Album Review: Love Was Here First

Album: Love Was Here First (2009)
Artist: Carolyn Arends
Label: 2B Records, Vancouver, BC

It is a tricky thing to write about Carolyn Arends's work. At least, it is for me. Mostly because I simply like it too much. You will find me, whenever Carolyn's newest music is the subject, a curious composite of Bingley, Georgiana and Darcy from Pride & Prejudice: ready, eager, and determined to be pleased. And I always am and then some. But, there is another aspect to her art that makes any discussion thereof difficult, if not completely superfluous -- her lucidity. I can think of no songwright that crafts a cleaner lyric. Do not mistake the sparkling clarity for simplicity, or rather, for superficiality -- she draws her water from a deep well; however, she is able to present a cogent idea so completely in a four minute song, that you may be fooled into thinking that you've got a handle on her. And, at the moment you think you've got it all figured out, she slips in a twist or paradox with such elvish glee that it will take your breath away. So, my two-pronged problem in writing about Carolyn's tenth album, Love Was Here First, is how to keep from gushing like a fool and how to say something worthwhile when she's already said it so well in the songs. Here goes . . .

Love Was Here First is a labor of that very primary stuff three years in the making. Even if you haven't been privy to what Carolyn has shared of the journey of tenacious faith and trials by fire that have marked the years since Pollyanna's Attic (2006) was released, you can hear it in these songs. But, it is a happy, hopeful album. As always, she has brought together a stellar group of musicians to give texture and depth to her already probing lyrics and cadenced melodies. There is, I think, only one "cover" on this album -- I only have the download, not the physical disc with the production notes, so bear with me -- and it is a hymn. There is a lot here in these eleven songs. One of the keys to Carolyn Arends's music is that she revisits themes repeatedly with ever-increasing insight. The fact that these themes never come across as worn or banal is a testament not only to her craftsmanship and genius, but to the eternal, ever-renewing-yet-never-changing nature of God.

The lead off track is "Be Still." Now, when I tell my daughter to "Be still!" I usually mean, "Be quiet!" This song is anything but quiet. There are horns. They are awesome! Carolyn's trademark linguistic gymnastics in the verses are contrasted deliberately with the far simpler refrain of the chorus. Behold the first verse and chorus:

Words fail, but I just keep talking I/Derail but there's just no stopping/The train of my thoughts, it goes faster and faster/This juggernaut is my natural disaster/My 'what-ifs' collide with my 'wherefores' and 'whys'/Til the only way that I'll survive is if

I will be still/And know that You are God

See? She uses words so well. Being a logophile who increasingly despairs for my mother tongue, I confess that it gives me a thrill to hear "juggernaut" thrown effortlessly into a song.

The next track is "Standing in the Need of Prayer." Sometimes I think that I am lucky in a way for having been raised in a heathen household. When an artist covers an old hymn, he runs into the problem of church-going folks' saying, "That's not how my mama sang that song when she made us chicken dinner on Sundays!" I have no history longer than fourteen years with any hymn, and I tend to hear them with fresh ears. Carolyn's version of this classic is a triumph, because she has brought an added color to the words and made me hear them anew. The song starts with a haunting solo vocal: It's me, it's me oh Lord/Standing in the need of prayer. Then, additional voices swell into a chorus, repeating the same: It's me, it's me oh Lord/Standing in the need of prayer. I found this very effective, because it emphasizes both the individual need of prayer -- as, from the lyrics, you would expect -- and then unanticipatedly makes the cry a universal one. Every heart at every moment can make the same declaration. It is I, it is I, it is I, it is I . . . The plaintive, almost melancholy, arrangement helps to focus the attention of the listener on the straightforward lyric, while the chorus lends irony to those words: Not my father not my mother but it's me oh Lord/Standing in the need of prayer/Not my sister not my brother but it's me oh Lord/Standing in the need of prayer. Though I do not have the album credits handy, I do believe that is Gayle Salmond's ethereal voice woven between the refrains that gives "Standing" an additional evocative beauty.

Track three, "My Favourite Lie," is a contender for my favorite song. When I first heard this song in 2007, it was stripped to its essence and sung with only piano accompaniment. I thought it so beautiful and true and clever. Yes, clever. That can almost be a pejorative in Christian music -- you do not want to be clever, you want to be holy and honest. Well, this song is both of those, and yet, the lyric is so magnificent and affecting . . . and, well, playful. And, what I love most about this song, is that it tells me something that I know in a way I had never thought of before.

I am a caterpillar who will not cocoon/Feels like a tomb/I will not die
I am a seed that will not be broken/For the flower to open/No, I will not die
I am a pilgrim on a dead-end road/Who refuses to go in a new direction
I am a sucker for my favourite lie/That you don't have to die to live the resurrection

The arrangement lightens it up considerably as well -- though the words tell of a human condition that can have tragic consequences, the joyous music saturates the song with hope. I think G.K. Chesterton would like this song muchly. It explores one of the many, many paradoxes Jesus left us to ponder and wrestle with until Kingdom come. Mark 8: 35: For whoever desires to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for My sake and the gospel’s will save it. We have to die to live the resurrection.

"Something Out of Us" is a showstopper. Carolyn is currently polling on whether folks would pay more for a concert ticket if she toured with a string quartet. My answer: Yes; but, I would pay even more if she would tour with a brass section. I seriously do not have the grasp on music that would define the genre here, but it reminds me of swing and jazz -- I could easily see Louis Prima and Sam Butera wailing this at The Sands circa 1955. And I haven't even gotten to the words yet, which are purely Carolyn -- everything we've come to expect but will never truly deserve from Mrs. A. Wry and witty, yet with zing and sting; realistic, yet with that sense of trust and hope that the now is not the yet-to-come; benevolence without blinders.

We want our way like David with Bathsheba/We are dreamers we are schemers like Jacob the deceiver/But You meet us at the river and You show us a good fight/Then You bless us and You name us and You make morning of our night

'Cuz You made cosmos out of chaos/You made Adam out of dust/You made wine out of the water/You'll make something out of us
You make light shine in our darkness/You make life to conquer death/You make children out of sinners/You'll make something of us yet

Track five, "I Am a Soul," is soothing and pricking at the same time. Carolyn is never afraid to ask the questions in her songs that fill the heart of every human, be he a believer or not. Why, materialists, if we are simply a chemical concoction born of evolution, destined for decomposition and oblivion, do we have the pulls of creative expression and abstract thought and deep brotherhood and deep cruelty in our DNA? We may have bodies, but we are souls.

"Willing" is, to me, a song of spiritual exhaustion and spiritual renewal. Every person of faith has experienced seasons like this. That point where we know with our minds that what we need most is God's work in our lives, but we cannot get our hearts opened or our spirits energized enough to be willing to let Him do that work. But, we can be "willing to be willing." And, the great work of faith is believing that He can take it from there.

The spirit of "Go Tell it On the Mountain" from 2004's Christmas: An Irrational Season is alive and well in "Roll It." Here's your rollicking old-tyme gospel sung with soul by the grooviest batch of Canadians west of Winnipeg. It is lighter and fun and breaks up the middle of the album quite well. Which brings up a point not often mentioned when writing about song collections -- track order. It is important, because, much like the chiaroscuro technique in painting that contrasts darkness with light, giving both greater dimension in the process, mixing up tempos and lyrical depth in an album can help quieter, less showy songs get the hearing they deserve because a frothier, if you will, tune has awoken the ears of the listener. "Roll It" does that job so well and prepares the way for track eight, "The Last Word."

It is tempting to see "The Last Word (Love Was Here First)" as the heart of the album. After all, the name of this collection was taken from this song. And, I do not think it would be far amiss to grant it that pivotal status. The important thing about this song is that it makes in such an elegant way that connection of which we constantly need to be reminded -- what started in the Garden with a lie and was finished on Calvary with truth is a love story of epic proportions. One of my favorite lines that illuminates this truth is from Philip Yancey's The Jesus I Never Knew, "In a nutshell, the Bible from Genesis 3 to Revelation 22 tells the story of a God reckless with desire to get his family back. (Zondervan, 1995; pg 268)" Consider the last verse and chorus in Carolyn's song:

Bad day in the Garden could not erase/All that was started with original grace/Though we have wandered, we will find if we search/Love was here first

And there will be a day when the Kingdom comes/When love has finished all that it's begun/When we're face to face we will know for sure/Love's gonna have the last word

"According to Plan" is an interesting song -- perhaps controversial? Not to me. I'm not a Calvinist. Here is the wrestling between the notion of God's sovereignty, free will, and just the strange randomness of life in this fallen world. The chorus is a powerful summary of these questions that fill our minds:

Well I'm not so sure that God moves everything/Like pawns in a chess game or puppets on string/I can't determine just whether or not/He causes our troubles or He makes them stop/But I am convinced we get one guarantee/There's no situation that He can't redeem/When He moves in our hearts that's when we understand/It's going according to plan

Carolyn's albums always finish strong, and the last two tracks of Love Was Here First are no exception, though they are -- so far as songs go -- exceptional. "Nothing Can Separate" is an anthem of certainty, of Paul's vision of the peace that passeth all understanding, of that transcendent love for which we yearn. Here's another key to Carolyn's songwriting: She is going to tell you what you know with your mind to be true and remind you to carry those things in your heart. I mean, I know

Neither death nor life not the past nor the present nor the things to come/No foe -- neither depth nor height can separate us from the love of Christ

but it is SO GOOD to hear it again and again and again. I need to hear it. The world needs to hear it.

The last song is "Never Say Goodbye." Carolyn writes the most profound songs about Jesus I have ever heard. That fact that she so rarely uses His name just infuses them with greater mystery and poignancy. "In Good Hands," "What Love Looks Like," and, now, "Never Say Goodbye" are just soul-searingly good. I'm blubbering right now even thinking about it. Trust me, it's that amazing.

OK, this is a long write-up, but I do hope you've stuck with me until the end -- or, at least, skipped over my poor, faltering words and just read the lyrics I've quoted. If you for some reason do not know Carolyn's music and writing, I pray that something I've said here will encourage you to visit her webstore Feed the Lake and sample her music. You will be blessed by it surely.

Lacerta Liberatio

I do not have many claims to coolness as a mom. I am not the greatest living singer/songwriter like she is. I am not a phenomenally talented novelist like this one. I have never been governor of a state or VP pick like you-know-who. I'm not a great warrior of the faith like, well, you know who you are, and I am terribly envious. Nope. Usually, my great list of accomplishments begins and ends with the fact that my bathrooms get a good scrub down weekly (or every ten days at most); and we all know that that doesn't even win points with hubby, let alone the kiddos. But, as of last Monday, I have staked out a new claim on the coolness criteria frontier. For I have freed the lizard. Indeed I have.

The song will be sung and the story will be told long after my ashes have fed the earth of how I freed the lizard. The children who witnessed this marvelous feat will tell their friends and their children and their children's children and their friends' children of the day when I freed the lizard. Some day, an enterprising author will hear the tale, believe it to be a myth of suburbia, and capitalize upon its eternal truth and wisdom by making it into a children's book illustrating for posterity the sheer heroism of the deed. But, you, lucky reader, will hear of it first.

We had glue traps in our garage. The pest control company put them out at the corners of the garage door entry way to trap any little scurrying rodents who may try to make their merry way into our home. Until last Monday, the traps had only caught spiders of various sizes, from small and spindly to large and hairy. Yuck. I have no sympathy for rodents -- who use their wretched teeth to eat into our plumbing for what I can only assume is the fun of it -- nor for spiders, who really ought to live outside and not hassle me. But, on that fateful day, behold, a lizard was caught in one of the glue traps. Oh dear.

I have a certain sympathy for reptiles. Snakes and lizards and tortoises are my friends. Hey, snakes eat mice -- you know I love that -- and the big ones occasionally eat those little yappy dogs, too. Of course, recently, that terrible one killed a two-year-old, which is not cool at all; but, snakes, in general, have my approbation. They do the Lord's work. Except in the Garden of Eden. And lizards are adorable -- with their little blinking eyes and sticky-outy arms and legs. And Tortoises -- c'mon, who doesn't love them?

So, my heart was sad to see a lizard stuck in glue. Poor dear. He was probably chasing after one of those horrible spiders and followed it into the mire. I figured that he was dead. Upon closer inspection, he proved to be very much alive. Every inch of his underside was stuck. His tail and feet and belly and throat and jaw. He could only blink his eyes, protrude his tongue, and sigh. Sadie and Rylee looked at the lizard and then looked at me. "You have to get him out," they cried, almost in unison. Four eyes -- two blue, two dark hazel, both big and round and sad -- gazed at me expectantly.

How was I to get out a glue-bogged lizard? I ran and got a butter knife, hoping to slide it under my scaly friend and lift him to freedom. Unfortunately, his wee feet were so deep in goo that I quickly saw any forcible lifting without nullifying the grip of the glue would likely rip them off. So, I did what every sensible herpetological neophyte does when faced with an existential reptilian conundrum (that is, relating to the continued existence of this particular lizard); I went on-line.

A quick Google of "how to free a lizard from a glue trap" revealed myriad sites. Literally, myriad. Ain't the 'Net grand? I clicked on the first one and, after reading a bit how cruel and unnecessary glue traps are, the author got to his point. First, you cover the trap with flour to neutralize the stickiness of the glue, so that your incrementally freed animal does not re-stick during the process. Then, you could use vegetable oil -- or, even better, Goo Off -- and Q-tips to marinate the poor beast which will, in turn, dissolve the glue. Aha! Why, I had both flour and oil! The girls and I gathered the products and ran back outside to our sad friend.

If little reptiles were able to think in an abstract manner, I am certain that no good thoughts would have run through that lizard's brain. To be trapped and then have giant mammals hovering over you, covering you with both flour and oil . . . well, that sounds like "breading" to me. Out of the glue trap and into the frying pan! But, no, we had no designs on making him a mid-morning snack. He could not know that, but he had no choice whatsoever. If ever a lizard looked glum, it was he.

I worked feverishly with Q-tips in hand, while Rylee and Sadie kept the neighbor's friendly cat at bay. First, I freed his tail. It immediately whipped about and into another part of the trap; but, the flour did its job and his tail remained at liberty. Then, I oiled his little arms and legs; went on to his belly; and, ever so gently, freed his throat and jaw. Sweet freedom! Rylee and Sadie cheered. I grinned. As soon as he realized he was really, truly free, the little feller ran off -- straight into our garage and behind some cans. Crap!

By this point, I was a wee exasperated with our reptilian buddy. Fine, you fool, I thought. Run off into the spider-webby garage corner. I am through with you. I tossed the glue traps into the garbage, bundled the girls into the bike trailer, and we went to the library.

When we came home, though, the lizard was waiting on the other side of the garage door. He had obviously had second thoughts about hanging out with spiders while drenched in tasty oil. He gave us a long look -- I'd like to think that the glimmer of gratitude shone in his eye -- and then scurried out into the bushes that line the driveway. And there I hope he is today, eating small bugs and wearing off the oily sheen.

And that, my friends, is the tale of how I freed the lizard. A good tale, do you not agree? And, what's more it is all true. I advised Sadie that, should she ever be called upon in school to write an essay about why her mom is cool, she should remember the day I freed the lizard. Sadie gazed at me with her big, dark, inscrutable eyes and spoke those immortal words of reassurance that every mother longs to hear: "Sure, Mom. Whatever."

A freer of lizards is not without honor save in her own household.

Whoever Treasures Freedom

At the behest of my dear friend, Flicka Spumoni, I humbly offer a short story I wrote in November 2008.

Whoever Treasures Freedom*

A Fable

Way back long ago, Child, in the days of the Flood, He-Eagle and Rooster sat on top of Noah’s boat and watched the waves lap against it. The good friends had spent many hours just so in silent, bobbing companionship.

The chicken broke the silence. “Brother Eagle, it seems to me that these waters are receding at last.”

“That’s so,” replied the eagle.

“What do you think you and the missus will do, once we can safely leave the boat?”

“Well,” He-Eagle paused, staring thoughtfully into the distance, “I guess we’ll be flying to the highest point we can find and building a nest and beginning again. What about you and Sister Hen?”

“You know, I’ve been thinking about that a lot, and I think we’re going to stick close to Brother Noah and the children of Noah.”

He-Eagle was startled. “Do you think that’s wise?”

“I can’t think of anything wiser,” Rooster replied. “Think about it, Brother Eagle: this whole world is going to be pretty barren and uninviting until after the first spring. Not a tasty grub or tender shoot to be found. But, you know that Brother Noah and his children will be planting their seeds as soon as we hit fertile land, and the first-fruits of the earth will be theirs. Plus, they have enough food reserves to feed us all until the harvest. Yes,” Rooster nodded solemnly, “I really do not see a better way for my family.”

"I am grateful that Father, through Noah, provided this rescue when the rains came,” He-Eagle began slowly, “But these many months on a cramped ship have made me yearn for the mountains. My very bones cry for freedom.” He-Eagle shook his head, “No, Brother Rooster, I cannot agree with your plan. Brother Noah and his children are well and good, but as for me and my wife, we shall rely on Father’s provision. Surely He did not save us to let us perish, no matter how harsh this new world.”

“Suit yourself, Brother Eagle, suit yourself.” Rooster laughed a little under his wing. “Now, how about a race two miles out from the boat and back? Loser has to wake the boat tomorrow morning.”

“You’re on,” He-Eagle cried, and they flew off.

Within a few days, He-Eagle’s excellent eyes showed him that a purple peak had emerged on the horizon. He and She-Eagle asked Rooster and Hen once more if they would want to stretch their wings and journey with them. The chickens politely declined. So, after bidding farewell to Brother Noah and his children, the eagles left the ark.

A few weeks after the eagles’ departure, Noah’s boat came to rest on its own mountain peak, and a whole mess of weary, dirty, grumpy animals and people stepped foot again on solid land. Just as the chickens had predicted, after sacrificing on an altar and drunken revelry, Brother Noah and his children began the task of rebuilding the earth. Rooster and Hen stuck close by, pecking up spare crumbs that the people kindly left, and feeling pretty pleased with their good plan. Now, if an egg or two was taken for Noah’s breakfast, occasionally, they really didn’t miss it; they had so many.

Child, things were hard for He-Eagle and his wife. Again, just as Rooster had said, the earth was unforgiving that first year, begrudging her lost beauty by taking her time to renew. Their first nest was a paltry thing, with spindly vines and soft, new leaves to build it instead of strong branches and cozy moss. The first eggs She-Eagle laid never hatched. She mourned for a season. He-Eagle would descend far down the mountain daily to try to find the smallest sign of edible matter, and too many days he would come home with nothing at all.

But, Father remembered His eagle children, and mousies and bunnies do tend to multiply, and it did not take long for the eagles’ bellies to be filled again. The next year, enough bushes had grown to make a stable sort of nest, and two of the five eagle eggs hatched. The year after that brought three eaglets; the year after that, three more. Soon, when Rooster and Hen and their broods of chicks looked into the sky, the graceful silhouette of an eagle child was not an unusual occurrence. So, both the eagles and the chickens grew and prospered; they scattered across the globe – the eagles between the mountains, the chickens with the children of Noah.

Years turned into decades, decades to centuries, centuries to eons. He-Eagle and She-Eagle died. Rooster and Hen died. Their children’s children’s children, and so on, lived together on earth, but worlds apart. Eagles had little interest in the chickens, but the chickens had nothing but interest in the eagles. But, Child, it was not a kindly interest; it was a resentful one. You see, in the years since the Flood, chickens had forgotten that they were creatures of the air. They had become so satisfied, living with people, that they had begun to change. Their bodies grew heavier, their wings smaller.

So, Child, you can see how when the people began to farm them, they had no way to escape.

But, instead of relearning the gift of flying – for Father never takes away the gifts He gives; they can only be refused – the chickens began simply to complain. They complained about the rows of coops they lived in; they complained about the strict corn diet they were kept on; they complained about their eggs that were taken every morning; they complained about their cockerels and pullets who were taken in the night; but, most of all, they complained about the eagles who flew so very far above the reach of Man and who were free.

You must not think, Child, that after the earth was reborn the eagles’ lives were always easy. No. Far from it. But, they learned to hunt through layers of snow in the lean winters; they learned to build their nests in the tallest parts of trees to keep away prowling egg-eaters; they learned to stay far from the habitats of Noah’s children. They could learn these things, because they had never forgotten how to fly.

Now, one day, Child, a young eagle named Lire got a spell of curiosity and decided to leave the aerie. He flew in slow circles down from the mountain and came closer to a child of Noah’s farm than he had ever been.

A new kind of world came into focus as he descended. He saw the odd boxy shape of buildings below him. For the first time in his life, he touched the ground of the valley and looked amusedly about. Here was a strange thing indeed: A group of birds – quite fat, quite clumsy – were pecking about a large bowl on the ground filled with yellow stuff. Somehow, they had all decided to eat together inside a long grouping of trees. But such trees as that tree-dweller had never seen. Short, pure white, with no branches or leaves, all perfectly planted to form an oval and covered with some sort of moss that was hard and grey and shiny and cold. Lire flew up and alighted on one.

Soon, a proud, strutting He-Bird came out from behind the squat building that was in the center of the tree-circle. Something stirred in Lire’s memory – stories his mother had told him about the Flood and Father’s setting His children free, and about his one-thousand-times-great grandfather He-Eagle’s best friend, Rooster.

“Brother Rooster! How are you?”

“Who is that?” the bird cocked his head and looked around the enclosed circle.

“Up here! Up here! On top of this small, white tree!”

The rooster squinted into the sunlit branches of the trees behind him.

“No, no,” Lire laughed. “Not that high up. Here, on this short tree; to your left.”

“Oh, an eagle. Yes. Humph. Go away.”

“Go away? Are you kidding? Why don’t you fly up here and we can talk, just like our great-greats did? Or, better yet, why don’t we fly up to that beautiful pine over there and enjoy the view while we chat?”

Now, in the rooster’s chest, a great resentment burned toward Lire. The rooster had never seen the view from that or any tree. Suddenly, he wanted, with all his heart, to drag that eagle down from his perch and keep him on the ground. What is worse, he saw a way.

“Fool,” the rooster said grandly, “Firstly, you are sitting on a fence, not a tree. Secondly, chickens do not fly. And, lastly, eagles and chickens do not become friends.”

Lire was incredulous. “Well, that’s just silly. Of course we can be friends. I mean, I know you live in the valley, and I live in the mountains, but what’s a little flying, anyway? Oh wait, but you don’t fly? C’mon, that is total nonsense. I mean, Mama told me many times about the races your great-great and mine had when they were stuck on that boat all those months during the Flood. Mama said that Rooster was the only bird able to keep up . . .”

The rooster cut Lire off with a dismissive wave of his wing and a haughty laugh. “Silly eagle, coming here, telling me of flying chickens and the Flood. I’ve heard those childish tales from the butterflies and ladybugs, but I thought that at least a bird would have evolved beyond that sort of thinking. Next thing I know, you’ll be jabbering on about the ‘Father’ myth and then I shall have to bid you good day.”

Lire said, dumbfounded, “‘Tales?’ ‘Myth?’ What’s going on? Are you trying to tell me you don’t know Father, who made the earth and all that is in it? Who saved us from destruction in the Flood? Who provides for our every need?”

“My every need,” and it was amazing how supercilious that rooster could get, Child, “Is provided by Man. Your every need is provided by scrounging around eating disgusting things and going half hungry when times are bad. Now, really, eagle, look at you and look at me. You fly about all day, looking for food, hunting it down, eating it (ugh), building or cleaning your nest, worrying about your eggs, worrying about even finding a mate – worrying and work all day long, every day, for the rest of your life. And then, having done this all to the point of exhaustion, you say that some sort of all-powerful ‘Father’ provides. Ha!”

“I don’t feel exhausted by it; I feel alive, I feel . . .”

“Pray, do not interrupt your betters. Now I, eagle, live a life of sophistication and ease. I want to eat? The finest corn is provided by Man. I want to sleep? Nothing could be more warm and safe than my roost in the coop. I want a mate? Well, you can witness for yourself the bevy of beauties surrounding me . . .”

“Fatties,” Lire muttered.

The rooster glared. “The beauties surrounding me – a veritable harem of pleasure and delight. And because, dear boy, I do not have to focus my attentions and energies to such mundane tasks as survival, I have plenty of time to improve and exercise my mind in deep contemplation. I am a philosopher.” The rooster puffed his chest up and let out a bellowing crow. “You can never be what I am.”

Now, Child, Lire was feeling pretty low at this point. The rooster was right on many of the things. He did spend a lot of time hunting, and he was searching for a mate, and he did worry that his eventual progeny would fall prey to the wily egg-thieves of the mountains. He said good-bye to the rooster and sadly flew back to his mountaintop, which did, all of a sudden seem rugged and cruel rather than exhilarating. When he shivered in a rocky crag that night, he thought a little wistfully of the rooster’s snug coop.

Lire did not want to go back to the farm, but he did. He went the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that. With every trip he became more impressed by the rooster’s secure situation and more humbled by his elegant condescension. In his aerie home, Lire would practice walking, trying to perfect the rooster’s barnyard strut.

Child, Lire began to court a young she-eagle named Ara. She was beautiful, proud and fierce, and Lire hungered after her with all his heart. But, Ara was a practical bird. She became more and more frustrated with his trips down the mountain.

“Why you’d ever want to spend your time in the valley, I’ll never understand,” she said once in exasperation, “It smells bad down there.”

“I dunno,” Lire demurred. “Ara, don’t you ever wish for a better life than what we have on this mountain?”

“What could be better than the clean air and magnificent views of this mountain?” Ara returned. “Can’t you just hear Father up here?”

“Hmmm . . . yes . . . Father,” Lire replied, with a guilty sideways glance.

They continued doggedly in their courtship, but Lire’s mind was always preoccupied with the happenings of the valley barnyard. One day, he ventured to mention the rooster’s harem to Ara, and asked if she would, well, maybe consent to . . . He got about that far when she pecked him hard enough to draw blood on his shoulder and flew away. Child, take note of that. And, another time, in a quarrel, he accused her of being ‘bourgeois.’ She flew away again, never to return.

Lire’s journeys south became even more frequent.

So, one afternoon, Lire was making his daily visit to the child of Noah’s farm. The rooster had told him that only uncouth fowl ever perched on fences, so Lire was sitting on the ground, listening to the cock’s pontifications.

“You know, you’re not such a bad bean, now that you’ve taken to learning some sense,” the rooster drawled. “You might just – yes, might just – be ready to make your place in this valley paradise.”

“Where would an eagle like me fit into the Noah child’s farm?” Lire asked.

“Shut up about ‘Noah,’ would you?” the rooster retorted. “And I wasn’t talking about on the farm anyway, bird brain. There are other places for misfits like you – animals not refined or cultivated enough to live closely with Man, but still advanced enough beyond the wild hoi polloi to deserve a little of Man’s protection. They are called zoos, and I think you’ll do nicely there.”

“And in this zoo, will they feed me and keep me warm and find me a mate – or several mates?” Lire asked eagerly.

“Indeed. Now, come a little closer, and I will tell you what you need to do . . .”

Now, Child, Lire, had been seduced, led away from the fundamentals of his being. If his mama had seen it, she would have wept. The young eagle had grown to despise his mountaintop home. He had come to doubt Father and the stories of the Flood. And the seduction was almost complete. Lire leaned his head in, thinking of his chosen mate and their eventual eaglets hatching in the safety and warmth of this zoo-thing, when . . . Hatchlings! Progeny! Hey, wait!

“Brother Rooster!” Lire pulled back his head from the huddle.

“Yes?” Exasperated, but polite.

“Where are your chicks, Brother Rooster?”

“Chicks?” Still supercilious, mind you, but with an edge of something else.

“Yes, your chicks. Ten, fa-- . . . er . . . plump, hens surrounding you, and yet, no chicks inside your fence. Where are your chicks?”

“Ah, yes, well, chicks. We get a brood up about once a year. Really, such deep thinking as mine does not call for time to raise up a very large family, you know. Plus, that’s rather, well, gauche, wouldn’t you say, to have so many children in such an overpopulated world?”

“Overpopulated? Are you crazy? I can fly miles in a day without seeing any other eagles, let alone chickens. But, really, are you telling me that your wives are really your daughters, because . . . ew.”

“No, no, of course not,” the rooster was indignant. “None of our chicks stays around past a year after they hatch. They all go away . . .” Now the rooster’s voice trailed off and he looked uncomfortable.

“Where do they go? Where do your cockerels and pullets go, Brother Rooster?” Lire had a horrible sinking feeling in his stomach.

“Now, really, Old Boy, you needn’t shriek at me so. Do eaglets stay around after they’re grown?”

“So, they fly away to new homes. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes, they go to new homes,” the rooster finished, relieved.

“Liar! Tell him the truth, Ralph. Tell him about our eggs, too,” called a piercing voice from behind the coop. A comely, yet rather obese, red hen waddled out. Her eyes flashed and her voice quavered, “Tell him where our eggs go – the ones that we do not hatch.”

“Shut up, Doreen,” the rooster hissed.

“The Man takes them,” the hen wailed. “He takes them, both the younguns and the eggs, and he eats some of them and sells the rest. I’ve seen it – don’t think I haven’t. He takes our babies, hatched and unhatched and he uses them. That, that is the price we pay for living in this hell.”

"Shut up, Doreen, shut up!” Ralph was furious, beating his wings at his rogue wife.

Doreen was not quelled. “Now you,” she said, turning to Lire, “You need to get out of here. I know what Ralph is trying to do to you, and it is not right.”

“Trying to do to me?”

“He hates you, Lire, because you have what we chickens do not – the ability to fly away. We chickens have been hating eagles since after the Flood, because you chose Father and we chose Man. But Man never gives unless he takes away as well; and he takes in a way that outweighs what good he gives.”

“But, my life is horrible. No cornmeal mush on winter’s nights; no warm perch in the biting cold; no bevy of mates,” he watched Doreen cringe as he said that. “No time for deep thinking or philosophy,” he finished.

“You listen to me, and you listen to me right now. There is nothing, nothing more precious than the freedom to fly. Once you give that up, you have damned generations. If you got yourself into a zoo, you would have a warm home and plenty of food and a hand-picked mate. And, chances are, your little ones would not be eaten by Man or beast. But, they would clip your wings. And, when your eaglets came along, they would be born into a life of captivity. And there would be fewer eagles living on the mountaintops. And that is where you belong.” Doreen was stopped by Ralph’s pushing her to the ground and sitting on her head.

“I apologize for my ignoramus of a wife,” Ralph said. “Her outburst on freedom was tres outré, but she’s always been one to fly the coop, if you catch my drift. Heh, heh. Freedom is so yesterday. The cool kids are all about security, you know. So, now about the zoo . . .”

But it was too late. The scales had fallen from Lire’s eyes. He had already spread his wings.

As his feet touched valley soil for the last time, Doreen gave a sharp poke of her beak on the backside of her husband, and he jumped up, cackling in pain. She scrambled to her feet and called out to Lire as he soared, ever smaller into the great blueness, “Fly on! Fly always! Fly for we who cannot!”

Her eyes fixed on the sky whose corners she had never seen, Doreen added in a whisper, “Father, I will spend the rest of my life trying to remember how to fly.” Now, dear Child, do you not think she will?

*From the folksong, "Dona Dona," whose last verse declares: Calves are easily bound and slaughtered/Never knowing the reason why/But whoever treasures freedom/Like the swallow must learn to fly

Barney is Evil

When I was sixteen, I stayed home sick one day from school. My father, in a burst of nostalgia for my little girl days, brought me home a coloring book. As an inside joke, it was of Barney the dinosaur of kiddie TV. Inside the front cover, he inscribed: When you're feeling bad, Barney can help you -- just color him and his pals in the most horrid colors, add obscene captions, then rip the picture into tiny pieces & flush them down the toilet. There -- don't you feel better already? Love, Dad Remember: Barney personifies all that is evil in society.

Well, I took his instructions to heart and colored away. I even got out the white-out and added a few embellishments. I did not, however, rip them up and flush them. The other day, while cleaning out the stacks of books and papers in our basement, I came across the coloring book. It made me smile. Here are two of my favorites:

Stinkin' Barney. Still loathesome after all these years.

Cool Sites New to Me (And, Perhaps, to You)

Just when I was resigned to agreeing with Solomon that, on the web at least, there is nothing new under the sun, I have recently come across some delightful sites and new (to me) blogs that I simply must share.

I have not had much of a chance to thoroughly peruse this interesting site, but Neglected Books has won my instant approbation because of their excellent, thoughtful review of Isabel Paterson's The Golden Vanity (which I am currently reviewing and will now have to try very hard not to steal Neglected Books's insightful observations and claim them as my own). What are some neglected books about which you wish the world knew?

I had thought that I had to be the craziest, most obsessive Carole Lombard fan in the greater Seattle area. I was wrong; so wrong. Yesterday, I found this wonderful fan site run by a startlingly beautiful, startlingly young lady who is writing a biography of our Profane Angel. Check out her site and revel in the glory that is La Lombard.

Jane Austen people are cool. And, when a Jane Austen person is also a mom, wife, artist, and writer, then the cool level increases exponentially. So, here is The Little White Attic (Mansfield Park fans are nodding their heads) in which Lynnae waxes wise and witty on Austen-ish things. She also has a Liberty blog, which only raises her in my already high esteem.

And, speaking of blogs, I just found this gem of a political/religious one from Robert Moeller, A Voice in the Wilderness. He is from Chicago, IL, which is the first point in his favor; he writes thoughtfully and entertainingly, which is the second; and he has posted in his sidebar a great pic of Ronald Reagan throwing out the first pitch at a Cubs game, which is the third.

Anyway, that's where I have been recently on the world wide web. Do you have any suggestions of hot spots for cool cats?

What To Do In Seattle: Smoke on the Mountain Homecoming, July 8 - August 8, 2009

The ephemeral nature of theatre is never more frustrating than when perusing the cast profiles in a play program. You begin to mourn for the shows that existed so briefly and that you never got to see. In 2006, I had never heard of Taproot Theatre Company in the Greenwood neighborhood of Seattle. So, I missed their production of Smoke on the Mountain that year. And you should pity me, because, I have seen the sequel, Smoke on the Mountain Homecoming, and it is a blast.

Rather than dwelling on what might have been, I shall instead revel in what is now. And what is now is another Taproot triumph. OK, I am a bad critic, because I go into every Taproot Theatre show with a ready and eager determination to be pleased. Even in shows of which I am not excessively fond, I can find merit in the acting and direction and set design. Smoke on the Mountain Homecoming is, perhaps, even a little more special than the always high-quality, uplifting, entertaining theatre coming from Taproot.

And, I suppose, that is because of the sweet sincerity of the show. If you are not a Christian, you can hardly imagine what it is like to see your religious beliefs held up constantly to mockery and ridicule in entertainment media. It is so very rare to come across a piece of theatrical artistry in which the devout are not portrayed as simpering fools, one-dimensional cut-outs, or -- worst, and by far most common -- sanctimonious hypocrites. Smoke on the Mountain Homecoming -- and, I imagine, the original as well -- sees the Sanders clan and their extended Baptist family as honorable, quirky, interesting, noble, funny, complicated, and sincere. There is some gentle good fun poked at the saints, but the overall charm of the show is that these are godly people doing the best they can to live by their professed ideals. And throwing in a bunch of old-time gospel bluegrass is the cherry on top.

And, in a way, it is the music that is the star of the show. Wonderful songs. It was hard not to think I was in some little Baptist church in Mount Pleasant, North Carolina on a pleasant fall evening in 1945 and just sing along like any member of the congregation. I do not know where Taproot Theatre finds these actors -- able to create lovable, memorable characters as well as play instruments ranging from bass guitar to accordion and, not to mention, sing like angels. I am, however, most grateful that they do.

If you belong to a church family, then you know the Sanders family. Blessed almost to the point of overabundance with musical talent, they match that only with boundless faith. The only thing that makes them bearable at all to us mere mortals is their fundamental honesty. And, as they in turn share their stories during the evening service, you recognize them and love them.

Reverend Merivn Oglethorpe (Kevin Brady) is leaving Mount Pleasant Baptist Church to plant a church in the wilderness of western Texas. He is taking his expecting-at-any-moment wife, June (Jenny Cross), with him. Now, June is the eldest daughter of the Sanders clan, and she is the only one who does not sing. Instead, she has felt called to interpret the hymns in sign-language, and she resolutely sticks to that calling, despite their congregation's never having had someone in need of it.

Her husband is delightful -- still awkward and goofy after years of shepherding his flock, yet untouched by any amount of cynicism or hardness of heart. His leaving is the occasion of this special gathering of the church, where they will sing him out and sing in the new pastor, Sanders scion and singing twin, Dennis (Brent Ashton). This green lad may stutter and stumble at the pulpit, but, underneath, is an iron core of faith forged on the battlefields of World War II, where he served as an army chaplain.

Where there is one singing twin, there has to be another, and that is Denise (Candace Vance) --the one streak of blazing neurosis in this well-grounded family. She's put away dreams of Hollywood stardom to settle into the role of wife, mother and appliance saleswoman, and she's almost reconciled to that. What a set of pipes!

Of course, the heart of the family beats in mother and father, Burl and Vera (Edd Key and Theresa Holmes, respectively). They are everything you want them to be, not a whit more or less. Burl relates his agony over going into debt to purchase the farm his mother rented when he was a child -- a story that resonates in today's debt-soaked culture. Vera's children's sermon is one for the ages (and, as a Sunday school teacher, I could absolutely relate).

Bring a handkerchief or a wad of Kleenex, because Uncle Stanley Sanders (David Anthony Lewis) steals the show. And I wept and wept and wept. So much so, that I had to run out to the bathroom as soon as the final bow was taken, for fear that my tear-stained face (and snot encrusted back of hand) would scare the others, including, with no small consideration, my husband.

Again, my proverbial hat is tipped to director Scott Nolte, who knows how to put on an amazing show. In June it was Around the World in 80 Days; now it is Smoke on the Mountain Homecoming. My cup runneth over. Lucky, lucky me! I get to see this show again on August 1!

Go see it for yourself, and come back here and argue with me if you do not absolutely love it!

Taproot Theatre Box Office: 206-781-9707

info@taproottheatre.org

Smoke on the Mountain Homecoming: July 8 - August 8

One last thank-you to Anne Kennedy, for the opportunity to "sneak preview" this wonderful show.

Welcome to America, 2009 or What a Dead Frenchman Observed that Living Americans Refuse To Notice or Maybe Just Do Not Care

"I see," wrote Alexis de Tocqueville in his masterpiece of political philosophy, Democracy in America, "an innumerable multitude of men, alike and equal, constantly circling around in pursuit of the petty and banal pleasures with which they glut their souls."

As Mark Steyn wryly observes of this passage in June 2009's edition of The New Criterion, "He didn't foresee 'Dancing with the Stars' or 'American Idol' but, details aside, that's pretty much on the money."

Alexis de Tocqueville, having observed and commented upon all aspects of the American experiment as during his 1830's tour, began to meditate and prognosticate about the ramifications of unbridled democracy, the "soft despotism" that occurs when "Congress discovers that it can bribe the public with the public's money." Under such a situation, de Tocqueville reasons that the American Republic cannot stand.

De Tocqueville continues: Over this kind of men stands an immense, protective power which is alone responsible for securing their enjoyment and watching over their fate. That power is absolute, thoughtful of detail, orderly, provident and gentle. It would resemble paternal authority if, fatherlike, it tried to prepare its charges for a man's life, but on the contrary, it only tries to keep them in perpetual childhood. It likes to see citizens enjoy themselves, provided that they think of nothing but enjoyment. It gladly works for their happiness but wants to be the sole agent and judge of it. It provides for their security, foresees and supplies their necessities, facilitates their pleasures, manages their principal concerns, directs their industry, makes rules for their testaments, and divides their inheritances. Why should it not relieve them from the trouble of thinking and all the cares of living?

The entire chapter, "Despotism Democratic Nations Have to Fear," is full of such prescience:

Thus it daily makes the exercise of free choice less useful and rarer, restricts the activity of free will within a narrower compass, and little by little robs each citizen of the proper use of his own faculties. . . .

Having thus taken each citizen in turn in its powerful grasp and shaped him to its will, government then extends its embrace to include the whole of society. It covers the whole of social life with a network of petty, complicated rules that are both minute and uniform, through which even men of the greatest originality and the most vigorous temperament cannot force their heads above the crowd. It does not break men's will, but softens, bends, and guides it; it seldom enjoins, but often inhibits, action; it does not destroy anything, but prevents much from being born; it is not at all tyrannical, but it hinders, restrains, enervates, stifles, and stultifies so much that in the end each nation is no more than a flock of timid and hardworking animals with the government as its shepherd.

I have always thought that this brand of orderly, gentle, peaceful slavery which I have just described could be combined, more easily than is generally supposed, with some of the external forms of freedom, and that there is a possibility of its getting itself established even under the shadow of the sovereignty of the people.

Under this system the citizens quit their state of dependence just long enough to choose their masters and then fall back into it.

On this approaching Fourth of July weekend, one thought keeps repeating in my mind: I miss America.