Judgement down the Centuries

She was, by all accounts, a pretty tough woman, this woman born in 1881 on the border of Illinois and Wisconsin to a 58-year old man and 35-year old woman, both immigrants from Norway.
 

She was my father’s mother; her name was Sarah Gustava Tillotson, though her father was Ole Trondson Tillorson. Had the name been changed in Ellis Island? Or was Ellis Island even operating at that time? Because the family came in the first or second wave of immigrants: her father’s first child, Henry, was born in New York in July of 1846.

I barely knew her, though I distinctly recall having to eat beet greens that had been boiled from about the beginning of time. And I remember that her hair was falling out, probably due to the chemotherapy she was taking at the time; she died of cancer when I was ten.

“She was a fine woman,” said my mother, with real respect in her voice. And the feeling must have been mutual; apparently my grandmother had remarked, when told that my mother couldn’t come to a family gathering, “but how will we have any fun?”

So I don’t know the woman, and I may not even know the stories. Because I seem to recall that she heard that the ladies in church were scoffing that she was too poor to buy a car. So what did she do? Went out, bought a Cadillac, drove it to church, and then drove it back. Then she parked it on cinder blocks in the front yard.

True? Cousin Ruthie says no, and she should know, being slightly older than I, and having known the woman.

OK—so what about the story about my father, who wanted a quarter to go to the movies? “Move the woodpile to the side of the house,” said his mother, “then come back for instructions.” Jack appeared half an hour later.

“Now move it back,” she said.

She was a religious woman, this lady who endowed a wing in a Chicago children’s hospital, and who bestowed an annuity from the Moody Bible Institute on my mother. The annuity was for twenty-five dollars or so; notwithstanding, the institute was in the habit of sending a man out every year to make sure that Franny was still living. Invariably, he arrived in January; just as invariably, he got stuck in a snow bank on the long road to my mother’s house.

“Would you like to join me in prayer,” the man would ask.

“No,” my mother would reply. But pleasantly….

“She was tall, and ramrod straight, and pretty unapproachable,” said John, my brother, who remembers her, apparently, just as vaguely.

What is it about old pictures? Did she believe, when this was taken, that this would be one of the few photos of her that would be taken, photography being—relatively—in its infancy? She looks out at us, as if challenging us. Have we measured up? Are we slackers? Giving in to vice?

I do my best, or so I think. I have my collection of people to whom I give money—one of whom invariably asks for more. I try not to cheat or steal or bear false witness.

Why do I think that’s not enough?

Reflections of a reflection

It’s a curious thing about Facebook. People post stuff that drives me nuts. “Eating mofongo at La Fondita de Mofongo!!!!!!” Usually accompanied by a photo.

(Any of you up there who have never eaten mofongo should go immediately online to get your ticket to Puerto Rico. Mmmmmm….)

Which is to say that, no, the world doesn’t need to know that somebody you friended in a weak moment is eating mofongo.

It may be, of course, that food comments are like golf and psychotherapy. Interesting only to the players….

On the other hand, comments about what people are listening to are interesting—to me, at least. And Cousin Brian did pique my interest with his comment about Chopin’s Piano Concerto Number One. Well, although I have it on the iPod (made by Apple!), it’s something I never hear. But if Brian—no slouch whatsoever in the classical music world—likes it, it’s gotta be good. I decide to check it out.

Not before dealing with a very snarky Mr. Fernández, who is busy peering at the cutting board in the kitchen. He holds up a little white part of a hand mixer.

“There used to be a little plastic bag with tiny little screws around here, and I DON’T SEE IT NOW!”

“Good morning, dear,” I say. I’ve been told about emotional hijacking.

“WELL, WHERE IS IT!”

“Slept well, I trust?”

“Well, it better turn up,” he says, and stomps off to the bathroom.

And this is before coffee.

So the opening of the piano concerto pretty well matched my internal emotional landscape. Think New Jersey on Monday….

And Brian also had said that Chopin had written the concerto at age eighteen.

Well, there is some music that only the young can write, I thought today, on the trot. It’s sort of like love—you may experience it many times in your life, but not like the first time.

And this is definitely a young man’s work. And—trademark Chopin—it has a theme that just squeezes your heart.

I was listening to it today since I had decided that the piece was sort of like all of people you really like, whom you kiss (when appropriate / possible), and say “hey, we really gotta get together” and then never do.

Until the next time.

There’s music like that, too. You hear a piece, think ‘wow, that’s great’ and make a promise to yourself. You’re gonna listen to it often.

The next time being when NPR decides to play it.

All right, so what’s the story of the piece? Well, Chopin wrote it in 1830, and performed it in one of his “farewell” concerts.

Where was he going?

Off to Paris. In fact, he never returned to Poland, but became part of the “Great Emigration.”

Hunh?

Ah, the joys of the hyperlink! One click and I know, or rather remember. Poland got sliced up between Austria, Russia and Prussia in the 18^th and 19^th centuries. Most of the elite packed up and left, so that Polish political and intellectual activity was really mostly French.

Well, something to know! Now then, what’s the skinny on Chopin?

Well, here I commend you to Wikipedia, which has an excellent article on him. But to make it short, it doesn’t seem to have been a very happy life. And it’s definitely not a healthful (in the sense of full of health) life. Sickful, in fact.

His death certificate says tuberculosis, though I prefer the term “consumption” of the 19^th century.

And what of his love life? Also not much fun. Yeah, the affair with George Sand that we all know about, but she became more of a nurse than lover, at the end. And they quarreled and separated at the end—she didn’t even attend his funeral.

Any money? Well, he dies poor, though at least not alone.

And there must have been some comforts. A raging intellect, for example, and good friends. One of them the painter Eugène Delacroix, who plays in this little episode, sent by Sand through Wikipedia:

Chopin is at the piano, quite oblivious of the fact that anyone is listening. He embarks on a sort of casual improvisation, then stops. 'Go on, go on,' exclaims Delacroix, 'That's not the end!' 'It's not even a beginning. Nothing will come ... nothing but reflections, shadows, shapes that won't stay fixed. I'm trying to find the right colour, but I can't even get the form ...' 'You won't find the one without the other,' says Delacroix, 'and both will come together.' 'What if I find nothing but moonlight?' 'Then you will have found the reflection of a reflection.' The idea seems to please the divine artist. He begins again, without seeming to, so uncertain is the shape. Gradually quiet colours begin to show, corresponding to the suave modulations sounding in our ears. Suddenly the note of blue sings out, and the night is all around us, azure and transparent. Light clouds take on fantastic shapes and fill the sky. They gather about the moon which casts upon them great opalescent discs, and wakes the sleeping colours. We dream of a summer night, and sit there waiting for the song of the nightingale ..

Hey, that girl can write!

OK—that’s a consolation, having company like that, and an interesting woman, as Sand certainly was. But was it enough?

Here’s a photo of him in the year of his death:

I'm voting no.