The Hollywood Bowl and Ode to Joy

My mom died July 1, 2017, eight years ago today.  I miss her every day and still think, “Oh, I’ll call Mommy and tell her!” only to realize that I can’t.  However, my mind goes back to when she passed fairly frequently and I think it’s worth sharing.

We had already planned a family vacation out to California to see my family and various cousins. Love them all. Plus each of our girls was bringing a friend – they were both in high school at the time.  We were going to fly out on July 2, if I remember correctly.  But during the last few days of June, my mom was in the hospital.

My parents’ anniversary was June 24, the day she was admitted.  So when they went to the ER, they brought their anniversary presents and celebrated there.  Among other things, my dad had for her a one pound box of See’s chocolates (Bordeaux), with “56” (years) arranged in light and dark chocolate.  Apparently, my mom and dad dug into the box right there in the ER.  The nurse spoke to my sister and said that they really shouldn’t be eating in there.  Kathy basically said, “I know. But what are we going to do?  They’re old and it’s their anniversary.”  They let them keep eating and they plowed through the entire pound of chocolate. Then they admitted her.

My sister, Kathy, and I talked a couple of times daily.  How is she doing?  What’s the diagnosis?  Prognosis?  Do I need to hop on a plane now?  Or is the second soon enough?  The doctors kept saying, “She’ll be fiiiiine,” and pushing all sorts of horrendous treatments for other conditions.  My sister and I were thinking, “Really? She is too weak for that treatment!  How is she now?”

On June 29 Kathy called and said, “Get on a plane now.  She isn’t going to make it.” I was on the first plane out on June 30th, and had a layover in Salt Lake City where I called Kathy again.  How is she?  Kathy told me that her breathing was difficult.  If she couldn’t breathe on her own, should they put her on a respirator until I got there? Or let her pass, even if I wouldn’t get to see her?  It was an easy decision that they should not put her on the respirator;  I wasn’t going to make her suffer for my emotional comfort.  But saying those words was the hardest thing I’d ever done.

I arrived after dinner in Orange County and took an uber straight to the hospital.  Mom had tested positive for MRSA, but showed no symptoms; nevertheless, we had to fully gown and mask-up to go in.  She had pneumonia and congestive heart failure. She was fully lucid and talking.

We knew she had some dementia, but we didn’t realize how severe and it hadn’t been diagnosed.  At least once she had forgotten that they had a second daughter, and what my name was.  But she immediately knew me and my name, and we had a couple of hours where we talked and sang to her, held her hand and stroked her hair.  I will never forget the deep love and tenderness in her eyes as she said, “Oh Sharie, I love you so much.”

She eventually needed morphine to ease her passing, and she died peacefully.  My dad had been with her earlier but was at home now.  We called him and told him.  His response was, “OK.  (Waits a beat.)  I ate the rest of the ice cream so if you want some tonight, you need to stop by the store on the way home.”  Dad.  Always so practical.

The next day the family flew out from Connecticut. We had already planned to go to the Huntington Art Museum and Gardens in Pasadena, and so we went.  It was the hottest day of the summer. 106°. This place is wonderful, fabulous gardens, with the buildings spread out over acres.  Many acres.  Did I mention 106°? I was in one of the buildings letting my sweat dry, when a lifetime friend of my parents’ called to comfort and express condolences.  I sat there on the bench and sobbed.

We had the funeral.  They didn’t have a church/pastor, so Kathy and I did it all.  Afterwards, I darn near collapsed in my dad’s arms, and sobbed.  But he wasn’t having it, so I pulled myself together and was a polite and charming hostess (sort of). People came out of the woodwork for her funeral, twice as many as we expected.  They loved her.

But we already had plans and tickets for things before we came out, and one of those was to the Hollywood Bowl, on the day of my mom’s funeral.  It was cooler.  Only 103°.

After the funeral we changed clothes and hopped in the car.  Up by Pershing Square in downtown LA is the largest used bookstore west of the Mississippi, The Last Bookstore; the girls just had to go. It was pretty sketchy then; who knows if it’s any better now?  I just checked Google maps and at least the grass looks green. We go into this bookstore, in a very old building with no ventilation and no open windows.  I seemed just as hot inside as out. I sat in a chair, directly in front of a fan, and was still drenched in sweat with more coming off of me. 

We got done there (finally) and found a restaurant.  I end up having a very expensive ravioli in squid ink, which was mediocre.  Then we headed up to the Bowl. 

Of course traffic was heavy through downtown LA and out to Hollywood.  Of course I missed our exit and we had to take a very circuitous route.  Once you get to the Bowl, especially if you are in the cheap seats like we were, of course you have to climb and climb and climb the hill to get to your seats.  It seats about 17,000 and it a natural amphitheater in the side of the mountain. We found our seats (bench seats) and I had even been smart enough to buy an extra seat so we wouldn’t be so squished. We had our rented seat cushions and were chugging bottled water.  Finally, the sun started to go down and we were in shade; there was a slight (very slight) breeze, and my sweat started to dry.  I could finally just sit with the day and my emotions.

The Hollywood Bowl is a near-perfect amphitheater.  It's so big you almost need binoculars to see the figures on the stage (but now they have big screens), but the sound is so pure and the world is so quiet that the acoustics are better than Carnegie Hall.  It’s unbelievable. If a single person even unwraps a stick of gym, you can hear it crystal clear in the midst of the silence.  You don’t dare make a sound.

It’s the LA Phil and Master Chorale, plus four soloists – who are all African American, a rarity in opera. They play a few pieces and then the grand number is Beetohoven’s 9th, the Ode to Joy. The original is in German, but I am more familiar with the Christian English words you find in hymnals.

This symphony is considered by leading musicologists to be one of the greatest works in Western music. What makes it so special is Beethoven’s use of the human voice; he was the first major composer to include it within a symphony. This is why you’ll often see Symphony No. 9 referred to as the Choral Symphony. Beethoven’s 9th symphony, with an orchestra bigger than any other at the time and playtime of well over an hour (longer than any other symphonic work), was a major turning point for classical music; it was a catapult into the Romantic Period, where composers began breaking the rules of composition and exploring the use of large ensembles, extreme emotion, and unconventional orchestration.

. . . The “Ode to Joy” text that Beethoven employed . . . was a celebratory poem addressing the unity of all mankind. (liveabout dotcom)

But the Christian words, the ones in hymnals that I love, are so very beautiful:

Joyful, joyful, we adore Thee,

God of glory, Lord of love;

Hearts unfold like flow’rs before Thee,

Op’ning to the sun above.

Melt the clouds of sin and sadness;

Drive the dark of doubt away;

Giver of immortal gladness,

Fill us with the light of day!

All Thy works with joy surround Thee,

Earth and heav’n reflect Thy rays,

Stars and angels sing around Thee,

Center of unbroken praise.

Field and forest, vale and mountain,

Flow’ry meadow, flashing sea,

Singing bird and flowing fountain

Call us to rejoice in Thee.

Thou art giving and forgiving,

Ever blessing, ever blest,

Wellspring of the joy of living,

Ocean depth of happy rest!

Thou our Father, Christ our Brother,

All who live in love are Thine;

Teach us how to love each other,

Lift us to the joy divine.

Mortals, join the happy chorus,

Which the morning stars began;

Father love is reigning o’er us,

Brother love binds man to man.

Ever singing, march we onward,

Victors in the midst of strife,

Joyful music leads us Sunward

In the triumph song of life.

Anyway, as the soloists are singing in German that I can’t understand, I am in my heart hearing the words from the hymnal, in the cooling air, with the light breeze, under the night sky, with the stars coming out.  In perfect acoustics amid total silence.  After laying my beloved mom to rest. In utter fatigue. And it was sublime.  A balm unto my soul.  Peace. Rest. Joy in the midst of grieving.  I cannot imagine anything that would have better soothed my soul that evening.

And then . . . . the big screens showed the names of the soloists . . . Ryan Speedo Green. Ryan Speedo Green? Wait a minute; I just read his biography, Sing for Your Life: A Story of Race, Music, and Family. I loved that book. He grew up in poverty, in a trailer park.  Was in juvenile detention.  All sorts of problems.  But he has this huge, rich voice, so music teachers at his schools kept pushing him onward for this and that.  Finally, he ends of the The Metropolitan Opera competition for young artists, where he is to be coached by a maestro and compete. 

He gets there and he doesn’t even know how to read music; he doesn’t know Italian or any of the languages of classical music.  He doesn’t even own a suit to wear for the performance.  The maestro figures this out immediately and throws up his hands. How is he supposed to work with this?  But they carry on. The day before the competition someone takes him over to Brooks Brothers to get him something to wear.  And he wins it.  And he goes on to become a world class opera singer, winning all sorts of awards. And here he is, standing on the stage singing the Ode to Joy.  It was unbelievable.

My mom had died and been laid to rest, and here I was listening to one of the greatest works of all time, sung by the greatest voices, with a world class philharmonic.  God is so merciful.  Just thinking of that evening brings me peace every time, both in its beauty and in my mom’s passing. Everything else just fades away. It was a rare moment when the world just stopped for me to grieve and for my soul to be comforted by the soaring music.  I will never forget it, and am so glad that even in the heat and fatigue and that broiling bookstore and the so-so dinner, I was given a taste of heaven.