Swing Low, Sweet Chariot

The image in my head is sepia-toned, muted colors in low lamplight. I’m maybe 5 years old, lying on the floor while my grandfather sits beside me, in my parents’ bedroom because of the out-of-town guests. His voice is low, strong, voluminous like an organ in church, claret. He sings an old spiritual almost as slow as I can stand it – carrying me softly towards sleep. He doesn’t describe the song or its meaning, doesn’t stop to ask me what I think or how I feel, doesn’t belabor his obvious love of singing – creating music with nothing less than his own voice. I feel safe, cared for, a part of a shared tradition. Back in West Virginia, I know he sings with choirs at church, at work, has done so for years, but right now my grandfather is singing for me.

Lawrence G. Hess would have turned 93 this past weekend. He would have had some short, sly, witty thing to say about it, too, had he been able to see the day. He was a good man, a kind father, a loyal employee, a brilliant chemical engineer, a devoted Catholic, an adventurous spirit, and a passionate fan of Notre Dame.

Happy Birthday, Grandad. We miss you. We hold you in our hearts.

Manicotti and Musketeers

There is a restaurant on Arthur Avenue in the Bronx that advertises “Fine Family Dinning.” Does that mean you can bring the kids and let them make a racket? Is “dinning” like “dimming”? Or more like “dunning”? Neither of those sounds good to me. What does sound good is, “Hey, I’m going up to eat at Dominick’s on Arthur Avenue. You want to join me?”

I did have the pleasure of eating at Dominick’s this past weekend with my brother, father, and L. We combined the gustatory delights of that menu-less family-style Italian eatery with a basketball game at Fordham, vs. Xavier. Our cousin Mike is a trainer for the Musketeers and, as always, it was nice to see a friendly face on the opposing team’s bench. Go Rams! [Photo is a little fuzzy because either a) the kind woman sitting near us was sitting in a Sharper Image chair when she took it; b) the lens was covered with castor oil; or c) pick 'em.]


Dominick’s, for those unfortunate many who have not had the pleasure, is a treasure of the Bronx’s Little Italy neighborhood, a collection of bakeries, restaurants, specialty stores, and the like. Some of the restaurants have fine dinning, others no. Regardless, as yet another outpost of il bel paese, Arthur Avenue ranks with Court Street in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn, and the most famous Little Italy in NYC centered around Mulberry St. in lower Manhattan. 2009 – a year to shake off lethargy and explore those infrequently visited spots of your place in space. A hedgerow, a side street, a nearby valley, a borough. Get out there! Don’t forget your decoder ring.

And watch out for misspelled signs. They’re everywhere.

++++++++++++++

One sign you could not miss today:

C. H. A. N. G. E.

As one blogger put i: Black president, y'all.

Revisiting Siena

During my family's visit last week, we took a day trip by bus, through fog, to the Tuscan jewel Siena. Because of the Bubonic Plague and its long history in the shadow of her busier rival, Florence, Siena has retained her medieval structure, feel, traditions, and politics more significantly than many other places in Italy. I visited in August for the Palio, perhaps the most famous bareback horse race in the world, and it was a pleasure to go back with my family. Thanks to the excellent introduction to the city I received from Magno (like our favorite team, the Red Sox, sempre campeon), I was able to play tour guide for part of the day. And what a day it was. The winding labyrinthine streets of the contrade. The elegant striped and unfinished Duomo, home of an amazing marble floor and a stargazing scriptorium. The sloped scallop of the picturesque Campo, site of the biannual race and a perfect setting for a late afternoon drink. A wandering ramble past churches, the university, vistas, the calcio stadium, leather and paper and ceramics and artisan shops, eventually back to the bus station. Here are some of the many photos we took.

Trading post cards for boarding passes

For Thanksgiving this year, I ate no turkey and watched no American football. There were no pumpkin pies cooling in my kitchen, no traditional Quaker hymns sung across generations. I did receive a gift beyond worth when my parents and brother came to visit for a week. We spent our time together in Tuscany, mostly in Florence with a day-trip to Siena. We rambled and ambled, wined and dined, raptured at art and city and captured moments on film. To avoid gluttony of reading and writing, I will try to describe the vacation in installments. Hey, it worked for Dickens and Matthiessen, right?

The Uffizi. A grand palace with an overwhelming collection of art. Countless Adoration of the Magi; innumerable Madonnas, including Madonna of the Pomegranate, the Long-necked Madonna, and a dark 15th century portrait that reminds me now of Munch, found by museum representatives at a flea market in Milan in 2002. I learned about the martyrdoms of various saints: Sebastian killed by arrows, Florian thrown from a bridge with a millstone chained to his neck. Many of the Masters are there: Caravaggio, Botticelli, Raphael, da Vinci, Michelangelo, Giotto, Titian, Dürer... Having now traveled a bit in Italy, I recognize its plants, architecture, and landforms in Renaissance art: who knew that Bethlehem looked just like the Tuscan countryside? At night, the city sparkles along the river and the dome of the cathedral still boggles the mind despite the shadows.

The Accademia. We lucked out and, with the combination of a slower tourist season and an afternoon rainstorm, walked right in without waiting in line. The pen-and-marker graffiti along the wall lining the sidewalk attest to the expectant purgatory of visitors past. The small museum has one room of amazing paintings and another exhibition area of musical instruments from the Medieval and Renaissance periods. However, the gallery’s main attraction is Michelangelo’s David, and rightly so. A few unfinished sculptures precede the David and show some of Michelangelo’s process and genius. The 17-foot tall David is... Giorgio Vasari, Michelangelo's contemporary and biographer, said: "Whoever has seen this work need not trouble to see any other work executed in sculpture, either in our own or other times, by no matter what craftsman." The stone seems more alive than some people I’ve known. I had to remind myself of optical illusions when I saw his chest swell with breath. With tired feet and a curious mind, I was happy to sit and stare for a long time. To think that Michelangelo completed the sculpture by the time he was thirty...