One More Sleep

I thought I'd go to London, stay five days, then chunnel over to Paris. How does that sound? Good? Okay, then, I'll leave tomorrow.

Royal Fireworks, Indeed

Handel wrote more than The Messiah, you know. Perhaps you've heard the Royal Fireworks Suite. Then again, perhaps not.

I have. Many times. It's a favorite.

The other day I heard it on the radio, and the announcer said that 12,000 people paid to hear the rehearsal of it. I thought, "Wow." Really, that's what I thought.

I know little of the population of London in April 1749--okay, I know nothing of it--but 12,000 people sounds like a lot of people. And they paid.

I wondered about it, so I looked it up. Sure enough, 12,000 people, and they paid 2/6 each, which is two shillings, six pence.

From Wikipedia (the authority on everything): "Over twelve thousand people, each paying 2/6, rushed for it, causing a three-hour traffic jam of carriages after the main route to the area south of the river was closed due to the collapse of the central arch of newly-built London Bridge."

The rehearsal was at Vauxhall Gardens, and was wildly successful. The actual performance was probably fine, too, and no doubt well-received. (The music is strikingly beautiful, magnificent, in fact. You should hear it some time.) But the hall, specially designed and built for the occasion, caught fire as the program concluded. Seems appropriate, actually.

The fire was not the fault of Handel's music. You knew that. A design flaw, I suppose. A bas relief of King George II collapsed and started the fire, and the building, made entirely of wood, burned down. It was the king who commissioned the music, hoping the evening, the music, and the fireworks would somehow make him more popular than he was.

I'm guessing those who attended the actual performance were not thinking kindly of the king, if they thought of him at all, as they hurried to escape the burning building.

So now you know.

My Aunt Allie

I called my aunt Allie yesterday, wished her Happy Easter, told her our family's sad news, and inquired after her health. She said she isn't feeling so well. When I asked the matter, she said, "Oh it's just what comes of getting old." She's 90.

I asked if she believed in doctors. (It's a legitimate question.) She answered, "Not the one I've got." She's funny, you know.

"What's wrong with him?"

She said, "He never asks any questions, never says much of anything, probably thinks I'm too old to bother with, always just says, 'You'll be fine' and sends me out the door."

I said, "Well here's the thing, Allie. You may be 90, but you don't sound like it. There's always so much music in your voice, and you just don't sound old. Your voice sounds young."

"Well it doesn't look young," she said. "Where my voice comes from does not look young." See what I mean? She's funny.

I'd like to go down to California again and find out for myself. From here I just don't believe it.