Great Symphony

My husband and I love to take road trips.  Together we have made two cross-country trips—one to move from Boston to San Francisco and another to move from San Francisco to Atlanta.  We have also driven the East Coast on four separate occasions.  We think nothing of hopping in the car to visit our daughter in college, or driving to New York for dinner and a show.   Several times a year, we drive three hours to Quechee, VT just to have Sunday brunch at my favorite spot:  the restaurant at the Simon Pearce glass factory.  

Some of our best bonding as a couple has occurred while trapped in a car for long periods of time.  Both workaholics, it is rare that we have even an hour of prolonged conversation.   On the road, however, we take the opportunity to catch up, to share impressions about things that have happened in the news, talk about the kids, and make plans for the future.

There is one drawback to our car excursions.  If my husband does not have a scalpel in his hand he has a tendency to drift off into slumber.  We have a subscription to the Boston Symphony.  Our nights at the Symphony could be caricatured as one of us sitting at the edge of her chair while the other (guess who?) snores loudy and clutches a teddy bear.   While the experience with him in Symphony Hall is merely embarrassing, driving with him is a real nail biter.   If the conversation drifts into a lull, I look over and catch the poor boy’s eyes rolling up into his head.   I get no rest as a passenger when he is behind the wheel.  

Today we hit the road early to attend an arts and crafts festival in southern Connecticut.  We rounded out the day with Pepe’s pizza in New Haven before hitting the road and heading back home.  After pizza and a beer, my husband spent only a few miles on the highway before his eyeballs began to disappear up under his lids.  I was a little wiped out from walking in the sun all day, but I preferred driving to certain death.  I begged and begged before he finally pulled over and let me take the wheel.

I have a secret weapon.  Once behind the wheel, I wrested control of the radio, tuning in to my favorite station on SiriusXM radio:  Symphony.   At the first sound of strings, my poor husband dissolved into slumber, dropping his head heavily upon his chest, down for the count.  Suddenly, I was all alone with about 90 minutes remaining on our trip.  Happily, I heard the familiar sound of a simulated gang whistle; the Symphonic Dances from West Side Story had me wide awake.

Many people I know use classical music as white noise, letting it drone in the background while they do homework, or write, or pay bills.  It has the opposite effect on me.  There is so much happening in the music that I often find it difficult to multi-task—like trying to read a book at a wedding reception.  On the road, classical music is far superior to a Venti latte.  So when Schubert’s 9^th Symphony (“The Great” in C major) came through the speakers, I knew I would have no trouble staying awake at the wheel for the last hour of my journey.   I loved listening for the composer’s blatant references to Beethoven’s harmony and texture, layered with the characteristic repeating notes and blink-of-the-eye transitions that betray the work as Schubert’s own.  Not having heard this Symphony in years, I was struck by how clearly Schubert outlines a trajectory that culminates with Brahms’ First Symphony (in c-minor) half a century later.  I sighed out loud when I remembered that Schubert died without ever hearing his Great Symphony performed, at the tender age of 31.  

Had I listened to a contemporary rock station, I would have endured dozens and dozens of tracks on my way home.  Chances are I would have found it necessary to flip from station to station in the dark in an attempt to avoid offensive matter.  Instead, this one giant symphony was an apt companion, escorting me onto the Mass Pike and offering brilliant conversation for nearly an hour, until I was safely inside my garage.

Honey, we’re home.

Tomorrow's blog:  The Art of Choke