“MUSIC IN THE MOUNTAINS”

© Copyright 7-24-2007
By Dana Shino, The Purple Phoenix, LLC
www.thepurplephoenix.com

Sometimes when relationships shift tempo or reach a dénouement or finale, the musical resonances from the partnering, lingering beyond the change, suspend themselves in the air as reminders of the once had been. Sometimes it’s a coffee table with coffee mug rings, sometimes it’s an airplane plant, other times it’s an antique blender. In the case of Bob and me, it was a set of concert tickets to attend a performance of “Music in the Mountains.”

This annual symphonic concert series is held from mid through late summer under a huge canopied white tent at Durango Mountain Resort, the ski area north of Durango, Colorado. It is, literally, symphony music in the mountains, a delicious musical treat in alpine air.

Though we had been silent for the week leading to the concert, I still planned on attending the event. I did not know what Bob's thoughts were. So, on the evening of the mountain music, after dressing myself nicely, I decided to offer a gesture of diplomacy. I swallowed my fear, knocked on his door, and when he answered, also nicely dressed, asked if he was still going. When he confirmed, I offered him a ride with me. He declined. So, honoring his choice, I drove myself to the concert, keeping my thoughts on making the best of an awkward situation.

As I drove myself north out of Durango, I failed to recognize the thunderstorm brewing over the mountains. Regionally, the area had been in a series of cyclical afternoon and evening thunderstorms, which I vaguely noted. But, for some reason, in my mind, I saw myself appearing at the event in sunshine (just like the previous year). So, before leaving my home I nabbed my water resistant jacket from the coat rack hook, not my waterproof one. Somehow, I assumed I would need no jacket at all . . .

. . . I could not have been more mistaken. When I turned off highway 550 and drove past the resort sign, the raindrops accumulated moderately on my windshield. As I drove up the twining road to the parking lot, I systematically increased the windshield wiper rate until the little knob could turn no further and my wipers were madly dashing in wippity-stitch rhythm. I parked as close as possible to the resort stairs, leading to the main pavilion, which was still three quarters of a parking lot away. I resolved myself to ‘hoofing it’ through the rain in a pinch. I pulled my purse over my shoulder, draped my jacket over my head, took a deep breath, left my truck cab and plunged into the rain. I did well through the first half of the parking lot. My black leather sandal pumps were only moderately wet and a little muddy from the wet soil and rock in the parking lot. My long, double tiered, silk skirt gained only a moderate amount of raindrops. I thought, “I can do this.”

Then, all hell broke loose: lightning, thunder and a head on down pour, similar to a southern Indiana toad strangler, turned the parking lot into a rocky and somewhat muddy river. Needless to say, by the time I cleared the parking lot, crossed the road (thankfully several drivers yielded for me), climbed the stairs and found shelter, like everyone else, beneath the eaves of the shops on the pavilion, I was soaked. My silk skirt was completely drenched from mid-thigh to the bottom at my ankles, cobbling my ability to walk. The water and some mud had cleared my shoes and I was walking in leather squelching rhythm (only later to find the black shoe polish left more permanent black marks on my foot soles and underneath my toe nails). My water resistant jacket was sopping wet and just beginning to drip through onto my head and black silk shirt.

The staffers for the musical performance held umbrellas for us at critical water junctures and encouraged us along like volunteer staffers at water tables for marathoners. Except, in this instance, the water was not in cups on a table, it was coming in bucket loads out of the sky. Instead of guiding us towards water, the staffers were doing their best to help us avoid it.

We all gradually meandered our way under the eaves and scurried the last few yards in the open to the tent entrance, where I wrung out my jacket and skirt as best I could. For the valiant effort of choosing to attend the event, make the most of it and enjoy it, I could not have been more wet and undone by the time I reached my seat. So, I sat there composing myself and waited for Bob to arrive, which he did, far less wet and very solemn. Apparently, I had cast my lot into the rain at the climax of the storm while he was still driving through it.

As my jacket hung on the back of my chair dripping (and I hoped not on the people behind me), and as I draped my skirt to begin to dry, Bob and I made an effort at small talk. Sometimes, small talk is the little peg in the dam holding back big talk. You can feel the small words backed by all the great waters of big ideas, emotion, thought and life. Small talk is the social slight of hand to prettily ignore and camouflage the rhinoceros of the real issues standing in the vicinity. Small talk is not one of my favorite activities.

Yet, Bob and I did fairly well avoiding a dam break and the rhinoceros before the concert began. We shared the program and he kindly loaned me his coat to keep me warm. I felt myself buoyed by the surrounding bubbling cheer of concert goers who had adventured in a storm for the sake of music. Despite the awkward circumstances, I felt we were in for a treat; a treat that began with the charmed situation of the ticket purchase.

Earlier in the summer, when I visited the “Music in the Mountains” ticket office, the woman at the ticket desk informed me one of the corporate sponsors had just (only a few minutes ago on the phone) given up two seats in the front row. She asked me if I wanted them. “Of course,” I answered. I’d never had front row seats to anything in my life.

So, when I arrived at the concert that evening and found my front row seat, dripped and began drying, I gradually realized one little detail . . . we had a clear view of the grand piano’s keyboard. “Oh my,” I thought. We’re going to be able to watch Aviram Reichert, the guest pianist from Israel, execute his key work in pieces by Grieg. Front row seats don’t get any better than that.

Eventually, despite the rain, the crowd and orchestra settled, the conductor, Peter Bay, appeared and the symphony commenced into Stravinsky’s “Norwegian Moods.” Haltingly. It was as though the heavens erupted around us and dumped every ounce of rain it held and drowned out so much of the musical phrasing the conductor suspended the performance until the rain calmed. I shifted in my seat and rearranged my drying skirt only to find that the starching in it had washed onto my legs, and my legs were now sticking together underneath my wet skirt.

The weather finally calmed enough for the symphony to continue and before we knew it, Reichert arrived on stage in full tuxedo and seated himself at the piano in joyous rooster like style, flourishing his tuxedo tails like feathers. I giggled to myself. In the soft pitter-patter of rain, and the anticipating presence of a silent audience, a conductor with raised baton and multiple violin bows poised, Reichert pulled himself into concentration, momentarily held his fingers at the top of the keyboard and then plunged into Grieg’s Piano Concerto, sailing his fingers down the piano keys in an outbreak of fury and the orchestra met him briefly with their thundering chords at the bass. The music sailed away and took us with it.

I felt myself swirling with the music, lost in the enthrall of Reichert’s aggressive, intricate key work, his fingers weaving and finding the keys un-mistakenly among a cavalcade of complex chording. Violin bows danced above my head in near unison. The kettle drum joined the thunder. Peter Bay leaned in and out of the orchestration, pulling it, daring it, pressing it forward.

In those moments, I could not help but feel the confluence of so many waters uniting in the chords raining around me. The thrill of the storm. The disaster of the rain on me. The sheer delight of the music and the performance. The presence of a crowd appreciating music despite the storm. And the feeling of sitting next to someone I love, knowing we'd reached in impasse neither of us anticipated. An impasse words didn't seem to be able to bridge. So, I sat, in the midst of the confluence and felt the music and love flow back and forth through my heart without being able to say a word or hold a hand.

At the end of the evening, after showering applause on Reichert, Bay and the orchestra, letting them know that for such a small place, we appreciate the music ever more, I stood and took off Bob's coat. I handed it to him and thanked him for helping keep me warm (as well as sharing a snack). Without much of a word, he disappeared into the parting crowd and I wordlessly watched him leave.

Next year, I'm remembering my raincoat with the hood.