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What
an Address Book is Really for
Rugby - A Welsh Love Affair Sunshine and Rain - St. Patrick's Day in Arizona The Long March from Midnight Books Never-Read I.D. The True Meaning of 'British' "My fellow Ameri...", Part One "My fellow Ameri...", Part Two |
July 2021 April 2021 February 2021 Revised June 2020 Summer 2018 Ninnau, Spring 2017 Desert Shamrock, 200? Desert Shamrock, Spring 2003 Desert Shamrock, Spring 2003 |
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What an
Address Book
is Really for ![]() If I was ever to be so intemperate, misguided and, quite frankly, arrogant as to write a piece of prose centered around myself and my own life experiences, I know exactly where I would begin. Be it a collection of reminiscences, personal history and travel logs, or (Merlin and Taliesin protect us!) an autobiography, the first place I would go to jog my memory of people and places, time and tides, would be my old address book. Of course I would never be so self obsessed and narcissistic as to write in the first person. No, I surely would not! Though like every poet, scribbler, columnist and storyteller, writing in the third person and changing the names of the protagonists would, as the saying goes, "protect the innocent." Come on, confess. We all do it. Indeed, address books are almost as good as that antiquated remnant of a bygone, golden and cursive age, the diary. A zip/postal code, telephone prefix, physical address, or maybe a half or totally forgotten name ricocheting down the fast-fleeting years, can be assured to open the locked and double-bolted doors of decades. I don't know when or why people stopped writing diaries, but I'm pretty sure they just about universally have. It's a shame really. As a child, it was a common, everyday ritual for people of all ages and stages of life and learning to record their innermost feelings, sometimes intimate fears and desires in the closely guarded privacy of the pages of a diary. Then, looking back over the years, it might help a person triangulate their present position on the map of existence. It's always good to have some sense of where you are in life, if only to see what you might need to do to move on to a better place. These days, the public forum of social media has taken the place of the poor old diary in many ways. I was perpetually amazed, before I closed my accounts in exasperation, how every kind of emotion and experience under the sun, can find its way into the bright light of virtual day. Be it love, hate, self-assured political rants, deeply held religious convictions, unbridled anger or confessional revelations, all are shared with a million or two close friends. I know the process itself to be addictive, "Hope a lot of people like my post/picture!", but I think I'll buy myself a diary for Christmas, if there are any still available. |
In the meantime, I'll scan through my address book, recollecting faces, locations and even newly reawakened, long-forgotten times in their historical ambience. The Welsh have a word that precisely defines what I mean. It is "naws". The dictionary meaning is given somewhere in the vicinity of nature, disposition, temperament, aroma, mood, tincture, atmosphere, ethos, nuance, quintessence, temper, tinge, tone. As very wide as that definition is, when I look at a Cardiff phone number and street address from the late Sixties-early Seventies, immediately: I can smell the musty old Victorian house on Cathedral Road; am again at Chapter Arts Center, watching French surrealist films at midnight; can taste the Brains ESB beer and relive the bustle of a pub full of students socially unwinding their intellects on a sultry Friday night. When I see a South London postal code, the double-decker busses are running on rainy Brixton Hill again, the West Indian reggae band is echoing and shimmying into the early hours of Saturday morning, there's a big-city energy on the streets and visceral excitement in the possible, whatever that might possibly be. Yes, if I was so unwise and obsessed with myself as to think about writing in the first person, if I were to open the Pandora's Box of memories found on every page of that old address book, I might stumble across a Bay Area Club name and again be pulling magical instruments out of their boxes, setting up microphones for a Jazz gig in the enchanted City. I might be somewhere in L.A., or out and about on a crazy Hollywood night in the 1980's hoping, this time, that the record company rep. would show, sign the band, and fame and fortune would be only a short limo ride away. Or I might see an Arizona friend's email address and be once again for the first time intoxicated by the pungent, exquisite Sonoran Desert after a summer rain. But of course that would mean I'd looked in the book of names, places and people, and I'm much too smart to do that. I think what started me on this track was something my wife said and we both found quite amusing, but simultaneously shocking. She works in real estate, and was assisting a young, intelligent, newly married couple who were buying their first house. She asked the young wife to sign the documents and to include her middle initial. The bright young lady looked somewhat puzzled, and finally admitted that she didn't usually use a signature with a middle initial and was uncertain of how to make a cursive "L"! This made me think of letter writing, address books, diaries and the like that had been such a big part of my upbringing. In turn, this led me to wonder what an address book is really for. So, if you're ever so intemperate, misguided and, quite frankly, arrogant as to write a piece of prose centered around yourself and your own life experiences, be it a collection of reminiscences, personal history and travel logs or (Merlin and Taliesin protect us!) an autobiography, the first place you should go to jog your memory of people and places, time and tides, should be your old address book. But surely you wouldn't write something in the first person, would you? |
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Rugby
A Welsh Love Affair Rugby is the national sport of Wales. More than that, it is a passion of a great many inhabiting the valleys, hills and vales; the "green, green grass of home", as Tom Jones sang. Among these, there might be mentioned bank managers, coal miners, professors, know-it-alls, film actors, the delusional, the very young, their great grannies, Uncle Tom Cobley and all. Even more than that, for thousands of Taffies (Welshfolk), rugby is a lifelong, torrid love affair; sometimes swelteringly hot, sometimes full of care, seconds later jubilant, quickly followed by dejection and gnashing of teeth. It's strange enough that a whole country should dote on a game, if not invented then surely formalized into its present-day shape by an upper class, English school. But the true mystery is in the reason behind the whole affair. Why rugby? Why Wales? Before we venture into the muddy, bloody world of scrums, lineouts, tries and rolling mauls, indulge me with a little light history. People in and outside Wales have been playing team sports and games since--if not before--Old King Cole was in kindergarten. Most people like to compete at least a little, and better yet with your mates alongside, egging you on. Before the second quarter of the 19th Century, the precursor of rugby resembled a pitched battle, and was almost as dangerous. The ball size and shape depended on the dimensions of the poor old pig that donated its bladder for the occasion. The field (or rather fields) where the game was set to take place might have trees, hedges, sheep and ditches. There might be several hundred participants, and the match was to be played lasting no more than five days. Kicking other players' shins was optional but considered a good idea. The ball could be handled, but was advanced by kicking, and a "try" (touchdown) was scored after someone tried and succeeded in kicking the ball over a designated tree. In other words, rules of play were at best sketchy and player welfare had to wait 75 or so years in the wings as the emergency rooms of the day filled up. The big change came in 1823, while the ball game outlined above was being played at Rugby School, in Warwickshire, England. William Webb Ellis, one of the students on the field that day, picked up the pigskin and ran with it. So from its very inception, rugby institutionalized the breaking of rules, as the ball-handling novelty was applauded, and soon became part of the modern rules that were initially penned by the schoolboys themselves. As a ![]() For Welsh rugby, the date and place to remember is March 12th, 1881, The Castle Hotel, Neath, South Wales. The game, played according to Rugby School rules, was already gaining popularity in Wales, but on that day, and in that place, for the first time, The Welsh Rugby Union met to organize itself and the sport in Wales. Not long after that international games were played, and rugby took on national significance. More about that shortly. By the way, the hotel is still there, in the middle of town, just ‘round the corner from the castle itself, and is open for all the needs of the weary, hungry, thirsty, not to mention the avid Welsh rugby fans on pilgrimage, to see where it all began. |
Jumping forward from great granddad's time to our own, the sport is now worldwide, has several offshoot versions (including Australian Rules, American and Canadian Football, as well as a Seven-a-Side version), and shows no sign of losing its appeal. In Wales, with the frequent excellence of its players and success of its teams, mythic is the word that comes to mind to encompass the pantheon of hero/players, the likes of Gareth Edwards, voted the best rugby player of all time… anywhere! Of household names like Barry John, Gerald Davies, J.J. Williams, or more recently Gethin Jenkins, Adam Jones, Alan Wyn Jones; men who in the folk memory stand alongside Prince Llywelyn, Richard Burton, Aneurin Bevan and Shirley Bassey. But the why of all this keeps bringing us back to earth from utopian euphoria. Why on a Saturday, mid-winter in Cardiff, are all these smiling people dressed up as daffodils and sheep, with inflatable leeks? An ocean of red floods in and out of the overflowing pubs, along the dragon-festooned streets. People are packed in standing-room-only special trains and buses, soon to fill the iconic Principality Stadium itself; voted best rugby venue in the world. Why, in the name of Dewi, are there 100,000 plus energized, expectant people milling around the metropolis convinced Wales will win, even though the bookies say no way Taffy boy? Not inappropriately for Gwlad y Gân (The Land of Song), the answer is in the singing. ![]() Google "Welsh National Anthem rugby"; I have just regained control of myself after doing exactly that. Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau (Land of My Fathers) never sounded better. If you were there on the day, you might hear fine, crowd source versions of Tom Jones' Delilah, the Llanelli "national" anthem Sospan Fach (Little Saucepan), William Williams' Bread of Heaven or David Iwan's Yma o Hyd (Still Here). But it all leads up to the deafening roar and pyrotechnics when the Welsh team takes the field, line up, and the jubilant 75,000 in attendance become quiescent, as the band plays the introductory notes to our battle hymn. Wales is a relatively small country, but at that moment she is indefatigable; at that moment all disputes are forgotten, for once we agree; at that moment our shield wall is unbreakable; we are one. That's why the national sport is what it is; it's a symbol and catalyst of unity, patriotic defiance and, in the best sense of the word, much needed pride and self confidence in these often dysfunctional and regularly threatening times. See you in Cardiff! ![]() ![]() |
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Welsh National Anthem -
YouTube, just before Wales beat England, 16 March
2013.
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Sunshine and
Rain
St. Patrick's Day in Arizona It has become something of an open secret amongst the wandering Celtic tribes, that St. Patrick's Day, as a social occasion, is celebrated much more enthusiastically in America than in the Emerald Isle itself; perhaps more enthusiastically than anywhere else in the world! Everyone is as Irish as corned beef and cabbage for the day, or at least until the Tullamore Dew runs out. Just about every city, great and small, has some combination of a parade, step dancing, an infestation of shamrocks, leprechauns, bagpipes and enough Guinness to fill the River Liffey. But the celebration of the venerable holy one in the desert, could that be true? The specter of a sea of green washing up against a forest of cacti, could that be real? It certainly is. As a Welshman who's Welsh-speaking grandmother's birthday was on March 17th, I expected to celebrate, but not with marauding hordes of very thirsty celebrants. As a musician, having just moved to Phoenix area, it came as a shock that my traditional Welsh-American band Tramor (Overseas), was more busy than ever on that day; breathlessly running from festival to pub, concert hall to cooperate headquarters, and private party to retirement home. All under the watchful patronage of a very early Celtic saint. It wasn't hard to get carried along by the tides of humanity enjoying the sunny day. The video below was shot on a particularly warm March 17th. As you can see, tree, umbrella shade and sunglasses were requisite, adding even more to the surreal feeling of a tearful Danny Boy, in an 80-degree plus botanical garden, amongst the Saguaros. |
On the other
hand, Arizona was also the location of the wettest St.
Pat's celebration in living memory this side of Limerick.
The weather had been threatening for days, leading up to
the festival to be held in and around the Phoenix Irish
Cultural Center. Everyone--musicians, dancers, vendors,
5000 or so perspective festival goers, volunteers and
organizer--were hoping for a bit of the luck of the Irish.
Well, sometime after midnight the heavens opened. I don't
know if the holy saint was annoyed at us for a little too
much celebration the year before, but more rain than the
desert usually sees in a year fell in a couple of hours,
and kept on falling. Things looked grim. All involved
would turn up at the center, but with 2 inches of water on
the festival field and lightening in the forecast, it was
hard to be optimistic. The authorities stepped in and
voiced what everyone was thinking. It was too dangerous to
open the gates. The festival was off. After the announcement, there was a prolonged silence, and then someone took out a fiddle and started to play a jig. Soon, a whistle then bagpipe and flute joined in, and before you knew it a full blown session was under way; spinning in the increasingly hopeful air. A space opened up in the middle of the Great Hall floor and dancers, not be left out, stepped and kicked, circled and weaved in time to the hand clapping that spread around the old place, as everyone's spirit rose. And talking of spirits, the bar was opened, the Jameson's and Harp larger poured and the whole place lifted into untold heights of relieved festivity. There would be a St. Patrick's Day Commemoration after all, and one of the best in living memory. I doubt if there were many who remember what time the festivities ended. It was late for sure, and maybe, just maybe, this very special, rainy day celebration was aided by one of the great man's lesser miracles. It certainly was welcome and memorable. |
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You might also
enjoy:
Retro Recordings - a photographic and musical timeline. Live Tonight! - vintage posters, handbills and fliers. |
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Figure 1. Tal-y-Llyn
Plaque (copyright Amgueddfa Cymru)
Figure 3. Book of Taliesin (copyright Nat. Library of Wales) |
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