January 2002
Dear Friends, Family, and Colleagues,
The first year of the millennium, mathematically speaking, started with unusual quietness,
disturbed only by the tip-tapping of my keyboard as I rushed to complete the manuscript
of my first published book. On the Ides of March I turned in Artful Italy: The Hidden
Treasures, which Invisible Cities Press published on Nov. 30. Afterwards, my friends helped
me to recover from a surprisingly vicious bout of postpartum anxiety by assuring me that
they found my "baby" handsome and lively and even funny. I'm currently researching
another travel guide on the Northeast-of the US, not Italy-for the same publisher.
We celebrated my finishing the Herculean labor by sending Carl off to a bread baking class
at King Arthur Flour in Norwich, Vt.. They have an astonishing stable of talented bakers
from America's world-champion baking team. One of Carl's favorite stories is how the US
won the baguette baking contest in Paris. Turns out the new French laws governing the
apprentices don't allow them to start work until 6 a.m., when they can only sweep up.
In
the spring we chartered a sailboat in western Florida. We got stuck twice. The
first time, a quick gust blew us from the 5'-deep channel into 9 inches of water.
Carl was quite the hero, walking the anchor out into the chest-high water so
we could pull ourselves out. A dinghy came along and helped, but nothing worked,
and so we had to call for a tow. The second time our rudder cable broke. Luckily
we were already in the boat's marina and so we had it towed the one hundred
feet to the end of the dock. Next Florida sailing trip, we'll buy the towing
insurance.
Fricka & Star
Our wildest opera weekend occurred the next month, which also ended up feeling like
old-home week. First we attended Ariadne at the Met and discovered when we opened our
programs that the tenor who had sung Bacchus for Opera North that summer, Adam
Klein, was understudying the role this afternoon. Carl wondered if the digital-quality video
tape he had produced of Adam singing the role might have influenced the Met's choice.
The next day, we went to see Die Tote Stadt at New York City Opera, where we met our
friend Doug Long who was escorting a large group of opera lovers. Through a series of
flukes we ended up sitting next to the tenor's wife, who explained the vagaries of the role,
its range and breadth that make it a seldom-performed piece. On our way home, we
detoured to the Boston University Opera Institute's Beatrice and Benedict to see our friend
Allison Voth, who is their vocal coach. The tenor had been a Young Artist and was this
year a principal at Opera North. In all three productions we either knew, would've known,
or felt we knew the tenor.
The summer started off with a lovely birthday party at Arnie and Phyllis Katz's for Carl and two other friends who also have
birthdays in the beginning of June. The Katzes made sure we had noise makers and hats and lots of presents. We had so much
fun we could have been celebrating one-digit rather than deep-into-the-two-digits birthdays.
In July, Carl lectured at Vermont Technical College's Upward Bound program on Astronomy and offered the teenagers a
chance to get a close look at the stars through our telescope.
I had planned to do nothing for the rest of the summer, but instead Naomi Flanders
asked me to replace her as Ruth in Pirates
of Penzance for Unadilla Theater with two weeks' notice, as she had lingering
throat ailment. Other than a couple of solos at Chandler Music Hall many moons
ago, I've never pursued the spotlight. Standing in the back of the opera chorus,
mouthing the words if I forget, marking the tune if not in good voice has been
a comfortable role for me for ten years. Performing the Pirates' "maid of all
work" was definitely a stretch. My two cohorts-the Pirate (Kevin Hurly) and
Frederick (Michael LeMay)-were the wind beneath my wet wings as they stood beside
me on stage. Our pianist, Alison Cerruti, was a terrific musician and gave me
more wind
while playing the whole score single-handedly. When after my second performance
she called me a "pro" for memorizing and staging the role in such short time,
it made all my jitters worth while. Usually Ruth is a sop in the beginning and
gets tough later, but I played the whole
thing as a motorcycle momma and as a result got lots of laughs. In the end I
was happy
to
entertain audiences for eight performances
in a barn in the
Ann
as Ruth
middle
of nowhere in Central Vermont. Thanks to all my friends
who showed up and loudly started the applause, then visited with me backstage
afterwards. You left me feeling like a real star.
We fled for Italy and stayed at our first "agriturismo." About an hour south of Venice in Tolle, the B&B turned out to be a
spacious apartment on a farm where they grow soybeans, sugar beets, etc.. The rental included breakfast and dinner and two
hours of daily private Italian lessons as the Signora chatted with us during meals about everything from how the price of
melons rises in August to her family's ancient methods of organic farming.
After
a week mixing beach and museum days, we were relaxed enough to travel to Germany
for some heavy opera-actually, the heaviest. Carl and I this year got tickets
to the Wagner Ring Cycle; the second time in seventeen annual attempts. Jack
Golden came with us and was the perfect companion as we discussed each of the
four operas over dinner during the Bayreuth Festspielhaus's civilized hour-long
intermission. The avant garde production featured Norse god Wotan carrying a
spear while incongruously wearing a trench coat, reading faxes, and sending
emails from his laptop. We all three abhorred the costumes, loved the singing,
questioned the staging, and with the great seriousness of true Wagnerians argued
the merits of the Niebelungen dwarves and dragons and frogs. The Germans
(at the Festspielhaus)
Ann's dress made by Carl
vitriolically booed the director during every
curtain call. We Americans applauded and whistled at the
singers as we wish, despite everything, to be invited back.
After we returned the year is a blur. September 11th is still a nightmare for the tens of thousands who have spent the holidays
mourning their missing son or daughter, sister or brother, husband or wife, father or mother, and friends. I cannot fathom that
mere box cutters triggered such mass destruction. Carl and I went down to New York and joined the massive 24-hour funeral
procession around Ground Zero, where decades ago his father had had his office.
On Nov. 1st
New York City brought instead some excellent news: a nephew born during the
Mets' 7th inning stretch (mother
Lucy let the doctors turn on the TV). George Wellington Eustice's first and
middle names are from his great-great-grandfather. The infant's two grandfathers
grew up across from each other in Detroit and both knew and were influenced
by the original George Wellington. I assume little George's parents have also
been indirectly influenced by the great-great's taste in literature and love
for nature, and that they will pass those pleasures onto their son. Thus all
the best in life thrives as the generations continue to read and observe beauty.
May great new books and Nature's wonders fill your New Year,
Please note our new MAILING address:
Carl & Ann Brandon, 3071 South Randolph Road, Randolph Center, VT 05061-9734 Tel: 802-728-9947 e-mail: carl.brandon@vtc.edu
Ann's email: abrandon@sover.net Web page: www.brunnhilde.com/~cbrandon If we don't have it, please send us your e-mail address.