Topic: Music

I'm an emotional guy. It is easy to "get" me, to set me to crying. Here and there a tear will fall when I see something beautiful. But when the time comes in a Mass to sing, "I am the Bread of Life..." I'm a gigantic mess.

You see, "I am the Bread of Life" is a beautiful song. I love it. But it's been ruined for me. I've heard it and sung it in too many funerals. The refrain has a glorious build, "And He will raise you up-- and He will raise you up-- and He will raise you up on the last Day!" I suggest you listen to it. It is just plain moving.

But I can't stand to sing it. In the TV show Angel, the Angel gang goes to sing karaoke in order to have their auras and futures read by a demon, Lorne. Wesley, I believe, explains that when you sing you bear your soul and Lorne could read it.

I began to the dread Bread of Life as my beloved Aunt started to slip away. Aunt Mary Ellen, my father's sister, was one of my favorite people in the world. She'd survived Breast Cancer and her hysterectomy. I'd seen her most recently in the October of 2004 as I swung through DC to Rhode Island and back again. I had the feeling I was seeing her for the last time. Early in 2006, with my Angie in St. Louis, I got the call that I'd better get to DC- this was going to be the last time to see her. And in every Boyle funeral, we sung Bread of Life.

She had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer five years before and been given three years to live. She was still all there, undaunted. It was still hard to look. I pushed the truth away.

I had one last conversation with her- she knew she would not make it to my wedding, but promised she'd be there. She got me.

She died in May. I sat in the crypt church of the Basilica Shrine of the Immaculate Conception as we celebrated her funeral mass. I prayed as I leafed through the program, praying the Boyle tradition of using Bread of Life. Oh, shit. There it was.

The intro played. The soloist sung beautifully and I tried to sing along. "I am the bread of--" and my voice broke. That song was performed at the funerals of my grandfather, my grandmother, and I'd even sung it in choir over the casket of a 12 year old. I don't know how much of the song I spent weeping. It was probably most of it.


I had been numb for so long, having to sing, having to bear my soul, it made the moment that much more difficult, but I pushed through, weeping, singing, slumping.

The years have shown my ire for the song diminish, but the last time I heard it, as an "offering of gifts" song, I still could not sing it all.

Music can remind you of anything. But that song is just rough for me.

Topic: Music

Author: Chris Dunn

Christmas time always meant driving. We’d pile in the car to visit Uncle Bobby and Aunt Glenda. We’d drive to pick the largest tree we could afford, strap it to the roof, then watch dad cuss up a storm trying to put together the tree stand. We’d drive all over the neighborhood and the nicer neighborhoods searching for the best Christmas displays. We’d drive Uncle Ed and Aunt Lee’s on Christmas morning, leaving all our gifts from Santa sitting barely touched, the sheen of anticipation still clinging to them.  And everywhere we drove, we would sing.

I don’t know if every family did this, I always assumed growing up that my family was normal, but as the years compound the evidence, I find there are many activities we engaged in which were well outside the norm. For example, we would sing Christmas carols in the car to pass the time as a group. Each member of the family would have a turn and get to pick a song, and then we’d all merrily join our voices together. Dad’s deep sonorous baritone, mom often providing the harmony, and all three of us kids belting out as best we could from the back seat. As students in catholic school, we all sang in church and what we might have lacked in training, we made up for with enthusiasm.

We kids would mostly choose songs about Rudolph and Frosty, or a church song we knew like Hark the Herald Angels Sing or Oh, Come All Ye Faithful, while our parents would typically stick to songs from their work in the church choir. Occasionally my dad would pick a song I didn’t know. One of my least favorites was a song called, Lo How a Rose E’er Blooming. I don’t know if you know this song, but is so NOT, Here Comes Santa Claus. I would sulk in the back groaning in protest while mom and dad took their turn with it. But by and large, we all sang together, and the many miles of holiday driving melted into a musical montage.

Then, a teenager happened, and it was me. Around 11 or 12, I started being too old for the kid’s songs and too cool for the church songs and too awkward to trust my own voice. The singing would still go on, but I found myself sitting in the back trying not to listen and hoping we could just get to our destination already. It was the same songs every trip - in practically the same order, and the same songs as last year, and the year before that. I was so over and above it all, or so I pretended to be. The real reason, of course, was that I could no longer trust my voice. It didn’t sound right even to me, and when I did sing, my mother would comment, “Oh, your voice sounds so different. Everybody listen, Chris’ voice is changing.” Better not to be heard at all than to be the object of such acute observation.

And so, I went for years in silence. Listening as my very musical family continued to sing it up every chance they got. If you’ve ever been to a Dunn family birthday, you’ll find our rendition of the birthday song second to none. Carols in the car faded as the family grew older, but there were still plenty of opportunities for song. My parents continued to sing in the choir for years, and my sister, Bridgid, had voice lessons in the living room and took her amazing talent to State Fairs and school musicals.

But not for me, I couldn’t sing. I still loved music, and once I eventually learned to drive, I found that belting out songs in the car was just as fun in the front seat as it had been in the back, just as long as no passengers were around to hear it. I toiled in obscurity this way for twenty years. Until the day I found Rock Band.

Let me explain… First there was Guitar Hero, which let people play out their air guitar fantasies to a small list of hits on a plastic vertical version of a game we used to call, back in my day, Simon. Follow the colors on screen, hit the notes in time and the crowd would cheer. Very engaging!  A brief craze followed, and part of that video game genre, was a game called Rock Band. Which took things to the next level, a drum machine and bass were added to the mix and even a microphone for vocals. You could get together with your friends and pretend to be rockstars. Of course, each song someone had to take a turn on the mic.

We were all down at Curtis’. My turn at the drums had passed, and I wanted to move things along, so I could get back to try them again as soon as possible, so I downed another beer and volunteered to try singing, and to my great surprise, I was good, better than any of my friends. I was soon upping the difficulty to medium and then hard and still the meter belied my greatest fears. I was no longer that awkward teenager, and like most in my family, I could carry a tune. People had told me over the years, “Chris your voice is alright.” Or “No, really you sing fine.” But I had never believed it. It took science to convince me. That was 11 years ago, and I’m still playing this game. I have over 2000 songs in every genre of music and I can sing them all. My score is in the top 20 out of thousands of players. I’m a singer, like my mother and father before me. At least in the privacy of my own home.

Topic: Autumn

Author: Chris Dunn

Every year I wait with tense anticipation for the temperatures to drop and for the leaves to begin to change color, when I can wrap myself in the comforting embrace of my trusty leather jacket, perhaps a hat to shield my now balding pate. Summer is nothing but skin and sweat, and Spring is all itchy eyes and sneezing. Winter is too much of a good thing, locking you behind doors, nesting around heaters and thermal vents until the thaw finally comes. But Fall… Fall is my season!

These days in the heyday of social media, I endure numerous posts of complaint as the mercury dips lower and lower, all the while laughing to myself with giddy delight. Finally, the boorish nightmare of repetitive, relentless, smoldering summer days is coming to an end! Though given my chosen locale, I usually have to endure several “Indian” summers and false starts before the true season arrives in full swing. The trick is to watch the leaves, not the thermostat. A cool day here or there is nothing, but a bright red leaf, crackling and dry, whipping at the end of an empty branch in a chill wind is the true herald of autumn, and my personal invitation to actually venture outside my cave for a couple brief months before the ice comes.

I walk through my neighborhood my cheeks alive and red. No matter my pace, sweat isn’t needed to cool my skin. Everything is in perfect equilibrium. Days of hot drinks and warm clothes, and even the welcoming return of life as you step from a brisk walk into a heated house and a comforting warmth spreads through your bones. Skating at the edge of oblivion only to return to life, over and over again, as the tingling fire fills you like a deep, expanding breath.

For a brief time, my family had its own cabin in the woods, and each of us children was granted two weeks to use it for whatever we wished. I chose to try to start a tradition, inviting a host of friends to come and spend two weeks with me there in early October. My mother balked at first when I showed her my dates. “Really?” she asked. “That’s peak rental season, but… Okay, sure.” Though the place was huge, I invited far more people than could fit. My theory being, we would find a place for all who came, and that most people wouldn’t stay the whole two weeks. They would come and go as their schedules allowed, and then each year we would return and bask in the beauty of the forest covered mountains, eating and drinking together, sharing times and building stories, a yearly retreat. It was a beautiful dream.

The reality was far more pedestrian on most fronts. Despite exceedingly advanced notice, no one could make it to the first outing save for my then roommates Kit and Frank. We made a game go of it. Indulging in a wide array of mind-altering distractions while enjoying our time away from the patterns and responsibilities of our daily lives. Even Frank had to return after one week, but Kit stayed with me throughout, helping me live out a weak pantomime of my vision. We spent most of the days playing video games before venturing into town for supplies. Soaking in the hot tub or basking in the sauna, by turns. We talked of trails and whitewater rafting but neither of us was the adventurous type. Sitting on the porch and seeing a mother bear pass by with her cubs was more than enough outdoors for us both.

When the time came, as we prepared to pack up Scarlett, my 92 Nissan Sentra, and limp back to civilization and normalcy, I stood on the porch one last time. The view was tremendous. It took in a large swath of the Smokies. I’d been watching Fall’s path since our arrival when the view had been nothing but a sea of green. On the second day a tiny patch of red had appeared lower down close to the city. I tracked its progress as it spread like the simulation of a replicating virus of shifting colors across the whole of the range. As I beheld the autumnal tapestry and drew the chill air deep into my lungs, I counted the trip a success despite the low turnout, and I looked forward to coming back over many years, each time with a new mix of my friends and family. Let them partake of this retreat. Let them soak in this beauty. Next year would be bigger and better!

But next year was full of responsibilities and obligations. Jobs became careers. Friends got married and had children. My annual Run to the Hills Retreat, never became a thing.  Recently, some kids were playing with matches, and along with 14 lives, 2,500 homes were lost. Our lodge was one of those homes. It was weeks before someone could get through the disaster area and bring us grim pictures of the sad sight. Half a wall and clean foundation were all that remained.

Topic: Vacation

Author: Chris Dunn

Carefully following all the directions, I place the ballot inside the envelope made out with particular caution not to leave even a character out of place. I don’t want them to have any excuses. Not this time. But in the end I shrug, if they want to steal it, they’ll steal it. There’s really nothing I can do short of raising arms against the state, and I’m too old and too much a coward for anything like that. I have to rely on the integrity of the system, and hope this time the wisdom of the masses overcomes their usual apathy. I want so very much for this country to disprove the lie of the last two years, the thought that we are a bigoted, xenophobic, sexist culture, that we have forgotten all the lessons we learned as a nation in my youth and backslid farther than in my worst nightmares… The possibility is too awful to contemplate, so I screw my hope to the sticking place and hand the envelope to Jill. She’ll place it along with her own in the mail at her work and that will be one less thing to worry about. We have to get all our ducks in a row. It’s almost time for our vacation.

Vacations are meant to be relaxing getaways, but for me the lead up is nothing but stress, and the worst kinds of stress; worrying about what will come, missed connections, forgotten documents, being stranded. I can never truly unwind until we’ve reached our destination. This year is particularly stressful because, we’re going overseas to Paris, which means leaving our home behind and so many levels comfort it’s hard to truly fathom. So many things to organize; Aaron to watch the house, my team to cover my contractors at work, all my games put on hiatus. I want the house clean before I leave. I want to leave no food to spoil in the fridge. And, since this trip comes so close to election day, I need to vote absentee before we leave. I would hate to miss my flight and so miss my chance to announce my feeble opposition to this war on basic human decency.

Why Paris? Twenty-five years ago fresh out of college, I threw caution to the wind, quit my new job, and journeyed across Europe with a pair of friends for an entire month, riding the rails through seven countries, staying in tiny hostels, eating lightly and learning the value and power of my own two feet. If you’ve been a follower of my stories, you’ve heard several of my favorite anecdotes already. It was one of the greatest trips I ever took, and it changed the way I see the world. At age 50, I found I needed a refresher.

The first time, Drew had been our guide. He had already spent years in Europe. He had friends in France, Spain, Luxembourg… He was fluent in French and passable in Spanish. And he knew all the tricks, where to find cheap lodging, how to recognize and avoid the tourist traps, how to navigate the Eurorail system and the Paris Metro. We would’ve been lost without him, and I owe him a debt for taking on the herculean task of seeing us all the way home without ever losing it at our naivete and helplessness. But this time, I’m the guide. This time, the trip is my idea, and - not only do I have to navigate myself around a city I can barely communicate with - but I also have to look after Jill. I spend the months leading up to the journey brushing up on a year of college French on Duo Linguo, and in the end panic and buy a translation app. I don’t want to be stranded with no way to communicate. I don’t want to be looked down on as the boorish American who can’t even bother to learn say, “I’m sorry. I don’t speak your language,” while travelling abroad. All my effort and panic proves unnecessary. So many people speak English in France now. I barely got to ask before they were helping me. The people were very friendly and eagerly helpful. Mostly… Sure there was the cabbie who double charged us and the desperate sketch artists on Montmartre who wouldn’t take no for an answer, but they were exceptions. Even when an Uber driver claimed to not speak English, more often than not, we possessed enough common ground to complete the transaction and even share some humor.

Then on day three it hit me. Why I had had to go back… What I needed to relearn... Everyone needs to visit a foreign country, to go somewhere where you are the minority, where you do not speak the language, where you are an outsider just there because you heard it was a wonderful place and hoped to share in its bounty and beauty. Put yourself in the position of needing others, feel that dependency and then feel the warmth of the connection when someone reaches through the barriers that divide us and helps you just to be decent, just because it would hurt them to see you left lost and confused; in pain. Language is not the way we communicate. It is just a tool that makes it easier. Months of study, and I believe I used my French three times where it made a difference, and even then it was a minor difference meaningful really only to me.

How can you say America is the greatest country with any conviction, if you’ve never seen another one? How can you tout America’s greatness when you have nothing to compare it to? Take a chance! Step outside your prison of preconceptions and misinformation and go and experience the world that’s out there. You’ll find it far more inviting than you expect. The journey may takes hours by plane or sea, but open yourself up to new experiences, and I guarantee it will be worth it. Take a vacation from yourself.

Topic: Autumn

Topic: Autumn

Miami University was made for autumn.  With its red brick buildings and tree lined walkways it looks like the movie set for every college film set in the Midwest.  In the fall of my freshman year, 1983, it was a particularly gorgeous fall day.  You didn’t need a coat--a sweater would do just fine.

 I was walking from my dorm to the dining hall for lunch in late October.  After lunch I was going to walk to the performing arts building for my weekly voice lesson.   I don’t know where I got the idea, but I thought I might sing better if I dressed up a bit for my lesson.  I wore a blue knee length cotton dress with small pink flowers and a broad white lace collar.  The skirt flared out a bit and it came with a belt in the same floral as the dress.  I remember checking my look in the full-length mirror we had hanging on the back of the door to our tiny dorm room, and thinking that the belt was a good touch. I thought it nipped in my waist nicely and gave me the hourglass effect I was going for.  Back then I had thick pretty reddish-brown hair with feathered bangs.  Before I headed out, I sprayed a little Aqua Net on my bangs and touched up my lips with Bonne Bell lip smacker Dr. Pepper flavor.  I smiled at my reflection.  I felt pretty.

To get to the dining hall I had to walk past the freshman boy’s dorm.  Some guys on one of the upper floors had their speakers in the windows blasting “Photograph” by Def Leppard.  I hummed along and stepped lightly in my blue flats.  I crunched some leaves intentionally as I walked.  I had struggled with feeling homesick since I had started college a few months back.  But on this day, I felt so collegiate, like maybe this was where I belonged.  It was fall and I was doing well in my classes.  The air was crisp, but not too cold.  I smiled at the world.

Then the music stopped and I heard one of the boys from the dorm yell, “Lose about fifty pounds.  Then you’d look halfway decent, bitch.” 

Who could they be talking to?  I looked behind and beside me and saw no one.  Then he repeated the taunt.  I didn’t look up.  I tried not to speed up.  I tried to pretend I didn’t hear what he said.  Then a different voice began to make sounds like a pig.  I felt a tear escape from my left eye.  Then a voice in my head, I think it was my mom’s, saying, “Do not let these motherfuckers see you cry.”  I kept walking and focused on keeping my pace as steady and light as before.  I crunched a few more leaves. 

“I know you hear me.  Yeah, I’m talking to you,” he called out.  I thought about yelling back or flipping him off, but I heard my mom’s voice again telling me, “Do not dignify any of this with a response.”  I made it past the back of the dorm and ate lunch.  I went to my voice lesson.  The next time I went to my voice lesson I wore jeans and a baggy sweatshirt.

I wonder if those boys remember this day like I do.  I wonder if they have wives.  Or daughters.  And I wonder if a perfect autumn day brings it to their remembrance. 

Autumn by Thom Dunn

Topic- Autumn (written by Thom Dunn)

 

I’m from New England. 

New England is a riot of color in the fall.

I ask my fifty-three year old daughter, “Have you been to New England in autumn?”

“No,” she says, “I’ve never been to New England in autumn.”

Actually, outside on Hollywood Avenue in Cincinnati leaves are turning in bunches. 

Down by the Cape after the homecoming dance Edna Tenney comes up to me.  “Feel me, “she says, her bathing suit dripping from a quick dip in Buzzard’s Bay.  I refrain. Dumb high school fool.  On the way back, Ralph and Madeleine get to play-fighting, and Ralph nearly runs into a tree.  I shout, “Look out, Ralph” in a sharp desperate voice.  It may be the most important thing I ever did in my life.  The laughter in the wagon goes on.  The moment goes on.  We continue to consume beer, no hard stuff.  Not I, of course.  As per a promise I made to my sister I never drink.  The year is 1956.  Looking back I find it strange that there is no marijuana, at least none that I ever saw in Milton High.  Oh, but there is the dance, and the Cape, more beer than Ralph should drink, Madeleine’s inattention.

We cruise past Hyannisport and into the miracle that is autumn, and beside me the miracle that is Edna.

“Feel me, “she says, “Feel me.” 

Topic: Vacation

Topic: Vacation

One of my late mother’s many gifts was her ability to make the mundane seem special.  My dad was a college English professor and she was trudging through law school with three kids under the age of ten.  I know now that she didn’t like being in the house by herself at night.  Back then when my dad had to teach a Wednesday night class she would declare that we would have a “Dad’s Not Here” party.  We got to stay up late and watch the Sonny and Cher show.  She’d make popcorn-on the stove-this was the early seventies so we hadn’t heard of microwave popcorn, or even microwaves.  She’d buy a one quart glass bottle of Coke that we’d split three ways between mom, my brother Chris, and me.  My baby brother Marty was too little at the time to appreciate what a rare treat it was for us to have soda.

Mom would “move” the leftovers in an innovative way.  She’d tell us to sit in the dining room and then she’d appear with an apron tied around her waist as she welcomed us to “Dee’s Café.” 

“Good evening, miss.  May I offer you a cocktail to start with?  We have milk, water, and apple juice.”

Then she’d list the chef’s selections for us and would jot down our “order” on a little notepad.  We loved it. 

She even made the task of cleaning my room seem exciting.  Mom’s angle was that we would pretend we worked for the Red Cross.  My room was the site of a terrible tornado and we had to get everything cleaned up and ready so “the people” could come back home.  I bought into her vision and cleaned with unusual gusto for an eight year old. 

Once a month she and dad would sit at the dining room table to balance their checkbook and pay their bills old school style.  They handwrote checks and stuffed them into envelopes.  They took their paper bank statement and reconciled it to their check ledger-stuff my kids no nothing about.  There were no ATMS, debit cards, or electronic banking. When I asked what they were doing mom said they were playing a game called “Oh Shit” and that only grownups could play it.  All I knew was that if my mom did it, I wanted to play too. 

But probably her greatest feat was making us feel like a trip to Peebles, Ohio and on up to Toledo, Ohio was a luxury vacation.  She started by talking up the big vacation weeks ahead of time.  She made a countdown calendar on the kitchen fridge.  I proudly told the neighborhood kids that I wouldn’t be available for the next few days.  I was going on vacation.  I never went to the beach or a resort as a kid.  I still haven’t been to Disneyland or Disney World.  I didn’t ride on a plane until I was in my thirties.  I was in my forties when I went on my first cruise, and it was just this year at age 53 that I finally traveled outside of the U.S.  Our big vacation involved all three of us kids and my parents traveling in a station wagon to the Indian burial mound in Peebles.  Then we drove up to Toledo and stayed two nights in Howard Johnson hotel, all of us in one big room.  We dined at the L&K Family restaurant and went to the Toledo Zoo and the Toledo Museum of Art.  I remember it as one of my favorite vacations. 

What made it great, what made so many of my childhood memories great was my mom’s enthusiasm.  No matter what crap was thrown in mom’s path she managed to make it into a party, a game, or an adventure.  Now that I’m older I realize money was tight for my parents during those days.  By a lot of people’s standards we weren’t well off.  But when I think back on my childhood, I remember feeling unbelievably rich.