On Fresh Grass, Persistent Autumn Leaves, and Climbing to the Verge of Spring (with a Podcast Surprise Introducing a New Basso Profundo Near the End)!

Photograph by the author, Deeann D. Mathews, March 9, 2024

Because I live where winter barely passes for winter in the rest of the Northern Hemisphere, I had to really think about "Erstes Grün" ... as close as I can get is when we get a run of heavy rain in some years and there are no days to go out and walk pleasantly, or, later in the summer or early fall, days when smoke chokes the city. The grass, if it dies here, will die of drought in the summer -- the first new grass will come up with the first rain in the fall!

I do feel different when I can't get out for more than a few days ... I do miss that connection with nature, but Schumann presents us an extreme case ... we do know about Seasonal Affective Disorder, so there is a sense in which people are "made sick by the winter's snow" as the song says.

Martti Talvela (1935-1989) for a long time held the rank of my favorite bass, and we will still consider it a tie, because Kurt Möll (1938-2017) succeeded him but also admired him warmly. The Finnish bass is not as cerebral as his German peer, but he connects as deeply to understanding, through empathy.

Mr. Talvela, like Herr Möll, has a gorgeously immense voice that he can thin out and let one hear the tears through, but while his German peer uses the fact to highlight particular points, Mr. Talvela uses more vulnerability, balancing his voice on the edge of tears when there is sorrow he must convey. His vibrato in "Erstes Grün" stays as near the quaver of sobbing as beauty beautifully allows in such a large male voice ... apparently, his character scarcely made it to that first green grass ... he gets down on the ground to get next to it ... he is not able to take any more of the winter's snow or of mankind ... his grief is so intense that nothing but that fresh grass next to his heart can help him.

Now this brought back some memories. In Winterreise Mr. Talvela sang of a character who had put all his hopes on a dry leaf not falling to the ground ... but of course, it is winter, and not in San Francisco where we STILL have trees in autumn splendor five days from spring ...

Photograph by the author, Deeann D. Mathews, March 12, 2024

... so this is a foregone conclusion ... or maybe not ... the song ends in a major key, and the matter is not resolved...

... and again, one does not have to figure out as much when listening to Martti Talvela ... this poor man is in a sad state of affairs, such that he has transferred his obsession for the woman whose family chose a richer man over him to an autumn leaf, for which he trembles as the wind blows through, for if it falls, so also all his hopes will fall, and he also.

Photograph by the author, Deeann D. Mathews, March 12, 2024

But it is not resolved here ... so, what if Schumann were to help out Schubert here, and the character from Winterreise were to make it over into Schumann's Gedichte -- what if he did make it past "Der Leiermann,* through the winter, to the verge of spring? Then what?

Which is still another way of asking, what do you do with people whose hopes have come down to dying leaves and fresh green grass (which also is not long for this world)?

Which is still another way of asking, how do you deal with that level of grief over that long, that strips a man down to looking up for last hopes and to the ground only for new hope -- that alienated from all mankind, and looking no higher?

And, the Scripture says, "The grass withers, the flower fades" ... and Kurt Möll's singing of Brahms's "Über die Heide" a few weeks ago gets to just how deep that can go, from spring to autumn again, with love and life lost along the way ... so by the time we bring Brahms along to join these thoughts ... we survive the winter, find hope in the spring, only to lose love again by the autumn and wander through the winter, our hopes on dying leaves waiting for some fresh grass ... round and round?

"Erstes Grün," taken with "Letzte Hoffnung" and "Über die Heide" in comparison, is actually kind of scary when one considers how many people are living on unfounded hope and/or nostalgia for the tokens of the past, due to find all of that will disappear all too soon.

Photograph by the author, Deeann D. Mathews, March 12, 2024

"And because you are so compassionate, Frau Mathews, you are always going to be asking 'How can I help?' until you can settle in your mind on the only answer. For all your resolve of last week, we still need a review."

The Ghost of Musical Greatness Past appeared, comfortably stretched out in the grass in the robustness of his middle years, six feet two and about as broad and deep.

"Simple lesson today, Frau Mathews: get me up from here if you can."

"That has to be the fastest lesson ever taught," I said. "Put that in the category of 'ain't gonna happen,' Herr Möll."

"Corollary: how quickly could I have you down here if I wanted?"

I backed up out of his arm's reach -- and then thought of those long, powerful legs, and backed up some more.

"Good, Frau Mathews. You still have not accounted for the fact that an athletic man my size can get up and close that gap faster than you think."

"I can't think of all that, looking at you -- a man who struggled to play a villain, he was so kind."

He started laughing.

"See -- sehen Sie, Herr Moll?"

"I will gladly take that compliment, Frau Mathews -- rare enough for a man of this world at any time of his existence. But -- aber --."

He sprang up, closed that gap, and carried me right off at about the speed one might expect a football player of that size might -- which is much, much faster than one expects. I knew, because my father was an athlete and powerful blue-collar worker, and even in his late eighties still moves his still-considerable size very well. But you still can't really get prepared for that kind of strength and speed even when you know it is there.

"Aber habe ich dich gesagt, Frau Mathews," he purred as I laughed from surprise.

"You know," I said, "you are the most insufferable 'I told you so'!"

"In two languages, with style, making you laugh, every time," he said.

"And your audacity!"

"Insufferable audacity, Frau Mathews, as deep as my voice."

"Oh, well, even I hadn't thought about that."

"Which is why I have to come and warn you because you are still the type of woman who can get snatched up -- albeit, it would indeed take a very strong man in every way."

"Strong in wickedness indeed, to be your opposite," I said.

"Such men exist, Frau Mathews. Please understand this coming from a German born in 1938, speaking to an African American who knows history in the United States of America. They exist, Frau Mathews. We must never miss an opportunity for you to be warned in matters of your safety, especially as spring comes and 'young men's fancies turn lightly to thoughts of love.'"

"Good point, Herr Möll -- but they better come bringing some allergy medicine if they are going to snatch me up."

He cried out laughing, and then put me down on the nearest bench and just rolled in midair ... his feet actually left the ground, gravity having slipped just a little because he was so tickled!

"Of all the things I have ever heard a woman say in fact and in fiction -- only you!"

"That's what you get for being an audacious I-told-you-so," I said. "Out here talking about I'm a little contralto just like you're a little bass -- you forgot what you said and who you said it to, didn't you?"

"It's like your father Herr Mathews, my slightly elder peer, says -- ah hahahahahahaha -- I cannot be held responsible -- ah hahahahahahahahahaha -- to remember what I forgot!"

Oh, he was gone -- and a tree that had not quite burst out of bud did then --

Photograph by the author, Deeann D. Mathews, March 9, 2024

-- because of the sweet, double-deep warmth of his laughter. There was an earthquake in the city, but nobody minded ... just spring in the city being gently awakened as everyone in earshot started laughing ... as ever, he carried in his joy!

"See, what I would need to do if I could," he said -- but couldn't even get that far without laughing for another minute before continuing -- "is go back up home and inquire of whoever is speaking with whoever is thinking of snatching you up this spring and tell that one to tell that poor man, 'Achtung! Attention! Sir, you are not ready!*'"

"I really wish you would so everybody would have a more peaceful spring, but I know that is not for you to do," I said.

He blew out the last of that laughter and composed himself in a great effort of sudden gravity.

"And thus I remind you of what you said last week: we all have to know the things that are not for us to do. Men who are past the help of mankind and want to wallow in the grass and bet their lives on dying leaves -- helping them is not for you to do, solely because you are just another human being, and it is beyond you to help a case like that."

"Oh," I said. "It amazes me how you get around to your points, every time."

"I am still a mortal man and cannot remember everything, but the essentials -- those I keep ever before me, Frau Mathews."

He smiled gently, the afterglow of that earlier laughter lightening his grave expression.

"There is a bright side to the whole thing, Frau Mathews -- in 'Erstes Grün,' there is a bright side.'

"Schumann kind of suggests that," I said, "with that major-key ending."

"Let us walk and talk, Frau Mathews ...

Photograph by the author, Deeann D. Mathews, March 12, 2024

"... and as we do so, I would like you to tell me a story."

"Anything you wish, Herr Möll," I said. "Any story in my memory is yours to hear."

"I read once," he said, "that there was a king who once had an overwhelming urge to eat grass."

"Oh, Daniel 4 -- it was Nebuchadnezzar, ruler of the Neo-Babylonian empire, master of most of the known world at that time."

"Please tell me the story, Frau Mathews."

"Well, Nebuchadnezzar was a proud king, full of himself after all that he had done, and was doing well until one night he had a nightmare -- he saw a great tree with all the birds of the air nesting in it, and all the beasts of the field under its shade.

Photograph by the author, Deeann D. Mathews, February 24, 2024

"But then, an angel came from heaven and said, 'Cut the tree down, and scatter all the beings in and around it -- but put a golden band around the stump, which will remain until he knows that the Most High God is the ruler of heaven and earth, and raises and puts down whomever He will among men.'

"Nebuchadnezzar woke up terrified and called for the prophet Daniel, who interpreted the dream -- the king was the great tree, and he would be driven from his throne into the field to eat grass like the cattle, and his hair and nails would grow long like those of the beasts while his body was wet with the dew of heaven -- he would be in the field eating grass until he acknowledged the Most High God, and then his kingdom would be restored to him.

"Well, Nebuchadnezzar knew Daniel's ability, but he just didn't want to humble himself, so a year later he was walking around and saying 'Is this not great Babylon that I have built by the might of my hand for the glory and honor of my majesty?' And, as he was saying it, the angel came down from Heaven and told the king exactly what Daniel said he would -- and that's when the king got this overwhelming desire to eat grass. We call this boanthropy today -- a mental illness whereby human beings can think they are cows.

"Seven years went by, during which time the king was eating grass and was being wet by the dew of heaven and his hair and nails were just growing on -- but one day, his understanding was opened, and he looked up and acknowledged the Most High God. Then his right mind was given back to him, and he returned to his throne in even greater majesty than before, now his in humility and praise to God. It is to me one of the happiest endings in the whole Bible."

My companion smiled.

"Verdi has given us Nabucco," he said, "but there is room for a more accurate oratorio about the life of Daniel in there somewhere -- put that part about Nebuchadnezzar's diet and realization about halfway."

"If only you were not in retirement, Herr Möll," I retorted, and he broke out laughing again.

"Frau Mathews, you are not in retirement!" he said. "You are going to have to get past this little old bass!"

"Look, if I have to imagine it, I have to imagine the best bass, ever -- now I can put Martti Talvela in there --."

"Please!" he said, with a laugh. "Listen to him again in 'Letzte Hoffnung' -- how he could sing so beautifully, like the bleak beauty of the filigree of winter limbs framing a cold sky, and still convey such utter madness!"

Photograph by the author, Deeann D. Mathews, March 12, 2024

Then those eyes twinkled ...

"Besides that, Frau Mathews," he purred, "if you put me in there, do you think either of us are getting through the scene in rehearsal?"

And he let out the most musical, beautiful, and ridiculous "moooooooo ..."

When your companion can make you forget your English, and English is your first language ...

"Was? Warum?"

He let himself down into that soft fresh grass and just let loose laughing ... and spring was gently stirred up a little more ...

Photograph by the author, Deeann D. Mathews, February 24, 2024

"You might need a bit of that allergy medicine in another minute, Frau Mathews!"

Letting him live in my imagination was such a mistake ... he had been witty in life, so he picked up and threw my stuff back at me so quickly!

"Weiss du was?" I said.

You know what? -- Oh, he deserved this telling off in two languages so bad, but --

"Dein Deutsch wird immer besser, Frau Mathews!"

He then added in English, "Never say I did not help you with becoming fully conversant in German!"

"Ein Tag, Herr Möll -- ich weiss nicht wann -- aber ein Tag soll ich --."

I had to pause -- thinking fully again in German was a surprise to me!

"That's actually pretty good, Frau Mathews," he said, likewise surprised out of laughing. "You still have to learn your cases for German -- Eines Tages, in that construction -- but because you are such a communicator, you can make yourself understood. I know that one of these days, though you do not know when, you are going to do something or other that you did not know the word for at the moment -- ich verstehe dich sehr gut."

I had to sit down again and think about this -- it had been happening in flashes -- I would construct sentences in German, and then check them -- I was missing my cases, and my construction overall was literal but clunky, yet sure enough: they were close enough for European jazz...

"I was just about to get up from here!" my companion said as he rolled back, laughing. "'Close enough for jazz' in music is not a compliment from a European classical music perspective -- but close enough for European jazz, which from your viewpoint as an African American is just as much not a compliment -- ach ... ich habe mein Englisch verloren!"

Well, now we were really in trouble, because he just lost his English, and his English was a whole lot better than my German ... but I thought that we might laugh until it got better because now, there was nothing left to do.

Photograph by the author, Deeann D. Mathews, February 24, 2024

Some time later, he composed himself enough to get up, all grass-stained, and sit back on the bench, and we just leaned against each other, recovering.

"Der Sinn von der Geschichte ... ah ... the point or moral of the story," he said as he recovered what he meant to say in English, "is that sometimes, a man has to spend some time in the grass, stripped of everything else, before he can and will look up."

"Now that is what I call an object lesson," I said.

"And you see now, in a gentle way, how rolling around with a man in that state will cause you to lose things, too?"

"I do not think I will ever forget it, Herr Möll -- das soll ich nicht vergessen."

And then I got mad again... for all the good it ever did me to do that with him ...

"Now, wait just one minute -- throw a minute waltz and a moment musical into the whole blessed Knockout Zone after it -- you knocked me clear out of my own first language!"

"And you dragged me out of my second -- if you have learned your lesson, I have also learned mine, Frau Mathews. The price we pay for you to get these lessons!"

"Weiss du was"! I howled, only for him to start laughing all over again.

"Meine Töchterlein," he said, and waved his white handkerchief, "lass uns in die Ruh -- nur ruhe!"

A truce ... well, I wasn't really that mad and there was nothing really wrong, after all ... I realized what he was doing ... he had scattered the dark impression those two songs had given me and brought me all the way into that bright side, so I went on and gave in and laughed with him.

"That's right, Frau Mathews, that was the point," he said, with a warm smile. "There is hope for those men driven to a patch of grass when all things of the world have lost their ability to hold their minds and hearts -- some men must be so humbled, but if they are called to look up, they will. But, as you said wisely last week, it is not for you to do, and it will cost you too much to even try -- you will be taken from things that are yours, to no purpose."

"You found a very gentle way to make sure I would not forget this lesson, frightened and saddened as I was at the beginning, and I thank you," I said.

"Meine Töchterlein," he said, "I know that your heart is still tender and caring after all that you have been through, and I know that some of your wounds from 2022 and 2023 are still not entirely healed."

His voice trailed off ... his face became troubled, then resolute ...

"I must always do the best by you, meine Töchterlein," he said, "with care, but with thoroughness. I noticed you looking for me singing Zaccaria in Nabucco this week."

"Well, you know I had to look!" I said.

"Of course," he said. "It does sit higher than usually is written for a basso profundo role -- however, Georgian basso profundo Paata Burchuladze has sung the role, and his Commendatore is tremendous."

"Did you actually stop and listen to him?"

"Of course not -- I was still looking."

"Of course not," he said, "because you are as human as anyone else ... you have been deeply hurt by the part of mankind that you loved so much in 2022 and 2023 ... and you lost two aunts ... you took refuge in a voice you rediscovered, and you are as human as anyone else.

"Now I am glad to see you are enjoying Eric Hollaway's podcast, in which he talks to his audience of gentle wisdom, just as you and I talk."

" ... and you connect deeply with his excellent podcast as well because he also eases the pain of losing those walks with your grand old soldier, and the greater loss there ... I understand, Frau Mathews. I encourage you in the path that you are already instinctively taking, for you, too, must stop at no patch of grass.

"In every place that there is a warning, you must see fully how not to fall there, not for others, and not for yourself, Frau Mathews. So I insist that you branch out, and hear and imagine and write for voices not in permanent retirement to a career in this earth. Mr. Hollaway is a good restart for you.

"Even Martti Talvela, since he preceded me into permanent retirement in 1989, is not far enough for you, although remembering your love for his singing is a step in the right direction because he was still a young man, a young voice, when he made many of his recordings. You can love a young bass's voice, for he was one ... but I understand why it is harder for you."

It finally occurred to me why Herr Möll did slightly edge Mr. Talvela as my favorite -- he had the advantage of living and singing that much longer than his Finnish peer. He had been 55 when his Commendatore had gotten my attention, and my grand old soldier had been about that age when I first took note of his voice in community settings. He had been powerfully at work solving problems and employing that voice. There had been an occasion when someone had made a mistake in ordering him to show up to be dressed down for doing the right thing in a way that shook things up too much. That was a mistake that got the troublemaker's ego ground to powder -- the one summoned showed up with his brilliant intelligence, holy passion, and immense voice in top form!

That was where I had begun to admire the man who became my grand old soldier ... and why, decades later, a noble, caring but past-dead-serious Commendatore, unwisely invited and marking the end of Don Giovanni's shenanigans, also made a scene that captured my heart. The two men are from the same generation, younger peers to my father -- so, in essence, the same thing had happened to my heart, again!

Then it occurred to me ... there was a future patch of grass by a tombstone in my grand old soldier's home state, someday ... but he would not be there ... there was no need for anyone to seek that patch of grass or any patch of grass. Life remained for living, here and above, and I knew he would want for me to keep on living, just as he had released me from the possibility of being his too-young wife so I would not be burdened ... and the German analog to him in my imagination was saying precisely the same thing.

Photograph by the author, Deeann D. Mathews, March 12, 2024

"Which is part of why," said analog gently uttered, "that he has a German analog who can say to you things he could not fully explain, but nonetheless taught you in how he loved you. You can endure hearing 'find younger living singers' and have space to understand more."

"Ich verstehe Sie jetzt sehr gut, Herr Möll," I said. "I understand you now, very well."

He smiled gently, and then his face became apprehensive again, and then resolute ...

"We must cover it all, Frau Mathews. Eric Hollaway is 58, and his ego was not threatened by your brilliance, but ... ."

"But my male peers and near-peers, for their ego's sake, have not treated me very well," I said. "But then again, all but one with whom I have reconciled are apparitions now ... now that they see me on the move ... now they flutter about ... too late. Too late!"

Even the anger there, now, has become more sadness ... but it was not permitted to linger this day, for when I had dried my tears, my companion reached behind the park bench and pulled up a man-sized flyswatter with flamingo tail feathers attached. His double-deep voiced deadpan description combined with the twinkle of his eyes sent me from sad memories to rolling laughter.

"I forget to tell you last week that your order of an apparition swatter came in, Frau Mathews. The feathers are for the ethereal dust, to scatter it to the sunrise or sunset where it can actually do some good. This also means that you can use this ambidextrously -- it does not matter what direction you swing from with this design.

"The instructions are in German and English ... works on contact with all entities now ready but formerly unwilling and still unable to do right by user -- guaranteed to disperse all ghost of a chance that they can reenter her life unless authorized for redemption by the Redeemer Himself. Can be used in combination with user's booming contralto "NO," her infamously mighty social media block hand, and devastating rhetorical flair."

He presented it to me with his most innocent-looking smile as I rolled laughing!

"Now, see, Frau Mathews, it is good that you are who you are -- sweet-spirited, quick to smile and laugh, and that you are a mighty but gentle woman at heart," he said when I began to get it back together. "Because if I had been truly added to your security detail last summer as a mere mortal man ... ."

And this sweet old bass reached behind that same park bench and pulled up a antique German Zweihander, looking like it just came from wherever such two-handed greatswords are restored and made ready for battle in his neighborhood.

"Young men do not always know the danger they are in," he rumbled, recalling his barely controlled characterization of the rejected man in Winterreise. "Not every young woman is un-defended -- but I did not have to do any of that, because ... "

And the great Zweihander became a pair of hiking poles, held in his immense hand.

"... because when you put all that down and refused to be vindictive and embittered, your Father in Heaven picked it up and left you a blessing -- that fifth book, a week later -- and then sent out the Captain of the Hosts of the Lord to take care of the matter."

"Vengeance is His," I said, "and freedom from those who know no better than to try to compete with and take from one who cares about them is mine."

"You are kind, and also wise, Frau Mathews. Let us move on up a little higher."

Photograph by the author, Deeann D. Mathews, February 24, 2024

He touched the apparition swatter, and it became a soft, sunset-tinted wrap for me ... it is cold in the lower parts of Mount Sutro where we were going, past Buena Vista Hill to the west! The spring winds have come a little early ... but those views, though ... from the back of University of California, San Francisco!

Photograph by the author, Deeann D. Mathews, March 11, 2024

... and of course I was not permitted to be cold because my companion wrapped his arm and his voice, around me.

"You see, Frau Mathews, you are not called to any patch of grass. You are called to always move on up a little higher, leaving whatever and whoever wishes their patch of grass below you, below you.

"Now, suppose this ... suppose, in your twenties, because your heart was already quite deep for your time of life, suppose you were given a preview of life in mature love through your grand old soldier? That life you could not have in full -- you are too young -- but he literally taught you how to climb all these high hills. He literally brought you to his level -- think about the decades of advantage that gave you on thinking about your physical capability, and life, and the world, and God Himself. You were already ahead because of the way you have been raised ... but, Frau Mathews, consider how high he also brought you, and then since then you have never stopped moving."

"My peers and near-peers never had a chance," I said.

"They didn't," he said. "And that was done from above, on purpose. You, and they, are not the same."

He looked across the city's expanse to where a neighborhood looked like its own little village in the silvered sunshine, and his mind went back ...

"I knew a young man once -- what you would call a country boy like your father, out of a little village not unlike your father's little hometown. Now, this little country boy was born in a time in which his own people had embraced hate and extreme violence, and were just about to unleash it on the world ... but that little country boy was kept close, and loved well ... so, he became deep-minded and deep-hearted, kind and generous and caring, like those who had loved him. He was granted the generous stature in manhood that went with all that, so, people did not tend to try as much evil on him as they might with a loving and gentle woman."

"Unless I miss my guess on who that little country boy grew up to be," I said with a smile, "his voice grew up with him and probably made a whole lot of people think twice and three times about trying him."

He smiled with a twinkle in his eyes.

"It is written: 'a word to the wise is sufficient.' Some voices are perhaps more helpful than others in assisting people to understand why that should be."

He winked at me, and we broke out laughing in contralto and basso profundo, probably the two most helpful voices there are for such things. Yet he was not finished with his point.

"But the world will never know, Frau Mathews, how much anyone greatly blessed suffers simply because others see what they cannot be and cannot have, and wish to level matters somehow. People will literally waste your time, play with your emotions, break their commitments, hold your money, and even outright set you up to fail just for that alone. So, we learn to put all that down, remain who we are called to be, and keep climbing. We do not get leveled. We have no level. Slow or fast, we just keep climbing."

"And I got to learn that really young, because of my grand old soldier," I said, "because he has been through some stuff, but you are right: he still has no level. He just keeps climbing ... and I walked with him all those years, and learned how also, physically, mentally, intellectually, and spiritually."

"With that, Frau Mathews, also take this: you were raised by a family and then were loved by a man who reinforced that there is no need to look down on the man in 'Erstes Grün' who is in the grass for his pain, nor to look at your peers for purpose, blowing around like leaves in a winter wind and setting their hopes on such things as in 'Letzte Hoffnung.' What way are you climbing -- and from where does your help come?"

"From above," I said, "as I climb ever nearer."

He smiled warmly.

"Today you have added Mt. Sutro, though no higher yet than the everyday crowd at UCSF yet, as a new place in 2024 to learn and love as you do Lone Mountain and Buena Vista Hill. You do what you were taught to do by your grand old soldier and keep climbing ... so, then, do what you were taught to do, in every way, Frau Mathews, and keep climbing."