Scottish Dancing

                                             Scottish Dancing

  

         

Lindsay beamed as he showed us what he had just bought at the gift shop: a CD of Scottish country dance music.  I stared at it in astonishment.  Lindsay was profoundly deaf.  How would he be able to enjoy it?  Then I remembered what his wife Sheila had told me.  Lindsay had had normal hearing until the age of five, when a severe attack of measles had resulted in his total deafness.  Perhaps, like Evelyn Glennie, the famous deaf percussionist, he would feel the different vibrations of the strathspeys, waltzes and reels?

We were at the Burns Centre in Alloway, Ayrshire, birthplace of the poet Robert Burns.  The couple came to Scotland every year for a brief visit.  Before moving to England, where he met and married Sheila, Lindsay had lived in Alloway.  I remembered him well as a cheerful ginger-haired young man who cycled round the district collecting money on behalf of a charity for the deaf.  When he arrived at our doorstep, because I found it difficult to understand what he was saying, I would give him a pencil and paper.  That allowed us to have a little “chat”.

Alas, Lindsay died suddenly when still relatively young.  But Sheila continued their annual tradition, coming all the way from Middlesex to visit their Scottish friends.  I admired her courage and determination because not only was she totally deaf but she also had seriously impaired vision.  She would contact me in advance to arrange a date when I would come for her at the hotel and take her out for the day.

One year, shortly I had moved from Alloway to Prestwick, we arranged that I would bring her to my new home for lunch.  Before preparing the meal, I decided to put on some lively music to energise me.  I knew that I would be very busy that afternoon, not only cooking the lunch and driving Sheila to and from her hotel but also conversing with her by means of our unusual communication system.  I would sit beside her so that she could read my lips, then she would say something and wait for my response, placing her hand lightly on my throat to feel the vibration of my vocal cords.

 I unwrapped a new CD which had been given to me the night before by the couple who had bought my house.  They both played in a ceilidh band and had recorded two CDs of Scottish dance music.  Having heard that they had recently had a new baby, I had gone back to my former home with a present for their little son.  (It felt strange, standing on the familiar doorstep and ringing the bell – just as Lindsay used to do!)  By way of thanks for the present, the couple gave me a copy of this, their latest CD.

As I unwrapped it, I smiled at the picture on the front cover of a dancing man and woman facing one another, about to link arms and swing round in a Scottish reel.  I slipped the CD into the player and pressed the Play button.  The band struck up the first dramatic chord - the chord which announces the beginning of the dance and at which the men and the ladies bow or curtsey to their partner.                                          

                                         

Just at that very moment I heard the postman push something through my letterbox.  It was a card from my niece Joanna in Manchester.  Joanna had never met Sheila and had no idea that she was visiting me that week.  The picture on the card was of two Scottie dogs facing one another in a dance.   

The caption read ‘Scottish dancing’. I couldn’t believe my eyes!

After lunch I took a photograph of Sheila holding the two pictures of the Scottish dancers.  Once again I was filled with amazed energising joy – which kept me smiling with delight for the rest of the afternoon!

(Sequel)

Over ten years later I took this second photograph of Sheila – to record another day of joy!

She is proudly displaying her new smart phone which has a QWERTY keyboard in large letters, instead of small characters in alphabetical groups.  This allowed her to communicate with ease.

In a restaurant at lunchtime that day we sat down opposite each other.  While we were studying the menu, I took out my mobile phone and texted her: ‘What would you like for dessert?’  Instantly, laughing with delight, she typed her reply and pressed ‘Send’. ‘Apple crumble!’ – to which I texted, ‘Me too!’

To anyone else that would seem trivial, but for Sheila, it was a major breakthrough.  How grateful we were for this advance in technology, and for the talents of the people who had invented this precious device.  Not only was communication now much simpler, but for the first time, Sheila felt no different from all the other people around her who were using their smart phones.

So, my two photos of Sheila record two completely different sources of Joy!

Thanks be to God for both!

Timely Help!

 This photograph was taken near the little village of Maidens in South Ayrshire.  The two ‘maidens’ on horseback are Sarah and Simone, daughters of my German friend Meike.  In the background is the island of Arran, often referred to as ‘Scotland in miniature’ because of the mountains at the north end.  All year round the lovely combination of sea, mountains and sky attracts visitors to our Ayrshire coast.  But the view is not always this good. They are disappointed if adverse weather conditions conceal the island completely.

Seen from the ferry port of Ardrossan, the mountains are nearer and therefore even more impressive.  The story goes that back in the late 1870s a visiting preacher was given overnight accommodation there by the local minister.  He was assured that there would be a wonderful view of Arran from his bedroom window.  But when he arrived on the sunny Saturday, a warm sea-mist completely obscured the view; then on Sunday heavy rain resulted in the island disappearing behind grey clouds.

However, despite his disappointment, the preacher knew that Arran, though invisible, did exist!  Seeing here an analogy with the question of belief/non-belief in the existence of God, he was inspired to write the hymn which begins:                

Immortal, invisible, God only wise,                                                                                          In light inaccessible hid from our eyes.

The whole hymn expresses awe at the grandeur of God and His creation.  But I feel that it is a pity that the writer used the word ‘inaccessible’ – implying that God is far away and unapproachable.  Experience over many years has taught me otherwise, as you will perhaps understand from the following account, written over thirty years ago.

Timely Help

‘Let us therefore boldly approach the throne of our gracious God, where we may receive mercy, and in his grace find timely help.    (Hebrews 4, v 16)

The situation was desperate.  Bob, my beloved husband, had been told that the cancer in his bladder had now spread to his lymph glands and spine.  After five years of courageous refusal to be defeated by pain and discomfort, he was finally forced to admit that he could no longer continue to teach.  Now he was at home alone during the day while I was at my fulltime teaching job.  Fortunately, our home was only a five-minute drive from my school, so at lunchtime I was able to rush back to keep him company for half an hour.

Although, of course, I was glad to do this, the physical and emotional strain was so great that I prayed desperately every day for the strength to keep calm and cheerful for Bob and for our son and two daughters.  I felt that my system was running on prayer power alone!

Looking back at my diary from that challenging period, I am reminded of a remarkable occasion when, by God’s grace, I did indeed ‘find timely help.’

One lunchtime, as I dashed into the staffroom for my jacket, I was surprised to see   the peripatetic cello teacher, who was busy replacing a broken string on a pupil’s cello.  The previous string had probably snapped while it was being tightened to the correct pitch.  As an amateur cellist, I am familiar with this problem, so I stopped to exchange a few words with John before rushing off to my car.

When I arrived home, I discovered, to my further surprise, that Bob had had a visitor that morning. Our friend Marilyn, just back from Austria, had called with a present for him   Remembering Bob’s illness, she had kindly bought him a little bottle of liqueur, made in Salzburg.  I gasped in amazement when I saw that it was in the shape of a cello with a broken string!  The label was ‘Saiten-Sprung’, which means ‘burst string’.

This astonishing coincidence amazed and delighted me, lifting my spirit and reassuring me that an unseen source of ‘timely help’ was indeed at hand! ‘

Recently I discovered a modern hymn, written by one of my contemporaries, Christopher Martin Idle, which expresses the joy when, as it were, an unexpected shaft of sunshine lights up a dark unhappy place.                      

Here is the first verse:

Lord, you sometimes speak in wonders,                                                                   unmistakable and clear,                                                                                                            mighty signs that show your presence,                                                                          overcoming doubt and fear.

Linda's Strange Birthday (Sequel)

                                           Linda’s Strange Birthday (Sequel)

On top of my piano there is a framed reminder of Linda’s memorable birthday.  (See previous post!)

Five years later I decided to send the story of the “singing wood” to my favourite cellist, Paul Tortelier.  At that time there was a series of Tortelier Masterclasses on television which I loved to watch.  In addition, I frequently listened to my collection of his records, and his brilliant playing always inspired and energised me.  Bob and I had attended a concert in Glasgow when the audience had burst into spontaneous applause as soon as Tortelier appeared, beaming, on the stage – before he had played a single note! 

“He’s so charismatic that it feels as if he is bringing a mysterious extra something with him on to the stage”, Bob remarked.

One day, when reading his autobiography, I realised that he was about to celebrate his 70^th birthday.  I decided to make him a card.  On the outside I pasted a photograph of a beautiful cello; on the inside I added to the customary greeting the story of the violin with the Latin inscription.  To my delight I received an answer, in the form of the postcard-size portrait which is now on my piano.

His wife Maud, also a cellist, had written the following message on the back of the card, which is dated ‘Nice, 5 September 1984’ (Bob’s birthday!)

 ‘Madame, my husband, at present on tour, asks me to reply in his name.  He was very touched by your kind thoughts and thanks you most sincerely.  The story of your brother-in-law’s father is very touching.  Touching too are the words of the wood, which go straight to our hearts…  Let us close our eyes and… listen.  Thank you, madame, for this poetic moment.  Sincerely yours, Maud Tortelier’

One of my favourite Tortelier records is entitled Encores, and includes The Swan by Camille Saint-Saens. Unfortunately, although there are videos of Tortelier playing major works for the cello, he apparently never made one of this favourite short encore. But several other well-known cellists have done so.  Whatever your taste in music, I can guarantee that you will experience a few minutes of blissful calm if you search for Saint-Saens, The Swan on YouTube.  Rather than watch the cellist play, why not follow Maud’s advice: just close your eyes and listen – visualising a stately swan gliding through the water… 

Footnote:This beautiful photograph was unexpectedly provided by a coincidence!  Just as I was editing the account of Linda’s strange birthday for my new blog, the swan arrived – on the front of a card from my friend Jim in Northern Ireland. (He knew nothing of that story nor of the sequel involving Paul Tortelier.)  Perfect timing!

Linda's Strange Birthday!

                                     Linda’s Strange Birthday!

 Put all your trust in the Lord, and do not rely on your own  understanding.                                                                                                                        (Proverbs 3, v 5)

Recently a scientist friend told me of a colleague, an atheist, who had said to him,    “I can’t stand people who have a faith, because they aren’t being rational. “                                        

Well I agree!  That is, I agree that faith cannot be explained in rational terms.

I discovered that over forty years ago when, at a time of great sadness and stress, I was desperately praying for strength to cope.  I began to notice coincidences in my personal life.  At first, I just shrugged them off, thinking, “Well, coincidences happen!”  But, when a cluster of them arrived on the same day, I could no longer ignore them, and began to record them in a notebook.

This helped me in three ways. By finding words to describe the startling incidents, I released my mind from pondering over them, so that I could get on calmly with practical, everyday life; I found that re-reading them later brought me comfort and strength; gradually I realised that there is another, invisible dimension to life, beyond that of our five senses…

Here is an example of a “cluster” day.

It was our daughter Linda’s eleventh birthday on 11 May, but before we could celebrate that, Bob and I had to attend a family funeral.  His mother’s sister, Agnes (Nettie) Shaw, was to be buried in the Shaw family grave at Ayr Cemetery.

On our arrival there we were surprised to see from the headstone that their father, Robert Shaw, had also been born on 11 May. (As it happened, Nettie herself had been born on 29 November, which was also our son Michael’s birthday, and her brother Edgar was born on 1^st February, our elder daughter Sally’s birthday!)

Robert Shaw’s father had died when the boy was only six years old, the eldest of four young children.  His mother, nee Agnes Nelson, later remarried and went on to have four more children, still in the little mining village of Waterside in the Doon valley. A number of the miners had come over from Ireland at the time of the terrible famine in the mid-19^th century. Indeed, Bob’s mother Mary (nee Shaw) told me that her father used to say that his father “was born in the year of the short corn”.  (1845?)

Because of the small number of mourners, Bob’s mother and I had to hold two of the cords as the coffin was lowered into the grave.  We stepped back, bowing our heads as the minister said the prayer of committal.  Afraid that she would be very distressed, I turned to commiserate with her. But to my surprise, she was beaming at an elderly man, saying, “It’s many a year since you and I were wearing our overalls!”  She introduced him to us as Mr Wood who used to work beside her in an Ayr grocer’s shop when they were both young.  He had seen the death notice in the local paper, and had come to the funeral with the sole purpose of seeing her again!  How delighted we were to see her happy face as they continued to chat beside the grave until regretfully we had to interrupt by pointing out that the gravediggers were waiting to fill it in!

Bob and I invited the mourners, a few elderly ladies plus two middle-aged nephews, to come to our house for refreshments.  Afterwards, when I drove his Aunt Mary Bates, his father’s sister, back home she asked me in, saying that she had something for Linda.  From a cupboard she fetched a beautiful violin.

“My father bought this” she explained.  “He hoped that one of his four children might learn to play it, but nobody ever did.  Now that Linda is having violin lessons I thought she might like it.  See, it has a label in it.”

Peering inside, I read a name followed by fecit (Latin for ‘made it’) 1770.  This looked impressive, but the label seemed too modern to be genuine.  As Linda did not seem very keen to continue her violin lessons, I declined with thanks, suggesting that Aunt Mary might have the instrument valued then consider selling it.

By now it was late afternoon – time to return home and concentrate on the birthday girl!  At the end of her special tea, when she had blown out the candles on her cake, I telephoned my sister in Manchester so that Linda could thank her for the card and cheque she had sent.  After their chat Freda asked to speak to me again.

She told me that she had just been given a violin which her late father-in-law had once bought in a pub in Burton-on-Trent.  He had hoped that one of his ten children might learn to play it, but nobody ever did!  Because Freda was an enthusiastic amateur violinist her mother-in-law had decided to pass it on to her.

When Brian’s father bought it, the violin was covered in an unsightly red varnish, which he carefully removed.  To his surprise he discovered an inscription on the back of the instrument.

“It’s in Latin, so nobody has ever known what it means,” said Freda.  “Will you help me translate it?”  She slowly spelled out the following words:

In silvis viva silui.  Canora iam mortua cano.

Our combined effort produced: In the woods when I was alive I was silent.  Now that I am dead I sing melodies.

We realised that it was meant to be a message from the spirit of the wood from which the violin was made.  Not only did this notion appeal to me per se but it also made me smile as I thought of how Mr Wood had lifted our spirits earlier that day!

An hour later the telephone rang.  The call was from my mother, who had now returned home after helping with the birthday tea.  Upset, she told me that she had just received a phone call from a distraught little boy in the Ayr children’s hospital.   He wanted to phone his Mummy, but had got her number instead.  Sobbing, he told her that he was five years old, his name was William Stewart and he was from Springside near Irvine.  My mother had tried to soothe him by promising to help – but she did not know how she could.  Fortunately, one of my neighbours was a nurse at that hospital, so I assured my mother that I would contact Margaret right away.  She would be able to help him dial the right number.

That day had produced such a number of coincidences that I couldn’t help wondering how this unusual phone call fitted into the pattern.  I didn’t have long to wait!

Just before midnight Bob returned after driving his mother home to Girvan.  Before leaving Ayr, they had gone to Nettie’s house, which would now have to be sold.  They wanted to check if there was anything of value or of family interest.  In a cupboard they had found a holograph will, in beautiful copperplate writing.  It had been written by Agnes Nelson Shaw’s second husband William Stewart, leaving fourteen acres of land in Ireland to his son William Stewart of Waterside!