I Got Culture
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Last Thursday Kathy, Richard, Nancie
and I drove into Guadalajara for a night of highbrow music.
El Teatro Santo Degollado, in the Centro Historico district
where the Orquesta Filamonica performs, is a spectacular building of European
architecture, a treat in itself.
Are you impressed? I am. I grew up minus music, other than
what I heard on the radio broadcast from Havre.
Kathy, however, an avid cello player for many years, is in a
different league and knows music intimately, classical music, that is. I envy
her knowledge. I love classical music in which I can lose myself while
listening, transported to imaginary worlds. Of musical knowledge, I have none.
Thanks to long winters when I was housebound in Dodson,
snowed in on the ranch south of town, thanks to radio from Saskatoon and
Regina, every Saturday morning I tuned to opera. Knowledgeable? No. Enjoyable?
Yes, very much.
The orchestra preformed works by three Russian composers. The
first presentation, by Gliere, should have been last in my estimation. I did
not want it to end. It was alive, purely
magical.
The second, a grouping by Tchaikosky, while romantic, with
glimpses of love stories, was inconsistent, alternating wonderful with ho-hum.
Remember, now, I an ignorant of music, just telling it like I heard it. Technically,
the performance was excellent. It lacked that indefinable spark that creates,
what else, magic.
Shostakovich; mostly I wanted to go
home. I heard horses charging through narrow streets. I heard moans of pain and
hunger, of war torn fears. The music was savage. The music cried tears. The
music exhausted me.
Later, after much urging by Kathy
and hesitation by myself, I told her my impressions. I could have listened,
transported, to Gliere all night. I wanted the magic. Interestingly, Kathy, in
more sophisticated musical terms, agreed and added knowledge to my assessments.
Thus, I discovered my hidden musical
talent—identifying the magic. I went on to discuss the magic of other music,
unknown to Kathy; of Hank, Sr., of Elvis, of Freddie Mercury. I felt redeemed. I
felt good.
It’s true. I got
friends in low places and perhaps I ain’t big on social graces. But I know
magic when I hear it.
The following night at the Casa de
Cultura in Etzatlan, a different cultural experience unfolded. It was the
International Day of the Woman. Etzatlan held a pagaent to honor the Working
Woman of the Year.
Samantha had nominated her mother,
Bonnie, and I’d helped Sam prepare the nomination paper. Bonnie, who manages
the rancho is a licensed practitioner of Chinese medicine. So I was happy to be
in the audience for support.
A dozen women were in the running.
The impressive program was well presented. The women nominated consisted of a
professional, a woman runs a dress shop, another who makes and sells crafts
such as pinatas, a domestic worker and cooks and vendors of simple foods. Five
women were honored for various categories and I wish I could have taken notes.
Bonnie was selected as Elegancia Woman of the Year.
Chosen for The Working Woman of the
Year was a quiet and humble woman from Santa Rosalia who made and sold tacos,
tamales and atole from her home kitchen. Santa Rosalia, an ehido about ten
kilometers from here, is included in the greater Municipalia of Etzatlan.
The only thing that would have made
the night better would have been subtitles. But as a bonus, I learned that the
Casa de Cultura sponsors a movie night. Using discretion, of course, being as
cultured as I am, I plan to show up regularly at the cinema. Popcorn, please.
Sondra
Ashton
HDN: Looking
out my back door
March 14,
2019
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