We Need to Reconcile With the Past. Now.

George H. Lewis, 1830-1863

Here in the comfort of my Connecticut home I have again been contemplating the Civil War. It’s personal for me. My family has a very long memory. Not long enough in some respects, but long.

First off, I need to say that the turmoil of the protests sparked by George Floyd’s murder by Minneapolis police are of no surprise for me. We’re still fighting the Civil War and we still live with the implications of two and a half centuries of slavery.

Racism is the legacy of slavery. It is the perpetuation of a brutal system that kept generations of Africans and African Americans in bondage. Racism is not just prejudice. It is prejudice empowered.

Here’s my history with the war and what led up to it. My great great grandfather, George Hallam Lewis, died on February 11, 1863 of chronic diarrhea at the Eckington Hospital on the outskirts of Washington, DC, very close to the present National Arboretum. He enlisted in August, 1862 in the 15th Connecticut Regiment, Company F. They were dispatched to Washington where they guarded the bridges that led across the Potomac into Virginia, a very important assignment. Lincoln was terrified at the proximity of the capital to Confederate territory.

George left behind his wife and four small children, one of them my great grandfather, Samuel Clinton Lewis. He never saw them again.

George was good with horses. He lived on a farm in West Meriden, Connecticut. He was assigned to the Ambulance Corps which had just been formed. His unit gradually worked their way south in the fall of 1862 and eventually arrived in Fredericksburg, Virginia. Any Civil War buff knows about the Battle of Fredericksburg, in December. General Burnside ordered wave after wave of regiments up the hill toward Marye’s Heights to take the Confederate stronghold but did not succeed. That night many Union soldiers, wounded and not, spent the night on the field before Marye’s Heights with the Northern Lights overhead. The head of the Medical corps later recorded that Confederate sharpshooters aimed at Union ambulance workers trying to retrieve the wounded from the battlefield.

I don’t think George was there although he might have been. He had had problems with persistent diarrhea for awhile, probably either dysentery or cholera, both of which ripped through both sides with ferocity.

In January, after the Union army had been encamped in Falmouth, across the river from Fredericksburg, General Burnside decided he would try to take the city by going down the east bank of the river and crossing further south. It was an especially bad winter for mud, and the army succumbed to the famous Mud March. Many soldiers, made ill by the horrible conditions, died of pneumonia and other illnesses. George was one of them. Although he survived the Mud March it wasn’t by much. He was taken to the hospital on February 10 and died the next day.

This is a lot. But there’s more.

My great great grandmother, Elizabeth Hotchkiss Lewis, was at home with her children. She received word of George’s death through his uncle, Isaac C. Lewis.

Elizabeth’s brother Seth was down in the South. He had gone down for business reasons and stayed. He fought in the Confederate army until he was captured and spent time in prison. I’m not sure where. He is one person I need to research more. I know this, however. After the war was over he stayed for awhile with his sister Elizabeth in Meriden. Hm.

I have no ancestors (direct) who fought in the Confederate army. My wife does, however. She didn’t know that until recently.

Slavery? Yep. Both of us are in its legacy right up to our belt buckles. Anita’s last name is Hawkins. Her ancestor Admiral John Hawkins was one of the commanders of the navy that defeated the Spanish Armada, and who, in several expeditions to the Caribbean, established the British transatlantic slave trade. Guess what? I’m descended from him too.

Both of us have ancestors who owned plantations in the south and who held slaves. I have ancestors in New England who owned slaves. Damn it, our 1794 house was occupied by a family in 1820 who enslaved a young girl under the age of 14.

There are several points here.

FIrst, the issue of slavery is complex beyond anyone’s imagination. We all share in its legacy. Nobody is free of it.

Second, the Civil War is the period in which Americans were the most deeply divided. It undergirds the deep divisions facing us now.

Third, because the Civil War was fought between two regions of our country, both of which still remain a part of the United States, we need to find a way to reconcile the legacy of the South with today’s reality. If we don’t the divisions will continue.

The South conjured up the “Lost Cause” in the late 19th and early 20th centuries as a pseudo-nostalgic way of dealing with the loss of the war and the end of slavery. Many of the statues of Robert E. Lee and others were erected in the early 20th century as a reminder. Here’s the tricky part. How does a large portion of our nation divorce itself from the legacy of a lost war? We can’t erase it, although I would argue that statues of Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson and others belong in private statuary gardens and not in the medians of major thoroughfares in the South. The presence of these monuments in public spaces imposes a narrative on the whole of society that is unreasonable at best and is psychologically damaging at worst.

Those who still look at the war with nostalgia are living in a fool's paradise. Let's be honest. Yes, it was a conflict between two societies, one primarily agrarian (the South) and one much more heavily industrialized (the North). Yes, it was a constitutional crisis about how much control individual states have over their own internal affairs. But make no mistake. The Confederacy was founded on the principle that “its cornerstone rests, upon the great truth that the negro is not equal to the white man; that slavery subordination to the superior race is his natural and normal condition," said Confederate Vice President Alexander H. Stephens in 1861.  The war was about slavery, a political system that made it possible, and the political failure to end slavery without resorting to war. That political failure started a slow burn in 1789 when the writers of the Constitution did not outright abolish slavery and instead protected it while doing to enslaved Africans exactly what they fought the Revolution over--no representation, counting them as part of the population for purposes of assigning congressional seats (the notorious 3/5 compromise courtesy of a Connecticut native, Roger Sherman), yet denying them citizenship and the basic rights thereof. There was nothing noble or glorious or romantic about slavery or the Civil War. Over 600,000 Americans died in that war. Nobody knows how many died in bondage.

The Civil War is still being fought and the legacy of 250 years of unspeakable brutality in slavery still overshadows us. We need to recognize that. A part of it was fought on the streets of Minneapolis when George Floyd was murdered by police. It has been fought in countless situations in which black Americans have been murdered by police for minor traffic violations. It is fought every time a protest in a city’s streets becomes violent. We need to reconcile ourselves with our past. I don’t have a solution. But we need to find a way to do it or we are screwed.

16th Century English with a Scottish Twist in the Kilt

Awhile back I wrote a blog entry on reading 15th/16th century English. I thought I’d follow up with another offering, except it’s not just more 15th/16th century English. Instead, it’s English from that period from Scotland. A whole different ballgame. Rather than delay the inevitable, let’s have a go at it.

First, we take a look at The warkis of the famous and worthy Knicht Schir David Lydesay of the Mont Alias, Lyon king of Irmes (1574). The book is a commentary on Biblical and theological issues with a lot of opinion mixed in. Near the beginning he offers an account of “The miserabill Transgresioun of Adam.” The spelling her should give you an idea that this will be some rough sledding

Most of the book with the exception of the preface is printed in black letter, what we would now call “Old English.” Depending on the font it can be difficult to read, sometimes not. Here’s what he has to say about Adam:

Father, how happinit ye mischanced (Quod I) schaw me the circumstance:
Declare me that cairfull care,
How Adam lost that pleasand place from him, and his succession.
E. (Quod he) efter my rude Ingyne,
I sall rehers the that rewyne:
Queen God the Plasmatour of all,
Into the Heuin Emperiall:
Did creat all the Angellis bricht,
He maid ane Angell most of micht.
To quhome he gain preeminence,
Abuse Thame all in Sapience:
Because all other he did prefer,
Namit he wes bricht Lucifer.
He was so plesand and so fair,
He thoucht him self without compair:
And grew so gay, and glorious,
He gan to be presumpteous.
And thoucht that he wild set his fait,
Into the North, and mak debait:
Again the Maieste Deuyne,
Quhilk wes the cause of his rewyne…… (pp. 27-28)

It will take more than a stiff drink to translate this little bit but I’ll give it a go:

Father, how happened you mischanced (Quoted I) [to] show me the circumstance:
Declare [to] me that careful care,
How Adam lost that pleasant place from him, and his succession.
He (Quoted he) after my rude engine,
I shall rehearse that ruin:
When God the Plasmator [creator] of all,
Into the Heaven Imperial:
Did create all the Angels bright,
To whom he gave preeminence,
Imbued them all in Sapience [wisdom]:
Because all other he did prefer,
Named he was bright Lucifer.
He was so pleasant and so fair,
He thought himself without compare:
And grew so gay, and glorious,
He began to be presumptuous.
And though that he would set his fate,
Into the North, and make debate:
Again the Majesty Divine,
Which was the cause of his ruin.

Right off the bat there are several differences here between English English and Scottish English. Considering the date of publication (1574) the Scottish English here has some  Germanic elements such as the use of “ch” for “gh” as in “bricht” instead of “bright.”  The letters “t” and “d” are also often transposed.  One other oddity is that instead of spelling words that in modern English would have a “wh” instead have “Qu.”  For example, “Queen” instead of “when” and “quhome” instead of “whom.”

Let’s take a look at another text. This is from The Palis of Honoure by Gawayne Douglas (1553):


Quhairfore my seluyn was richt fore aghast.
This wilderness abominable and wast
(In quahom na thing wes nature confortand)
Was dyrk as toyk the quhilk the see upcast,
The quhislyng wynd blew mony byttir blast,
Runtis tat lit and oneth myght I stand,
Out throu the code I crap on fut and hand,
The tyuar stank, the trees clattreyt fast,
The soil was not bot marres, slyik, and sand.

Whew. This will be tricky:

Wherefore my soul was right for aghast.
This wilderness abominable and vast
(in whom nothing was nature comforted)
Was dark as took that which the sea upcast,
The whistling wind blew many bitter blast,
R that light and only might I stand,
Out through the cold I crept on foot and hand,
The air stank, the trees clattered fast,
The soil was not but marsh, slick, and sand.

I may not have gotten it all correctly, but I think it’s pretty close. If you read the original spelling out loud you can hear the Scottish accent. Give it a try.

One more, this from The three Tailes of the three Priests of Peblis (1603) which records some bawdy tales about the clergy.

This pamphlet has two columns on each page, one in black letter and one in Roman font, each telling a different story. One of the stories in the Roman font begins:

Thair was a ritch man, quhilk lay fair sick in his bed like to die, quhairfoir his eldest sone came to him and besechit him to giue him his blessing. To quhome the Father said, Son, thou sal have Gods blessing and myne, and becaus thou has bene euer rude of condicions I giue and bequeath the al my Land. To quhome he answered and said: nay Father, I trust ze sall lyue and occupy them your self be Gods grace.

This text isn’t as bad to modernize so I’ll give it a try:

There was a rich man, which lay fair sick in his bed like to die, wherefore his eldest son came to him and beseeched him to give him his blessing. To whom the Father said, Son, thou shall have God’s blessing and mine, and because thou has been ever rude of conditions I give and bequeath thee all my Land. To whom he answered and said: nay, Father, I trust ye shall live and occupy them yourself be God’s grace.

There are a few interesting things in this text. As with the previous example “qu” replaces “w” in words such as “which.” Also, the letter “z” replaces “y.” The reason for that is a leftover from Old and Middle English. A now extinct letter that looks like a thunderbolt was used for “y.” The upper part of the letter looks like a “z.”  As with other early texts “u” and “v” are transposed, and words such as “condition” are spelled “condicion,” a “c” replacing a soft “t.”

Ten Days to San Francisco!!

From April 3, 1860 to October 24, 1861 the Post Office ran a service for quick delivery of mail between Missouri and California. Called the Pony Express, it employed small young men to ride quick ponies between stations so that the mail moved nonstop. Each rider would pass on the bag of mail to the next rider who was ready to go. The Pony Express was heavily subsidized and the cost of sending mail did not cover the actual cost. The service went bankrupt just as the Civil War was heating up.

I think of this in terms of the state the world is in right now. In the developed world most have become accustomed to instant high speed Internet service wherever they are, on their phones. We don’t have to wait. The disparity, of course, is economic in nature. In many rural parts of the world, in Africa, rural India, Central America, and other similar locations, people living in poverty have to walk miles to get clean water. Medical care is a luxury.

In the developed world we have lost patience to a degree that I question whether it can be recovered. I recall as a kid that I’d sometimes put an order for something or other in the mail, with a coupon clipped from the back of a cereal box. My parents would see that it got into the mail. The next day I’d ask if the item had come. My parents would tell me that I needed to be patient, that the order hadn’t reached the company yet and they wouldn’t know that I had wanted it. With time I grew to accept patience with such things as a normal part of life.

But now, we don’t need to be patient. Pre-plague, Amazon ramped up same day delivery for a price. Prime delivery was reduced from two days to one on many items, using their own in-house delivery system. Why wait if you don’t have to?

Then came the plague.

Prime deliver is now guaranteed in two weeks. Holy crap! Two weeks? I can’t wait that long. So I try eBay instead and I can often get it within a week. Whew. Dodged that bullet, ayuh.

There are some glimmers of hope. People at home with their children are learning how to work on projects with their children, which still strikes me as odd because growing up, I was accustomed to that. It was the norm. And, some have found that projects that don’t involve a phone or a computer can actually be fun. Quaint.

René Rapin (1621–1687) was a French Jesuit and a prolific poet. He wrote a book-length poem “On Gardens” which was translated into English in the later 17th century. In Book II “Of Trees” Rapin writes how it takes time for trees to mature:

Their Rise and Form proceed my Muse to sing,
Tho’ lofty Oaks sometimes from Suckers spring
With tow’ring Heads, and when transplanted spread,
And with their Branches cast a noble Shade
Yet of all Trees they rear the lofty’t Brow’
Which first from Seeds and swelling Acorns grow
I grant, before they to Perfection come,
They will in tardy Growth an Age consume.
Yet then they cast a more majestic Shade,
And Loss of Time with Goodness is repaid….

In other words, it takes time for a beautiful and majestic tree to mature. It can’t be rushed. The beauty of a mature tree only comes about by slow, steady growth.

But that Amazon Prime package had damned well come tomorrow, right?

A Raindrop from Hundreds of Millions of Years Ago

Several years ago Anita and I visited one of my sons in California. We decided to drive from the Los Angeles area to Colorado to visit Anita’s mother and sister. We decided to drive through the unearthly landscape of southeastern Utah to get there.

I have been to the Southwest a number of times now, but the landscape of Utah caught me by surprise. The natural sculptures were unearthly. Canyons, buttes and bluffs in a variety of colors ranging from gray to tan to red and all shades in between.

We decided not to stop at the national parks in the area and instead stopped at several rest areas. At each one I poked around for rocks. Wherever I go I bring back interesting rocks. One formation caught my eye. It was a mud flat. Not a fresh one, probably a rarity in a desert. Instead, it was a mud flat that was probably hundreds of millions of years old. It was delaminating so I felt not regrets in picking up a piece to take home. I found out later that it is called “mudstone.”
I love my piece of mudstone. It captures something very ephemeral—a rainstorm and the aftermath.

A rainstorm that happened hundreds of millions of years ago, before anything even remotely resembling a human being walked on the earth. What a thought.

My piece of mudstone is a light tan in color, almost gray. It records not only a few raindrops but also the sunny days that came after the storm. The surface is cracked, as a stretch of mud will do when it lies in the sun drying. Any one of us has seen this countless times and not given it a second thought.

I remember my mother commenting on a leaf that had been trapped on a patch of mud in our yard. She said that that’s how fossils were made, and wasn’t it interesting that a fossil that wold be found hundreds of millions of years later began with a patch of mud and a fallen leaf. What are the chances that that could happen?

Hundreds of millions of years ago Utah was at the edge of the Pacific Ocean. The western half of the state was under water, and the eastern half was a huge mud flat. That is probably the period that my stone was made. Just another rainy day when the mud dried a bit, and more silt was washed on top of the dried mud, preserving what was below. The same process repeated again and again as the layers of sediment stacked up to form many hundreds of feet of mudstone.

My piece of mudstone is a record of a moment in time that is gone forever.

Our lives are like that too— we are here for awhile and we blow away like dust. Shakespeare reflected on it well:

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,

As I foretold you, were all spirits, and

Are melted into air, into thin air:

And like the baseless fabric of this vision,

The cloud-capp'd tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces,

The solemn temples, the great globe itself,

Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,

And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,

Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff

As dreams are made on; and our little life

Is rounded with a sleep.


Prospero, The Tempest Act 4, scene 1, 148–158

What Can We Learn From The Black Death of 1346-1353?

English villagers burying the dead 
 https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/55/Doutielt3.jpg

As I’ve been sitting here at home during this necessary time of self-isolation, I have been thinking a lot about the Black Death that hit the world in 1347. It’s not the numbers. Its very unlikely the COVID-19 pandemic will result in that many deaths, but we may see changes in society and in our general outlook that are similar.

The impact the Black Death had and still has is enormous. An estimated 75-200 million deaths occurred between 1347 and 1353 in Europe and the Middle East. The cluster of diseases probably originated in central Asia, and arrived in Crimea by 1343.  It arrived in Constantinople by 1347. It first entered Europe in 1347 via traders from Crimea in 1347 and it spread like wildfire. It eventually spread to all of Europe including England, Scandinavia and Russia by 1353. At the time the way in which the diseases were transmitted was unknown but it is generally believed that they were transmitted by fleas on infected rats. The rats left ships, were bitten by fleas, which in turn got onto people and transmitted them through flea bites.  There were several forms, one that appears to have been spread through the air, now thought by some to have been anthrax. Bubonic plague caused large black swellings in the groin, armpits and necks as it passed through the victim’s lymphatic system. Death came with a few days, although some survived. Estimates of Europe’s total loss range from 40% to 60% of the population. In some locations, especially England,90% of the population of small villages died. The classic film “Monty Python and the Holy Grail” highlights the devastation of the Black Death, and although it is satirical it’s not far from the truth. Satire is born in truth. The scene in which Eric Idle walks with a cart through the streets of a village calling for people to “Bring out your dead” actually happened, although not in a comical way:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jdf5EXo6I68

The Black Death had an enormous impact. It spelled the end of the feudal system, in which serfs were bound to a lord’s land. With a catastrophic loss of population workers were in great demand, and serfs left their bondage to seek employment elsewhere, and their lords were powerless to stop them. If the lords wanted people to work for them they had to pay them competitive wages.

Another impact was theological. The most common explanation given was that the Black Death was God’s judgment on a corrupt and immoral world. Other communities resorted to anti-Semitism as an explanation, accusing Jews of poisoning wells or practicing witchcraft. 

The theological impact centered around a heightened awareness of mortality. During this time groups of monks and other laypersons processed through streets flagellating themselves in penance. This became a movement even after the plague had subsided. Again, I turn to Monty Python for an illustration. I’m not aware that these penitents hit themselves on the forehead with boards, but it’s as bad as whipping themselves:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e4q6eaLn2mY

The Dance of Death (1493) by Michael Wolgemut, from 
the Nuremberg Chronicle of Hartmann Schedel

The theological and social implications remained for centuries. The way that people understood death was altered. We look back at the ways that people processed death and it may appear morbid to our sensitive minds. The contemplation of a human skull to think about one’s own mortality became common, a theme that appears in late medieval and Renaissance art. Mary Magdalene was also commonly depicted with a human skull.

St. Jerome in his Study Joos Van Cleve, Netherlandish, 16th Century
The Frances Lehman Loeb Art Center, Vassar College Poughkeepsie, New York
Purchase, Friends of the Vassar College Art Gallery Fund

As a pastor I don't think it's healthy to obsess about death, but at the same time I don't believe we think about it enough. Many shrink from the decline of elderly family members, not wanting to face the reality that that person will soon die. We even use euphemisms to refer to death, such as "passing away" or even now, simply "passing." By living as though we will never die we do not fully live.

I had a conversation with a younger colleague years ago. She commented on how one of her predecessors seemed to have a "theology of death" based on some materials he had left behind, as if that were somehow morbid or unhealthy. I thought to myself, "If you don't have a theology of death then you'd be well served to develop one for yourself."

The process of dying seems to be what people fear the most.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sc85m2mJyL8

The COVID-19 pandemic will certainly change how we view the world. The reaction that the world has had has caused economic chaos and some analysts feel we have already entered a recession. The difficulty about this is we don't know how long it will last. Perhaps China's experience may give us a clue. It started in November 2019 and today, at this writing, the first day has come and gone when not one new diagnosis has been announced in China. The rest of the world is still in the middle of it.  Italy is on its knees. Other European countries have shut down completely. Our own country is still trying to figure out what will work.

The most important thing for all of us to keep in mind is that we need each other. In the U.S. we tend to lift up rugged individualism and pulling ourselves up by our bootstraps. That's a thing of the past. We are all connected and we need each other. If some good is going to come out of this, hopefully it will be a rediscovery of the importance of community.

We Can Choose How We Are Going To Live

I’ve been thinking about death a lot lately, for a couple of reasons.  First, because of the Corona virus. The fear of death, reasonably, drives the reaction manifest in the shutting down of public events of any kind, whether they be church services, club meetings, or ordinary days at school. The fear is reasonable. This is a dangerous disease, especially to the elderly. It’s important to remember, though, that is is nothing like the Spanish flu that killed millions of people in 1918-20.

So, I’m thinking about death also because I have started my new job as a hospice chaplain. Ironically, I have been and will be kept from my eventual patients because of the virus. Most of my patients will be in facilities, either nursing homes, assisted living residences, memory care, etc.  They are all in lockdown, reasonably so.

So, I can’t work. I’m at home, philosophizing about the nature of things.

So, death.

One of the most profound experiences I have had repeatedly is doing a burial. I always say the words from the Book of Common Prayer, “ We commit this body of xxxx to the ground in sure and certain hope of the resurrection through Jesus Christ our Lord, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

Pronouncing those profound and final words over a yawning grave never fails to move me.

During the self-quarantine that I have fallen into (an introvert’s paradise, to be sure) I have picked up Boccaccio’s Decameron, a series of stories the author places in a time of plague in early Renaissance Florence. A group of friends with means depart to a relatively remote villa in the countryside which has a quality wine cellar. They sit and entertain one another with stories, many of them bawdy in nature. The contrast between their stories and the reality of what was happening in Florence is not lost. Florence suffered greatly during the Black Death, losing tens of thousands of people.

When I think about time and death I am drawn to two authors, one later than the other. One is my distant cousin, William Shakespeare, and the other, John Donne. Shakespeare often muses about the nature of death, but Donne seems to have dwelt very deeply on the subject, partly because of his own precarious health. Here is a sonnet written in reflection on the nature of mortality;

Thou hast made me, And shall thy work decay?
Repaire me now, for now mine end doth haste,
I runne to death, and death meets me as fast,
I dare not move my dime eyes any way,
Despaire behind, and death before doth cast
Such terrour, and my feeble flesh doth waste
By sinne in it, which it t’wards hell doth weigh;

Donne felt his mortality deeply, and we benefit from his reflections.

Shakespeare also wrote profound words about death. The most familiar, of course, is Hamlet’s soliloquy on death. I quote most, but not all of it:

To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them. To die—to sleep,
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there's the rub:
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause—there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of dispriz'd love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th'unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovere'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of? (Hamlet, Act III Scene 1)

Yes, the fear of the unknown. Do we just vanish like the morning fog or are we changed into something we can’t understand? That’s the nature of mortality.

This can lead to despair, or profound beauty. The thing that makes life beautiful also makes it tragic, which is that it doesn’t last forever. We can choose how we are going to live. After all, we die only once but we get to live each day.

The Cellos in My Life

When I was ten years old I heard an announcement on the PA system at school. Mr. Angus, who was one of the elementary school music teachers, wanted a few students to learn how to play the cello. I had no idea what a cello was. I asked my mother that afternoon and she told me it was a musical instrument that my grandfather had played. Not having known my grandfather, I thought it would be an interesting thing, so with her encouragement I signed up. I got a school instrument, probably a Kay 3/4 size cello, and learned the ropes. Finger tips not flat fingers. How to hold the bow. How to instinctively know where to place my fingers when playing.

I played through middle school, and considered dropping it. By that time I was taking lessons from an older teacher, Mr. Hassell. I remember he had a converted church bass, which had a body a bit larger than a cello. Many church basses have a shorter neck. I have one that I will write about soon that has a very short neck in comparison to the body.

I remember Mr. Hassell calling me and begging me not to quit. I was quite moved by his plea and decided to continue.  Although I'm sure he has been dead for decades I owe him a debt of gratitude.

In high school I played cello in orchestra class for a couple of years, and when the only string bass player graduated in my sophomore year the orchestra teacher asked me if I’d consider playing the string bass. I said I would, and he taught me. It was a bit different than the cello but manageable. I didn’t play cello for several years. I played bass through my last two years of high school and played in the Meriden Symphony my first year out of high school. By this point my uncle had given me my grandfather’s cello. It sat unused for a number of years, occasionally coming out for one reason or another, until a couple of decades later when I was working full time and my Sunday school superintendent asked me if I’d consider playing in her community orchestra. I said yes, and got the cello ready to go. Since then I have played more or less continually with a few years off here and there.

The cello has been a continuous presence in my life. I love the sound. It is in the range of the human voice and it soaks deep into the human soul.

I still have my grandfather’s cello although it is in need of significant repair. I have studied cello repair and have worked on it along with a few other instruments. After some more study and experience I will return to it and will make the necessary repairs, which will be significant but if done correctly will last for a long time. In the meanwhile my collection has grown to include a ca. 1750-80 German cello, a modern Chinese 5 string cello to which I added a carved figurehead for fun, a 1/4 size cello that I made into a small baroque instrument, and a 1/8 cello that I have strung as a viola. A vertical viola. I have also attempted to convert an inexpensive cello into a viola da gamba. That's still a work in progress. I also have a couple of dismembered cellos that I hope to restore and sell at some point.

This is a central part of my life and I love it. My branching out to other instruments is a reflection of my desire to experience what earlier string players had with their instruments.

The oldest cello in my collection is a somewhat small cello that is unassuming in appearance. It has no purfling, the black lines that outline the body of a string instrument. On better instruments they are inlaid, and on lesser quality instruments they are merely painted on. The color is dark with age. I bought it unrestored for a reasonable amount and repaired the fractured front. This is my oldest instrument. It has a label inside for a music dealer in Philadelphia, John G. Klemm, who sold various instruments and pianofortes in addition to publishing sheet music. The label can be dated to 1828-31 which is a nice narrow window.

According to labels inside the cello it was repaired in 1904, when I suspect the end pin was installed, 1940, and 1980. The 1904 restorer noted that the instrument was made prior to 1820. Considering the date of his note, 115 years ago, that carries a lot of weight. He would have had a good idea.

Klemm wasn't making string instruments at all, being more interested in having pianofortes manufactured under their name, so it is clear it was in the shop for refurbishment and wasn't actually made there. At the time I bought it I thought that the label documented the age but now I am convinced it is much older. Klemm was from the Saxony region of Germany and maintained their connections for importing instruments. They had connections to the Moravian community in the U.S. which has a long and rich history of wonderful music for worship.

After researching for awhile I am thinking this cello strongly resembles cellos made in the region of Saxony in Germany around 1750-1800, putting it in the range of 220-260 years old. The Moravians were originally from Saxony. The elongated f-holes in particular have a similar look. I can't date it more exactly than that. My friend Glenn Gaudin, from whom I bought it unrestored, also feels it is older than what the label indicates, certainly 18th century. So, considering we're playing Beethoven and Schubert (and the third piece is unknown at this point) a vintage cello would be just right. From looking at it the pegbox was converted from regular pegs to gears such as you find on string basses. These were commonly used in the early 19th century. So my guess is that either it was brought here during the colonial period and then the music store either bought it used or refurbished it for a customer and updated the pegbox, or it was sent over from Germany used and updated by them. It's a bit on the small size, about the same as 7/8 size, which isn't too small. I have put D'Addario Helicore strings on it which are affordable and have a marvelously sweet tone. It has a wonderful tone which you can only get from a very old instrument. I'm really happy with it. For the next community orchestra concert we're playing Beethoven's 6th symphony and Schubert's Rosamunde overture. I will be playing this ancient but unassuming cello. Beethoven it is.