The Music Goes On

I am now participating in a wonderful Writers' Workshop and our task for our next meeting is to write about something that no longer exists. The following is from my treasure-house of memories!

The Music Goes On

In the distance, the mournful cry of a peacock could be heard punctuating the laughter of children and the underlying murmur of adults. A gentle breeze drifted through the warm summer evening, caressing everyone with the scent of the park’s pine trees, grassy lawns, and the slightly earthy aroma of the lake. With the exception of several youngsters gleefully running around the perimeter of the semi-circular stone amphitheater, everyone was seated on the faded green park benches, eagerly waiting for the concert to begin.

In stately single file, the musicians emerged from behind the statuesque arborvitae trees that formed the backdrop of the concert stage. The bandmaster appeared last, walking slowly up to the podium as a hush finally settled over the crowd. With great ceremony, he lifted his baton and with this action, the musicians raised their instruments with careful, precise deliberation. On the downbeat, wonderful, glorious music filled the air, snapping everyone to attention with the strains of "The Star Spangled Banner." Needless to say, the entire crowd rose to its feet, hands across their hearts. It was official: the concert had begun!

My own chest swelled with pride at the thrilling strains of the music because that was my father up there at the podium! The leadership of the band fell to him once his own father passed on back in the early 1950’s. Watching him lead the musicians, I could not have felt any prouder!

This is what it was like growing up for me in Newburgh, NY. Once a busy seaport on the mighty Hudson River, Newburgh became a refuge to many America-bound immigrants who arrived first in New York City. Escaping the maddening hustle-bustle of the big city, they moved up-river to communities such as Newburgh, where life proceeded at a much slower pace, and where it was far less crowded. Of those immigrants, my grandparents were two who migrated to America from Italy. Along with them, they brought the gift of music. A graduate of the Rome Conservatory of Music, my father’s father, Grand Dad Giacomo, was a Doctor of Music. Every person in our family, from his generation on down to my own, became a musician of some sort. It was as natural as rain for my family to hold summer concerts – and to march in every parade the city ever held. With most of the band members being of Italian-Catholic descent, this also meant participation in wonderful processions in the summer time, to celebrate the feast days of Sts. Cosmo-Damiano, San Gennaro, and Our Lady of Mount Carmel.

Growing up in a musical family had its good points and more difficult points, too. Every holiday and feast day meant work for us. Parades meant marching in all kinds of weather. Memorial Day in Newburgh could either be bone-numbing cold, or as hot as the middle of summer. No females were allowed in the marching band, but that didn’t mean my mother and I got off Scott-free! We had to help transport musicians from the parade’s end back to the starting point, or to our band rehearsal hall, where their cars waited for them. Also, my mother was the Uniform Concierge and Music Librarian; so, her work continued all year long.  In those days, uniforms were lent to the band members so it fell to her to launder them and keep them in good repair. She also kept the music neatly correlated, not an easy task at all. Having married into a musical family, she accepted her role with grace and good spirit. As for a really good point, I don’t think I ever missed a single parade while I was growing up – and I had ‘ring side seats’ for all of them! Ditto for our wonderful concerts in the park!

My family also had our church’s music under its direction, with my father being the Choir Director, his eldest sister the organist. Needless to say, most of the rest of us family members were members of the choir as well. With the exception of my grandmother, this meant double and even triple duty for all of us on holy days because we sang for every high mass. Almost as a reward, a grand and sumptuous feast awaited us back at my grandmother's house, which we all looked forward to with great anticipation. To the day I die, I will always remember the cloying scent of the candles in that church, undercut with the pungent odors of Frankincense and Myrrh, then followed by the delicious aromas, mouth-watering food, and warm camaraderie at Grandma’s.

As for the concerts in the park, they stopped a long time ago, right after my own father passed away. The park is still there, green and lush, with its ducks, geese, grass and flowers. The amphitheater lies silently neglected, slowly giving way to the build up of years. The calls of the lonely peacocks still hover in the air from time to time, but all else is hushed, with the exception of automobiles’ horns and noises, faint yet ever-present, in the background.

Still, I have a wealth of memories to hold on to and to cherish. For me, the music goes on in my mind and my heart, and it always will.

 

View of Newburgh in 2009. This is the area called The Newburgh

Landing, down by banks of the Hudson River.

The USMA at West Point, NY, lies just to the south of the mountain

on the right.