The Northwest Files

An Insufficiency of Music

Today is the day this year’s edition of the Sisters Folk Festival, which usually plays on 11 stages all around the tiny town of Sisters, was to have opened. And what a lineup of talent for those stages, from large to small, there was.

But then came Covid. In response, the folks at SFF drastically downsized the event to just one stage.

And now comes the wind, which is blowing heavy smoke from the fires in western Oregon over here to us, on the east side of the Cascades. The smoke is so heavy that it is dangerous to be outside for anything. So even the downsized version of the SFF was canceled.

Then there’s the Americana Song Academy, an intense, three-day immersion into music that would have taken place this past week. It’s thrilling, intense, and incredibly useful to musicians. Canceled. (This image shows participants in the 2019 edition of the Americana Song Academy. I'm in the middle of the back row.)

But that’s not all.

Many of my pals know that I derive huge joy and satisfaction from singing with the Central Oregon Mastersingers. This season, again because of Covid, and because choral singing requires huge expenditures of breath, we are on hiatus.

Normally we probably would have sung our fall concert and be deep in preparations for our Christmas concert. But not this year. The risk of Covid infection is just too great.

With the coming of fall and, I hope, a bit of rain, the fires and smoke probably will mitigate. But I do not think that Covid will mitigate anytime soon.

I’ll be very happy when this all ends and we can begin trying to figure out what the New Normal looks like.

I just hope that it includes enjoying and/or performing live music.

-JFT

We Shall Overcome!

“We Shall Overcome!” It’s such an iconic tune. I first heard it on the recording of Pete Seeger’s historic concert on June 8, 1963 concert at Carnage Hall. It’s long, but trust me, it’s worth hearing ­– not least because of Pete’s commentary at the beginning of the recording, but also because of the way he helps the audience along with the lyrics. Here it is:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lsg7z8BYTWo

Good stuff, no?

These days, however, there’s something that really troubles me about this tune. As you hear, Pete sings, “We shall overcome some day.”

We’ve been looking forward for “some day” for 60 years. That day still has not come.

I think that these lyrics probably reflect the gentle patience of Dr. King and the others who marched with him and supported him. That’s wonderful.

But when we will be done with waiting for “some day”? Have we not been paying attention to the passage of time? Have we been lazy, complacent, uncaring, during these past 60 years? I think we have. Meanwhile, people still suffer. How and why have we allowed that to happen?

My patience with this is exhausted. I support the Black Lives Matter marchers. And the next time that this song comes around, I’m going to sing, “We shall overcome today.” It’s time to get this done. Time for all of us.

It’s up to us all to make equality happen. We cannot, we must not, put it off any longer.

-JFT

The Weight of History

My family has been here in the U.S. for a long time. I represent the ninth generation of my mother’s family to live in America. We’ve mostly been a hard-scrabble lot, working people. My ancestors served in both the Revolutionary War and the Civil War.

That first family member arrived at Port Tobacco, Maryland, on Jan. 12, 1665, from England, as an indentured servant, not much better than a slave. Eventually, he worked off his indenture, married, had children. That’s a major family root for the U.S. Dunningtons.

The members that comprised our branch of the family mostly stuck around Charles County, Maryland. They appear to have been farmers, kept busy growing tobacco. One of them rented a field from George Washington. That Dunnington, William, owed old George back rent. Letters between the two of them, saved in the Library of Congress, attest to this arrears.

My ancestors fought in wars. And, shamefully, they owned a few slaves. Not many, I don’t think, and not for long. It appears that they were mostly too poor for such things. Still, it’s an ugly stain on the family name.

Now I’m the last limb of my mother’s branch of the family tree. I feel the weight of guilt about family slave ownership and about family members fighting for the Confederates during the Civil War.

There is nothing I can do about those things. Nothing, except remain determined to act to help ensure that everyone is treated equally; to insist that Black Lives Matter, to fight against the grossly unequal distribution of wealth we see today, to fight for better education for all communities, to fight for the right of everyone to vote.

It’s not much, really. But it’s what I can do. What I have to do.

-JFT

The Fire Keeps Burning

What in the world are we going to do about racial animus? Most especially, what are we going to do about police abuse of Black people?

Here's what it looks like to me: There’s another awful incident in which an unarmed Black person is killed by police. Local residents, outraged, demonstrate. So do the supporters of Black Lives Matter. The police oversee the demonstrations. Sometimes they get involved, sometimes they don’t. Thugs show up to break windows and loot stores. Then, after a certain passage of time, it all dies down until it happens all over again.

It's like a flash fire that firefighters think is extinguished. But after a short dormant period, it begins to burn again.

How do we fix this?

What I think matters about as much as a grain of salt. But here’s a simplistic review of what I think. I think that the killing of Black people by police starts with institutional racism. Add to that poor police recruiting, poor training, an unwillingness of police chiefs to confront racial problems in their own departments, the hidebound unwillingness of police unions to allow their union members to be sanctioned in any way, lack of a national database to keep track of abusive cops, and the unwillingness of city councils, mayors, county supervisors and administrators to step boldly up to the problem and Do Something, Damnit!

Do what, exactly? I don’t know, for sure. But I think it involves taking the reins of their respective police departments, doing whatever it takes to regain control of law-enforcement agencies that feel free to profile and abuse people they don’t like.

It's not like city and county politicians don’t already have enough grief on their hands. They do. But somehow, this shit has to stop.

I think it begins with rethinking the money.

I don’t mean “defunding” police departments. I do mean taking a hard look at law enforcement budgets to see where the money is spent. How much is spent on training for incident de-escalation? On counseling? On non-violent responses to unarmed people? On military equipment for police?

Except for a few elite squads, most cops don’t need the military shields, armor, helmets, tear gas, and all the other accouterments we’ve seen used during public protests this summer.

That’s my tax money helping to fund all of that. Yours, too.  I object! I hope you do too. This is a fire that must be extinguished once and for all.

-JFT  

Haircut? Not Just Yet.

I need a haircut. It’s not been cut since March 16, the day that things here in Oregon went into lockdown.

Not that I have all that much hair left. The top is pretty much bare. Call it a clear-cut, common here in Oregon. But there’s still plenty on the back and sides; it’s now down to my collar.

I haven’t had hair this long for a very long time. The way things are going, it probably will get even longer.

That’s because as far as I know, most of the barbers and salons where we live still have not reopened.

That’s fine with me. I’m not particularly keen on long hair; I usually keep mine on the short side of the scale. But we are being diligent about not going anywhere we don’t have to go, not exposing ourselves to possible encounters with Covid carriers.

So far, that means that about all we do is shop for groceries, carefully selecting markets that we know are taking serious precautions. And we go fly fishing once a week. Trout don’t have Covid. Not that we catch any.

I figure that this lack of haircuts is in the fine tradition of Sasquatch. He’s pretty hairy. And here in the Pacific Northwest, he’s iconic.

I’m not iconic and I don’t plan to become iconic. But I do plan to emulate, at least to a degree, the hirsute ways of Sasquatch, as well as his introverted ways.

It just seems the safe thing to do.

-JFT

A Friend Passes

The folks in my little circle of family, friends and classmates are at the point in their lives where there are many fewer years in front of us than there behind us.

As if to remind us all of this, I yesterday received word that a dear old pal from boarding school, someone I’ve known for more than 60 years, has died. Confirmation and a few details arrived this morning.

This friend lived alone in Washington. Her passing was undiscovered for about seven weeks. Friends, gripped by growing worry, finally called police officers, who performed a wellness check and found her remains.

Her passing is said to have been from natural causes.

What I find especially painful is the apparent fact that this woman died alone – so alone that her passing remained undiscovered for an unconscionably long time. I wish that in her darkest hour, I, or someone, had been there for her.

It seems that there might be a lesson here for all of us. Take care of yourselves, my friends. Take care of yourselves as if the worst can happen – because it can. Do what your doctor tells you to do. Eat well. Isolate. And wear your damn mask.

Also, as much as is possible in this time of Covid-19, stay in contact with family, friends, classmates and colleagues. We are here to support each other; that support always is important, but it’s even more important as we creak and groan our way through our last trimester of life. Loneliness is a terrible way to live. It’s an even worse way to die. 

-JFT

Pajamalama

Locked down. We’re now in the 14^th week of self-isolation, venturing out only occasionally to shop for essentials. Otherwise, we have nowhere to go and nothing to do when we get there.

This, stretched out now over more than three months, has completely changed the shape of our days.

No laughing, now!

We’re out of bed at about 7 am. That hasn’t changed, that’s been our usual time since we retired.

I wander into the kitchen, turn on the coffee maker. I unplug my iPad and start reading the news while Laura heads outside to get our daily paper.

So far, so good, right? But at this point, we’re still in our pajamas and that’s what’s been different about our routine since the coronavirus started scaring the shit out of us.

As I said above, we have nowhere to go, nothing to do when we get there. No Central Oregon Center for the Arts meetings, no choir rehearsal, very little shopping, no going out to lunch.

The one bright spot is that on Wednesdays, when the housekeeper comes, we head out to see if we can find a minor adventure, one that does not involve being around other people.

Otherwise, we pretty much live in our pajamas, at least for most of the morning, while we consume the news. We sometimes stretch this until 10 a.m. or so, long after we’ve run out of coffee. Being in one’s sleepwear past that point just somehow is unseemly, suggestive of decadence, don’t you think?

That’s OK, we can do decadence, as long as it extends no further than staying in our PJs until 10 and eating an occasional piece of chocolate cake.

That’s another thing. Laura, never one to be still for long, has been baking chocolate-chip cookies. This is good. She does about a batch a week. These batches never, ever, overlap. Why is that I wonder? The thing is, she’d never done this prior to the lockdown.

Like the rest of you, we have no idea how long all this will last. Longer than we’d like, certainly. The news today is that Oregon, our state, has 278 new cases and at least 100 new cases eight of the last 10 days.

Here in Deschutes County, we’ve had 137 cases, total, but no deaths. Bend, population about 100,000 and 15 miles south, is by far the largest city in Central Oregon. It is a blue city. That’s important because blue folks seem more likely to wear masks than folks from red areas.

I think that’s probably one of the reasons our case count has remained relatively low. But Redmond, the closest town to us, about 6 miles to the west, is red. People we see out and about in Redmond tend to not wear masks.

We wear masks. We will continue to do so. We also probably will remain in our self-imposed isolation. That’s because we don’t see this ending anytime soon.

Second wave? Hell, I don’t think we’re done with the first wave.

I just hope we can all stay safe. That means us, and it means you, too. And please, wear a mask! It’s not that I’m sick of wearing pajamas. But I would like to get out and around without the risk of this awful illness. I’m sure you’d like the same.

Enough with pajamalama, as nice as it’s been!

-JFT

A Hard Rain

Dylan told us this was going to happen with his song, “A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall.” Now that hard rain is falling, both metaphorically and in reality.

The first part of the storm came in the form of the coronavirus. We were monumentally unprepared for that, thanks to government ineptitude and stupidity.

The second part of the storm came in the form of resounding and righteous protests in the wake of George Floyd in Minneapolis. Another Dylan song seems to reference these troubles. It’s called “Blowin’ in the Wind” (“How many roads must a man walk down before you call him a man?”).

While all this is happening, here in Central Oregon, we’ve been on the receiving end of our own hard rain, the third part of the storm. It’s come with high winds, lots of rain, thunder and lightning, and hail. Did I say lightning? Lots of it. The cats have been hiding under the bed. I’ve been tempted to get under there with them. It’s the middle of June but the weather is that of our rowdy fall season.

To say that I have been distracted by all this would be an understatement. Never mind that at the best of times, I have a short attention span.

So, when my pals Mike Kicenski and Larry Roberts reminded me that I’ve not posted in The Northwest Files since May 11, well, I was shocked. I had no idea I’d been that lazy.

Except it’s not exactly laziness. It’s more like I’ve been caught up in the dramas that surround us.

First, the coronavirus and Covid-19. As seniors, Laura and I both are at risk to this awful disease. We have been almost completely preoccupied with the task of self-isolation. As I write this, our 13^th week of hiding out is ending. New cases continue to appear in our county and throughout Oregon. So, we don’t go out much. Laura plays a bit of careful golf and we both sneak out once in a while to buy groceries. But with this week’s uptick in cases here, I think we’re going to revert to Instacart for food. We will continue buying wine through the mail. Thanks for that tip, Larry.

So far, we’ve been well. Can we stay well? We plan on doing just that. But you never know.

If all this wasn’t sufficiently disruptive and frightening, along comes the murder of Mr. Floyd and with it, the righteous anger of what seems like most of the American community. At least those with an ounce of compassion.

I watch very little television, but I read newspapers and magazines. It’s tough to not be touched in all this, tough to not be angry, impossible for me to not support the Black Lives Matter movement.

The result of all this is that I have been frozen by concern and outrage. Sit at my computer to try to write something? I completely forgot about doing that. I didn’t mean to, not least because writing is, for me, a way to scrub off a bit of anger and concern, a way to feel better.

As I’ve mentioned to my pals Mike and Larry, I get very little response to these posts. That’s OK, I write them mostly for myself. But apparently Larry and Mike, and perhaps a few others, do read them. Mike tells me that the posts he likes best are the ones written when I’m pissed off.

I’m a pretty mild person so rarely am I truly pissed off. Nevertheless, I promise to write more frequently, pissed off or not. Right now, I’m very angry indeed about police brutality and about the way we treat black people and other people of color.

If I can figure out a way to write about that isn’t condescending and stupid, I will. In the meantime, I think I’ll listen to some Bob Dylan.

-JFT

Bach or Bluegrass?

Choral music anytime soon? I don’t think so.

I saw a post recently that covered a talk presented to choral conductors in Maine, I think it was. It said that because of the pandemic, rehearsals and concerts would not be safe for choral singers, and I guess, by extension, for audiences, for at least two years. 

Most of my friends know, I think, that my thing is high-end choral music. Along with folk/bluegrass, I’ve participated for decades. Now, without it, I am bereft.

But I’ll have to cope because these days, working in choral groups is dangerous. Here’s why: When we sing, we breathe deeply, often sing at fortissimo, exhaling great lungfuls of air over long periods of time. It is very physical. 

We sometimes/often produce an aerosol of saliva as we sing. Sometimes more than just an aerosol. We’re in very close quarters, usually standing shoulder-to-shoulder, so in today’s reality, this is dangerous. 

Back in olden times, if one us as much as had a cold, we would sit off on the side during rehearsal, as far from the other choralists as we could get. These days, that’s not far enough. 

There is nothing - nothing at all - like being up there on stage where the music is being made. Being in the audience at a live performance is wonderful. But being on-stage, where one is surrounded and immersed in sound, is much better. Even in the worst of times, it fills one’s heart.

I sometimes become frustrated with the choral experience. Choral ensembles can be political and conductors can be huge pains in the ass. Never mind. I still miss it desperately. I’m really going to have to find something with which to occupy myself until this passes.

Maybe GarageBand? Hm. You know GarageBand, right? The recording app on iPhones and iPads? I understand that is quite popular and easy enough to use that maybe, perhaps, even I can use it.

Oh, look! There’s my iPad! Oh, look! A banjo sitting right over there in the corner of our den! 

See? This pandemic may force me to new, undiscovered, levels of antisocial activity.

“Duelin’ Banjos,” anyone?

-JFT

"Four Dead In Ohio"

Been thinking about this ominous and incredibly sad date in history. Today, May 4, 2020, marks the 50^th anniversary of the murder of four college students and the injuries to nine others by the Ohio National Guard.

Students had gathered to protest – mostly peacefully, though some rocks were thrown – the incursion into Cambodia by American forces during the Vietnam war. The Guard’s General Robert Canterbury – let that name live on in infamy – ordered his Guardsmen to load and lock their weapons. Armed soldiers later said they fired on the unarmed students because they feared for their lives.

Of the four dead, two participated in the protest. Two did not. Didn’t matter. “Four dead in Ohio.”

This awful incident was of course commemorated by Neil Young’s powerful anthem, “Ohio,” recorded by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young.

I was just about to graduate college when this happened. In solidarity, I wore a peace sign on my graduation robe. I think I still have it somewhere. It’s hidden away far better than is the rage I still feel about this.

A small digression: Our state’s governor said a day or so ago that she expects to open Oregon, closed because of the coronavirus, on July 6. That’s a long way off.

How long? I don’t know, as I’m calculating this lockdown’s duration in terms of hair length. Today marks the beginning of the eighth week that Laura and I have been practicing isolation. The day we started was also the last day I had a haircut. I do not expect to get another haircut until everything is opened and I can do so safely.

My hair, what I have left of it, isn’t anywhere as near as long during the early ‘70s. But it’s getting there. So how long has our isolation lasted so far? About two inches.

How much longer will it last? We shall see. Probably at least another couple of inches.

But at least I’m alive and my hair still is growing. That’s more than be said for those four students who were murdered 50 years ago today. I think that I’ll go and stoke the rage I continue to feel about this despicable act by listening to “Ohio.” Turned up loud.

-JFT