21 November- A Story for Today

Driving home from Lawrence I passed through the rolling hills of northeastern Kansas. Contrary to images conjured up by “Wizard of Oz” beautiful broken hills constitute much of the state. Moving towards the Missouri River, patches of timber and outcroppings of limestone peak through the soil. Ages of water racing to the sea carved out craggy bluffs which hover over the wide river. On a fine fall day it makes for a picturesque drive.

The human geography in that neck if the woods is no less interesting. The entire Missouri valley was long frequented by French Fur Trappers, and their ‘Half-Breed’ families. Many of the oldest towns in the area came out of this business— St. Joseph, MO was founded by Joseph Robidoux in 1843. The WASP settlers came in the 1850s. Bordering a slave state, plenty of conflict inevitably erupted. Atchison briefly had a pro-slavery newspaper. Bordering Missouri counties were hotbeds for Confederate sympathy before and after the war (including Jesse James’ family). German Benedictine Monks established an abbey in Atchison in 1857 and ministered to Irish immigrants. Then Germans came too.

By the time my family showed up Atchison County was long settled. I thought about these folks today as this is the 126^th anniversary of their marriage. Both came from relatively unusual circumstances…at least considering our contemporary stereotypes of period values. We pine for the ‘good old days’. We do it a lot— especially concerning religion, family values, welfare, patriotism, immigration, etc. Today seems an appropriate time to reflect.

Joseph Emmerich was born in a small but historically significant Bavarian village in August 1855. Though Seinsheim sits in a fertile wine growing region he and his forebears were traditionally stonemasons and bricklayers. According to tradition they participated in the renovation of the large medieval cathedral of Würzburg nearby. (Seinsheim had excellent records extending back to the early 1500’s but, sadly, everything was destroyed when the USAF firebombed the area at the end of WWII).

When Joseph was 17 his family got wind of a forthcoming military appointment. So, naturally, he booked it for America in 1872. Tradition has it that our draft-dodger was a stowaway. Sure enough he shows up on no ships’ lists. Interestingly, one “Josef Emerich” does appear but that one appears to be Jewish— hardly helping the ‘mainstream’ argument. (I do, nevertheless, suspect Semitic roots in this branch, however, from other sources… but I digress).

Joseph drops off the map until 1880 when he surfaces in rural Atchison County, KS near Effingham. His father and siblings came over and joined him. They worked as stonemasons around small commercial quarry operations. One source hints that Joseph lived in Missouri prior to settling in Kansas. It was there that I suspect he met his wife…which brings me to Louise.

Louise Breitenwischer was born in March 1862 in Carondelet, MO, a bustling river town immediately to the south of St Louis. When she was born there were slaveholders in the neighborhood. By the time she died 90 years later we had atomic weapons and neon lights. She reportedly didn’t talk much about her family during her long life. I can understand why. Louise was illegitimate— her father a German Lutheran and a severe alcoholic, her mother French Catholic.

To be fair her grandmother was also born to a single mom. The village moral authority of 1815 could not have looked kindly upon “inconnu” or “unknown” scribbled in under “father’s name”! The great-grandmother in turn was born in exile— their family dislodged from their Rhenish border-town by Austrian troops coming to the aid of Monarchists during the Reign of Terror in the 1790s. It was not easy for them.

Within a five year range of 1882 things looked pretty bad for Louise. Both her parents, her remaining grandparents, and most of her aunts and uncles all died from alcoholism, alcohol related accidents or tuberculosis. The City of St Louis had annexed Carondelet and the family home was now wedged between the Mississippi, a shipyard, RR, and a sewage ditch which drained most of the city.

But there’s no hand up like a “hand-out.” Louise’s brother Frederick had saved $500— a handsome sum for 1882. He gave her the money so she would have a chance to get out, get married, and have a good life. (As an aside, Fred and his family came out alright— this particular anecdote was passed to me by a descendant, a daughter of one Busch Stadium organist and her husband a certain Cardinals player/Hall of Fame broadcaster).

And so it was that Louise got on a boat in the fall of 1882. It wound its way over 300 miles up the Missouri to Atchison, KS. Shortly thereafter Joseph Emmerich and Louise Breitenwischer were married 21 November 1882 at St. Ann’s in Effingham.

They had two kids, one of whom was my great-grandfather. Joseph held numerous jobs from mason, to restaurant proprietor, to shoe repairman, to farmer. He did well enough to sit on the building committee for the new Catholic Church in Effingham in 1896. Sadly, that building was destroyed fire (suspected arson) in April 2008.

I didn’t go through Effingham on my way home from Lawrence. However, as I passed though the Missouri Valley I thought a great deal about all the life and stories those hills have witnessed. God Bless them all.

Chant and Doing Things the 'Right Way'

Last week I attended “Windows on Chant” at Kansas University. The Division of Organ and Church Music at KU http://www2.ku.edu/~organ/ hosts an annual thematic conference in the fall. This year’s gathering centered around the theory, history, and practice of Chant.

Drs. Michael Bauer and James Higdon put together a splendid program (as solid as the department over which they preside!) Two ‘heavy-hitter’ presenters took us through our time together. Fr. Anthony Ruff OSB lectured on the history of Chant, its revival and semiology and Susan Ferré addressed the practical component from a keyboard (organ) perspective.

It would have been difficult to find a more qualified American scholar of Chant than Fr. Ruff. He brings a bounty of experience and scholarship to the table— ranging from his life as a Benedictine to his Doctoral studies in the heart of the German semiological school at Graz. By all accounts his book Sacred Music and Liturgical Reform is a sober, formidable, and long-awaited balanced breath of fresh air (for the Catholic world).

The conference was well attended and Fr. Ruff pointed out that these days most Chant seminars are. Chalk it up to orthodoxy/conservativism/whatever you want to call it— it is unmistakably a trend. Among tradition-oriented crowds the motivation is particularly clear— this is getting back to our roots. And make no mistake that’s important. Vatican II was indeed quite clear about preserving the corpus of Sacred Music. However, nothing happens without a little irony.

As Fr. Ruff gave his talk on the history of Chant revival at Solesmes the funny business became clear. Call it a tale of two monks: after years of sparring with the Germans and bucking unfounded Papal endorsements of the Cecilians the French school of Chant interpretation took the lead (ca. 1903). But all was not well. The Solesmes monks all wanted to do the right/authentic thing…but they disagreed about what precisely that was. Infighting ensued.

Joseph Pothier suggested that rhythm should be driven by the text (oratorical). André Mocquereau supported a smooth equal rhythm. Mocquereau won that battle (as any person who sings Solesmes Chant knows). As it turns out, according to the current scholarly consensus (built upon a convergence of the best available sources), the wrong guy won. There were other disputes to be sure but this ironic incident represents a microcosm of historical performance practice debates and even historical research at large.

The principle? The first fruits of retrospective scholarship tend to miss the mark— and moreover, they often stick.

The axiomatic goal of historical research is to bring forth knowledge which can elevate and refine our present practices (most certainly for those which claim a historical flavor!) But what happens when misunderstandings, hasty conclusions or even flagrant disregard for sources leave us more Greek than the Greeks or “more Medieval than the Medievals?” (to borrow a line from Fr. Ruff). In other words, is there value to our imitation of historical styles if they are not, in fact, historical? The short answer (which I suspected and Fr. Ruff confirmed) is yes…but only through what I daresay is a modern concept of art criticism: judge it on its own terms— the “ars gratis artia.” This is nothing new in most circles but it may be tough medicine in some Catholic subgroups which see this pluralism as nothing more than applied moral relativism.

Fr. Ruff put it this way, “I grew up with the Solesmes Chant. The smooth, equalist flow has its own beauty and appeal [albeit a-historical]. I can appreciate that.” In fact, he went on to add that some of the most rigorous historically informed German renditions of chant are indeed a bit laborious! So where does this leave us? I don’t think there is a clear answer. We will always experience tension between historic authenticity and art for its own sake. Is St. Patrick’s in New York good Gothic architecture? No, it’s a wonderful neo-Gothic church. Do nineteenth-century tales of chivalry give us useful insights into medieval culture? No, they’re good Romantic literature.

We can’t ever recreate the past and even if we could it would never affect us the same way. Mozart will not sound the same to ears which have heard Bruckner and the Beatles. The power of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony escapes us thanks to a million TV commercials and an overused hymn. Nikolaus Harnoncourt put this well, “a deceptive cadence that one already knows no longer deceives, [it] no longer is a deceptive cadence.”

Therefore, Chanters beware! If you think that sixth of the hexachord in Ave Maria is a veritable transport to a 10^th century monastery, think again. Hartker, Notker, and John of St. Gall just might hear you with perplexed and furrowed brows.

The end of an era

Last night a friend asked me to place a bet on when the Presidential Election would be called. I don't particularly relish gambling (although I did win my money back at the boats this weekend) but I said what I thought.

I figured that everything would come together without much ado by 11 CST. A little last-minute statistical tip from a Gallup employee always helps!

It seems I made a reasonable guess.

I rather enjoy politics. I love the constant dialog, discussion and debate. I believe that a nation manifests its health in robust dispute. At the end of the day mutual respect prevails and we learn and grow.

I must admit, however, that these last few weeks have worn on me. It is time for 5 November. I am glad for tomorrow but nevertheless thankful for today.

Regardless of how I or anyone feels about the outcome this evening I believe that it points to at least one undeniable trend: our national identity is shifting.

I have traveled on something of a wild terrestrial and ideological journey over the last few months. Last Saturday morning I found myself planted at the kitchen table squarely across from my aunt.

Aunt D- came to town to review some paperwork for my grandmother's estate plan. She grimaced and griped, "Aren't you glad that you don't have to deal with this mess?" Lacking any context whatsoever I was perplexed. "What do you mean?" I queried. "You know, owning oil rights and real estate...all this paperwork, those taxes...I wouldn't wish it on anyone."

A real mess, indeed! I don't get too upset with Aunt D., however. Our minute conversation speaks volumes about her and all the people like her- and there are plenty. A born Texan, a bit ahead being a baby-boomer, and a life-long Midwesterner she has lived in a charmed world. Nothing has compelled her to engage the world all around her. She goes to the grocery store and then drives 20 miles to JC Penny's to pick up a pair of slacks. She watches the 'soaps' and Wheel of Fortune. She dusts all the furniture everyday and mows the lawn weekly. And, once a month, like clockwork, gets a pension check and a little oil royalty. That's the world. That was largely her parents' world. I understand.

But it's not mine.

America used to "Speak softly and carry a big stick." Then it yelled and smacked people with said weapon. Then, it was back to big sticks- giant nuclear ones and smooth, hard talk. Now everyone has big atomic sticks. What Dr. Strangelove predicted (with necessary sexy consequences) is disturbingly possible and hardly sexy in the least.

We have nukes, lots of other people with nukes, Russia, Iran, North Korea, a war, a faltering economy, dwindling oil, evaporating national resources and a world of countries who think as much of our policy as they do our current Commander in Chief. London gentlemen utter his name like a different kind of 4-letter word. I didn't believe it until I heard it myself.

I could roll my eyes. I could think of how we didn't used to need anyone and probably still don't. (We saved the French and Europe on D-day afterall!) I can rest rest on my laurels. I could just throw the newspaper in the trash and go to Penny's and pick up a pair of slacks... But the world has become to small and our capacity for evil has become too great.

I would hate to overstate the point, however. I'm not sure if it's ever possible to have a "global community." I believe 'community' has limits. It is concentrated. I merely believe we are more connected than ever. This is hardly a 'either...or' scenario. I see it as 'both...and.' Community can and indeed must remain intact in a global or post-national age. We need the sanity of balance. People seem to recognize this more and more.

The photo I added above has a grove of trees in the background. When my grandmother grew up in the years following World War I everyone came to that grove on hot summer days for picnics with watermelon in the shade. They were all Germans and mostly related. In the 20's exploration companies found oil all around. Many people got a little piece of the piece. They farmed, raised stock, and got a royalty check. It was a good life. For generations most of them lived in died within a few miles of where they started. And it worked.

I'm not jealous of that world. It worked and worked well for many. I'm grateful for mine and glad that we are beginning to see the difference.