'On Music'"Let there be no noise made, my gentle friends;
Unless some dull and favourable hand
Will whisper music to my weary spirit."
-Shakespeare, 'Henry IV Part 2'
Chester and I, deeply in need of company on this Wednesday morning, set out quite early.
After our day of silence and solitude, I am now perched on a wooden stool, on the porch of the coffee shop, surrounded by lively chat, a cup of java in hand. Chester lies at my feet, pointing himself toward the dog-cookie-men. (Just in case.)
As warm as it is, the coffee shop door is propped open, and drifting porch-ward are familiar strains from within, music presumably chosen by the two (quite weary looking, as if they hadn't had a full night's sleep), coffee shop servers, music which fills me with memories of childhood.
I rejoice at the paradox which is Ocracoke. A place where two young men, barely out of school,
would happily begin their workday to the gentle strains of the nearly hundred year old parlour song, 'When You Wore a Tulip'.
For me, 'When You Wore a Tulip', an old camp song, (caught in a place and time), is ringing through the Coselen Camp dining hall, out the open windows, and now a whisper, drifting over the clear cool waters of mid-1960's Lake-of-Bays, Ontario.
But here on Ocracoke Island, it is a solo, and when I wander in to inquire about the music, I find a delightful CD entitled 'Ocrafolk Music Sampler II' which, happily, is available at the bookshop.
Chester and I hang out until the bookshop opens, joining in (mostly listening to) a conversation on the lively local music scene, gardening and fig trees (lots here) and, inevitably, food, Ocracoke's famous Fig Cake being front and centre.
Well, it is a Wednesday. And I seem to be following a pattern of having an insatiable appetite on Wednesdays.
So.
First, the bookshop. Second, the vegetable man. (It being his day for supplying the island with fresh fruit and veggies.) And third, The Fig Tree, a tiny eatery on the main drag where I'm sure they sell Fig Cake by the slice.
When all of this is accomplished, I, on a whim, spin up to the grocery store for a half-pound of ground beef and a package of sesame seed buns. This will be my first non-vegetarian experience in more than three weeks. Since I have discovered a little barbecue, (a grill, as it is called here), in the cottage shed, I decide that, yes,
It. Is. Time.
But before all of this food, (so that I am able to relax in the evening with a sense of accomplishment), some ART.
The afternoon drifts along with drawing and study, accompanied by the meditative music of Hildegard Von Bingen, R. Murray Schafer's 'A Garden of Bells', and Kathleen Battle.
Chester lets me know when he is ready, and we head off for our long beach ramble and the spirit-filled music of the sea. Wearing t-shirt and denim skirt, (no hoodie needed), I find that even on this most exposed Ocracoke beach, it is summer-like.
On returning home, an unexpected surprise.
The next-door cottage, (empty from Day One), is occupied. It turns out to be the owners, preparing for the upcoming season of rentals. We have a good chat as I set up the 'grill', Chester showing great interest in seeing people, especially these new (dog-friendly) ones.
When they drive off for a restaurant meal, I crank up the volume on the new CD, so it can be heard in the little back yard. I find a low-slung deck chair, and when the fire is lit, sit with beer in hand and take it all in.
Such a complete about-face from, first, my silent day of yesterday, then, my meditative afternoon music. Now the air is filled with guitars, fiddles, and ol' time music, and it is sheer joy.
Really good.
In fact, it's all good. The CD, that is, but as well, the warm summer-like evening, the smell of grilling meat, (a drooling dog), the nearing weekend, the satisfying feeling of having (almost) made it through my self-inflicted hermit's pilgrimage.
Even the sand, now dried, but still clinging to my feet is cause for joy.
Later, weary but happy, after (Chester and) I have had a burger, I run up the outdoor open wooden staircase, put the CD on again, and retrieve the single slice of Fig Cake.
Under the clear darkening sky, with only the glowing embers and the just-rising moon to see by, the fiddle music reprising 'When You Wore a Tulip', I unwrap the Fig Cake.
I (along with my assistant) savour every bite.
It just doesn't get much better than this.
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