How choral music got me home

            Scientific studies have proven that singing in a choir is good for your health. But I can now prove it’s good for international security, too.

            Bear with me. I owe my re-entry into the United States of America to my choir membership. I’m not making this up.

            Picture it: London’s Heathrow Airport, Sunday, Aug. 21, at the hairy crack of dawn. Your intrepid traveler is joining the masses, hordes and throngs whose sole aim is to board an aircraft. Trust me: NOBODY is more eager to go home than I am. After 67 mostly cloudy, chilly days away from Charleston, I am itching to get back to my house and into the spiritual and literal warmth of the Lowcountry.

            Don’t get me wrong. I had some extraordinary experiences this trip. Unfortunately, “summer” and “comfortable accommodations” weren’t among them.

            So by the time I enter the controlled chaos of Heathrow, I’m on a mission and heaven help anybody who stands between me and that American Airlines jet.

            No lines at the automated check-in kiosk. Got my boarding pass in record time. Sweet. This is a breeze, I thought. Next stop: The baggage drop-off.

            My heart sinks when I see the line -- at least 75 bag-laden passengers ahead of me. OK, remain calm, I tell myself. I’ve got plenty of time. Relax. Try to ignore the pain in your legs and back.

            Whoever came up with this new “time-saving” check-in procedure at American Airlines is clearly insane. They might as well put up a sign that says “Fly Delta! We’ll get both you AND your luggage there hassle-free!”

            But anyway, after about 40 minutes (during which time the line swelled even more), I finally make it up to one of the handful of AA agents manning the baggage drop-off desk. We exchange pleasantries. I hold my breath as she weighs my suitcase; I do a happy dance when it’s NOT overweight.

            Oh, boy, I’m home free!

            Oh, no, I’m not.

            “Were you asked any security questions this morning?” AA agent asks. I allowed as I hadn’t, figuring I was about to quizzed on whether I was carrying any weapons or pointy-shaped objects onto the plane.

            She begins her interrogation. Where have I been during these last two months?  What have I done?  Why?

            I answer truthfully. Life’s an open book, that’s me.

            Then she switches course. What do I do for a living? Oh, what did you do before you retired? Nonprofit fundraising? What does that involve? How did you do that? For whom did you raise money? What’s the best way to do it?

            I’m babbling by this point, wondering where she’s going with this inquisition. It occurs to me that I’m in a parallel universe – one in which I never get on that plane! Does she really want a mini-seminar in the principles of fund development? I mean, I could rant on and on, but it’s just too surreal to comprehend…           

Meanwhile, I can imagine that the Syrian suicide bomber in the line behind me is getting worried that his device is going to detonate before he makes it onto his own flight.

But if Girlfriend wants to talk about fundraising, and if it aids my own cause – GOING HOME – by jiminy, I’ll talk about fundraising. I launch into a scholarly discourse contrasting the benefits of cause-marketing versus major gift fundraising. I am now officially in Airport Hell.

Five minutes of my making the case for a donation of $10,000, and I’m certain one of two things are about to occur: A British security operative is going to materialize and cart me off to an underground bunker, or my spiel will appear in the next episode of “Monty Python.”

Finally, she seems satisfied with my qualifications as a fund development professional. I hold my breath. After all, the wild horses that were going to keep me from getting on that plane have not yet been bred. My ornery Inner McCarn (from Mama’s side) was just about to rear her ugly, stubborn head. Surely I’ve passed the final security hurdle.

No, not by a long shot.

“So, what do you now that you’re retired?” she asks. Apparently, she has all the time in the world – unlike the passengers in line, whose numbers have now swelled into the thousands.

“Well, I travel….” I cleverly offer. She is still looking expectantly. “I read a lot, and do a little writing.” She appears blank. “And I sing!” A chord has been struck (no pun intended), and she’s launched into an entirely new line of inquiry.

Where do I sing? What’s the name of my choir? What do you sing? “I sing in Charleston, South Carolina, with the Charleston Spiritual Ensemble. We sing gospel and spirituals in the African-American tradition, and yes, I realize I’m a white woman, but it’s a culturally and racially diverse group, and fortunately they let me in, and we sang our last two concerts in a Jewish synagogue,” is my earnest reply.

Meanwhile, the swarthy dude near the back of the line has used this time to recruit and train his newest ISIS cell of terrorists…And still I babble on, praying I actually make it back to Charleston in this lifetime.

I’m just describing myself as a choral music junkie when Girlfriend scrapes deep onto the bottom of the interrogation barrel to ask, “Where do you rehearse?”

“Second Presbyterian Church in Charleston’s historic district downtown,” I offer eagerly.

THAT must have finally done the trick. I must have passed the test. Hallelujah for the Presbyterians and choral music! She cranks up the conveyer belt, sends my suitcase on its way, hands me my passport and boarding card, and wishes me a good flight.

I nearly break out in song right there. How d’ya reckon the al-Qaida lieutenants still in line would have enjoyed a spirited solo version of “God Bless America”?

And that, friends, is how choral music helped avert an international security crisis!

           

                       

           

           

           

           

Looking at US through British eyes

            Winding down this incredible summer in England…I’m eager to come home, but I’m well aware it’s been a privilege to be here. There have been some lows, to be sure, but far more highs. As always, I feel my horizons have expanded.

Anybody who persists in believing that the USA is the center of the universe, and that Americans are superior to every other creature on the planet, should try living abroad for a while. Don’t get me wrong: Open one of my veins and I’ll bleed red, white and blue. I’m damned proud to be an American and have no problem sharing my love of country to anybody who wants to talk about, say, politics – which get asked a lot about these days.

But are we better than anybody else? Just because we’re the world’s ATM and weapons arsenal, have we earned the right to assume our way is the only way? On the other hand, we are all interrelated. What we do in the U.S. has a domino effect all over the world. Being out of the country this summer has put some things into perspective, especially with regard to our current political landscape.

Virtually every Brit I’ve run across is scared rigid of Donald Trump and the prospect of his being elected President. Without exception: Every. Single. Person. Whether they voted to leave the European Union (the “Brexit” voters), or whether they voted to remain. Whether they’re members of the Conservative or Labor Party. The thought of Trump having his thumb on “the button” with the potential to trigger World War III is real over here, and to the Great British public that’s absolutely horrifying. Forget the menace of Islamic terrorists; at the moment, Trump is universally perceived as a much bigger threat. Parallels with Hitler and Stalin have been mentioned. I’m not exaggerating.

I’ve realized anew that the American electorate has an enormous responsibility not only to each other, but to the entire world. What we voters do in November is going to be historic, regardless of the outcome, and will have an epic global impact. The stakes have literally never been higher.

The world will be watching with baited breath on election day. If you know me at all, you know I believe there’s only one choice, and a brilliant one at that. Which is why I’m enthusiastically voting for Hillary. Every Brit to whom I’ve spoken – and there have been many – is praying with me for her to win. The future of the civilized world depends on it.

I dread the campaign between now and Nov. 8, and I’m sure I’m not alone.  It’s going to get even more brutal, ugly and divisive. More than once I’ve marveled at how restrained, efficient and enlightened the leadership election process was over here in the U.K. back in June. No muss, no fuss. Took less than a week, and Theresa May was the new Prime Minister!

Anyway, back to fun things I’ve done since my last posting: First, the Shrewsbury Flower Show, which bills itself as the oldest flower show in the world. Don’t know the veracity of that boast, but it is evermore glorious! Spread over a 30-acre public park along the banks of the River Severn in the oldest part of town, it is a combination of crafts fair, music festival, horse show and flower exhibition. The highlight for me at all of these typically British fetes is the competition among amateur floral designers for the best arrangements. Themes are announced in advance, and entrants then create these stunning displays to carry out the theme they’ve chosen, such as “Heavy Metal” or “Dinner with…” or “Inspired by Monet” or “Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations.”  

Even at massive undertakings like the Southern Home & Garden Show have I ever seen anything quite like the highly imaginative arrangements on display at British flower shows. They’re extraordinary! The creativity and beauty are stunning, and this year at Shrewsbury’s show (founded in 1884, I think) was no exception. I love, love, love going to these things, and am never disappointed.

The 90-minuite concert by a military band wasn’t too shabby, either. And the weather even cooperated. A splendid day out.

The cherry on top of the sundae here near the end of this trip was my visit with a chap whom I’ve known since first grade at Cecil School in Lexington. Randy Perryman and his wonderful wife, Lynn (whom I’d never met), live half the year outside Winston-Salem and half the year at a house they’ve bought in Weardale in the northeast of England. Their love of the U.K. rivals my own. We’ve made noises about trying to get together over here in previous years, but it had just never worked out.

This year all the stars aligned and a plan came together. I had spent scant time in their part of the country before taking the train up there on Sunday. WOW! The wild, unspoiled dales have a magic all their own. I loved seeing and learning about this extraordinary part of England from their eyes, having great conversations, and getting to know Lynn, who (though she didn’t grow up in Lexington) is a ”keeper”! I had been sliding into a bit of funk, and this side trip – underpinned with exceptionally fine weather – was exactly what I needed. The Perrymans couldn’t have me feel more welcome, bless them.

And now, get me on a big ol’ jet plane, because I’m ready to come HOME!

Much Ado About Frostbite

This year’s the 400^th anniversary of William Shakespeare’s death, so there are understandably lots of commemorations all over the English-speaking world. If you read of my trip last month to the epically treacherous Minack Theatre in Cornwall, you’ll know that I’m trying to do my bit to mark the occasion. This week in Shrewsbury was my second tip o’ the hat to The Bard.

Unfortunately, the elements were not in my favor here any more than they had been when I risked life and limb on that rocky cliff in Cornwall.

Like the Minack, the grounds of Shrewsbury Castle provided a physically stunning setting for the comedy “Much Ado About Nothing.” In many respects it felt like a late season football game in Chapel Hill or at Panthers Stadium in Charlotte: Ice-cold temps, people bundled up like Eskimos against the biting wind, stadium chairs in tow, tail-gate picnic hampers filled with goodies, an expectant air on the lawn. It was a sell-out crowd.

The only flaw here: IT’S AUGUST. And most of us are bundled up in winter gear, except for the fools who are determined to gut it out in sandals, short pants and cotton tops simply because the calendar says IT’S AUGUST.

Me, I was wearing layers of every heavy garment I had packed, including wool socks, a turtleneck sweater, sweatshirt and fleece jacket, plus two scarves. Vanity flew out the window here; practicality ruled. It was damned COLD, and I didn’t really give a flying fig what I looked like. After all, castles are fortresses built on top of hills, with absolutely nothing to break the effect of the wind that was whistling down from the North Pole on this particular evening. This AUGUST evening.

No foolin’, folks: It was in the forties. By the end of the first act, I could no longer feel my face or fingers.

The woman I was with (incidentally, one of the fools wearing sandals) laughed and said this – sitting in unspeakably uncomfortable conditions -- was what the English considered fun. You can imagine my reply.

By the interval (intermission), I had had enough. Shakespeare or no Shakespeare, I didn’t give a flying fig how those silly love triangles were going to get resolved. Despite the heroic efforts of the energetic actors, I was over it. There were not enough clothes in my suitcase to have warded off the bone-freezing chill on that hill.

Fortunately, sandal-girl was also ready to leave, so we packed up our gear and left without ceremony. Wild horses couldn’t have made me stay. What football fans see in torturing themselves in frigid conditions like that, I have no idea. Maybe they inherited a death wish from their English ancestors.

Despite the continued unfortunate weather, there have been more agreeable outings this week, thankfully. Yesterday I drove about an hour north to the ancient city of Chester, which was settled by the Romans in the first century AD. Went first to a terrific organ recital at Chester Cathedral, and then grabbed a double-decker bus for a guided tour of the city. One of the most memorable sight was a restaurant called Hickory, advertising “authentic American barbecue.” Yeah, right!

I’m trying to keep up with the Olympics, but as I found out four years ago when I was over here during the London Games, the BBC is interested only in “Team GB” – the British athletes. You’d barely know there were any other competitors from any other country. The Americans? Well, I’m assuming they’re in there running and rowing and diving their little hearts out, but except for the magnificent Simone Biles and our other lady gymnasts, I’m unable to follow any of Team USA on TV.

Go to NBC online, you say? Think again: NBC blocks online coverage to anybody trying to access it overseas! Isn’t Michael Phelps swimming again? How’s he doing?

It's a fact: Sunshine causes traffic jams.

I continue to hear about the blistering heat back home in Charleston. Color me jealous! As for myself, I’m more concerned about frostbite. A sunny day is so rare over here, it not only makes headlines, but it causes traffic jams. I am not lying.

Saturday I decided to celebrate the sunshine by taking a drive into neighboring Wales to see a famous garden. Apparently I was not the only one who had this notion. The main road leading from Shrewsbury to Llangollen in northern Wales was backed up so far that it took me over two hours to cover 20 miles. Naturally, I thought at first there must have been an accident up ahead. For the massive delay, there should have been at least a multi-car pile-up if not a nice severed limb in the road. But no.

After creeping at a snail’s pace for all that time (and having to deal with a stiff clutch, which I hate more than lancing my own boils), I finally found a place to stop for lunch.  Asked in the café what was causing all the traffic. The answer? “It’s a sunny day.” Seriously?! No festivals, no parades, no public hangings; just the SUN!

Never did make it to the garden. At the rate the traffic was going, it would have taken another week or two, and my legs were aching so badly from those loathsome gears that I was nearly lame. I settled for tea and a slice of cake in the courtyard of the medieval Chirk Castle on a hilltop with a stunning view. Not a bad compensation, eh?

In fact, last Friday and Saturday was the first sun I’ve seen since the week in Cambridge – a six-day stretch the weathermen are calling “Summer 2016.” Otherwise, it has been overcast and chilly the entire time I’ve been over here. Cloudy, sometimes with rain, but steadfastly damp and chilly. I hate it. Wearing layers of sweaters and socks in July and August verily SUCKS.

I readily admit that this trip is too long. It’s my own fault, of course, but I just didn’t count on being homesick for Charleston and the heat and the sun and my house. So homesick, in fact, that last week I bought shrimp at the supermarket and fixed gumbo over rice for dinner – as close as I could come to a Lowcountry meal. If I’m cooking, you know I’m near the Edge (read: crazy)!

I must say, however, that I haven’t tasted anything that good since I left June 16. It wasn’t exactly what we eat back home but it was damned close. Fling enough hot sauce into the pot, and anything is gonna taste pretty fine, even made with packaged shrimp from Vietnam.

I shouldn’t leave the impression that I’m entirely dissatisfied. Weather drama aside, there are still plenty of high spots on this trip. Visits with my friends Tom and Jane in Newbury, and Hazel and Marcus in Nottingham, were certainly memorable. In Norfolk my fellow Charleston Spiritual Ensemble singer Doreen – a Brit who spends half the year over here and half the year in Charleston -- took me to a remarkable concert featuring a choir of 160 voices performing a Renaissance work in 40 parts. Whew!

I arrived July 27 in Shrewsbury, an ancient market town with half-timbered buildings that scream “movie set,” where I’ve settled into house swap #3. I’ve actually house exchanged near here before, in 2003. Last week I looked up my home exchange partners, Val and Pat, out in the tiny village of Withington. We didn’t meet back then, but when I called them last week and asked to drop by, they readily agreed. We spent a lovely several hours in their conservatory, which had inspired me to have my own sunroom built onto the back of my house on Ideal Way. Lots of tea was involved, and it was a jolly visit.

Back here in town I’ve gotten to hear the National Children’s Choir of Great Britain – 300 voices strong. One of their four ensembles sang a familiar spiritual called “Total Praise.” OK, there were only a couple of kids of color, but their conductor evermore brought out their soul in that powerful piece. It brought me to tears because it was the sound of home!

A couple of the older churches in the town centre – including Shrewsbury Abbey, famous as the setting for the “Brother Cadfael” Medieval mystery series -- offer free weekly recitals, which are a most welcome way to while away a midday hour. The private Wollerton Old Hall Garden about 15 miles north of here was a magnificent surprise last week, especially since there was a break in the clouds and the sun actually shone for a bit. Simply gorgeous! I got to chatting with a lady who was also wandering on her own, and stayed until the staff closed the grounds and kicked us out.

This evening I’m heading to Shrewsbury Castle for an outdoor production of “Much Ado About Nothing.” Can’t get that ambience even along the Battery in Charleston. But unlike there, I’ll be enshrouded in a turtleneck, scarves and layers of fleece.