Two 1812 Overture Memories for the Fourth

I'm grateful to my parents for an early introduction to classical music. When Mom took us to church, Dad stayed home, reading the newspaper and listening to classical music. I've written a little about that chapter of my life here. Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture was on one of these albums. 

Photo: DesignEcologist on Unsplash

Of the two other memories associated with this piece of music, one occurred in high school and the other while we were living in the Midway in St. Paul after our return from Mexico in 1982 and before our move to Forest Lake in 1984. 

One of the teachers who made an impact on me when I was in school was Mr. Harris, my senior year English teacher. I have several meaningful memories from his class, but for now we'll stick to our theme, the 1812 Overture, which had been written to commemorate Russia's confrontation with Napoleon in that year.

What he did was have us listen to this piece of music and then write a story inspired by what we heard. Disney, of course, did visual storytelling inspired by classical music in his film Fantasia. Ours was simply a writing exercise with a musical prompt. For people with imagination this kind of thing is fun.

If you are familiar with the 1812 Overture you'll recall the sense of mood swings, a back and forth between lighter and more ominous themes. At the time I doubt that any of us knew it was about a conflict between Napoleon's army and the armies of Russia. Though I don't remember anything I wrote, I do recall a vivid sense of imagery and felt quite energized as I penned my thoughts on paper.

Photo courtesy Zibik on Unsplash.

THE SECOND MEMORY took place on the Fourth of July when we were living, as I noted, in St. Paul. We'd gone to the State Capitol to see the fireworks on a beautiful midsummer evening. The crowds were spread out on the grass on the south side of the Capitol with a full symphony orchestra on the apron of the Capitol grounds. I can't recall how long they performed, but as the twilight turned to dusk the Capitol shone white and bright, illuminated against the dark but clear night sky.

At a certain point it began, the 1812 Overture. It's a fifteen minute piece of music whose energy rises and subsides, like breathing or the tides. As it approaches its famous climax there's brass and spectacle and, famously, cannon fire. 

And right on cue, as the cannons boomed the fireworks filled the night sky shooting up from behind the Capitol dome. That dramatic experience of Tchaikovsky, symphony, fireworks and celebration has never been equalled in my life. Ever since that time, to fully appreciate a fireworks event I have to simply not compare. 

Actually, the boom, pop and sparkle of fireworks never ceases to invigorate, except when it's the neighbors and you have a dog that is terrified of the booms. Fortunately, it's only once a year, whereas the memory of that night at the Capitol is fresh every time I think of it.

Happy Fourth of July to you, wherever you might be. 

Tribute to Mr. Harris

I recently posted on my Facebook page that I lamented how people didn't read poetry anymore, since I like writing and reading poetry and wouldn't mind having more readers to share with. Someone corrected me, noting that a lot of people read and write poetry still. Only now, it's songs.

That exchange brought me back in time to my high school English class. This is exactly what Mr. Harris was doing when he would have us listen to and analyze the lyrics of songs like Sounds of Silence by Simon and Garfunkel or She's Leaving Home by the Beatles.

Mr. Harris became an influence in my life at a time when I needed that. He seemed to pay attention to me as a person at a time when I felt lost in the crowd.

On one occasion everyone in the class was asked this hypothetical question: If you could be anyone in the world, who would you be? I can't recall if that included people of all time or only present day times. We were then asked to say aloud whom we had written. When I said "me" there was quite a bit of mocking laughter. Mr. Harris literally had to hush the class so he could ask a thoughtful follow up. It was as if he knew I had more to my answer than mere conceit. I replied, "Because everybody in the world has problems. I'm just more familiar with my own and wouldn't have to learn how to deal with a whole new set of problems."

In retrospect it's interesting to note my maudlin problem-focused reply as opposed to an optimist's opportunity mindset. More importantly, Mr. Harris showed respect for me and believed I had something more going on inside. He drew it out in a sensitive manner so that over forty years later I recall the incident.

After one of our writing assignments in which everyone had to write a short story, he came up to me and asked permission to submit my story to a national fiction competition for high school students' works. The story didn't win any awards, but the recognition by Mr. Harris that it was worthy of extra attention proved exceedingly gratifying.

The story was about longing and desire and suffering, from the point of view of a stick of gum. It begins with my lying clothed next to another whom I loved but was unable to communicate with due to excessive shyness. I described the feelings of silent longing, but despaired of anything ever coming of it. As the story develops, continuing from the gum's point of view, I am separated from the one I love, stripped and put into a torturous situation. (I tried to describe all this the best I could without saying words like fingers, mouth, teeth, tongue.) In the end, she is also stripped and joins me, finding comfort in the midst of our harrowing situation by becoming one.

Great story? Probably a little much. But like the great writers I did have several variations on my ending, including one in which we were stuck under a lunch room table. I can't recall the real conclusion, though in retrospect I suspect it was weak.

Here's a poem/song by Paul Simon that we studied in Mr. Harris' English class one day. It became a vehicle for teaching the concept of alliteration, a poetic device that you can see in the line "withers with the wind." The song is simple, but with more to it than might initially meet the mind.

Leaves That Are Green

I was twenty-one years when I wrote this songI’m twenty-two now, but I won’t be for long
Time hurries on
And the leaves that are green turn to brown
And they whither with the wind
And they crumble in your hand

Once my heart was filled with love of a girl
I held her close, but she faded in the night
Like a poem I meant to write
And the leaves that are green turn to brown
And they wither with the wind
And they crumble in your hand

I threw a pebble in a brook
And watched the ripples run away
And they never made a sound
And the leaves that are green turn to brown
And they wither with the wind
And they crumble in your hand

Hello, Hello, Hello, Hello
Good-bye, Good-bye Good-bye, Good-bye
That’s all there is
And the leaves that are green turn to brown

© 1965 Words and Music by Paul Simon