It’s Father’s Day. Both my folks are gone, and I had a rather complex relationship with my biological father, who died of cancer a little over a year ago. Still, toward the end, I visited him a lot, and we kind of became friends. At least I developed a better, or more rounded, understanding of him, though we still had a few adventures that reminded me of why it was probably a good thing that my mother herded us out of the nest when she did.
My old man could be an amusing personality if he were a work of fiction, or if he could be taken in at a safe remove. Also, in his way, he had a kind heart. His circle included a remarkable number of outsiders and societal cast-offs, and he managed to take care of many of them, after his fashion. But he was not one to be bound by rules or, more strictly speaking, the law. At best, he could be considered a bit of a scapegrace; at worst, he was an ardent hellraiser, especially in his prime.
But spending time with him later in life, it was fascinating to discover that, whether he knew it or not, he did live by a kind of code. Also, given his nature, I learned that a lot of what the rest of us had resented all these years was probably not entirely his fault. He just wasn’t cut out to raise a family. You can’t really fault a striped hyena for not being able to fly.
I could tell you stories about my dad that would make you howl with laughter or make your blood curdle, but instead I’ll just tie this in with my program tonight on “The Lost Chord,” which will consist of two pieces by American composers, written in loving memory of their fathers – with perhaps just a transitional bit of advice to get to know your parents, for better or worse, while there’s still time.
In 1999, composer Eric Ewazen was commissioned by an oboist-friend, Linda Strommen, who had recently lost her father, to write a new work as a kind of memorial tribute. Having recently experienced the death of his own father, the composer embarked on the project with a special sense of poignancy. He recollected that the day his father passed – Christmas Day, 1997 – an essay had appeared in the Cleveland Plain Dealer, by Richard Feagler. It consisted of funny, heartfelt stories of relatives and parents, long since departed. Near the end of the essay, titled “Christmas Past Comes Alive at Aunt Ida’s,” Feagler describes those beloved souls, “moving, though they can’t feel the current, down a river of time.”
Ewazen borrowed this image for the title of his concerto, “Down a River of Time,” a contemplation of that inexorable, rushing river – the first movement influenced by its ebbs and flows, hopes and dreams; the second attempting to convey emotions felt during times of loss, sorrow, resignation, tenderness, and peace in remembrance of happier, distant times. In the final movement, happier memories prevail, and feelings of strength and determination dominate.
Ewazen studied at, among other places, the Eastman School of Music. Howard Hanson had been director there for some 40 years. Along with the opera “Merry Mount,” Hanson came to regard his Symphony No. 4 as a personal favorite, a purely orchestral requiem, dedicated to the memory of his father. It falls into four movements, each bearing a Latin subtitle – “Kyrie,” “Requiescat,” “Dies Irae,” and “Lux Aeterna.” The work was given its first performance in 1943, with the composer conducting the Boston Symphony. It was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Music in 1944.
It sure as hell beats another necktie. Spare a thought for the Old Man, and then join me for “Day of the Dad,” this Sunday night at 10:00 EDT, on WWFM – The Classical Network and wwfm.org.
