A'pealing

Until earlier this week, I had never heard of the word carilloneur before.

Turns out, it's a musician who plays a carillon, as in a series of pitched bells, hung in a tower and played by striking a series of connected pegs ("batons" in carillon-speak). The batons are arranged much like a traditional keyboard, with a row of naturals and the sharps and flats in patterns of twos and threes above it.

I learned all this meeting Doug Gefvert, the carilloneur at Washington Memorial Chapel in Valley Forge National Historical Park.

I had reached out to Doug for a work-related project, and he graciously agreed to meet me at the Chapel and give me a tour.

Full disclosure: I told him beforehand that I was a long-term organist. I figured it would save him a bunch of time explaining the instrument etc. if he could talk in musicianship shorthand.

It did.

Doug met me at the base of the 120-foot tower. A jangle of keys -- almost bell-like themselves -- unlocked a grate that covered a thin doorway in one of the corners, and we began the climb. The spiral staircase is extremely narrow and a bit chilly even on a warm June afternoon.

Up and up we went. There are a few skinny windows placed along the climb, and these feature small plaques with bell trivia along the way (the largest bell weighs 8,000 pounds, I learn). The spinning motion as we rise brings to mind Alfred Hitchcock's Vertigo.

About 3/4ths the way up is Doug's office. Again, a jangle of keys allows entry. It is a spacious, square room housing a "practice" carillon that enables him to brush up on a piece without disturbing half of Montgomery County. The ceiling and floor feature trapdoors, and a powerful winch system is in place, all for the purpose of removing and replacing bells when necessary.

We exit Doug's office and continue the climb. At the peak of the tower, he unlocks yet one more door, revealing a small, metal catwalk to a square, wooden structure with windows on all four sides. My heart-rate races just a bit at the height, but the view is spectactular.

Doug unlocks the final door, revealing the carillon. It is amazingly simple; for we organists who are accustomed to ranks and pipes and bellows and reeds and worries about air pressure, the carillon is a purely physical instrument. Pound on the batons with your fist, and a series of cables grabs each clapper and draws it to the rim of the bell, producing a tone.

Doug climbs aboard, spreads his music out and settles in to play. A pair of razor-thin fishing wires keeps the sheets in place, preventing them from ruffling to the floor in the breeze.

The angelic music begins to float over the lush countryside of Valley Forge National Historical Park.

I'm amazed at the color he's able to coax from the instrument. Like a piano, it is possible to vary the dynamics, adding subtlety and character: The harder you strike, the louder the tone. He's also extremely agile at this, feet and fists flying up and down the keyboard, as the piece he's picked is a prestissimo waltz.

When he's finished, the final tones ring out and he grins. As do I.

We talk for a while more. The instrument is ever-changing, subject to tone variations based on weather, humidity and even wind speed, as the sound waves can be expanded or compressed by a even a gentle ululation of air.

Then he does something unforgettable: He rises from the bench and tells me to sit.

Again, my heart races.

Doug thumbs through a nearby hymnal and comes up with "My Country 'Tis of Thee." He places it in front of me, orients me with regard to the batons ("Middle-C is there."), coaches me a bit on technique ("Strike between the first and second digit of your pinkie fingers.") and lets me go.

Tentatively, "My Country 'Tis of Thee" begins clanging out of the bell tower. The eight notes associated with "from e-ev-ry moun-tain side" are a little sketchy, but the tune is recognizable.

I'm in heaven.

Doug then directs me to play it again. And as I do, he beings improvising on the upper end of the keyboard. Now, "My Country 'Tis of Thee" is embellished with a ringing descant and amazing harmonics that turn it into something artful.

We finish together.

And I thank him for one of the most memorable experiences in my music career.

    

          

In-Tents Vacations

Many of my vacation memories revolve around the New Jersey shore, but before that became our habitual winding-down spot, we spent a lot of summers camping.

I remember visiting Kentucky, which included a day trip to the state capital, Frankfort. I remember visiting Caledonia State Park in south-western Pa. And a campsite served as our accommodations when we saw Niagara Falls.

KOA Campgrounds was our mecca, and I recall many hours in-transit, scanning the highways for those bright yellow signs with the tipi-shaped logo.

Family or extended family often came with us, and there was never a lack of cousins to find adventure (read: trouble) with. Days were filled visiting touristy sites or, if we were lucky to have pitched our tent in a camp with a pool, swimming. Evenings were wiled away in almost stereotypical fashion, lazing by the crackling fire, sometimes singing, sometimes just talking. The hiss of a Coleman lantern blended with the song of the cicadas, and the combined music was often just the thing to lull me to sleep.

We usually stayed in a tent and slept in sleeping bags, but I believe it was on the Kentucky trip that we rented an onsite pop-up trailer. This was the coolest thing ever: No rocks in the small of the back while trying to sleep; no wet clothes from teeming rains; no bugs in the food. Nirvana!

I remember the campground advertising an evening of cartoons, and to my pre-teen mind, this was the most exciting thing I could ever imagine.

Woody Woodpecker in the woods!

The night of the showing, the camp staff dragged a gigantic 16 mm projector into a small glen, connected it to a loud generator, draped a big screen between two pines, laid a fire for roasting marshmallows, and waited until dark.

The wait seemed interminable. But eventually, the projector roared to life and the colorful logo of the Warner Brother's Studio filled the screen.

I was in heaven.

Until the darkness of the woods somehow got even darker.

A sense of foreboding crept into the camp, and before the Road Runner could zip toward the horizon at warp speed, the black sky was split by a jagged bolt of lightning that shook the forest floor.

Rain!

The movie was cancelled immediately, the equipment was stowed, and the audience fled. We watched the raindrops from inside our camper.

Disappointing, yes, but memorable nonetheless.

As was the trip where my mother "helped" herself to corn from a nearby cornfield one evening for our dinner. We'd been eying this crop our entire stay. The succulent, golden kernels peeping out from a spray of fine silk. You could almost taste it as it grew heavy and droopy on the stalks.

Who would miss five ears of corn?

We gathered around the firepit, watching our cauldron of corn bubble away, salivating over what was to come.

Once slathered in butter and properly salted, we dug in.

And experienced the worst corn in memory.

Turns out the savvy farmer planted horse corn at the outer edges of his fields, the ones that bordered public access points like a commercial campground. The ears weren't fit for human consumption but, rather, were designated for his livestock.

We were certainly horse-faced with embarrassment that night.

And finally, one trip where cousins invited us to a square dance that the campground was hosting. My dad, certainly not known for his ability to trip the light fantastic, turned the event upside down by missing steps, veering left when he should have turned right, and continuing to do-si-do his way onto the feet of his square.

It was all met with good humor, though, especially when he gave up completely and contented himself doing the Ralph Kramden dance -- "The Hucklebuck" -- from the old Honeymooners TV show. 

I'm in the photo below, by the way, with a gaggle of cousins. Front row; second from the left; arms folded. As usual, we all look cold and wet.