When In-laws Turn 90

The first week of February we flew to the east coast to celebrate Mark's Mother's 90th birthday.  Mark is one of seven children, and his mother has thirteen grandchildren and fourteen great-grandchildren (of which The Child is the oldest).  Almost everyone—including the Florida nephews and nieces—was able to come to the celebration, which lasted several days over the February 3 weekend; there were upwards of fifty people spanning four generations in the Suffern house.  

Probably the best way to describe the gatherings in full force is "a frat party with lots of theatre people."  Or possibly a slightly grittier version of backstage at The Muppet Show.  

Since there were so many relatives scheduled to attend the fancy birthday lunch, there was a raffle to "sit at the captain's table" with the birthday girl.  Since the instructions didn't specify a limit, Mark proceeded to fill out multiple tickets with his name on them.  This sparked a loud discussion among his sisters about the interpretation of the rules and whether Mark was stuffing the ballot or not.  During this time, The Child (at least) wrote Mark's name on an extra ticket, and somebody else submitted a ticket labeled "Anyone BUT Mark."  

When the tickets were drawn, Mark's name was drawn five times (six if you count "Anyone BUT Mark"), and after a consultation, Mark's Mother decreed Mark disqualified.  

"I've been sent away!" said Mark, "Banished."  Smeagol-like, at the fancy birthday lunch, he sat down at the captain's table and pretended to lick the forks.  

The lunch was a hearty Italian meal, with several courses (I had salmon).  The strangest aspect of the party was that it was the same venue as Mark's Mother's 70th birthday, but the room seemed smaller somehow. We couldn't figure out if the room had been painted a white back then and that the now red walls made the space seem closer, or if there had been some slight remodeling or additions.  

Afterwards, Mark and I took late-afternoon nap; the news of which alarmed one of the precocious young nieces, who firmly announced to her mother that she "did not take naps."  We rejoined the family at the Suffern house, which by this time, through the piano magic of one of the nephew-in-laws, had turned into a kind of piano bar with sing-alongs—I don't know what happened, one moment I was chatting in the living room, and then next moment I had a solo singing "Don't Cry For Me, Argentina."  The requests poured in—"This Land Is My Land," "Part of Your World," "Under the Sea," "Piano Man," "Bohemian Rhapsody," Scottish ballads— and folks were still singing when we left at midnight.

Sanctificetur Nomen Tuum

I just got back from a workshop on Russian sacred choral music. It was fun and interesting, and it wasn't what I expected.

I misunderstood who would be teaching. I thought it would be Eastern Orthodox Christian monks, so I imagined a cross between Rasputin, the pictures of the the monks who raise German Shepherds, and Jedi Knights. They'd wear long dark brown robes, or at the very least have circular, fur-lined hats reminiscent of the Renaissance. I imagined they lived and sang in a monastery that only recently acquired electricity and indoor plumbing. Oh yes, and there would be a hint of frankincense and myrrh wherever they walked.

One of the reasons I went was story research. Sacred music and its effects play a major role in the fantasy world I tend to write about, and my understanding of Eastern Orthodox Christian monks is that they eschew musical instruments because the human voice, which is something fashioned by God, is the holiest way to sing hymns. And here was an opportunity to learn Secret Chants from foreign holy singing people! With monastic vestments and accents and everything!!

I even thought there might be a discussion of the symbolic means of various musical key signatures, and maybe even Secret Names of God. Or they'd pull out Sir Arthur Sullivan's Lost Chord with a small smile, a shrug, and a "Oh, this? It was discovered in St. Petersburg... we use it every day to get in touch with The Almighty." And maybe they'd have a musical monk's version of a lightsaber.

As a writer of fantasy stories where song, spell and prayer are supposed to the same thing, you can imagine my excitement.

It turned out the instructor, Sergey, wasn't a Orthodox Russian Ninja-Monk. He wasn't even a monk. He _was_ Russian, and he was the leader of a touring vocal ensemble. Learning a Russian Pater Noster was interesting, but the most useful thing from a writing a story-world point of view was when he would stop us singing and say something like, "this part means 'bread' and here is where the phrasing should be largo," or "Don't punch the words here, they shouldn't be war-like," or "...and this is 'Maria' and we venerate her."

In my fantasy world, I've been approaching magic and song in a mechanistic way. The story-world's Old Testament creation myth has The Father singing creation, and The Mother taking His Song and fashioning the cosmos. I've been having my spell-casters singing mechanically, which is a mist-step similar to having a B-movie scientist proclaim "E=mc^2!" in order to justify giant nuclear frogs. (Pause to imagine Bill Nye the Science Guy singing "Doe, a deer, a female deer" as a valid physics lesson....)

When I depict my characters doing magic, I need to have Sergey's memory whispering in my ear, "this is 'Maria' and we venerate her" so that, for the characters--at least some of them--there is no difference between song, spell, and prayer.