, of eight groundhogs staring at me, their beady eyes accusatory and sharp teeth threatening me with karmic justice.

The cages were returned two weeks ago, and in the past week we haven't seen the last two groundhogs. I'm not sure what their fate was, nor do I care. The final tally is 12 hogs dispatched for good, with another two finished off, too (hopefully).

As I bid a fond farewell to any possible remaining vacation money, I tell myself it was the right thing to do. I imagine the damage that so many groundhogs could do to my home and how much more expensive that would have been.

Then, just as I'm getting the groundhog population under control, I spy a chipmunk.

I think it's time to sell the house.