Carl – Page 2

Grandmom’s lesson: Even with an uncertain future, we don’t have to live in fear

Posted on February 4, 2017 Written by Carl

By Lindsay Fernandes

My grandmom died when I was eighteen years old, and I was in her hospital room when it happened. She had been heavily medicated but responsive. Nodding, blinking, sighing, or squeezing my hand to indicate that she heard us, knew we were there.

My mom, my cousin and I were all three in the room when it happened. There was nothing special about that moment. We were simply three people gathered around a loved one, sitting quietly with our own thoughts. And then there was a burst of air in the room, and an audible creaking, as if the room itself suddenly clenched and released. It was loud, and it was weird. Certainly not a sound or a sensation we had felt before in that room, which had been the center of our world for a solid week.

And then my grandmother gasped, her mouth opened wide in an expression of surprise. Her eyes widened and sharpened, the cloud of medication gone. Her gaze was pinned to the corner of the ceiling. She looked both shocked and happy. Then she blew out a breath, closed her eyes, and was gone. It took another day for her body to stop fighting, but my grandmother was gone. Never again would she respond to our presence.

The three of us present approached one another in the days to come, wanting to confirm what we had experienced. Each of us had the same sensation. The gust of air, the creak, the gasp. The sense that grandmom saw something none of the rest of us could.

As a person of faith, I am absolutely positive what happened that day, and I have no doubts who was present in that room. I believe, with full certainty, that my grandfather and my uncle had come to collect Emma Katherine Smith and usher her into their realm. I call it Heaven. I believe she saw them, and was simply delighted. I believe they saw us, and smiled with a certainty that they would, one day, see us again.

And now I’ll come around to my point.

This week was rough. Rough for me personally. I felt bombarded, shattered, overwhelmed by the struggles of those around me. I have always been one to carry another’s heartache as my own. I’ve lost sleep with worry over a multitude of friends and family who are staring into the chasm of the unknown, terrified to jump, but knowing there’s no way around.

And then I’ve checked the news and guess what I’ve found. More struggle. More heartache. More pain. More suffering. More fear, more dread, more anger, more cruelty. The stripping down, it seems, of every safeguard on our future, from the environment and the very air we breathe to the laws guarding the money we depend on to live.

The future doesn’t seem a very appealing place right now.

Then serendipitously, I happened to have a meeting at my church on a weeknight. This is unusual, because I live across town, and I’m normally at home, being mom, rather than out and about, being Lindsay. So there I was, with what seemed an impossibly heavy heart, consumed with worry about those I love and care for and carry with me, and I found myself in the one place, I realized, I would most love to be.

I found myself in church.

I made my way down to the sanctuary and entered in the pitch black dark. I knelt at the altar and clasped my hands and lifted my head to the simply wooden cross that hung above. Its shadows cast two more crosses on the wall behind, bringing the total of crosses to three. The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

So consumed was I that I had no words. I just sat quietly, lifting my head to the crosses, sitting still and listening for the sound of peace. After a while, I began to shake with the weight of my emotion. Then I began to cry, but still there were no words. Just images of every loved one I have who is facing the impossibility of a future in which all that is certain is struggle and pain.

And then it happened. The room around me, the empty sanctuary, moved with an audible creaking sound. As if the whole room suddenly clenched and then released. It was a sound reminiscent of someone standing from a creaky old pew. I wondered, idly, if someone was behind me but I felt no fear. My tears stopped and I turned to look with eyes that had grown accustomed to the darkness, but of course no one was there. And yet of course someone was there, and I knew who it was. And I knew that sound because it was one I could never forget.

The very definition of faith is the assurance of things unseen. Things like the future. No matter how fearful we are, no matter how consumed we feel with dread and sadness and desperation, my faith assures me that God has already begun moving things behind the scenes, things we don’t expect and cannot predict, to catch us when we fall. To boost us over that chasm and deliver us safely to the other side.

Sometimes we just have to be still, be with Him, and listen quietly. And then we can be brave.

I’m not scared of Donald Trump. Or radical Islamic terrorists. Here’s why.

Posted on January 29, 2017 Written by Carl

By Carl Carter

Over the past few weeks, I’ve had conversations with a number of you, mostly in your 30s, who for some reason have looked to me for help in dealing with the likelihood of policies that do violence to both our constitution and our people.

My message in all of these conversations has been, “Hang in there. It’ll be ok.”

I don’t say that just because I’m a cockeyed optimist. I’m not wearing blinders. I’ve just seen things you haven’t. Time and again, I’ve seen one political party or the other emerge victorious, with its leaders strutting and thumping their chests while the losers retreated. And I’ve seen things reversed almost overnight. I’ve seen times of real danger — not the imagined threats we fret over these days.

Let me try to put this in perspective. When I was born, it had been a mere seven years since more than 60 million people — 3 percent of the world’s population — had been killed. Seven years isn’t much time. (Consider that we’re still wringing hands over one day of attacks that killed fewer than 3,000. And that was 16 years ago.) We flexed our muscles and invaded Afghanistan for revenge, killing about 104,000 people and injuring another 41,000, according to the Watson Institute of International & Public Affairs at Brown University. Just for good measure, we invaded Iraq as well (for reasons that were never clear), resulting in the deaths of about 165,000 Iraqi civilians.

In most contexts, you could at least call it a wash and move on. But we can’t seem to do that, because we have too many people who want us to be afraid. They use fear as a tool to manipulate us.

As a result, folks are so paranoid that someone wearing a turban might kill somebody that we are shutting out millions of children, engineers, scientists and others who are fleeing genocide. Just in case one of them should turn out to be a bad guy who wants to blow somebody up.

Guess what? We already have a lot of bad guys who want to kill people, right here among us.

But I digress.

Seven years, 60 million people. And yet, I was born into middle-class home during a time of peace and prosperity. We elected the general who led us to victory in World War II, and the warrior also knew how to make peace. He stayed clear of Viet Nam. He refused to be baited into a war over the Suez Canal. Our daddies built factories and nice homes and made babies. Our mamas made dinner.

I also lived in a city where lines were drawn on a map, showing where black people were allowed to live. We had separate restrooms, separate churches, separate schools. I’ve had friends whose homes and church were bombed simply because they were black. I’ve seen ministers chased out of their congregations because they wanted to allow black people to worship.

I watched my parents store water in the basement because they were so afraid of a nuclear attack. I participated in drills where elementary school students were sent to the basement to “duck and cover” in preparation of the bombs that were sure to come. One day, we were all required to walk (or run) home from school to get a note from our parents noting how long it took us to get there. Apparently, our nation’s leaders felt it was important to know how long it would take us all to get home to die there rather than in the school.

The threat, of course, was very real. We came very close to an all-out nuclear war at various times. But we found a way through it, like we always do. We lived moved on.

This is why I’m not afraid of Isis. It’s why I’m not afraid of Donald Trump. Sure, things look bleak right now. But they always do when you’re in the middle of one of these strange periods of history.

Excesses in one direction create counter-forces that keep things in check. We are already seeing that. As I write this, I have friends at the airport marching in support of immigrant rights. Judges are already beginning to roll back unconstitutional executive orders, and the courts will keep things tied up at least for a couple of years. Members of Congress are seeing demonstrations like we haven’t seen in decades, and they’re already starting to say, “not so fast.”

Know what happens in a couple of years? Mid-term elections. Remember that the party holding the presidency usually loses in those elections. What about the things we can’t anticipate? It wouldn’t take much. If the president goes too far, it’s not hard to imagine a handful of Republicans agreeing to caucus with Democrats — a move that, overnight, would put a stop to much of the mischief that might otherwise be done. I’ve seen stranger things.

At least 5,000 marched in Birmingham last week. It’s already making a difference.

Then there are the things we can’t even imagine. I’ve seen a lot of those over the years. Watergate and related scandals took down both the president and vice president, elevating a wise Gerald Ford to the presidency, where he began taking measures to bring about healing.

You’re scared. I get that. If you’re just looking at today’s headlines, it’s only rational to be frightened. But what happens today is only a blink in the long arc of our history. Time and again, I’ve discovered that what we’re seeing now won’t last. About the time we decide we’ve settled into a new reality, it disappears. And we rarely see that change coming.

All we can do is keep putting one foot in front of the other. Working for justice. Protecting the vulnerable. Putting our faith into practice. And believing.

Seriously, guys. It’s going to be OK.

A second generation for Birmingham Raw

Posted on January 28, 2017 Written by Carl

By Carl Carter

Birmingham Raw grew out of my desire to tell some of the stories of our city’s history. For people born before 1980 or so, many of these stories may help us understand where we are now, and perhaps even where we might go.

As I write this, one week into a new and controversial administration, I find myself surrounded by people who fear what is ahead. The dangers are real, and there is much work to be done. But Birmingham — like our nation — has been through some very dark times, and I’ve seen us emerge stronger. I’ve seen hate turn to love and despair turn into a quiet determination to create a better future.

Lindsay Fernandes

My generation, that of the baby boomers, is fading and sadly divided. Many who once stood for racial equality and social justice now listen more to the voices of hysteria and rage. And many of the next generation find themselves alarmed at what they see, and they fear that we will never regain our moral footing.

I understand — and reject — the pessimism so prevalent in my generation and the next. I have long argued that anger and fear are the strings used to manipulate us, and I refuse to give in to either. I believe in the future because I’ve seen the past. And because I see remarkable talent, drive and strength in the next generation. It is a better one than mine.

Which brings me to the point: I am proud to welcome my daughter, Lindsay Carter Fernandes, as co-host of Birmingham Raw. Lindsay is an exceptional storyteller in her own right, and hers is the kind of voice that can show us the way to a better future by more clearly showing us the realities of our present.

I know you’ll enjoy her stories as much as I do.

Why Martin Luther King’s birthday matters to me

Posted on January 16, 2017 Written by Carl

I was born in Birmingham, where laws designated where you could live based on your color. My grandfather, a klansman, lived a few blocks away, across the street from the notorious Bull Connor, who was the Police Commissioner who ordered that fire hoses and German shepherds be loosed on black children who dared march. My father drew up the routes for the city buses, which had clear lines designating who could sit in the front and who had to go to the rear. He got regular phone calls from Connor, who wanted to make sure segregation laws were being enforced. I tagged along when my father was assigned as a “Color Guard” to keep people the wrong color from worshiping in our Baptist Church. I never had a black classmate until 9th grade.

I remember watching a little black girl squirm and cry downtown, and asking my mother what was wrong with her. Mother shushed me and explained that the restrooms were for whites only.

I enrolled in the University of Alabama a mere decade after George Wallace stood in the door of Foster Auditorium to prevent two black students from enrolling. Wallace was still in office when I began my career, and I covered him from time to time.

In other words, today isn’t about ancient history for me. As recently as a year and a half ago, when we put our house on the market, a friend warned me that “you might end up selling it to a black.” (Never mind that I’d had a black next-door neighbor for 25 years.)

I know people who want to go back to those days, but they’re polite to black people and swear that there’s not a racist bone in their bodies. But manners have nothing to do with it. Many want to quit fussing with such inconveniences as enforcing the laws giving all citizens the right to vote, live wherever they can afford to, or get an education.

Every advance we have made has been a result of public policy and enforcement of our laws. The Emancipation Proclamation. Eisenhower’s nationalization of the Arkansas National Guard, which was preventing enforcement of court desegregation orders. The Civil Rights Bill of 1964, and the Voting Rights Act of 1965.

Every one of these laws and actions was bitterly opposed by my parents and theirs, and by good people of like mind who would insist that they’re not racist because, after all, they’re nice to black people and have black friends.

The generation before mine raised people my age who, today, are talking very much like my parents and grandparents did.

There are many issues on which I disagree with people around me, but I keep my mouth shut on most of them. On race, I cannot do this. My faith and my conscience do not afford me the luxury of doing so.

I hope you’ll understand. It’s not up to me to call anybody a racist, and I won’t. But I have lived long enough, and seen enough, to feel an obligation to say out loud that my family was on the wrong side of history at every turn. And there are people who, even today, remain on the wrong side of history. I’ll leave it to others to attach labels.

Season’s Greetings and Happy Holidays. And no, I’m not declaring war on your faith.

Posted on December 4, 2016 Written by Carl

Christians began the new liturgical year last Sunday, and today was the second Sunday of Advent. In the next few weeks, Muslims will celebrate Mawlid-al-Nabi (birthday of Mohammad) on 12/11. My Jewish friends will celebrate Chanukah starting 12/25, the same day most Christians celebrate Christmas (or the first of the 12 days of Christmas), and then Epiphany.

Orthodox Christians won’t get around to Christmas until January 7. Pagans will observe the Winter Solstice on 12/21. For some of these occasions, I’m not even sure what the proper greeting should be. Faking it can backfire. As a Christian Gentile, it seems both silly and patronizing to say Happy Chaunkah. Trying to dispense greetings you don’t understand can also lead to tragically comic results. I can imagine a well-meaning Hindu checking her spring calendar and wishing me a Merry Lent — hardly appropriate for the season of fasting and repentance that begins with ashes.

So I say to all of you that if I’m not sure which tradition you observe, and on which day, it is still my wish that that you experience happiness of the next few weeks. So I may wish you Happy Holidays or Season’s Greetings. It’s my way of wishing you joy, not declaring war on your faith. If I’m sure you share my tradition, I may even wish you a Merry Christmas.

Can we all live with that?

How Birmingham got the turn lane

Posted on June 5, 2016 Written by Carl

Loren Carter (better known as LK) was obsessed with traffic. It was his job. He had started his career as a street car driver and, after 22 years, was responsible for routing and scheduling all Birmingham bus routes.

He made some changes that mattered. For years, the buses ran in circular routes on either the east or the west side of town. The logic was simple: The buses were there to take you downtown. It was pretty much assumed that nobody in East Lake had any business in Ensley, and vice versa. So if you wanted to go past downtown, you had to get a transfer and stand downtown waiting on one of the buses that served the other side of town.

Dad never thought that made much sense, so he sat down at his big drafting table at the transit company and re-drew the routes to go from one end of town to the other. At last, you could ride from Huffman to Wylam without stopping.

But his greatest source of pride was the turn lane. It seems that in those days, traffic in Birmingham ground to a halt every time somebody had to make a left turn, because that vehicle blocked the left lane until it had an opening to turn. Dad was especially aware of this because many of these vehicles were buses. The city was growing, and it was turning into a serious problem.

On a visit to Memphis, Dad had seen a dedicated lane in the middle of the street that allowed cars to get out of the flow of traffic while they waited for an opening to turn left. It just happened that one of his buddies was Birmingham traffic engineer Ben Robinson. Dad called Ben one day and said, “Let’s go to Memphis. I want to show you something.” They drove up there, and Dad pointed to a turn lane and said, “See? We need to do that.”

A week later, Birmingham’s first turn lane was installed on First Avenue.

Years later, I’d grown up (more or less) into a skeptical Birmingham News reporter. One day I had to interview Robinson and asked him about the tale, about which I had developed my doubts. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Lemme tell you about that, son. See, it used to be that any time you turned left, you held up everybody behind you. Then your old man called one day and said, ‘Let’s go to Memphis…’”

Birmingham has always had its problems, but every now and then, somebody has a notion and makes things better.

Services for Virginia Mauck Hamm Haigler, mother of Vivienne Hamm Nichols, set for Monday, March 7

Posted on March 5, 2016 Written by Carl

I’ve written often about my days growing up in Woodlawn/Crestwood (what they now call the Crestwood North area). Part of that experience, which seems rare today, was the role many of the parents played in the lives of the kids in the neighborhood. Most of those parents are gone now, and we lost one of the very special ones this weekend. My dear friend Vivienne Hamm’s home was one where we were all welcome, and due to a snafu, they were unable to get the obituary in to AL.com in time for Sunday. I’m pleased to post it here to give people an easy place to link to it.

SERVICES

SUNDAY, MARCH 6, 2016 – A memorial service will be held at 4 PM at the St. Augustine Chapel at Alexian Village, 437 Alexian Way, Signal Mountain, TN 37377.

MONDAY, MARCH 7, 2016 – Visitation begins at 10; 30 AM followed by the funeral service at 11;30 AM Johns-Ridout’s Funeral Home, Valley Chapel, 1800 Oxmoor Road, Homewood, AL 35209.

Burial will at Forest Hills Cemetery, 431 60th Street North, Birmingham, AL.

The obituary, written by Vivienne Nichols

On the night of March 2, 2016, Virginia Mauck Hamm Haigler passed away.

She was born November 22, 1919, in Birmingham, AL, to Lotoise Plant and Lester Charles Mauck. The years within her biological family were happy ones and she adored her parents and brother, Charles Mauck, always and beyond their deaths.

The foundation of Virginia’s Christian faith was nurtured within their Woodlawn household and the tenets and ministries of Methodism.

Virginia was faithful to the fellowship of Woodlawn UMC for seventy years, serving as children’s teacher, president of the Gladys Kirby Sunday School Class, and president of the United Methodist Women.

From 1998-2006, Virginia was a member of Mountain Chapel UMC, Birmingham and after moving to Signal Mountain, TN, she joined Signal Mountain United Methodist.

Virginia loved the church universal, and it came to her in profound ways, especially in the waning months of her life. In that time, Virginia was blessed by the ministries of the pastor and congregation of Signal Mountain UMC, as well as visitors from Signal Crest UMC. Though she missed the joy of meeting them, two missions of St. Paul’s Lutheran Church, Matteson, IL deeply touched her heart. A beloved Episcopal priest brought the Holy Sacraments to her bedside and she was daily blessed and tended by the staff of the Catholic Alexian Brothers mission. A host of multi-denominational, ordinary saints, present in family members, friends and caregivers rose to the realm of extraordinary in the ways they became, for her, the hands of Christ. A depth of gratitude is felt for her loyal caregivers, Stacey York, Sherry Motley, Reta Owens, physicians and the staff of Alexian Brothers.

On March 27, 1948, Virginia Mauck married Thomas Henry Hamm, Jr. Together they raised three children- Tom, Greg and Vivienne. She was the strong and sacrificial shoulders of her household-a devoted steward of all the blessings bestowed upon her.

Virginia lived the spiritual gift of hospitality and delighted in children. On her deathbed, she gave precise instruction to “Teach the children that Jesus loves them. Teach them reading, writing, arithmetic. And dance.”

She loved dance, whether a simple polka in the living room or a waltz at the Philharmonic Ball in Vienna, Austria. She belonged to several Birmingham dance clubs -Talisman, Lamplighters and Sophisticates.

Virginia was grateful for things of her heritage. Her ancestral home in the Shenendoah Valley at Luray, Virginia. She revered the values placed upon education and hard work. She was a graduate of Woodlawn High School and attended Birmingham Southern College. Virginia was innately curious and an avid learner until the time of her death. She belonged to literary clubs and even when macular degeneration robbed her vision, she listened to audio novels and readings every day until her last.

Her work ethic was one of complete dedication. She worked six years in the pediatric office of Dr. Jerome Weaver. She was office manager, over thirty years, for Dr. John W. Harris.

In 1977, within weeks of one another, Virginia lost both her husband of 29 years and her middle child, Gregory Mark, of only 26 years of age. Her grief was deep, but she allowed the losses to add a gentler dimension to her compassionate nature.

After 10 years of widowhood, Virginia married the man who had been her first date, Collins ‘Cotton’ Haigler. Theirs was a charmed life filled with joys of family, travel, and perfect companionship. They moved to Chattanooga. Cotton passed away, April 10, 2014 and was sorely missed.

Virginia’s stories of life in ‘The Magic City’ held a wealth of knowledge and intrigue. Her loved ones were her finest audience and will evermore cherish the things she told them.

Virginia was strong, intelligent – a great light – whose presence radiated warmth. She was a torch-bearer for the greatest generation. And like a flame, she often burned herself out bringing light to others.

Virginia is survived by her son, Thomas Mauck Hamm and his wife, Diane Nordan.

She is also survived by her daughter, Vivienne Hamm Nichols and her husband David.

Her grandchildren were her ‘angels.’ They are:

Melanie Hamm Toole (Frank), Thomas Aaron Hamm (Jennifer), and John Nordan Hamm (Jennifer), Nicholas Richardson Nichols, IV, (Ashley), David Stonestreet Nichols, Jr. (Elizabeth) and Ellen Virginia Nichols Norris (Field).

Virginia was blessed with 14 great-grandchildren.

Virginia is also fondly remembered by a host nieces and nephews and her “unofficially adopted son” John Harris. Virginia adored a host of Woodlawn ‘boys and girls’ and present friends of her daughter’s were especially dear to her. She declared shortly before her death, ‘I have surely been loved.”

Virginia was grateful for these kinds of love in her life. She never stopped growing in her quest for enlightenment and in the desire to give and receive love.

Engaging and swapping stories about the Civil Rights Movement in Birmingham

Posted on March 15, 2015 Written by Carl

Spent a delightful couple of hours this afternoon (March 14) with a great group of 9th and 10th graders from Oakwood School in North Hollywood, California. It was the second year their teacher had invited me to join with Jeff Drew, Virginia Kelsor Jones and Bob Corley to talk about the Civil Rights Movement in Birmingham and the challenges still ahead. There were so many questions that our patient hosts with the Birmingham Library had to start blinking the lights to remind us it was closing time.

I’m indebted to Ann Jimerson and the kidsinbirmingham1963.org site for helping bring us together. There’s a lot of great reading there on what it was like to grow up in Birmingham in the 1960s, and I encourage you to visit it.

The eyes of the nation were watching on Bloody Sunday, and they’re watching again today

Posted on March 7, 2015 Written by Carl

My friend Jim Stubbs and I drove down Friday, March 6, to see how things were shaping up for the massive celebrations planned for the next day, honoring the 50th anniversary of those who marched.

Let’s not forget what they were marching for — voting rights. Today, with laws throughout the country being put in force to (let’s call it what it is) keep minorities from voting, the cause seems more relevant than ever.

The exhibit of Spider Martin’s photography shows not only his excellence and courage, but also the power of images to jar a sluggish nation to action in the name of justice. This is just a shaky phone pic of a picture (taken with permission) and is no substitute for the real thing. I encourage you to visit the exhibit, which will continue after the 50th anniversary celebrations. The Spider Martin Retrospective will be at the Carneal Building, 3 Church Street, Selma, AL from February 7 until March 28.

The National Voting Rights Museum looks great in its new home on the other side of the bridge.

It was a personally moving experience to walk across the bridge with these kids from Montgomery, as they sang “Ain’t Nobody Gonna Turn Me ‘Round”

The newsroom was already full, even before the President and the Democratic congressional leaders arrived. For reasons that escape me, Republican leaders boycotted this event.

Unlike Birmingham, Huntsville and Mobile, little Selma still has a daily newspaper. The newspaper’s editor made a courageous decision in the wake of the Bloody Sunday violence a half century ago to begin telling the truth about what was happening there.

Seemed only right for my friend Jim Stubbs to be pictured in front of Edmund Pettus Bridge.

One of Alabama’s most important cultural achievements in years just went unnoticed by the media

Posted on February 25, 2015 Written by Carl

One of Alabama’s most significant art events in years happened in Huntsville last week, and the state media couldn’t muster a single reviewer for it. OK, there were advance stories in the Tuscaloosa News, Birmingham News and on the Huntsville NPR station, WLRH. Outside the state, USA Today mentioned it. But as best I can tell, nobody sent a reviewer. So Mark Childress — one of the most distinguished Alabama talents in my lifetime — had to write his own review, which I’m re-publishing below for the record.

I’ve been writing for the better part of a decade about our broken business model for journalism. From the very beginning, I suggested that by putting all of the journalists’ products on the Internet for free, we were muzzling the threshing ox. Which is to say, we cut off the flow of money to the people who create the product. When people quit getting paid, they quit working and creating.

From the start of our massive slide to ignorance, I warned that without serious journalism, we have no way of knowing how to vote, or what to buy. I neglected to note that we would have nobody to steer our attention to the fine arts — to the world beyond the lowest common denominators of MTM and the Oscars. In the heyday of journalism, my newspaper (The Birmingham News) had Oliver Roosevelt, who possessed a musicology degree from Harvard, and Kenneth Paul Shorey, who had the technical background to talk seriously about the merits of films and stage productions. They and others would point us to events, music, movies and art that we’d never appreciate by following the crowd.

What remains today is a shabby remnant of what journalism can be, and what it has been. It’s a crime, and one whose victims include those who create serious literature, music, drama and art in all its forms. But we are all victims, robbed of reliable guides to those things that would enrich our lives if only we knew about them.

Here’s Mark’s review, used by permission:

Georgia Bottoms” opera: A Completely Biased Review

By Mark Childress

As far as I know, “Georgia Bottoms: A Comic Opera of the Modern South” is the only full-length opera ever written about Alabama, co-written by an Alabamian, created and developed entirely in Alabama, staged and performed in Alabama. If I’m wrong about that, I’m sure one of my readers will let me know.

Since the internet killed off most daily journalism in Alabama, I should not have been surprised that no reviewers came to our performance. I cannot pretend to be an unbiased reviewer. But neither can I let the occasion pass without calling attention to the individual contributions of the people who staged an entire opera with full sets and costumes in less than week – something of a miracle, if you think about it.

(If you’ve heard enough already about this opera, scroll down for cute kitten videos further down in your News Feed….) wink emoticon
The good people of the Huntsville Symphony and all the technicians, sound and lighting guys, stagehands, set designers, craftsmen, artists, and volunteers in the production executed their jobs with panache. Special kudos to Karl King for his abstract but beautifully specific set.

I’ve already talked about Rebecca Nelsen, the soprano from Texas by way of Vienna who was onstage for every moment in the title role. Rebecca’s portrayal was funny and full of life, gorgeously sung, subtle and moving. Whatever the weaknesses of the libretto, this Georgia emerged triumphant.

As the Rev. Eugene Hendrix, whose affair with Georgia is the catalyst that kicks of the story, tenor Christopher Pfund brought wit and a powerful voice.

The second of Georgia’s lovers, Judge Barnett, was played with great humor and the thundering bass voice of Aaron Sorenson, ably doubling as Officer Jimmy.

To round out the trio, tenor Daniel Weeks brought down the house with his pained singing about the perils of a certain little blue pill. (He was funny as Officer Lester, too.)
Shane Kennedy, a mainstay of the Huntsville musical scene, brought out all the tenderness of the most repressed character, Sheriff Bill.
The role of the semi-tyrannical preacher’s wife Brenda Hendrix was entirely owned by Karen Young, another strong and expert voice from the Huntsville musical community.

As Georgia’s best friend, Mayor Krystal Lambert of Six Points, Tamara Gallo brought a vivid stage presence. Her lovely commanding soprano was an intimate counterpoint to the voice of the leading lady; her acting was precise and as warm as her voice.

The singer contracted to play Little Mama dropped out at the very last minute, not very Nicely if you ask me. The day was saved by Huntsville’s own Elizabeth Stephenson, who stepped in to learn the part in just five days. Her entrances, her exits, her gunplay, and her unvarnished opinions garnered some of the night’s biggest laughs.

You would never know Michael Nyby hails from Ontario, Canada – he wrapped his big baritone around those Southern vowels as if he was born drinking sweet tea. His performance as Rev. Brent Colgate was one of the big surprises of the evening, for this reviewer – his initial air of sexy danger gave way in the third act to a palpable sense of evil that kind of unnerved even the co-librettist.
Alabama’s opera community was beautifully represented by Jennifer Bryant in the role of Daphne Colgate. Her swoopy expressions of cosmic cluelessness were exactly what the character needed.
As the author of the piece, the biggest surprise of the evening for me was how the character Nathan came to seem the beating heart of the story – the moral center of the crazy little universe I had created. I think this was due in no small part to the performance of Keith Browning, who was painstakingly directed by David Gately. It was amazing watching Mr. Browning grow in stature and power in every rehearsal.

Thank you, thank you to all of our wonderful singers, and to everyone who had anything to do with bringing about this little musical miracle. I hope I will get to see and hear all of you again sometime soon. No matter who plays these roles from now on, you will always be the first people who did it – the people who figured out how. Thank you.
The players of the Huntsville Symphony took on a brand-new piece of very complicated challenging music, filled with changing time signatures, eccentric rhythms and intricately detailed figures. They hadn’t played a note of the opera until Monday, and by Saturday night they were great.

(David Gately gives his last notes the night before the performance. Photo by Gregory Vajda)

« Previous Page