Who Like Ravel Hailed

I’d been sitting in a doctor’s waiting room last night.  They had no local news.  I don’t ever watch television, let alone local news.  This seemed to be called “Fios” news.  I don’t know what that is, but they were covering counties close to mine.  And the local weatherman was letting us all know that while it would be pleasant enough during the morning the weather would change soon, and we’d be hit with heavy showers all afternoon.  By noon this morning it was cloudy and I suited up to get this bike ride in now, rather than later. 

Old epiphanies are not always within reach.  Many lessons we need to learn over and over again.  Some however, are signposted more prominently.  I was driving around the back-country near Middletown Connecticut on a carpentry job, in what must have been 1988, probably stoned, listening to classical music and I had one such epiphany:  Jazz is a reflection of urban rhythms: improvisational humanity, street lights, horn honking.  Sonny Rollin’s “The Bridge”, which he wrote practicing hear the same bridge where I would soon live not long after that epiphany, is only the most obvious example of traffic as inspiration.  And in the “country,” driving about looking at sunrises and ravines and the swaying of branches and the coursing of a river’s path, “classical” music (nineteenth century Romantic composers in the main) seemed particularly well-attuned to nature's broad pulsations.

And I’ve been playing much more classical music these days when I take my bike rides, rolling that old epiphany around in my mouth as I consider the canopy above and the leaves on the ground.  Had a few days in a row with Schumann’s works for piano and cello which were especially unnerving.  Today I returned to Maurice Ravel, whom I haven’t listened to for years.  “Le Tombeau de Couperin” dedicated to six different composers, each of whom died in World War I.  The third piece: “Forlane” written in memory of First Lieutenant Gabriel Deluc  who like Ravel hailed from Basque country, is so achingly sad.  I turned it up and paused to look at a deep ravine.  The music suited the setting well.

As I passed the bridge that spans the small creek by Boppys Lane and notice that there was a large tree who’s leaves extended nearly down to the ground.  That’s the same tree, I thought, that is so impressive up ahead by fifty yards.  I’d tried the other day to reach one of the leaves but they were all too high, even if I stood on a pedal.  I circled back and plucked one.  This must be the same tree that my stepdad identified with the heretofore unrecognizable name.  And when I got home I confirmed that yes indeed, this was also the leaf of a Catalpa tree.  Not sure if this new name will anchor itself well in the mind’s memory or not.  Catalpa.  Funny name.  Catalpa.  

I looked.  This will help with the anchoring:  Wiki tells me “the name derives from the Muscogee name for the tree, "kutuhlpa" meaning "winged head."  Now you know too.  And just like the weather man said, I wasn’t home for more than ten minutes when the heavens opened up and the rain began to pour down ferociously, just as predicted.

Wednesday, 10/16/19