Category Archives: Music

Family Connections Abroad

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In 1992, my cousin and I journeyed to Ireland. Our grandmother’s family came from County Cavan. Although our travel itinerary did not take us to northwest Ireland, we did visit several charming locations in the south, including Blarney. The photographs I took on the afternoon we toured Blarney Castle have inspired the story below of the Goodwine sisters and their journey to discover their family history.

Sisters, Poppy and Violet Goodwine stood, hands on hips, gazing up at the ancient, stone  edifice of Blarney Castle.  A soft summer breeze stirred the air and the sun peeked through a thin layer of clouds.  The vast  tower house gardens were in bloom filling the air with the scent of roses.

“What a glorious day,” Violet remarked, heading toward the castle entrance.  “Shall we go kiss the Blarney stone before our tour of Blarney House?”

“I’d at least like to look at it,” Poppy said.  She glanced up at the castle battlements where the stone was located and shivered.  “I think I’m eloquent enough though.”

Violet put her arm around her younger sister’s shoulder.  “No worries, Poppy.  I know heights distress you.  But you have to accompany me to take my picture.”

“Sure. Okay,” Poppy said, twirling a strand of red gold hair around her slender finger..  With one more glance at the towering fortress, Poppy pushed her round glasses to the bridge of her nose and swallowed her fear. “But after this, I want to wander through the estate gardens,” she said as she followed Violet through the castle gate.

Inside the thick stone walls of the tower house, they walked into the Great Hall and came upon a trio of young musicians, a boy and two girls who were so similar in appearance that they most certainly must be siblings.  The girls played the flute and the harp, while their brother made his bow dance over the strings of his fiddle.

Grabbing Violet’s arm,  Poppy paused to watch the musicians and listen to the lilting Irish tune they played.  The merry strains of music filled the chamber, recalling long gone days when the Lord of Muscry and his family would have entertained their guests right there in the Great Hall.  As the sisters listened to the performance, Poppy whispered, “Don’t  you think those three look like they come from the same family?  I wonder if they have ancestors connected to the castle like we do.”

That morning, the Goodwine sisters  had visited the local town hall and parish church to explore available genealogical records.  Poppy, a skilled archivist, was in her element.  Combing through the heavy old books and deciphering the spidery handwriting, she had discovered a wealth of family history about their mother’s Irish relatives.

Violet brushed her dark bangs off her forehead and gazed at the musicians, considering her sister’s questions. She replied in a low voice, “If they’re locals they might be related to the MacCarthy or Jeffreys families.  Or maybe they are descendants of a lady’s maid and a gardener who served the lofty family like us.  Whoever they are, they certainly are talented.”

The musical trio concluded their performance, and the small crowd of visitors who had gathered around to listen applauded.

“That was lovely,” said Violet, turning toward the stairs that led to the legendary Blarney Stone.  Poppy followed Violet’s determined figure step by step up to the battlements. Both women had to catch their breath when they reached the top.  

A stunning view of the estate rolled out beneath them in a tapestry of vibrant colors.  Emerald  lawns.  Cerulean sky brushed with wisps of white clouds.  Splashes of crimson, lavender, and golden yellow in the gardens.  Beyond a copse of trees, they caught a glimpse of the  pinnacles and turrets of Blarney House, the Scots Baronial mansion where the Goodwine ancestors had worked. 

Poppy drank in the view, filled with a sense of wonder.  Her third great grandmother and grandfather had been born and grown up in the village of Blarney  before leaving all that was familiar to cross the ocean and seek their fortunes in New England.

“We are so lucky to be here where Mom’s family originated, aren’t we,” she said to her sister.

“Yes, indeed,” Violet agreed.  “We certainly are.”

Remembering Rome

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In 2014, my niece studied abroad in Rome. Of course, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to plan a visit while she was there. During my February break, I boarded a plane with my husband, excited to see my niece and explore a new destination. A few of my most treasured memories of that trip include saying a prayer in the Pantheon, spending a delightful afternoon at the zoo (Bioparco di Roma) and whizzing through the city streets on a double-decker tour bus. In the photo essay below, my character, Maisie, looks back on her own memories of Rome.

Nearly thirty years ago, Maisie Brennan fell in love. During her junior year at Connecticut College, she had opted to study abroad in Rome. Within a week of her arrival, Maisie was in love with the Eternal City. The ancient monuments existing within the hustle and bustle of the modern metropolis captured her imagination. In particular, the Pantheon. The first time she stood beneath the dome in the 2000 year old basilica and gazed up at the bright autumn sky through its miraculous oculus, Maisie knew she somehow belonged there.

Now, at age 49, Maisie is finishing her breakfast in the kitchen of her tiny one-bedroom bungalow in Massachusetts. She had woken up thinking about Rome. In her dreams, she had been back in the Pantheon and it was snowing. A gentle cascade of snow flakes drifted through the oculus like a glittering, frozen veil as Maisie walked slowly across the rotunda. Catching sight of her high school Latin teacher, she hurried over to the tomb of Raphael where a small choir was singing “Ave Maria.”

When she opened her eyes, Maisie was humming the final bars of the iconic hymn. Pondering the meaning of her odd dream, Maisie climbed out of bed and went down to the kitchen. While her tea steeped and she waited for her two slices of rye to pop out of the toaster, she had retrieved her college photo album from the bottom shelf of the floor to ceiling book case in her living room.

On the pine farmhouse table in front of her sits an unopened copy of The Cape Cod Chronicle and the battered photo album. Between taking sips of Earl Grey and bites of buttery toast, she turns the pages of the album. Every snapshot prompts a nostalgic memory. The colosseum at night. Playful lemurs at the zoo. The magnificent tapestries in the Vatican Museum. Michelangelo’s Pieta. A picture of a bright red tour bus makes her stop and smile. She hums softly as she thinks back to the day she had taken that picture.

On the first Saturday of the semester, Maisie had decided to explore her new city, tourist style. First thing in the morning, she and her roommate bought tickets for one of the open air, double decker buses that rolled through the city streets informing visitors about the grand and glorious history of Rome. Eagerly the girls climbed aboard at the train station in the Piazza de Cinquecento and headed for the top deck. Plugging in the headphones provided by the driver, Maisie settled back to enjoy the ride.

Along the route, they rode by the Basilica Santa Maria Maggiore, the Colosseum, the Roman Forum, the Vatican, the Spanish Steps and the Villa Borghese Gardens. Between the prerecorded commentary about each sight, passengers listened to classical music recordings. As the bus rumbled away from the PIazza Venezia toward the Vatican the thundering chords of Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries” made Maisie’s heart speed up. She laughed out loud, appreciating the moment as she rode through the streets of Rome with the wind in her hair and the thrilling music spurring them on.

Closing the album and finishing her tea, Maisie wonders where her spirit of adventure has gone. Every time she watches Rick Steves or Samantha Brown on PBS, she dreams of jetting off to Europe, the Far East or the Caribbean. In reality, she hasn’t used her passport in years. Maisie props her chin in her hands and sighs. At least she hasn’t let it expire.

For too long, she has made seemingly valid excuses for putting off travel. Mortgage payments. Too busy at work. Family obligations. Well, not anymore, Maisie tells herself. Her dream about the Pantheon is a sign, she decides. The gods are telling her to venture forth. Her fiftieth birthday is coming up. She will splurge and book a tour of Italy. It is time to make new memories.

Saints, Stained Glass and the Sé

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Thrilled to be traveling in Europe again, my husband and I thoroughly enjoyed a trip to Lisbon in April. What a warm and friendly city! Everyone we met from the hotel staff and restaurant servers to taxi drivers and local shopkeepers made us feel welcome. Our hotel, Memmo Alfama, was located in the medieval district of the city, just steps away from the national cathedral (the Sé).

The cathedral is officially called Igreja de Santa Maria Maior de Lisboa. It is the bishop’s seat or Sedes Episcopalis. Construction began in 1147 on the ruins of a Moorish mosque. Part of the site today is an archaeological excavation of the mosque.

While exploring the historic place of worship, the brilliant rose window caught my eye. The Romanesque window, which depicts the twelve apostles encircling Jesus, bedazzles the stone floor of the choir loft with jewel colored sequins of light. My vacation photos of the cathedral inspired the following photo essay.

Climbing the stairs to the choir loft, Anabela drew in a deep breath, trying to quiet the insistent thoughts whirling through her mind. She had so much to get done by Sunday, just two days away. For the first time, she would be hosting her family’s Festa de Santo Antonio celebration. Everyone would come back to her house after marching in the parade down the Avenida da Liberdade.

At the top of the stairs, Anabela glanced up at the gleaming rose window. Jesus and his twelve apostles depicted in the stained glass had an overarching view of the shadowy nave down below. Last summer, she had married Silverio in this church on a hot July morning. Anabela had walked up the aisle, escorted by her proud papa, while her cousin, Mariela, who was the choir organist, played the processional. Mariela was now teaching Anabela to play the organ and had insisted that she was ready to play at Mass on Sunday.

Taking a seat at the organ and closing her eyes, Anabela allowed herself a moment to daydream about her wedding day. She remembered the flowers, hydrangeas and lavender decorating the altar. She recalled the smiles and waves from her friends and relatives who filled the pews. But most of all, she thought of Silverio standing calmly at the front of the church, waiting.

Speaking of Silverio, she couldn’t keep him waiting today. She was supposed to meet him at Mercado da Baixa as soon as she finished her organ practice. They were going to buy the food for the festa. Sardines (of course), fresh kale for the caldo verde, fruit and vinho tinto for pitchers of sangria, and loaves of bread and pasteis de nata from their favorite bakery. Anabela had a shopping list tucked safely away in her purse.

Hurriedly, she opened her folder of music. She spread out the pages, placed her hands on the organ keys, and began to play. As the chords and melody of her favorite hymn filled the church, outside the sun broke through a layer of clouds and streamed through the rose window. Swirls of kaleidoscopic color danced across the floor of the choir loft, seemingly in time with the music. Anabela watched the sequins of light and played on.

She felt as though Santo Antonio had sent her a sign. Sunday would be a beautiful day.

Back Bay Bliss

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Living in Boston is a blessing.  A small, walkable city, Boston is brimming with history, art, fabulous restaurants and unique neighborhoods.  For several years, I lived in the Back Bay on Marlborough Street.  The Public Gardens, Newbury Street and the Commonwealth mall, where I snapped this winter cityscape were all steps away from my apartment.  My character, Darcy Seton, also lived in the Back Bay in my novel, Forget-me-not.

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Commonwealth Avenue, Boston, MA (photo by Linda LeVasseur Walkins)

“Slow down, guys,” Darcy said, as the determined Scottie and Cavalier King Charles Spaniel raced down the icy pavement, tugging on their leashes.

She began to skid on a patch of black ice, but mercifully, the dogs stopped to sniff around a tree trunk and Darcy regained her balance.  She drew in a steadying breath and slowly shook her head as she gazed around at the wintry cityscape.  An unexpected spring storm had coated Boston in a blanket of white.

Darcy took her cell phone from her pocket to check the time.  Ian would be back from the university soon.  She wondered how his day had gone.  His book on the Scottish clans was due out in a few weeks.  Today he was supposed to have lunch with his agent.

The dogs, Smiley and Thistle had ventured off the walkway to romp in the powdery snow, chasing each other and barking gleefully.  Darcy opened her camera app and snapped a photo.  Both dogs smiled up at her, tails wagging.

“Okay, doggies.  Let’s go.  Time to head home.” Darcy tightened her grip on the two leashes and set off toward Marlborough Street.

They turned the corner at the intersection of Commonwealth and Massachusetts Avenue.  Up ahead, Darcy spotted a familiar figure clad in a thick sheepskin jacket and boots from L.L. Bean.

“Ian!” she called and he turned around.  He stopped in front of the Marlboro Market to wait for them.

When she reached his side, Ian kissed Darcy’s cheek and then bent down to pat Thistle and Smiley in turn.  “This is an unexpected treat,” he said.  “I thought you would be holed up in the living room correcting exams.”  Darcy taught Music Theory at a nearby private school.

She shook her head and linked arms with him as he took Smiley’s leash from her. “Because of the snow day yesterday, I decided to push the test to the end of the week.”

Ian grinned.  “Lucky kids.”

“Believe me they were not disappointed,” Darcy said, as they strolled down their block.  Climbing the stairs of their brownstone, she fished in her pocket for her keys.  Once inside, she followed the dogs up the stairs to their second floor apartment, as Ian checked the mail.

In the spacious living room, Darcy shed her coat and boots.  She unlatched the leashes from Smiley and Thistle and the dogs ran to their water bowl in the kitchen.

“What shall we do tonight, Darce?” Ian asked.  He unwound a tartan wool scarf from around his neck and shrugged off his jacket.  “I was thinking we could grab a cab down to the Lenox and have a drink in the piano bar.  We could indulge in some Prosecco and listen to the music.”

“On a school night?” Darcy asked, as she wondered if it was too cold to wear her new paisley print skirt from J. Jill.

“Sure.” Ian pulled her to him and began to waltz across the parquet floor.  “We have something to celebrate.”

“Oh yeah?” Darcy laughed. “What’s that?”

“Well, exactly one year and eight months ago, we met in that tearoom in Edinburgh.”

“We’re celebrating a one year and eight month anniversary?”  She leaned her head against his shoulder as her mind filled with memories of her summer in Scotland.

“Yes, that and also . . .” Ian spun her around so she landed softly on the sage colored couch.  He grabbed his briefcase from the coffee table and pulled something from its depths. “Mark gave me a finished copy of my book at lunch today.”

“Oh Ian, hooray!”  Darcy clapped her hands and smiled at him in delight. “Congratulations.”

He sat beside her and handed her the book.  “The launch party is set for two weeks from today.”  His voice grew husky with emotion.  “I can’t believe it’s really happening.”

Darcy smoothed her hand over the shiny, smooth cover and carefully opened the book.  Ian had inscribed the title page for her.  His loving words warmed her heart.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” he said, at the same time that Darcy exclaimed, “I’m so proud of you.”

They leaned together, sharing a gentle kiss, as Smiley and Thistle trotted into the room and hopped up onto the couch.

Darcy shifted over to make room for the dogs.  She stretched her arm across the back of the couch and linked hands with Ian.  “We have so much to celebrate.”

 

”

 

 

 

 

Young Girls at the Piano

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 In college, I took an art history course, studying the Impressionists for one semester.  Since then, I have cultivated my continuing fascination with these artists through travel.  In cities like Chicago,  Washington D.C., Rome and naturellement, Paris, I have stood in front of some of my favorite paintings, masterpieces of color and light.  The last time I was in Paris, I strolled through the Jardin des Tuileries and then enjoyed a couple of lovely hours in the Musée de l’Orangerie.  After marveling over Claude Monet’s celebrated waterlily panels, I ventured on to view the works of other Impressionists like Pierre-Auguste Renoir.  This cheerful portrait of two girls at the piano caught my eye and inspired my latest photo essay.

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Jeunes Filles au Piano painted by Renoir  (Photo by L. Walkins 2010)

Bright laughter mingles with the lilting melody of the French folk song Sophie plays on her grandmama’s piano.  That morning, she had sent a note to her cousin, Marguerite, suggesting an afternoon stroll and a picnic in the Jardin des Tuileries.  At noon, the skies had insisted on turning dark and ominous, and now, a steady rain rattles against the window panes behind the long damask curtains.

Settling for a pot of creamy hot chocolate and a plate of Cook’s lemon madeleines in the parlor, the girls make the most of their unexpected afternoon indoors by sifting through the stacks of sheet music, collected over the years by their grandmother, and playing their favorite pieces.  Both Sophie and Marguerite have studied the piano ever since they can remember, taking lessons from the formidable M. Chanson.

Sophie’s slim fingers skip across the ivory keys and Marguerite begins to sing the simple tune in her sweet soprano voice.  Sophie wishes she sang as well as Marguerite, but her voice is passable at best.  Upon playing the final measure, Sophie slides over on the piano bench, making room for her cousin.

“You play something now,” Sophie says. “How about that new piece by Debussy? I absolutely adore the third movement, Clair de Lune.” She finds the music and spreads it out across the piano’s polished music stand.

Marguerite leans forward to study the opening bars and says, “Did you know that Grandmama once had Mr. Debussy over to dine?”  She begins to play, her fingers traveling gently and expertly over the keyboard.  “I wonder if he played for everyone after dinner.”

“Can you imagine if we took our lessons from him instead of grumpy old M. Chanson?” Sophie says with a shout of laughter.

She gets up and retrieves her sketchbook from the divan. As Marguerite plays, Sophie sketches her, her pencil flying confidently over the page.  She finishes the drawing just as her cousin strikes the final notes of Mr. Debussy’s piece.

Marguerite turns around on the piano bench and Sophie holds up her sketch.

“I wish I could play as well as you,” Sophie says and Marguerite echoes back, “I wish I could draw as well as you.”

The cousins share another laugh and go together to the window.  The rain has stopped and hopeful rays of sunshine break through the clouds.